Aftaab Zaar – Winter Edition 2024

: Winter Edition

Delhi Public School Srinagar

Aftaab Zaar

An Editorial Board Initiative

Patron: Ms. Shafaq Afshan

Table of Contents

01 OP ED

The Silver Lining

02

GAASH: The Enlightenment Tomatoes

Leaving School is Not So Bad

05

Forty Days Gutar Goo

09 HISTORY

Hourglass

Draggh During the Dogras

The Golden Age: A Brief History of Pirates

14 FICTION Star

A Light in the Gloom A Dance With Death

18

PHILOSOPHY

On Suffering and Salvation

19 LITERATURE

Book Reccomendations

Shelves of a Scettered Self

22 ART

Art Gallery

Abstract Art

25 POETRY

The Veiled Whispers

The Holy Wash

The Lanterns Ahead

29 DPS TIMES

31 TECHNOLOGY

Around the World

The Hoax of Privacy

35 WINTER PLAYLIST

36 CREDITS

The Silver Lining

Author: Ayesha Ahmed

Pottery: A Beginner’s Handbook

As it happens, ineffable grief has failed as well, to consume anyone forever cause hope — as stubborn as glitter — often lingers in the corners and doesn’t easily fade away. “Still”, wrote Van Gogh in a letter, “a great deal of light falls on everything”. It is eerie how we bedeck pain and admire it to its lair which is why we’re celebrating ‘the silver lining’ —to the dark cloud —in this periodical.

As I sit amidst the occult of clay and fire I am bound to think that while man cannot forestall his doom nor retard it, he can choose to turn it into art. To see form emerge from formlessness on a crucible —with bare hands — and to realise that man had a similar start, knocks on the simple truth that everything falls into place eventually.

Near the blazing kiln the raw clay vessel mirrors your soul and the flames echo the desire to engulf the entirely of its being. From my experience in this field, I’ve come to realise that when something feels like the end of the world, it most presumably isn’t. So it happens, clay — something which humans metamorphose into after becoming nothing — gets mould into vessels singing the symphony of hope.

\The hands that do this translation make the pottery human by leaving behind imperfections that complete an article. The principle is to seek joy in anomaly and to respect craft beyond the criteria of expectations. Art like life is supposed to be however it asserts itself to be.

Now that I halt to fashion more metaphors on my wheel, I remind you that even after you’ve baked the pottery and had it glazed, if you do in fact end up falling and breaking your pots or somehow somewhere a little bit of yourselves in the process, then you shall seek the alchemy of Kintsugi to seep gold into your scars and never not think that healing is possible.

Sculpting truth till we meet again, Yours in clay

Cornerstones

to honour those who came before us

GAASH - the Enlightenment

It was the 4th day of November in 2018 when we embarked on a journey for literary indulgence. A small team of exceptional individuals sat together in the school library to discuss the road ahead.

It’s been 6 long years since, but the ideas shared on that day still instill in us the courage to write and publish literature in its all strange and beautiful forms. GAASH is that burning flame that illuminates every corner of our relatively new venture - AftabZaar.

We are ever grateful to the first team of Editorial board that has been generous enough and some have shared their brilliantly written write ups with us. This space is dedicated to your courage, enthusiasm, selflessness and immense wisdom.

To Taif Altaf, Sana Khursheed, Sadiq Ali, Musa Malik, Mohammad Tazeem, Ayesha Rashid, Shah Azaf, Akhil Wazir and Haider Tanweer.

Blessings and good wishes!

Author: Ms. Shazia Fida, mentor and head of the Editorial Board

“One random day in 9th grade, Shazia Ma’am called me to the library. That day I was introduced to our newspaper editorial. For the next 2 years, everyday I spent all my after school time to help with the editorial. I learned how to edit, how to write op-eds and research (which have helped me in college life) and made school a much better experience than it would’ve been if not for this. My time on the editorial board with many of my seniors and juniors had been nothing short of amazing and eye-opening. There were so many things I learnt not only from my seniors, but from my juniors. I took a lot with me through this experience, team building, deep relationships that I still hold with myself to this day and one of the experiences a student can have in school. If I was given a chance to come back and join it again, I would do it in a split-second. Thank you for the amazing memories.”

