We reached the university hostel. My parents very were happy because I had been admitted in one of the top notch universities of Pakistan located in Punjab. It was the first time in my life that I was going to stay away from my home and I was petrified.  I was accommodated with my seniors as there were no rooms available for freshmen. The first night, I could not sleep at all because the place was filthy and I couldn't come to terms with the fact that I had to stay there for a long, long time. The days that followed were terrible. The first thing that comes to a freshman’s mind when they set foot in their university is the horrid thought of being ragged. The British tradition of ragging new students is unfortunately prevalent in Pakistani universities. In certain universities, an official ‘Rag Day’ is observed where seniors ridicule newbies and ask them silly questions. This may be somewhat tolerable, however, the ragging which I experienced, was nothing short of a nightmare. I was regularly sexually harassed by my seniors. I have been depressed and traumatised. I had to take anti-psychotics as part of the recovery process. Even though, I have recovered now, the bitter memories still jolt me sometimes. Thus, I’ve decided that expressing my demons via writing is the best way to get closure, so let me narrate to you how I was routinely abused by my seniors. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ One evening, I was in my room with my senior, who was also my roommate, when a couple of guys came and took me with them. I wasn’t dressed properly and I had no idea where they were taking me, but they were so forceful that I was dragged along. They took me to a room, much more horrifying and dirty than the room I was living in. There was also a desktop computer there.

“Have you set foot in adulthood?” asked one of them.

“You see that computer? Go there and open the paint application,” ordered the second guy.

Music has been a humbling and character building experience for me and all the melodies I made and sung are witness to this over time transformation. I still remember the day when Jal had recently split and I was wandering around the office of Indus Music (IM) to get the video of “Yaqeen” done. It was my first ever solo track. Those were the most sceptical days of my life - a time when I was caught between my dearest hopes and darkest fears - hopes of making it really big and proving to my parents that music was worth a gamble and fear of being proven wrong. I was deathly frightened of being yet another one-hit wonder of Pakistan and being unable to add anything significant to the incredibly rich heritage of the country. We have a history that gave us icons like Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan and Faiz Ahmed Faiz - maestros who still move me and give me a reason to be comfortable with who I am. To be honest, I haven’t read much of Faiz so wouldn’t go on bragging about it, but my little exposure to his work tells me a lot about the hopeful rebellion in him - something that is the driving force behind any rock star. In Khan Sahib, I found refuge; every note of his singing is a beacon of light for me and every kalaam he sang is a major driving force for me and many other influential people around the world. People say it reflects in the arrangement of my songs, and if there are any similarities in the music, then it’s just the result of amateur attempts by this naïve kid called Atif. I knew that my presence in Bol was to attract the youngsters towards cinemas and I am proud of supporting a Pakistani film; above all, the aim was to bring attention to one of the gravest social issues of the country. However, when Mira Nair approached me to sing for “The Reluctant Fundamentalist” I was totally overwhelmed because she is a globally known filmmaker who is ready to tell one of the most controversial narratives from my homeland. Once again, I had to tackle “Mori Araj Suno” and “Bol Kay Lab Azaad Hain” by Faiz Ahmed Faiz, and really wanted to do it with my all-time inspiration, Peter Gabriel from Genesis. The budget limitations couldn’t let this happen so I made this possible on my own and became the second Pakistani to collaborate with Gabriel after Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan. The whole feeling of writing about this is so awe-inspiring that I really can’t explain how I felt when Gabriel, after listening to one of my vocal takes said,

“Yours is the finest falset to that I have ever heard after Jeff Buckley.”

