In the remote corners of a nation lies grief so profound and
betrayal so abysmal it threatens to wrench your heart out. You, who are sitting
beneath the azure of a peaceful sky, sipping comfort from a steaming cup,
reading of the tempests that toss mercilessly the people in a land so far
removed. You would feel the uprooting of their lives like a blow to your
gut…and yet, you could never experience the true force of the impact.
These are the lives that Fatima Bhutto speaks about in her
debut novel The Shadow of the Crescent
Moon. Author of the famous Songs of
Blood and Sword, this is her first work of fiction and, like her memoir,
reflects what she has seen from close quarters—politics , blood and
betrayal—all inextricable from her lineage.
The story is set in Mir Ali, a small town in Pakistan’s
tribal region of Waziristan, and takes place during a span of four hours on a
Friday that coincides with Eid. Three brothers are going to separate mosques
for their prayers, because “it is too dangerous, too risky, to place all the
family together in one mosque that could easily be hit.” That is the essence of
life in Mir Ali: teetering on the edge.The brothers represent three different
ways of life in the town, torn apart by military excesses and a desire for
freedom, handed down generation after generation.
Hayat, the youngest, embeds the tales of suffering and takes
upon himself to fulfil the dream. The eldest, Aman Erum, desires a way out,
dreaming of doing business in a place that isn’t strangulated by this tussle of
the past and present. Sikandar, the second, adopts what he believes is a middle
ground—neither fleeing nor fighting; staying and serving by becoming a doctor.
None of their choices, however, will protect them from the tragedy that is
their destiny.
There are no heroes in this story, except the ones mentioned
in passing. As Hayat says, “They killed our heroes so we stopped making them.”
They are not incorruptible, they have to make choices while living in hell and
the choices are those of a prisoner sentenced to death—one who would choose
life at all costs, even by bartering the soul.
Bhutto’s female characters—Sikandar’s wife Mina and Samarra
who loved Aman Erum— are more multi-layered. Mina, the lecturer of psychology,
is a woman turned deranged by loss—barging in on the funerals of strangers,
seeking solace in grief. Yet it is she who, in a fit of rage against injustice,
causes the murderous Taliban to back down. Samarra is a woman betrayed by life
many times over. What remains of her is a hardened shell. And yet, the final
blow to that shell is so devastating, so repetitive in its cruelty that your
heart bleeds for Samarra.
Political comment is strong in the novel, with references to
the stamp of US control on everything Pakistan owns—from oil and airspace, to
souls and futures. The bitterness against military dominance is obvious,
too—“They were no one’s oppressors. They were everyone’s oppressors.”
But from a human angle, these could be the frayed edges of
any nation—the militant areas of India’s north-east; the vales of Kashmir; or
the Maoist-ridden heartland. Injustice, violence and strife belong to the same
clan, feeding off each other.
Bhutto’s book is a universal—if deeply disturbing—story, set
in the place she knows best. And even as you put it down with your breath
knocked out, you can’t shake the feeling that somehow, through the unbroken
seams of humanity, it connects you, too.
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