Author: Musa Malik Ex Editorial Board Member

Tomatoes

One has a sense of excitement before planning a trip, especially a trip outside the country. You get new experiences, new food and most importantly you grow. I can confirm this, it’s all true, well, almost. I never figured that there would be a difference between visiting a country and living there, at least not as big of one as I ended up experiencing. To be fair, I had never visited Norway as a tourist, but I’m sure I still would’ve not been able to predict all the little intricacies that go into living in a place. I also think there is another level to this. Going to live somewhere as a student and then as a working professional, also must be completely different to one another. One only gets to know the true difference after living through it, this feeling cannot be felt before you know, you actually feel it.

In the context of our society here in Kashmir, going abroad to study is quite the big deal. The reactions range anywhere from genuine happiness for the ‘lucky one’ to veiled envy. I had some options as to where to go. Norway was not even on the list in the beginning. It’s funny how things work out sometimes. In hindsight, had I gone somewhere where I’d already been, perhaps I wouldn’t feel as alienated as I did, but I guess that’s just a rationalisation at best. When it’s time to leave home, not the days leading until the departure but that exact moment when you get a hug from your mother and you get into the car to leave for the airport, I can put that feeling into words. The best I can do is say that it is a mixture of fear, sadness, reluctance and excitement. The excitement is the one you feel the least. Then after you have left, you don’t feel anything for a long time, you don’t even get a chance because the reality of logistics kicks in. Let’s just say, it’s not easy to pack your life in three suitcases and just leave. Leave a place you’ve spent the entirety of your life in. No matter how many times you’ve travelled before, this is different.

No other travelling experience takes this amount of time, effort and mental space.

Until the point of leaving time goes rapidly. Even till you reach your destination, it’s all a blur. It’s a couple of days later, when you sit in your room, stare out the window and realise that you don’t recognise the trees outside. Then it hits you, the past week or so flash in front of your eyes and you understand the gravity of the step you have taken. We usually take this part for granted, we don’t understand how much of a big deal it is, to leave home and go 5000 miles away. I didn’t either till one of the first questions I was asked in every interaction I had was “God, why so far away from home? Why Norway?”. The city I was living in was called Arendal, a small city 300 Kms from the capital city of Oslo. At first, I thought ‘Wow, what a quaint little single Church town, so pretty, quiet and peaceful’. That got old quickly. It took a short while for me to realise that, anything that is my idea of fun or a good time, is, well, not fun for them. So, cooking, cleaning and facetime with family became a routine as much as going to the academy was. I consider myself lucky to have known how to cook. I took an interest in it since childhood, my mother was always happy to teach. I say this because when Norwegians thought about food and what to eat, I think they looked into the horizon, saw the sea and then thought “Wow, fish” and that’s it. As a Kashmiri and more so belonging to our sub-continent, that is unfathomable to me. It wasn’t all roses and rainbows though. My first visit to the grocery store came with the realisation that tomatoes along with onions and garlic, three things without which you cannot cook anything in our cuisine, but mostly the tomatoes, cost Rs.700/kg. I must say, I have never missed my mother and my home as much as I have in that moment. Alas, I made the required purchase and cooked my first meal away from home, chicken curry. It was good, even though that visit to the grocery store still haunted me,

Author: Ali Sadiq Ex Editorial Board Member

but it was good. I learnt a handy trick to save myself from future shocks, I stopped converting the currency into rupees. That was very difficult, but necessary.

One of the best things I would say about moving there was the beauty. I found myself wondering many times about home and how similar my surroundings were to it. Yet, so different. It still doesn’t get old when it rains, you walk outside and neither your shoes nor your trousers have mud on them. Yet, I missed the mud. There were also other things that I highly appreciated, such as how unbothered everyone was. Nobody cared about what I did, like, at all. The sense of boundaries and privacy that is instilled in them took me a while to grasp, it is like I had to revise my sense of social etiquette, things that I never even realised were an issue. It took some time, but I really appreciate that I got an opportunity to learn things that I would have never, had I not moved away from home. What Ialso realised, we as a people in Kashmir are very entitled. While we think that it is how it should be, we take a lot of things for granted, that honestly, we shouldn’t. Like, I can’t even imagine doing a part-time job as a student in Srinagar. It feels so alien. But, it shouldn’t. Learning to appreciate the work that goes into earning a living and supporting oneself isn’t only an important life-skill, it is also important for a sense of self and the sense of empowerment one feels.

In the end, I’m really thankful for the experience that I got in that country. I learnt things I would never otherwise and most importantly I got a sense of respect and love for home that I wouldn’t’ve otherwise. That is the reason, when I got a choice of settling in Norway by spending another 3-5 years there or coming home and taking the longer path to being professionally settled, I took the latter. I chose the tomatoes at home.