Ladies and gentlemen, the conundrum for you today is to guess what March 13, 2013 and May 13, 2013 have in common. Many of you will answer, ‘the number 13,’ but looking beyond this obvious similarity, the former date marked the death of Perveen Rehman whereas May 13, marked the unfortunate death of Abdul Waheed Khan. Perveen and Abdul were both human rights activists, trying to improve the situation in Pakistan in terms of social mobility. It has been two months since Perveen’s death and nothing has been reported with respect to any investigations or legal proceedings against her killers; attaining justice for her death has become a long lost cause. Similarly, Abdul Waheed Khan was shot dead by three men in front of his house when he was with his one-year-old daughter and his brother. The man was not only a human rights activist, but was running a co-educational school, the Naunehal Academy under the Bright Educational Society which he started in the late 1990s, in Qasba Colony, Karachi. He was also running a pharmacy that provided free medicine to the poor. He was a man determined to improve the distribution of income and wealth in the country through the provision of education and medical supplies. Abdul’s death has been a severe loss for Pakistan. It is suspected that Abdul was killed by religious extremists, possibly the Taliban. However, this is old news to us having encountered the incident with Malala Yousufzai and what she suffered merely because she wanted to educate herself. Abdul was bringing modern education to the slums of Karachi where most of the inhabitants were those who had migrated from Northern Pakistan, for better job prospects. Perhaps Abdul’s case is different. His elder brother was killed as he refused to stop the modern education of girls and boys. Abdul had been receiving death threats ever since then, but his commitment to bettering the lives of others was endless and this is the price he paid for it. So, was he wrong in being brave and not a coward? Should every human rights activist drop everything at the first sign of a threat? Should we live our lives in fear of unfortunate but unforeseen things happening to us? If that was the case, people in Karachi would not leave their homes, no child in the Taliban territory would go to school, and Musharraf would never have returned to Pakistan. So what should one do? Fight for what one believes in, like Perveen and Abdul, and fight for all those who are under threat for their efforts in the form of social work. However, I do wonder what social workers get in return of their relentless struggle. Just a blog in The Express Tribune praising their efforts and expressing sorrow at their unfortunate death? That’s all? Let’s hope not. What these people need is protection and justice. Every death should matter and death shouldn’t be a news headline for a day and then forgotten the next day. In such cases, an FIR is usually registered against an unknown person and I do not remember a name being substituted for this word ‘unknown’ in the previous incidents of human rights defenders. But let's hope this changes and people are held accountable for their actions. In this case, it is believed that the Taliban are involved and one can only request the government to arrest the assassins of Abdul and not make his death ‘just another life’, which will be long forgotten in the police stations in a matter of days. Moreover, an educated population is an important step towards the development of a country and therefore the efforts of human rights activists like Abdul should be appreciated and their deaths investigated. The government must take some action in the form of legislation to protect human rights activists who are constantly under threat in our country. They work to improve our lives - something that the government is unable to do. On May 13, 2013, Abdul Waheed Khan did not just die; a one-year-old daughter’s father died; a family’s pride died and a member of Pakistan’s well-wishers died; education died. May his soul rest in peace. Read more by Umaima here

It’s not fun. It’s not helping, and no, it’s not okay. Please leave me alone. I did a sales job about a year ago. It was probably the worst experience ever. It galls me to even speak of it as the memories haunt me till date. But, after being in denial about my skills for a good five months, and falsely assuring myself, “If he can do it, then so can I” or “If she can do it, I can definitely do it”, I finally realised, it wasn’t my cup of tea. Dealing with customers was not painless; it came down to crushing my ego, being super clingy, persistent and being mentally exhausted, along with several other vile things and still not doing too well. I didn’t know what I was doing wrong. But all these nerve-wracking things were not enough. I had a self-proclaimed superstar breathing down my neck to make matters even worse. My boss. I felt a bucket-load of emotions: suffocation, rage, misery, and above all, stress. I wanted to run away or jump off the roof (or maybe push him off the roof).

“You can do it. Here, listen to me speak to this customer over the phone. You will then understand the art of talking to clients.” “Come here, let’s sit together and discuss tactics. We can do this.” “Oh this client is a 10-year-old. Eiman. You must turn into a kid and deal with him. You can do it. Bachi ban jao. Become his friend.”

My first voting experience By Aaminah Qadir A junior at Yale University studying Global Affairs and History of Art. I arrived home from college, excitedly, two days before the general elections to cast my first ever vote. The 2013 elections were too precious to miss. Pakistan was begging for a change. I had previously heard that it is only the elite that will vote for drastic change, that only a small minority will support a new face, but what I heard was wrong. My entire family and I reached the polling office in Korangi at 8:20am. I was baffled to see a line of over a 100 women stretching across the street, waiting patiently in the scorching sunlight to vote at opening time. I did not expect that many people in Korangi, especially women, would come out to vote. I soon discovered that most of the women present were casting their vote for Pakistan Tehreek-e Insaf (PTI) simply because they were fed up with the status quo. Those standing were fed up with the mass killings in Karachi, with few rights and with no accountability. 10:30am: We were only a few steps forward. There was mass confusion. Women returned from inside saying,

 “They’re not letting you in if you do not have your block number.”

