Mónica Mignone
by Maniza Naqvi Mónica was introduced to me, by her sister Isabel, on the kind of clear October day, when a sense of beauty, mirrors its temporal nature. She appeared into my conscience, just as Isabel and I walked past the Old Executive Building, past the White House, past museums and other buildings housing law…
Governance of Mineral Revenues for Ending Poverty
Outrage
by Maniza Naqvi Here, down in the valley, when the news broke, people were, as was to be expected, up in arms. A contract had been awarded to XNexst. It was for a system for monitoring citizens and to create a unified registry system for the identification and targeting of deviants: threats to society—those who…
Soho
by Maniza Naqvi It's 5.00 am in Frankfurt. Still a couple of hours before the flight is called. The Business lounge is beginning to fill up. The staff is busy replenishing breakfast food on the counters. I keep nodding off. “What's she called?” The man seated behind her asks someone. The guy replies: “Soho.” “Shih…
Walking Past the White House: Contractual Arrangements
by Maniza Naqvi The 50th anniversary of Dr. King's civil rights march on Washington is to be celebrated this week. The bullet points in the news are that Bradley Manning has been sentenced to 35 years in prison for leaking military documents and the White House hasn't stopped its military aid of US$1.3 billion to…
Walking Past the White House: Lady, Quite Contrary, How Does Your Garden Grow?
Walking Past the White House: Military Instruction
Walking Past the White House: The Same Garden
Walking Past the White House: Andrew Jackson and the Deadness of Generals.
by Maniza Naqvi Every morning on my way to work, I walk past dead Washingtonians. High and mighty on their pedestals: My morning route has me heading towards the backs of statues of dead men on dead horses—spurs, and swords and boots and saddles. Cast in iron, the backs of dead Generals and horses asses,…
What Do Iran and Alaska Have in Common?
by Maniza Naqvi What do Iran and Alaska have in common? Well for one thing, both have followed a similar path towards equity by sharing mineral revenues with citizens through the Alaska Permanent Fund and the Iran Citizens Income Scheme (here). Why aren't other countries, rich in mineral wealth and poverty doing the same? Because,…
Prospect For Ending Poverty
by Maniza Naqvi It's a place of darkness. People are poor and hail from tribes and clans. They live in basic shelters in remote villages, with no running water or electricity, and no access to clinics. Subsisting on seasonal work, hunting and fishing to stock up food for the lean months, they worship nature's beauty.…
Awkward in Malawi
By Maniza Naqvi I spot a café, called, “99% God's Plan.” It is on the side of the road which goes straight from Lilongwe, the Capital, passed the sprawling Monsanto complex, passed the tobacco auction facility, passed the gigantic silos of the national granary—passed churches and more churches and missions and mosques, passed the vendors…
Perween Rahman: Pyar
by Maniza Naqvi Perween, once, I heard you called pyar. A play on two words, perhaps, love and friend: pyar. It was a perfect term of endearment for you. Your friends, those, who love you, those, who worked with you, those, whose lives are better because of you, those, for whom you are pyar—are devastated.…
The Girl From Lahore
by Maniza Naqvi I search for you– you’re lost somewhere, somewhere beyond my realm. I listen to the sound of distant thunder—or is it— I wonder fireworks for a celebration? Or an explosion or gunshots targeted for yet another murder? The drum roll for a roll call—the toll to be tallied up by Dawn: Zaidi,…
The Servant
by Maniza Naqvi It’s rotten! Completely, eaten through! Take this out immediately throw it away—When was the last time you bothered even to clean in here? Didn’t you see this? No—stop! First take your shoes off—they are filthy!—Beta—how many times have I told you not to come in here with your shoes on! Why can’t…
Morning: At Sixes and Sevens
by Maniza Naqvi A soft thud, outside, beyond the door, followed by a steady chiir-chiir. Then, commotion: the sound of running feet—children shrieked, a woman calling out to them—wait—stop! A few minutes later the sound of a whistle–a siren—shoon-shoon. An orange fire, the shape of a disk, rising beyond, the window. Green parrots, arrived with…
A Matter of Detail
by Maniza Naqvi It is past the hour that Abbas usually rings the doorbell and she has been waiting for him, she is sure for a good two hours. Not like him to miss a lesson without calling ahead. Not like him at all. It must be an unusually busy evening at the clinic. She…
Occupied
by Maniza Naqvi I called this essay “Owning our Stories” when it was published as a paper for a conference on sustainable development held in Islamabad in 2003. At the time I wrote this I was becoming increasingly anxious and worried about one of the greatest dangers facing the world: the justification of terror and…
The Sacred
by Maniza Naqvi On a Saturday, in the crisp air and bright light of the highlands, hundreds of people, a flood of people —made their way to and from the market place, as has been done for centuries, carrying on their backs and shoulders, their precious babies and bundled loads of produce and goods. A…