Author: Sana Khursheed Ex Editorial Board Member

Leaving school is not so bad.

Leaving school is not so bad. Remove the sentimentality and it’s all but marvellous really. The new-found freedom puts one in the throes of social settings and navigating time; the ingredients for nostalgia. Nostalgia for how life was Two Years Ago (very silly). Now, admittedly, it is easy and fun to nostalgia bait about years gone by, when you’re in a totally different situation, but the grass is just as crummy and fresh and full of weird worms on the other side kids. It is perhaps the most human thing to get done with something, no matter how arduous and annoying, and getting all notional about it. Maybe it’s the sense of achievement, maybe you’re just plain happy it’s over.

Time, when you’re a student, is such a controlled thing. It’s all you really hear about- “Make timetables!, “Do smart work!”, “Time management!” and whatnot. This makes precious the obligation to sustain social systems within the trinity of chutti time, lunch break, and games class. Now, obviously, schools do not have a monopoly on lunch breaks and playing games. But what they do have is the quintessential chutti time. The 20 minutes between the bell ringing and the school buses leaving evolves its own rules of coolness, in an environment as volatile as the teenagers that make it. The hurried debriefing of your day to a friend from another section, the push and shove outside khen chen, and of course the politics of socialisation. Chutti time is one of the few times one can apply their agency and engage in their bubble of world-building. It’s the time to hang out with people you don’t see during the day; your older, cooler friends. The ultimate meet-up time with one specific person or hoping you’d cross one specific person. Or maybe this is just how it was in the yee old, pre-2020 years. The crescendo to this methodic madness is to actually catch your bus on time. Not before the driver

uncle has revved the engine at least twice, and not after you’d risk dirty looks from the self proclaimed bus incharge. Funny thing about nailing this timing is that, in your anxious mind, the bus is your only way home. The very idea that you could hitch a ride outside the school gates is much too impossible. Very few of us consider ourselves possessing the agency to think outside the school-specified system when we’re so young.

When it’s all said and done, one must sit towards the back. There is no way to explain why or how this became a thing but hovering about the back seat is peak respectability politics in the 9th grade. You’re going to be thrown about when a speed breaker comes but you’ll do it being all suave. And that’s what’s important.

There is no metaphor to locate chutti time in adulthood. I guess that’s what the whole thing is about- you finally develop free thinking when they give you your leaving certificate. It is the pain of awareness, the final mundanity of heightened experience, not responsibility or whatever, that’s the most alarming part of exiting your teens. But eventually it’s alright. You’re out of school, you’re not going to get on the big yellow buses anymore, but you can finally hitch a ride at Athwajan sumo station and go anywhere. Actually, more like you can go along the length of the highway, but it’s a start. As Ursula K. Leguin puts it, “The trouble is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only evil, interesting.”

Heritage & Folklore

FORTY DAYS

Syed Ibaad Bukhari Class XII

The words “Chillai Kalan ha chav” becomes common parlance come the stroke of midnight on the 21st of December. The night of the winter solstice earmarks the beginning of the Kashmiri winter and the visit of a family of three wintery demons. Interestingly, according to Persian tradition, the night of December 21 is termed as Shab-e-Yalda - “Night of Birth” or Shab-e Chelleh – “Night of Forty”. Iranians and Azerbaijanis call it Chilla Gejasi, which marks the beginning of the first forty days of winter.

These tales transferred themselves to Kashmir during the time of Iranian rule, but as usual, Kashmiris took the story and ran with it. The Kashmiri myth of winter divides it into three parts. Chillai Kalan or “Major Cold”, is the father in the family of wintery demons lasts from December 21 to January 30, Chillai Khurd or “Minor Cold”, is the mother and lasts from January 31 to February 19 and the child of the family “Chillai Bache” or “Baby Cold” which is from February 20 to March 2.

Such a ritualistic interpretation of the season has inevitably led to a set of unique customs to emerge among them. In fact, the entirety of Kashmiri culture seems to revolve around these days of winter. The pheran exists solely to fight back against the wintry chill, the kangri being the weapon of choice in this war against winter. Even the cuisine joins in on the combat. From hokh suin to farrieh and the exotic shabdeg, a slow-cooked stew made from a whole duck along with turnips and spices; everything in Kashmir revolves around these forty days. And it has been all the better for it. After all, Kashmir is no ordinary place and thus Chillai Kalan is no ordinary winter.

