Mystics, Mullahs, and Markets in Post-9/11 Pakistan
Responding to Aliza Amin, Prateek Joshi questions the Musharraf-Mysticism alliance and defends Coke Studio.
A billboard advertising Coke Studio Season 5. Image: Umair Jaswal
This piece is a response to Aliza Amin’s article, previously published in Jamhoor.
Aliza Amin’s article, Selling Sufism, locates Sufism and its performative manifestation (the qawwali) at a critical juncture in Pakistan. On the one hand, in a post-9/11 context, General Musharraf’s regime tried to promote Sufism as an antidote to “orthodox Islam”. But this, she argues, reified a false distinction between Sufism and “orthodox Islam”, one which mapped onto a “Good Muslim/Bad Muslim” binary. On the other hand, in this context of Sufi-promotion, market forces have tried to commodify Sufism, especially qawwali music. The author selects a specific qawwali video of Coke Studio to highlight how Sufism, and qawwali music in particular, has been appropriated by multinational brands for commercial purposes. The irony, she highlights, is that a purely commercial venture like Coke Studio, in promoting the qawwali, contradicts “the very values of humility and asceticism that Sufism and qawwali seek to promote”.
Despite Amin’s excellent survey of the post 9/11 discourse on Sufism and its commercialization in Pakistan, I do take issue with two of her central claims. First, I think Amin overemphasizes the extent to which General Musharraf’s regime used Sufism to combat religious extremism. The challenge from conservative forces was so serious that his regime was more concerned with pacifying these forces, largely through cooperation but sometimes through coercion as well. Few instances notwithstanding, Sufism was never really the main tool used to combat them. Second, though I’m aware of qawwali’s long foray into commercial spaces, I disagree with Amin’s claim that Coke Studio is simply using Sufism to promote Coca-Cola.
Let me start with the first point. The reasons why the Musharraf regime did not seriously use Sufism to counter radicalization in Pakistan needs to be seen in the political context of America’s “War on Terror”. Musharraf decided to support this war, which angered many conservative forces in the country. In 2002, Pakistan’s leading conservative parties temporarily shed their sectarian differences and formed an alliance, the Muttahida Majlis-e-Amal (MMA), in opposition to Musharraf. Contesting the elections that year, they won a majority of seats in what is now the Khyber Pakhtunkhwa (KPK) Provincial Assembly and the second largest seat share in the National Assembly. Though the MMA was a strong critic of the Pakistan army’s participation in the “War on Terror”, it nevertheless allied with Musharraf’s PML-Q party in Baluchistan’s Provincial Assembly.
An interesting paradox defined the MMA’s relationship with Musharraf. While the MMA’s legitimacy stemmed from its anti-army stance, the army tolerated it. As one author observed, the MMA’s successes in the democratic process were also part of Musharraf’s strategy to superficially appease Western demands for the restoration of civilian supremacy. Despite all its bitterness towards Musharraf and the US, the MMA was also conspicuously silent on the NATO supply trucks passing through the KPK province, where the alliance held power.
Mutahida Majlis e Amal (MMA) was a coalition of religious parties formed in 2002 that swept the provincial election of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa (then NWFP). Image: Naya Daur
Given this backdrop, Amin’s claim that the Musharraf regime was “particularly instrumental in promoting Sufism in order to create a tolerant image of Pakistan” is questionable. It is true that Pakistan was under pressure to curb extremism at the time. The leadership did attempt to project its Sufi heritage and overhaul radical aspects of the religious curricula taught in thousands of seminaries across the country. And indeed, the decision to establish a Sufi Advisory Council was recommended by American think thanks. However, the Musharraf regime’s effort to curb Islamic militancy – for instance, by regulating Islamic seminaries through the Deeni Madaris Ordinance – faced severe backlash from conservative forces allied to him. Meanwhile, ministers in Musharraf’s cabinet (including General Zia ul Haq’s son, then Minister of Religious Affairs) continued to issue controversial statements in support of religious extremists.
The presence of pressure groups within the Pakistani intelligence and Musharraf’s own interdependent (though paradoxical) relationship with the MMA ensured that efforts by the Musharraf regime to curb extremism faced challenges. Moreover, the Pakistani establishment allowed the Afghan Taliban – which had melted into Pakistan after the US-led invasion – to regroup and enter Afghanistan in 2006. The Musharraf regime did act on certain fronts, if one factors in the Lal Masjid operation, the suspicious killing of sectarian extremists (like Azam Tariq of the Sipah-e-Sahaba), and the banning of extremist outfits. However, these decisions emanated out of political concerns rather than any ideological commitment to Sufism as such. More often than not, Musharraf and the Pakistani establishment capitulated to conservative forces.
Let me move on to the second point about Sufism’s commodification through Coke Studio. Amin singles out one qawwali track as a reference point (Piya Ghar Aya from season 11), but, in doing so, she misses out the non-commercial aspects of Coke Studio’s evolution. However ironical it may seem, one cannot deny the distinct aesthetic footprint Coke Studio has left behind, earning a worldwide fanbase.
The credit for this aesthetic footprint goes to its first producer, Rohail Hyatt, a well-known musician and former keyboardist for Vital Signs, Pakistan’s legendary pop band of the 1980s and 90s. By collaborating with Coca-Cola, Hyatt may have embraced commercialization to a degree, but it would be wrong to reduce his Coke Studio to a money-minting venture. After Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan pioneered the Sufi-electronica fusion, Hyatt’s Coke Studio took this experimentation to a new pedestal, mixing Sufi music with diverse musical influences from within and beyond Pakistan.
Rohail Hyatt, founder and executive producer of Coke Studio Pakisan. Image: Tribune
Compared to Coke Studio’s later versions (produced by the band Strings and Ali Hamza), which were tilted more towards commercial pop artists, Hyatt’s version was dominated by the likes of Abida Parveen, Farid Ayaz, Sanam Marvi and many other traditional gharana artists. Tracks like Rustam Fateh Ali Khan’s Tori Chab, that blended the subcontinental Khyal with Turkish music, and Sain Zahoor and Sanam Marvi’s Rabba Ho, where jazz fused into Punjabi Sufi music, demonstrate the risks Coke Studio took under the leadership of Hyatt. These experimental tracks could never match the millions of views garnered by those featuring conventional Pakistani pop artists like Atif Aslam or Momina Mustehsan. Part of the reason Hyatt was able to engage in these risky, and in the end profound, musical experiments was because of the substantial capital support of a multinational enterprise.
Saeen Zahoor recording for season 6 of Coke Studio. Image: Events Pakistan
To conclude, while I agree with Amin that Sufism has increasingly been defined through Western constructs, reified as a “Good Islam” in contrast to the “Bad orthodox Islam”, I disagree with her statement that the Musharraf regime undertook any serious effort to promote Sufi discourse. At the same time, I agree with Amin that market forces extracted profits by repackaging Sufism as oriental exotica for a growing digital clientele. Nevertheless, we need to acknowledge that Coke Studio, despite its market-driven orientation, is still a venture that preserved space for non-commercial and risky musical experiments. These very risks gave Coke Studio its unique identity.
Prateek Joshi is a DPhil candidate at the University of Oxford’s Department of History. His work looks into the border politics of the Indian subcontinent. He is a professional musician, trained as a tabla player.