04-02-2011, 12:16 PM
THROUGHOUT the week, friends of all nationalities have come up to me to commiserate over Pakistan’s defeat in the World Cup semi-final. “I was rooting for Pakistan,” a European Union diplomat told me. “After all the recent bad news, Pakistan deserved a break.”
Other friends, less politically savvy, were equally sympathetic. They confessed, however, that the fielding by the Pakistani team had been terrible. “Junior league … junior league,” complained an irate British-Pakistani friend. But overall, even those most disappointed by Pakistan’s ‘butter fingers’ performance concurred: it had been a good match.
I have a confession to make: I was not among the millions of fans across the world watching the ‘epic showdown’ on TV. I heard the last few minutes of the cricket commentary on the radio while driving home from work.
When I heard the Indian victory cheer, my first thoughts were for my Brussels-born, half-Spanish son and daughter — now in London — who feel a passionate attachment to Pakistan and all things Pakistani. Both reassured me with an amused chuckle: yes, mother, they were coping fine. But Mohali made me think: once upon a time, I was also a cricket fan. Or rather I was a born into a family of cricket fans. No, correct that: my family was simply obsessed with cricket.My father played an amazing number of sports. The shelves in our house still creak under the weight of his trophies. But for as long as I can remember, cricket was his real love, a passion he shared with my mother. Growing up in Karachi, the dulcet tones of Omar Kureishi’s colourful cricket commentaries followed me around the house. The servants did not speak English but as if by symbiosis seemed to know exactly what was going on. I learned the strange jargon of ‘maiden overs’ and ‘leg before wicket’ and the wonderful ‘googlies’.
I was fascinated by the sophisticated breaks for tea, the body language of the stocky umpires, the sad, aggrieved way in which the batsmen conceded defeat and walked dejectedly back to the stands. And of course, I was torn between my obsession with Cliff Richard and the handsome Pakistani batsmen, wicket-keepers and bowlers whose names were so familiar then … but now forever forgotten.
Over the years, living in Brussels, cricket became a faint memory, revived sporadically when my parents visited. It was not easy to explain the game to European and American friends — although once to the family’s delight we attended a cricket match in The Netherlands. But then, out of the blue, cricket — once again — quite literally bowled me over. On a visit to Pakistan, my four-year old son picked up a bat, stuck some sticks in the ground and declared he was going to play cricket. As the family gathered around, the driver picked up the ball, the cook stood behind the wickets and I was asked to field. Much to the delight of my parents, the game began.
And it has not stopped. For years, on each visit to Pakistan, our house was transformed into a mini sports stadium as my son and his ‘friends’ (the driver, the cook and the gardener) batted and bowled through the day. His little sister, not to be outdone by the ‘boys’, was the ever-proud fielder. Here in Brussels, every Saturday, we accompanied the budding young cricketer to the Brussels Royal Cricket Club where dedicated British, Pakistani and Indian men coached their sons and their friends to play.
Now once again, the magic of cricket has faded into the background. As a journalist, I keep up with the cricket news. As a political commentator, I talk glibly about ‘cricket diplomacy’ and the significance of the Indian prime minister’s ‘spur-of-the-moment’ decision to invite his Pakistani counterpart to watch the Mohali match.
Certainly, it was heartening to see Mr Manmohan Singh and Mr Yousuf Raza Gilani sitting together, perhaps even having a quick chat about getting their countries’ troubled relationship back on track. But both men are wounded. Mr Singh is grappling with allegations of corruption levelled at his government. Mr Gilani is … well … Mr Gilani.
Also, let’s not forget that cricket diplomacy has been tried in the past, with mixed results. Gen Ziaul Haq attended an India-Pakistan match in 1987, but relations between the countries soon deteriorated. In 2005, Mr Singh invited Pervez Musharraf to another India-Pakistan match in New Delhi and this time a period of secret back-channel talks did start.
Counting on cricket to heal India-Pakistan wounds is, of course, simplistic. There is too much suspicion, bad faith and a gaping trust deficit between the two countries. Having spent years studying European integration I am often disheartened by the old-fashioned 20th century reflexes of the two countries’ top officials and policymakers when they deal with each other.
To succeed in today’s globalised world, countries have to tear down barriers, build a common market, trade with each other, eliminate visas, allow investments, I tell my Pakistani and Indian friends at seminars, conferences and at dinners. But it is of little avail. Like small children, they say ‘he/she should do it first’. So while the politicians and the officials do their ritualistic dance of ‘one step forward, two steps back’, let’s cheer the real peacemakers: Indian and Pakistani cricketers, tennis players, musicians, actors, authors and singers who are trying courageously to bridge the deep political divide.