GUTAR GOO

Najm ul Sehr Class XII

Greetings, madams and sirs! I am writing this article with the assistance and collaboration of a very trusty human friend who has a particularly strong liking towards my kind. I’m finished with my exceptionally strenuous daily chores – which, for the sake of my human audience, I’ll describe as a particularly peculiar bowel movement atop a vehicle.

In the earliest years of my life, I enjoyed ample pampering from my mother in our nest. Despite having three other siblings, they did not quite receive the same exquisite treatment as me. A mere chirp from me would result in a delectable and juicy worm being dropped into my awaiting beak. Apart from the occasional conflicts, we were, as humans would say, “one big and happy pigeon family.” Life remained blissful untilcatastrophe struck, or more precisely, a colossal broom. The humans had obliterated our beautiful nest, crafted from the finest straw and branches that our father had risked his life to procure in a park guarded by a ferocious dog. Being unable to fly at the time and somewhat fat, I landed quite forcefully, breaking my left leg and leaving a substantial scar on my left wing. This little accident is the reason for my ongoing struggle to fly and my slight limp even when walking. Since I get no exercise and have a very voracious appetite which is quelled by me simply perching myself outside Jamia Masjid, I’m quite round and have earned the nickname of “golu” from my human friends.

Ah, humans – truly fascinating creatures. Their system of exchange, which I believe they call “money,” differs from ours as pigeons, who utilize grains or seeds as payment. I see them spend these paper bills on feeding hundreds of pigeons outside Jamia Masjid everyday, including me. As i sit there satiated to the brim, I look to my side and notice an emaciated and disheveled man in rags sitting on the road, holding his bowl with an expression of painful longing. He seems like he hasn’t eaten in days, yet the humans turn a blind eye to his dire condition by not sharing their bread, which costs the same as a packet of grains. If a fellow pigeon was starving, I’d gladly break the seed into halves, or rather, give the entire seed to him.

Many humans pass by, but their expression upon seeing him isn’t just mere indifference; it’s a blatant dismissal of another’s suffering. Why do humans, instead of causing high levels of obesity in pigeons, not extend their generosity to a fellow human who is starving?

During my little strolls along the street, I’ve come to realize that just as pigeons are distinct from humans, humans are distinct from humans as well. Glancing to my right, I observe individuals adorned in opulent clothing beside their shiny luxurious vehicles, indulging in expensive food while discussing the latest fashion trends and luxury acquisitions. The air carries the scent of unbridled materialism masked by expensive perfumes.

Shifting my gaze to the left, I see a mosaic of mismatched, dilapidated structures housing people akin to the man on the street. Laundry lines, weighed down by threadbare garments, stretch across the alleyways like tattered banners of resilience. Children dance barefoot on the cold, dusty streets, their eyes sparkling with a flame that their desolate world has not yet extinguished. The air is thick with the fragrance of decay and yet, resilience.

Finally, redirecting my gaze to the center, I witness an expanse of sterile gray cubicles arranged in a regimented grid, with fluorescent lights flickering overhead, casting a sickly pallor on the faces of workers hunched over identical desks. The air is permeated with a palpable sense of conformity and suppressed despair, drowning out any scintilla of individuality as these humans toil away in hopes of one day joining the ranks of those on the right.

Alas, for us pigeons, a luxurious car, a modest four-wheeler or a rusty bicycle receives our droppings all the same.

HOURGLASS

December 7 1941

The attack on Pearl Harbor by the Japanese, leading to the United States’ entry into World War II.

December 15 1791

The United States Bill of Rights is ratified, guaranteeing fundamental rights and liberties to American citizens.

December 17, 1538

December

Sir Isaac Newton

Born December 25, 1642

An influential mathematician, physicist, astronomer, and author, Newton formulated the laws of motion and universal gravitation.

John Lennon

Died December 8, 1980

The legendary English musician, singer, and songwriter, a former member of The Beatles, was tragically shot and killed in New York City.

Pope Paul III excommunicated King Henry VIII after he had declared himself supreme head of the Church in England. Khalid

January 1 1863 January 8 1921

The Emancipation Proclamation is issued by President Abraham Lincoln, declaring all slaves in Confederate-held territory to be free.

