Sabeen Mahmud
This is a collection of articles archived for the excellence of their content. |
Life: 20th June, 1975- 24th April, 2015
A human rights activist from Pakistan
The Times of India, Apr 26 2015
Saba Imtiaz
Sabeen Mahmud was the rare person who, in a sea of bitterness and cynicism, tried to inject a spark back into Karachi
One day before her death, Sabeen was wearing a patterned blue kurta as she looked around The Second Floor -the eclectic Karachi café and event space that was frequented by hipsters and hip-replacement folks alike -as person after person came up to say hello, catch up, ask about the event going on.
Everyone wanted to know how this event was going ahead. This wasn't anything ordinary though events at The Second Floor rarely were but even then, it was remarkable. Mahmud was hosting Baloch activists who have been campaigning against a statesponsored campaign of enforced disappearances and extrajudicial killings in the Balochistan province. The event -titled, in a double whammy of an irony -`Unsilencing Balochistan' -was to be held at the Lahore University of Management Sciences earlier in April but it was cancelled at the government's behest. At the end of the night after a civil dialogue, unhindered by the usual spate of comments masquerading as questions and hyper-nationalist diatribes masquerading as comments -Mahmud received a round of applause. She was the only person who could still willingly host an event like this, perhaps the only place left where one could speak freely .
A short while later, she was dead, with four bullets to her face, neck and chest.
An activist, artist, creative curator, apple devotee, a recent convert to House M.D. and swimming. All of those fit, and they don't even skim the surface.Sabeen Mahmud was everything and everywhere: at protests and vigils, literary festivals and concerts, at police stations to file First Information Reports against clerics, and more often than not, on the street.She bought a motorcycle and rode it around the neighborhood -a sight just as unlikely in Karachi as a unicorn sighting -and happily offered to lend it, no ques tions asked. She set up a non-profit and The Second Floor and never looked upset or exhausted with the struggle of getting a power connection or managing the place.She was one of the original lights of what is now a burgeoning tech scene. She organized musical conferences and curated creative exhibits and festivals. She hosted everyone: writers, anarchists, actors, filmmakers, techies, hackers, entrepreneurs.She was the rare person who -in a sea of bitterness, cynicism and despondence in Karachi -was always one step ahead with a new plan, project or event, something to inject a spark back into the city .
The descriptor that doesn't fit her is dead.
The crowd was too young on the second floor, their questions too naïve, their ideas too earnest. But this was what drove Sabeen: to inspire, help and encourage, connect people, foster ideas and creativity , to create not just a physical space, but to help people believe in the infinite possibilities out there.
She stood at the back of the café, one eye on the door, one on the talk. She wanted a civilized, open, inclusive discussion. It was the kind of person she was. If her assassin had tapped on her car window and talked to her first, Sabeen would have probably had a rational, polite conversation, and listened to his perspective and shared hers, apologized for keeping everyone waiting in traffic, and then tweeted about it after. Instead, her assassin -and his handler, and his handler in turn -took Sabeen's life, and the infinite possibilities, and the dying wisps of freedom of speech with them.
