Of Science and Bigotry: Zarrar Said's 'Pureland' has good intentions but sucks at absolutely everything else
Unfortunately, my disdain was extremely valid in this case. While Salman Rushdie might have created brilliance in Midnight’s Children, it is shocking to me that anyone could ever insinuate that this book is Pakistan’s equivalent to the sort of narrative talent that you see in Rushdie’s work.
And insinuate such a thing multiple reviewers have done, for reasons that beggar belief. The only explanation that I can possibly consider about why this book deserves to be complimented is the one that is clearly obvious: this book is about ahmadis. And not only about ahmadis, but possibly the most famous ahmadi Pakistan has created.
But before we continue, it’s important to take a small detour at this point to venture out of the world of book reviewing and into a short but bloody history lesson. I’ll be the first to admit that my knowledge of ahmadis has mostly been a case of second-hand, vaguely-gotten knowledge. That’s because if you’re part of the religious majority in Pakistan, you have the type of ridiculous privilege that protects you from even knowing about the micro-aggressions that minorities face in the country, much less having to ever consider the possibility of your life being in actual danger because of your religious beliefs. And Ahmadis (followers of a 19th century subcontinental movement who believe in the teachings of Mirza Ghulam Ahmad) have been routinely treated with a vicious, unrelenting streak of cruelty in Pakistan. This is because a lot of Muslims don’t consider ahmadis as proper Muslims, branding them as either kafir or heretic. And this animosity spills over into almost all aspects of life in Pakistan.
It is present in our speech, which uses the pejorative term Qadiani to refer to ahmadis (the term originates from Qadian, the town in northern India where the founder of the movement was born). ‘Qadiani’ is primarily used in Pakistan, and is even used in official country documentation. In fact, our country has gone so far as to declare the entire sect as Non-Muslims in a 1974 constitutional amendment that still exists to this date and age. A decade after that amendment, further laws which barred the entire community from calling their place of worship ‘mosques’ or propagating their faith came into being. This sort of nation-wide animosity has frequently resulted in actions as damaging as limiting someone’s opportunity to do something to outright murder.
The most recent case of this was in 2018 when the newly-elected government, led by popular political party PTI, decided to withdraw the name of a prominent economist from its nascent Economic Advisory Council. Atif Mian, a Princeton University professor who also happens to be an ahmadi, was initially chosen to be a part of the 18-member panel responsible for advising the PM on economic policies. But growing pressure from several religious parties eventually led to the government asking Mian to step down from that position. And even though there was concern raised about the growing involvement of Islamist parties in the country’s politics, a significant number of religious conservatives welcomed the decision, in a move that is both troubling and indicative of where we stand.
In retrospect though, where we now stand could have been predicted a few decades ago given the despicable way we’ve treated the only Nobel Laureate born in Pakistan. Abdus Salam, on whom this story claims to be loosely based, was born in a poor village but had a genius brain. Even though he departed from his country in protest after the parliamentary bill declaring ahmadis as non-muslims in 1974, his love for his country seems to be a widely believed fact at this point. But even though the man won a Nobel prize in Physics, and did remarkable things in the field of science, Pakistan continues to have a complicated relationship with this remarkable man, seemingly purely because of his religious beliefs.
I’d informed you that leaving for this new world was what I needed, what my dreams asked of me. But nothing about this place makes me believe I’ve done the right thing. I miss the village, the Khan House, our father, and I miss you.
The author claims that this story is loosely based on Salam’s life: his protagonist is a young boy from a small village in central Punjab who amazes everyone in the world of science with his genius and who eventually wins the Nobel Prize while living abroad. Factually, most of the bare bones of this story do seem to follow the trajectory of Salam’s life, especially since the author stated that he’d taken advantage of the research for a documentary that was being shot about Salam. “I piggy-backed off the research friends of mine did related to a documentary on the life of Abdus Salam. But I realised the story was so fascinating that it would make much more sense to write it as a fictitious novel,” the author Said told The Express Tribune. This documentary that he mentioned (and there can’t possibly be two of the same) has recently been released, and I’ve heard nothing but rave reviews about it. For this book, unfortunately, I can’t say the same.
These wistful distances between Salim and his homeland began to swell. The fondness of his for Pureland, the one we spoke about so much, took on a magical aspect. It wasn’t just a homeland any more-it symbolized happiness, a sense of belonging.
I definitely give the author points for talking about a religious minority which others have literally been killed for talking about. But I can’t give him points for absolutely anything else, given the absolutely appalling lack of linguistic flair, the way the plot seems to meander about senselessly, or even the lack of emotion the characters manage to elicit. I cared for nothing and no one in the tale, least of all for Laila, a woman our hero Salim Agha leaves behind in Pureland (a very obvious reference to Pakistan) and whom he seems to feel is his life’s mission to win back.
And insinuate such a thing multiple reviewers have done, for reasons that beggar belief. The only explanation that I can possibly consider about why this book deserves to be complimented is the one that is clearly obvious: this book is about ahmadis. And not only about ahmadis, but possibly the most famous ahmadi Pakistan has created.
