The way it was: Naukhar Kissan conference and our brush with law
Mian Ijaz Ul Hassan
I learned later that one of the federal ministers had cautioned the Punjab
administration about the people attending the Kissan conference saying they were
planning an uprising at the time of the 1977 elections
The Punjab Council of Arts was proposing to hold a drama festival. Various
theatre groups from all over Punjab were to be invited to compete for the first,
second and third positions. At the time I was president of the Pakistan
Artists’ Equity, which represented artists, musicians, actors and writers. The
Equity acted as a liaison between artists and the radio, television and other
organisations with cultural concerns, such as Pakistan National Council of the
Arts, the Punjab Council of Arts, the Lahore Arts Council and similar other
bodies.
The Governing body of the PCA comprised the late Safdar Mir, Fareeda Khanum,
Syeda Abida Hussain, Bano Qudsia, a few others and myself. When the proposal for
the festival was presented for discussion by Sajjad Haider, the executive
director and himself a respected Punjabi writer and playwright, I suggested that
one of the plays be staged and judged at a Kissan conference which was to be
held at Naukhar in the Gujranwala district. I also informed the Board that the
Equity had already accepted an invitation from the organisers and agreed to hold
an exhibition of pictorial works and a music concert. After all it was the
corner stone of the new cultural policy of the Peoples’ government to help
artists descend from their ivory towers and take art to the masses. Everyone
agreed that it was a good opportunity to put the policy into practice. Little
did they know that all governments, howsoever radical, tend to become cautious
and conservative when in power.
The three-day Kissan Conference was organised in a rice sheller, situated in a
four-acre compound, and was attended by over five thousand delegates. I believe
they were served daal (lentils) for lunch and dinner for all three days. When
someone complained, the person in charge of the mess was furious at the
bourgeois nature of the complaint. He was partially appeased when the
complainant patiently explained that he was not complaining about daal but about
the lack of imagination that was being demonstrated in successively serving the
same type of daal at all meals. Such was the zest for Revolution.
The exhibition was mounted by the Equity as promised. Artists had resourcefully
executed on bolts of cotton, larger than life-sized figures striking different
attitudes in their struggle against exploiters. At the end of the morning
session on the final day, the planned cultural show was presented and was
generously applauded by the delegates. A Faisalabad Theatre Group was scheduled
to present their play later in the evening. All arrangements to welcome and
provide refreshments to the committee designated by the Punjab Council to judge
the play, which included Sajjad Haider and Amjad Islam Amjad, had been
double-checked. After lunch, everyone retired to recuperate in the two-hour
break. I retreated to a small room at the back and lay down on a floor mat with
my eight-year-old son Ahmed who complained of a slight headache. My wife and our
six-year-old daughter Mina strolled with other ladies who had come from Lahore
to a house located adjacent to the sheller to wash and rest.
I had just stretched next to my son and was gently massaging his head hoping
that would help abate his pain, when my ears were alerted by a strange sound
that made me a little nervous. Soon the sound became louder. A group of persons
could now be heard stampeding in our direction. Soon enough, before I could make
any move, I saw a few young men leap in and out of the room, followed by
policemen. I was up in a matter of seconds and cautiously peered out of the door
from where they had ejected. I was delighted to see that Prof Kamil Khan the
architecture head of NCA had outrun the policemen. But at that very moment he
fell skidding over the slippery rice straw, which was strewn around the
compound. He made another attempt to flee but by now a policeman had caught up
and lunged the barrel of his gun into his stomach. Dr Muneer of the Geology
Department of Punjab University dodged his pursuer and disappeared over the
wall, leaving the constable panting in his boots. Dr Hamid Qizilbash of
political science got apprehended without giving the police a run. He just stood
there hoping to overwhelm his captors with his amiable smile.
I was approached by an inspector, who seemed to know me, and asked me to leave
because my young son was with me. I naturally declined and sauntered to the DSP
who was conducting the operation requesting him to take custody of my son and
have him delivered to his mother. Many of my friends and students, and actors,
singers and musicians, including almost the whole cast of the play to be staged
in the evening had been arrested. How could I just leave? The Committee that was
to judge the play was lucky to reach an hour late and thus escaped the
hospitality extended to us by the police on the directives of the deputy
commissioner.
I learned later that one of the federal ministers had cautioned the Punjab
administration about the people attending the Kissan conference saying they were
planning an uprising at the time of the 1977 elections. What an irony that a
People’s government, which should have tried to enlist support of all those
gathered at the Conference, was regarding them as enemy.
More than forty of us were taken to the Naukhar Thana and locked up. To keep
everyone’s spirits up, I suggested that we put up our cultural programme in
the hawalat; everyone agreed. In the meantime my wife with my little daughter
along with the cousins, sisters and spouses of those who had been locked up
strode into the thana. They created quite a crisis for the police and us by
refusing to leave unless the men were released. To add to the problems, my
little daughter kept insisting, ‘I also want to come in’. Noticeably all the
action was inside the hawalat. The cultural programme uplifted everyone’s’
spirits. Even the portly SHO, who I later discovered aspired to be a poet in his
youth, got himself seated outside the steel bars, surrounded by his staff who
all visibly enjoyed the show.
Later, all the inmates were transported to the Gujranwala jail and deposited
there. Hamid Qizilbash, Saeed from Faisalabad and myself were brought back to
Naukhar and grilled by interrogators sent from Lahore. One of the questions
repeatedly asked was, ‘What are educated people like you doing in a place like
this.’ Gulzar, who owned the sheller where the Conference was held, was
carried to the Lahore Fort and tortured.
Finally, partly through the efforts of Aitzaz Ahsan who was then the Punjab
Information Minister and partly through the agitation of NCA students and
protests of Worker’s Unions the administration felt compelled to release us.
This was done in stages. But the experience left all of us stronger, wiser and
better. I didn’t mind being the last one to be bailed out which saved me from
providing endless explanations to the relatives of our interned heroes. It was
about Naukhar that a poet wrote, ‘Naukhar pind Jawanan da / Naway Naway
insanan da.
Prof Ijaz-ul-Hassan is Pakistan’s leading painter. He is a teacher, art
critic and political activist. He was awarded the “President’s Pride of
Performance” in 1992. He is currently the president of the PPP Punjab’s
Policy Planning Committee and Chairman of the party’s Manifesto Committee