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377 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2020

„1979 a fost un punct de cotitură, 1980 a fost punctul fără întoarcere.”Cele trei evenimente au stat la baza conflictului dintre Arabia Saudită și Iran, care dăinuie și astăzi. Iranul a încercat să-și exporte revoluția, iar saudiții au pompat bani pentru a opri acest lucru. Când Saddam a invadat Iranul, saudiții i-au oferit ajutor de zeci de miliarde de dolari. Au sponsorizat luptători în Afganistan, Irak, Siria. Au atac militar în Yemen. Iranul a pus bazele conflictului sectar dintre șiiți și sunniți, iar saudiții au pus cotul la acest conflict.
“What happened to us?” That question propelled my research. It was the North Star that guided me from one country to the next, unpacking layers of history and politics with the help of many people who in their own ways were also trying to understand the transformation of their lives and their countries. Each person offered clues to the larger puzzle; each brought me closer to understanding the question that loomed so large.
[...]
In trying to answer the question at the heart of the book, I attempted to render this region in all its diversity and cultural vibrancy, to remind those who look in from the outside that the headlines of today’s insanity are not a reflection of who we are—they never have been. Although our countries have been changed by the hegemonizing influences of both Iran and Saudi Arabia, the headlines in the Western media have always reduced matters of extraordinary depth and complexity to a mere snapshot, which more often than not has catered to an orientalist audience that regards Arab or Muslim cultures as backward and to security-focused policymakers. Over time, those two groups have worked to reinforce each other, merging to such an extent that everything was viewed through the prism of the security of the West, especially after 9/11.
Before her studies of International Relations in the United States, Mehtab had been a radio and television presenter and had taught at Sindh University, her alma mater. Petite and pretty with a determined look, she was the youngest child in a lower-middle-class family. Her father was a teacher and wanted all his children, his son and five daughters, to get an education. There was no high school for girls in their small village of Naudero, near Larkana, in the southern Sindh province, so he moved the family to the city of Hyderabad and then pushed all his children to go to university. And Mehtab had somehow made it all the way to America: big, fabulous, full-of-promise America. Single, practically a spinster at that age in a conservative society, and living alone in a faraway country, she had the support of her family. She had felt free growing up, empowered by her progressive father. She didn’t feel she stood out; she felt she was swimming with the times. In the mid-1970s, more than 50 percent of university students in this developing nation were women. Purdah, the traditional separation of women from the world of men, was never really an option for working-class women, too busy in the fields or in servitude in urban homes. But it was now also receding in the cities. Mehtab’s grandmother had never worn a veil or a burqa, the all-in-one face veil and body cloak with a mesh in front of the eyes. Her mother put on the burqa only to visit the village. Her eldest sister wore and then discarded it as she rose to become a teacher and eventually a school principal. The sisters rode bikes, their colorful traditional dupatta scarves draped around their necks blowing behind them. Their father let them be, proud of the places they were going.
When Zia took over, he described himself as a “soldier of Islam.” Few paused to think about what this meant in a Muslim country. Mehtab began to wonder about it when she went to visit the beloved vice chancellor of Sindh University, Shaikh Ayaz. She knew instantly that something was wrong. Shaikh Ayaz was a renowned poet, both a revolutionary and a romantic whose verses spoke to the soul of Sindh, a province with a long tradition of Sufism and home to Pakistan’s first capital and seaport city, Karachi. That day, Ayaz looked sheepish, almost embarrassed. He was not wearing pants and a shirt, but the traditional kurta and salwar, a long tunic over baggy trousers. Ayaz had written fiery verses against the colonial powers of his youth in British India and infused his poetry with Sindhi nationalism under the rulers of newborn Pakistan, but he had never worn the salwar at university, nor had it ever been brandished as an act of cultural resistance or a symbol of Islam. But Zia had imposed the salwar as national dress for government officials, students, and schoolchildren. Kids across Pakistan threw fits every morning before putting on their new uncool, baggy uniform.