by Maniza Naqvi I invite you to tell me why I am wrong. I wrote a similar post on facebook and now want to engage you here in this debate. So tell me am I wrong and why. The issue about the hijab, burka and now burkini is not simply about its presence on the…

by Maniza Naqvi The job entitled and wealthy are all set to win the election in November. And keep things exactly the same. Fool us again. Shame on us. The way things are run, it makes no difference who becomes President. It doesn't matter. And, either of them would oil the machinery churning out Gold…

by Maniza Naqvi ‘We will be taking evidence from you today in your roles as Governorate Coordinator for Kirkuk, and then Governance Advisor to CPA North from 2003-4, and your subsequent role as an advisor to the US military, both General Odierno and General Petraeus, between 2007 and 10.' So said, Sir John Chilcot, Head…

by Maniza Naqvi They come for us five times a day. The azaan goes off with a bang as the loudspeaker switch is flipped on. It's so loud—I feel like I've been electrocuted—and there's a white light that goes off in my head—then the call to prayer which would have sounded lyrical, reassuring, soothing and…

by Maniza Naqvi Wearing white, Hillary Clinton made her speech as the presumptive Presidential nominee of the Democratic Party after the California Primary as the one who would save us from Trump. But she is the one who has been saved by Trump. Wealthy warriors, Trump and she, members of the one percent, diverting America's…

by Maniza Naqvi There is a part of Karachi called Golimar—‘Shooter'. This used to be the place where lame horses were brought by the military to be shot, back in the days of the British Empire. And the word Golibaz—means liar—or a fraud. Nowadays Golimar and Golibaz seem to pretty much sum up things. The…

by Maniza Naqvi Mud. Dirt. Sand. Land. Water. All up for lease–To let. All a reason for making a killing in Karachi. Mud, dirt, sand, land- look no further in Karachi or anywhere else for reasons for trouble. Trump cards, these, everywhere, up for grabs, for rent or lease or as it is said in…

aby Maniza Naqvi This is about the biography of an American woman who was the author of key militant interpretations and texts which are followed by extremists today. She left New York in the 1960s and went to Egypt and then from there came to live in Lahore with the founder of the Jamaat e…

By Maniza Naqvi We're trying to get the biggest bang for their buck–or rather biggest buck for their bang. Or you can say we're helping them pass the buck? Yes-yes–true–I'm a bit of a smart alec– at Boarding School everyone thought I had the comic's gift. I would agree. Wouldn't you? Doesn't matter what you…

by Maniza Naqvi Once again, as has always been the case come fall; September and October, all these past fifteen years and more, the so called leaders of the world have resolved to continue to bomb and bomb and bomb in order to save humanity. That's all they've got going for themselves, bombs. In the…

by Maniza Naqvi One out of every one hundred and nine persons worldwide is a displaced person. Inside or outside their home countries, for a whole host of reasons, displaced. But the idea that the hosts are charitable by allowing refuge is misplaced. Refugees are loot–they are treasure. They are labor. They are the spoils…

by Maniza Naqvi What do the Swedes Robert, Ludvig and Alfred Nobel have in common with South Asian Multani pilgrims and traders? Well for starters a certain fire in the belly of Azerbaijan. I wake up to the sounds and smells of explosives, the whiff of dynamite mixed with a faint scent of petroleum which…

by Maniza Naqvi At the end of Manhattan, across the Atlantic breakwaters, or at the beginning, swim fish from Lake Tanganyika and Lake Malawi. Those bodies which, appeared, of water, almost touched each other, on account of Plates moving, shifting, rocking; Rift Valley you know. But there they are, these fish, here. Go figure. At…

by Maniza Naqvi Flogging newspapers with hate drawn up as free speech is a cheap self serving marketing trick. Nothing new there. Hate sells war. It sells weapons. It sells newspapers. Hate sells. Floggings and cartoons to caricature Muslims as the newest kid on the block to hate, well that's relatively new in the scheme…

by Maniza Naqvi I can hear the Hallelujah man down on Broadway near the subway station. Ha-Le Lu yah—Ha-Le-Lu-Yah! Gee—Zuz! Gee Zuz! Gee-Zuz! I love you—-I love you—I love you—Ha—Le-Lu Yah—Ha-Le-Lu-Yah. And I'm reminded suddenly of that time one evening when Jesus walked into a bar with a Pakistani and an Indian in Sarajevo. I…

by Maniza Naqvi Offspring of wanton wants, they arrive, together, these gods of war and weather, to the beating drums, and sound of thunder, crying out crisis, each September. This century's, Septembers, all arrive back to school, as it were, refreshed from resorts and beaches, in need of replenishing, their depleted coffers, of personal savings,…

by Maniza Naqvi Just Wow! At every turn, and corner in Istanbul—you are bound to say—Wow. The obvious example is, of course, at the Basilica of Aya Sofiya—built by Emperor Justinian in 537 AD. Legend has it, that Justinian wanted this magnificent Eastern Orthodox Church, in its beauty and scale to rival Solomon's great Temple.…

By Maniza Naqvi Like, Caesars, seated on couches, now remote controls in hand, watching people on couches watching: One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve thirteen fourteen fifteen sixteen seventeen eighteen nineteen twenty twenty one twenty two twenty three twenty four twenty five twenty six twenty seven twenty eight twenty…

by Maniza Naqvi There are of course the details. Details before the day's important work begins, the creating of facts on the ground and endless meetings. Details which the mind notes, discards but even so, they persist to pinch later on. The large flouncy bunches of bright red flowers, like the skirts of flamenco dancers,…

by Maniza Naqvi She is startled awake by the sound of her own snore—a sense of falling—a sudden panic— the sensation of drool down the side of her mouth—the cold point on her forehead against the window– the plane seems to be dropping—she looks out of the window—where are they? Above the Congo — no…