My mother, who remembers all of her five children’s birthdays, who remembers her children’s childrens’ birthdays, if she was ever to forget, I don't think any of us would let her forget for a long time. If my kids cough too hard I know I can call my mom at three o'clock in her morning and she will tell me 10 things I can do to soothe my child. She will call back, again and again to check up on us, forgetting about her own sleep, and telling me to get some rest even though it will be afternoon at my end. If I have to vent about how someone wronged me, I know I can call my mother and she will tell me exactly what I need to hear. She will make me see the other person’s perspective; I learnt how to put myself in another person’s shoes from my mom. She taught us never to judge people or to look down on anyone. She always said you have to understand that there must have been a reason for that person’s actions. You have to understand the circumstances. You have to take responsibility for your own actions and your reaction to that person’s act. After such talks, I hang up the phone feeling sheepish and light hearted… and a little bit sympathetic for the person I was ready to choke just an hour ago. That is the magic that my mom’s words have. For the birth of my children, my mom travelled all the way from Pakistan both times, to be by my side. I didn’t want to stay awake all night, I didn’t want to clean poopy diapers or soothe a crying baby. But I did it because I had to. But my mother, who has already dealt with more than her share of poopy diapers and sleepless nights, did everything with me and more. From staying at the hospital every night to taking over my house hold. She did it all. I could go on for days recounting the amazing things my mother has done for me in the last 30 years. Yet I would still not remember half of her precious acts of love, kindness and sacrifice Becoming a mother has taught me this; there is no love, like the love a mother has for her child. Her love sees no reason or limits. She sees her child as the most beautiful creature that ever walked the earth. She worships her child yet protects him and nurtures him. I have only just begun to understand my mother’s love for me as my own children grow. I cannot thank her enough, for her unconditional love, her grace and her courage. How do you repay all of this? Where do you begin? How do you repay your mother for loving you like no one will ever love you? I don’t think it is even possible. But this is what I have learnt; a simple thank you would be enough for a mother. Simply showing you care would send only a mother’s heart soaring over the moon. Yet, those simplest acts of gratitude are hard for most of us. My daughter is six, after her first day in this world I already knew she will never be able to repay me for what all I have done for her. After thirty years? Not in this lifetime! For only a mother, my mother, calls her daughter on her own birthday, tells her daughter to be safe as she leaves for a vacation. And sends off her daughter, son-in-law and grandchildren sheltered in her prayers and love. Never once saying;

“It is my birthday today and you forgot.”

I remember when my anxiety towards an impending CIE A level examination superseded the boundaries of personal interest and assumed a political nature. Disappointed with the B in my Chemistry mock exam, I turned to my teacher for further evaluation. Instead of relieving me of my worries, the response I received gave way to a wide array of concerns.

“Come on, how many past papers did you guys really do? You can’t expect an A without having done enough past papers!”

“Thank God I’m doing O levels! I’d never have been able to ratta-fy (rote learn) so much text!”

I remember the days leading up to the general elections 2008 like it was yesterday. I was working as a news reporter for Dawn News based out of Karachi and the intensity of the chaos which usually forms the climate in a newsroom was building up. The channel had drafted in and trained dozens of volunteers to help tabulate the Election Day results. The creative department headed by a young and talented lady was working full throttle, churning out savvy graphics and what appeared to be Star Trek inspired tunes especially created for the occasion. Our director news, a short smurf-like character that reined terror and admiration at the hearts of all his employees, was smoking cigarettes more profusely than I had ever seen him before. Then the big day arrived. The assassination of Benazir Bhutto had created an atmosphere of terror and we all were certain that something horribly wrong would happen on the day of the polls. I was assigned to look after the area stretching from the Board Office in North Nazimabad all the way to the far end of Surjani Town. I still remember the words of an executive producer when he instructed me:

“Whether it’s a bomb blast, rigging, threats to voters, a gun fight or whatever else, you are our first and only point of contact in that area. Do not mess up!”