But before we continue, it’s important to take a small detour at this point to venture out of the world of book reviewing and into a short but bloody history lesson. I’ll be the first to admit that my knowledge of ahmadis has mostly been a case of second-hand, vaguely-gotten knowledge. That’s because if you’re part of the religious majority in Pakistan, you have the type of ridiculous privilege that protects you from even knowing about the micro-aggressions that minorities face in the country, much less having to ever consider the possibility of your life being in actual danger because of your religious beliefs. And Ahmadis (followers of a 19th century subcontinental movement who believe in the teachings of Mirza Ghulam Ahmad) have been routinely treated with a vicious, unrelenting streak of cruelty in Pakistan. This is because a lot of Muslims don’t consider ahmadis as proper Muslims, branding them as either kafir or heretic. And this animosity spills over into almost all aspects of life in Pakistan.
It is present in our speech, which uses the pejorative term Qadiani to refer to ahmadis (the term originates from Qadian, the town in northern India where the founder of the movement was born). ‘Qadiani’ is primarily used in Pakistan, and is even used in official country documentation. In fact, our country has gone so far as to declare the entire sect as Non-Muslims in a 1974 constitutional amendment that still exists to this date and age. A decade after that amendment, further laws which barred the entire community from calling their place of worship ‘mosques’ or propagating their faith came into being. This sort of nation-wide animosity has frequently resulted in actions as damaging as limiting someone’s opportunity to do something to outright murder.
The most recent case of this was in 2018 when the newly-elected government, led by popular political party PTI, decided to withdraw the name of a prominent economist from its nascent Economic Advisory Council. Atif Mian, a Princeton University professor who also happens to be an ahmadi, was initially chosen to be a part of the 18-member panel responsible for advising the PM on economic policies. But growing pressure from several religious parties eventually led to the government asking Mian to step down from that position. And even though there was concern raised about the growing involvement of Islamist parties in the country’s politics, a significant number of religious conservatives welcomed the decision, in a move that is both troubling and indicative of where we stand.
In retrospect though, where we now stand could have been predicted a few decades ago given the despicable way we’ve treated the only Nobel Laureate born in Pakistan. Abdus Salam, on whom this story claims to be loosely based, was born in a poor village but had a genius brain. Even though he departed from his country in protest after the parliamentary bill declaring ahmadis as non-muslims in 1974, his love for his country seems to be a widely believed fact at this point. But even though the man won a Nobel prize in Physics, and did remarkable things in the field of science, Pakistan continues to have a complicated relationship with this remarkable man, seemingly purely because of his religious beliefs.
I’d informed you that leaving for this new world was what I needed, what my dreams asked of me. But nothing about this place makes me believe I’ve done the right thing. I miss the village, the Khan House, our father, and I miss you.
The author claims that this story is loosely based on Salam’s life: his protagonist is a young boy from a small village in central Punjab who amazes everyone in the world of science with his genius and who eventually wins the Nobel Prize while living abroad. Factually, most of the bare bones of this story do seem to follow the trajectory of Salam’s life, especially since the author stated that he’d taken advantage of the research for a documentary that was being shot about Salam. “I piggy-backed off the research friends of mine did related to a documentary on the life of Abdus Salam. But I realised the story was so fascinating that it would make much more sense to write it as a fictitious novel,” the author Said told The Express Tribune. This documentary that he mentioned (and there can’t possibly be two of the same) has recently been released, and I’ve heard nothing but rave reviews about it. For this book, unfortunately, I can’t say the same.
These wistful distances between Salim and his homeland began to swell. The fondness of his for Pureland, the one we spoke about so much, took on a magical aspect. It wasn’t just a homeland any more-it symbolized happiness, a sense of belonging.
I definitely give the author points for talking about a religious minority which others have literally been killed for talking about. But I can’t give him points for absolutely anything else, given the absolutely appalling lack of linguistic flair, the way the plot seems to meander about senselessly, or even the lack of emotion the characters manage to elicit. I cared for nothing and no one in the tale, least of all for Laila, a woman our hero Salim Agha leaves behind in Pureland (a very obvious reference to Pakistan) and whom he seems to feel is his life’s mission to win back.
In fact, random side characters such as Salim Agha’s sex-expert brother managed to be more interesting than our protagonist and his desire to win back Laila, or his progress in the world of science. Even the set-up of the book (that of the assassin narrating Salim’s story to a suited-booted version of the reader) feels highly reminiscent of what Mohsin Hamid did in The Reluctant Fundamentalist, but to lesser effect.
I see you’re a bit overdressed for this place. Please, take off your jacket, loosen that tie, it gets quite warm in here. I would put away that pen and notebook too; you won’t need them. Just listen.
Probably the saddest thing about the whole endeavor is that it had such possibility. A fictionalized account of Abdus Salam’s life, with threads of magical realism, sounds like it could either have been a masterpiece, or a complete disaster. Unfortunately, in the case of Pureland, it was definitely the latter. Not funny, badly written, and completely lacking in characters worth rooting for, this book only gets one measly point for pure, unadulterated grit at having come into being. And no points for nothing else.
Not recommended.
I see you’re a bit overdressed for this place. Please, take off your jacket, loosen that tie, it gets quite warm in here. I would put away that pen and notebook too; you won’t need them. Just listen.
Probably the saddest thing about the whole endeavor is that it had such possibility. A fictionalized account of Abdus Salam’s life, with threads of magical realism, sounds like it could either have been a masterpiece, or a complete disaster. Unfortunately, in the case of Pureland, it was definitely the latter. Not funny, badly written, and completely lacking in characters worth rooting for, this book only gets one measly point for pure, unadulterated grit at having come into being. And no points for nothing else.
Not recommended.