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Globetrotter, Roving EyeSeptember 23, 2013

Swat: In Search of a Paradise Lost

By Zubair Torwali

The Swat Valley, in the north western province now named Khyber-Pakhtunkhwa, is sometimes referred to as the Switzerland of the East: even in the picturesque mountainous region of north Pakistan, Swat is remarkable for its natural beauty. There was a time when the region was visited by foreign tourists and Pakistanis alike.

In 2002, a Swiss tourist declared, “Swat is more beautiful than Switzerland, but there is no Gul Khan in my homeland.” Gul Khan was the security guard tasked with the duty of escorting the tourist. It was soon after the 9/11, and foreigners had to be protected. The Swiss visitor had quickly grown tired of Gul Khan and his gun.

But to a resident like me — born, raised and based here — Swat was no less than a Paradise. The holy scriptures depict Paradise as being beautifully blessed with clear water streams, peace, serenity, abundant fruits, and fine weather. All those things were present in Swat.

 Lake Mahodand

Lake Mahodand

The entire Valley is divided along the zigzag bed of the Swat River. The river water usually gleams emerald blue. By the bank of the river, there are lush green fields are full of orchards containing apples, peaches, plums, and pears. Beyond the fields, hills rise green and proud beside the Swat River. As you travel up the Swat Valley, it gradually narrows down until the road is only a few feet from the river. This narrow valley starts from Madyan, the gateway to the Kohistan of Swat (Swat-Kohistan), perhaps the best-known area of the Swat Valley. Many Urdu and Pashto poets have used the metaphor of crown jewel for this part of Swat’s beauty. Swat-Kohistan offers much to lure the traveller into its lap. There are gleaming snow-tipped peaks, azure lakes, green pastures. gushing streams, and thick pine forests. The cold breeze lulls you into a dream of Paradise.

Whenever I have to travel back to sweet Swat from Peshawar or Islamabad, I schedule my journey to make sure I take my drive from Mingora to my home town, Bahrain, around an hour before sunset. This journey, especially in spring and summer, always induces the muse in me. It is a rare experience to travel between the orchards and along the green fields with the sun on its way to hide behind the hills in the west. I have never grown tired of seeing the valleys again and again. Each time, I feel as if I am new to the place, although I have by now spent more than three decades of my life here.

Before the worst ever militant insurgency in Swat, peace was the norm. I feel nostalgic when I remember driving in the moonlight with the car’s headlights turned off.

There was no fear in going home in the dead of the night. One could sleep safely under the blue sky.

Swat Valley was once a popular tourist destination. We had many friends from around the world: pilgrims from China, anthropological and environmental researchers, ethnographers and tourists from across the globe, as well as the rest of Pakistan.

Due either to my naivety or Swati hospitality, I invited these friends to Swat; their abrupt response was, “Do you want us to be killed?” 
 But then a time came when we, the people of Swat, became afraid to travel, even during daylight. Decapitated bodies were seen strung over trees, on poles and in the busiest squares. Paradise was captured by the demons among us.

To my misfortune, I could not remain neutral. I decided to take the side of humanity and civilization. In my meagre capacity, I tried to awaken the world’s conscience by writing newspaper articles. This put my life in danger and I had to leave Swat. In April 2009, after the notorious peace deal the government signed with the Taliban, I was urged by friends to leave Swat and I finally realised that there was a serious threat to my life. I agreed to leave, but the question was how, as I had to travel 100 kilometres inside Swat to run for my life. The main highway was controlled by the Taliban, and they were checking every vehicle. My mom came to my rescue: she accompanied me, veiled in the way the Taliban wanted. She carried my laptop, as even having a laptop was reason enough to get you killed by the Taliban. That way, I made it to Islamabad and shuttled between the capital and Peshawar for almost 7 months.

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One last love letter...

April 24, 2021

It has taken us some time and patience to come to this decision. TMS would not have seen the success that it did without our readers and the tireless team that ran the magazine for the better part of eight years.

But… all good things must come to an end, especially when we look at the ever-expanding art and literary landscape in Pakistan, the country of the magazine’s birth.

We are amazed and proud of what the next generation of creators are working with, the themes they are featuring, and their inclusivity in the diversity of voices they are publishing. When TMS began, this was the world we envisioned…

Though the magazine has closed and our submissions shuttered, this website will remain open for the foreseeable future as an archive of the great work we published and the astounding collection of diverse voices we were privileged to feature.

If, however, someone is interested in picking up the baton, please email Maryam Piracha, the editor, at maryamp@themissingslate.com.

Farewell, fam! It’s been quite a ride.

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