Other friends, less politically savvy, were equally sympathetic. They confessed, however, that the fielding by the Pakistani team had been terrible. “Junior league … junior league,” complained an irate British-Pakistani friend. But overall, even those most disappointed by Pakistan’s ‘butter fingers’ performance concurred: it had been a good match.
I have a confession to make: I was not among the millions of fans across the world watching the ‘epic showdown’ on TV. I heard the last few minutes of the cricket commentary on the radio while driving home from work.
When I heard the Indian victory cheer, my first thoughts were for my Brussels-born, half-Spanish son and daughter — now in London — who feel a passionate attachment to Pakistan and all things Pakistani. Both reassured me with an amused chuckle: yes, mother, they were coping fine. But Mohali made me think: once upon a time, I was also a cricket fan. Or rather I was a born into a family of cricket fans. No, correct that: my family was simply obsessed with cricket.My father played an amazing number of sports. The shelves in our house still creak under the weight of his trophies. But for as long as I can remember, cricket was his real love, a passion he shared with my mother. Growing up in Karachi, the dulcet tones of Omar Kureishi’s colourful cricket commentaries followed me around the house. The servants did not speak English but as if by symbiosis seemed to know exactly what was going on. I learned the strange jargon of ‘maiden overs’ and ‘leg before wicket’ and the wonderful ‘googlies’.
I was fascinated by the sophisticated breaks for tea, the body language of the stocky umpires, the sad, aggrieved way in which the batsmen conceded defeat and walked dejectedly back to the stands. And of course, I was torn between my obsession with Cliff Richard and the handsome Pakistani batsmen, wicket-keepers and bowlers whose names were so familiar then … but now forever forgotten.
Over the years, living in Brussels, cricket became a faint memory, revived sporadically when my parents visited. It was not easy to explain the game to European and American friends — although once to the family’s delight we attended a cricket match in The Netherlands. But then, out of the blue, cricket — once again — quite literally bowled me over. On a visit to Pakistan, my four-year old son picked up a bat, stuck some sticks in the ground and declared he was going to play cricket. As the family gathered around, the driver picked up the ball, the cook stood behind the wickets and I was asked to field. Much to the delight of my parents, the game began.
And it has not stopped. For years, on each visit to Pakistan, our house was transformed into a mini sports stadium as my son and his ‘friends’ (the driver, the cook and the gardener) batted and bowled through the day. His little sister, not to be outdone by the ‘boys’, was the ever-proud fielder. Here in Brussels, every Saturday, we accompanied the budding young cricketer to the Brussels Royal Cricket Club where dedicated British, Pakistani and Indian men coached their sons and their friends to play.
Now once again, the magic of cricket has faded into the background. As a journalist, I keep up with the cricket news. As a political commentator, I talk glibly about ‘cricket diplomacy’ and the significance of the Indian prime minister’s ‘spur-of-the-moment’ decision to invite his Pakistani counterpart to watch the Mohali match.
Certainly, it was heartening to see Mr Manmohan Singh and Mr Yousuf Raza Gilani sitting together, perhaps even having a quick chat about getting their countries’ troubled relationship back on track. But both men are wounded. Mr Singh is grappling with allegations of corruption levelled at his government. Mr Gilani is … well … Mr Gilani.
Also, let’s not forget that cricket diplomacy has been tried in the past, with mixed results. Gen Ziaul Haq attended an India-Pakistan match in 1987, but relations between the countries soon deteriorated. In 2005, Mr Singh invited Pervez Musharraf to another India-Pakistan match in New Delhi and this time a period of secret back-channel talks did start.
Counting on cricket to heal India-Pakistan wounds is, of course, simplistic. There is too much suspicion, bad faith and a gaping trust deficit between the two countries. Having spent years studying European integration I am often disheartened by the old-fashioned 20th century reflexes of the two countries’ top officials and policymakers when they deal with each other.
To succeed in today’s globalised world, countries have to tear down barriers, build a common market, trade with each other, eliminate visas, allow investments, I tell my Pakistani and Indian friends at seminars, conferences and at dinners. But it is of little avail. Like small children, they say ‘he/she should do it first’. So while the politicians and the officials do their ritualistic dance of ‘one step forward, two steps back’, let’s cheer the real peacemakers: Indian and Pakistani cricketers, tennis players, musicians, actors, authors and singers who are trying courageously to bridge the deep political divide.