Pakistan is having a moment. It is a moment similar to the pre-Obama days in the US. The furore of fantasy is building and hearts are beating wildly. Everyone is joining in this frenzied support for PTI. Perhaps, it is the mob mentality we as a nation are susceptible to, perhaps it is simply fashionable to join the many that have picked Imran Khan to represent them. Or perhaps there really is something there, a real chance, a future. Change is in the air. There is movement, there is excitement. I feel none of it. What I feel instead, as I stand on the banks of this particular river, watching this procession of hope, is left out. I cannot join in, because I don't have a vote. Let me clarify. I cannot vote, because Pakistan has decided that the religious community I was born into is not capable, or trusted somehow, to be availed the right to walk into a voting booth and walk out with a black thumb like any other citizen of the country. To vote, I must first admit, by signing a piece of paper that gives me my identity, that I am not a Muslim, a fact entirely irrelevant to my opinion on whether Imran Khan is fit to lead the country or not. Ironically, I must give up one identity to gain another, to silence one voice inside, to be given the opportunity to speak up for someone else. Or, I can vote, but as a minority, for the one seat that is “allocated” to my community, and waste my voice on a vote that neither counts, nor is relevant to anything that happens politically in the country. Never has the symbolism of a black mark felt more ironic than now. Never have I ever sat back and had a moment of realisation this strong. This is what I know: It does not matter how passionately I love Pakistan, nor is it relevant what my opinions are on Imran Khan, the future, politics or laws. It does not matter, because I am not relevant. Rejection has never stung so badly before. I, too, have defended my country against labels, against tarnish, against abuse. I, too, have walked the streets singing “Dil, dil Pakistan” and have draped myself in green and white. I have stood on stage and given speeches on patriotism, waited for months for my father to return home from the border, wished I was a boy so I could have had the chance to defend my country in the only way that made sense to me—with my life. Let me tell you that the moment one turns around to look back at the things you have loved with such passion, the essence of which you have held within your heart, and find closed gates, back turned towards you, is a moment of darkness. For years, I argued that it doesn’t matter. I would not have voted for the confederacy of dunces that ruled for years anyway. But now that something seems to be stirring and there is a chance, that maybe, possibly, there is an awakening, I find myself caught between my love and my actual reality. I want to participate, but I can’t. I want to speak, but I have no voice. So don’t ask me who I support. Don’t ask me who I would vote for, or what I think of Imran Khan. I don’t know because I am not allowed to know. I cannot, in any possible permutation of the reality, be asked to be an observer from the inside, to see but not do- to love, but not have. My ancestors bled the same tears for this country, made the same sacrifices. And I will go so far as to say, that despite being treated like illegitimate children, my family and I continue to hold on to the values that we learned as Pakistanis, to the patriotism that runs as deep in our veins as yours. You may have abandoned me, but I can never walk away. I believe in you more than you believe in me. For now, this is all I can do. And I will wait for the day that you awaken, give me my voice, and acknowledge that I, as a Pakistani, am no different than you. That I deserve to speak as loudly, disagree as vehemently, and love as wildly, as you do. Follow Hananah on Twitter @Hananahzaheer

With the general elections looming around the corner, every party has vociferously geared up and is trying to promulgate their ideas to the masses. It seems the year 2013 proved to be a significant one in reference to Pakistani politics; some parties tapered off whereas some emerged and took us by surprise. With the chants of ‘Naya Pakistan’ and ‘tabdeeli’ in each citizen’s mouth, we can surely say, elections are going to be nail-biting excitement! Amidst this excitement, let's come together, remain hopeful and actually vote for a change. That said, there is always room for some light hearted humour- below are a few caricatures that I hope you enjoy! Nawaz Sharif:       Molana Sami-ul-Haq:       Molana Munawwar Hasan:       Molana Fazal-ur-Rehman:       Junior Pir Pagaara:       Imran Khan:       General Musharraf:       Dr AQ Khan:       Ch Shujaat Husain:       Bilawal and Asif Zardari:       Asfandyar Wali:       Altaf Bhai:       Allama Tahirul-Qadri:       Religious parties together:     Follow Zia on Twitter @CartoonSaaz