The formation of the Jammu and Kashmir Muslim Conference took place. This political organization, later renamed the Jammu and Kashmir National Conference (NC), played a significant role in the political landscape of the region. Sheikh Abdullah, a prominent leader, was associated with its early years.

January 28 1986

The Space Shuttle Challenger disaster occurs when the spacecraft breaks apart 73 seconds into its flight, resulting in the deaths of all seven crew members.

January

Benjamin Franklin

Born January 17, 1706

A polymath and Founding Father of the United States, Franklin was a statesman, scientist, writer, and inventor known for his experiments with electricity.

Christa McAuliffe

Died January 28, 1986

The American teacher and payload specialist aboard the Space Shuttle Challenger, which tragically exploded 73 seconds after liftoff, leading to the deaths of all seven crew members.

February 6 1952

King George VI of the United Kingdom dies, and Elizabeth II ascends to the throne.

February 10 1925

The renowned Kashmiri poet and philosopher, Allama Iqbal, addressed a gathering at the historical Khanqah-e-Moula in Srinagar. This event is significant as Iqbal’s poetry and philosophical thoughts had a profound impact on the cultural and intellectual discourse in Kashmir.

February 11 1990

Nelson Mandela is released from prison after 27 years, a significant step towards the end of apartheid in South Africa.

February

Abraham Lincoln

Born February 12, 1809

The 16th President of the United States, Lincoln played a key role in the American Civil War and is remembered for his leadership and the Emancipation Proclamation.

Whitney Houston

Died February 11, 2012

The American singer, actress, and producer, often referred to as “The Voice,” passed away on this date, leaving bhind a legacy of chart-topping hits.

March 3 1931 March 16 1846

The “Star-Spangled Banner” is adopted as the United States’ national anthem.

The signing of the Treaty of Amritsar occurred, which ceded the region of Jammu and Kashmir from the Sikh Empire to the Dogra ruler Gulab Singh. This treaty laid the foundation for the Dogra rule in the princely state.

March 30 1981

President Ronald Reagan is shot and wounded in an assassination attempt in Washington, D.C

March

Albert Einstein

Born March 14, 1879

A theoretical physicist renowned for developing the theory of relativity, Einstein is considered one of the greatest minds in the history of science.

Brandon Lee

Died March 31, 1993

The American actor and son of martial arts legend Bruce Lee died due to a firearms accident on the set of the movie “The Crow.”

History Draggh During the Dogras

When one thinks of contemporary Kashmir, one thinks of lush green fields of paddy, golden patches of wheat and a labyrinth milieu of orchards. Today Kashmir is in no way or form associated with the extreme poverty and food insecurity associated with SouthEast Asia but this idea is relatively new. Kashmir has had a long and sad history with famines, the primary reason for this being the geographical isolation of the valley and its climatic conditions but to add insult to injury came the cruelty and barbarity of the successive foreign regimes that ruled Kashmir. The earliest mention of famine in the region dates back to 917 A.D. which was caused due to the flooding of Jhelum which washed away the crops. There has been substantial documentation of the consequent famines but none of those can beat the ones that occurred during the Sikh-Dogra regime in a sheer game of numbers and magnitude.

Famine of 1831

In 1831, during Sher Singh’s governance in Kashmir under the Sikh empire, a severe famine, named after the governor, ensued. The calamity, known as the Sher Singh Famine, resulted from untimely snowfall in autumn, devastating the paddy crop. The famine led to a drastic population decline in Kashmir from eight lakh to two lakh. Subsequently, a flood further damaged critical irrigation infrastructure, submerging valuable cultivation areas. Mismanagement by revenue collectors exacerbated the crisis, as embezzlement and hoarding intensified. Basic food prices skyrocketed 10-15 times, plunging the populace into widespread hunger. Desperate for survival, people embarked on hunger marches to Punjab, with casualties unrecorded and families resorting to selling children for sustenance.

Famine of 1877-79

The calamity in 1877 resulted from continuous rainfall spanning October 1877 to January 1878, with the sky consistently overcast for five months. This extended period of rain caused significant

Khalid Khursheed Class XI

loss of life and crops. The delayed reaping, attributed to procedural challenges and the government’s revenue collection system, contributed to crop damage. Following the destruction of rice and maize, an order to sell state stocks led to opportunistic middlemen exploiting the situation, buying barley and wheat at lower rates and later selling them at higher prices. Subsequent heavy rains in the spring of 1878 damaged new crops and demoralized the population, leading to widespread starvation and migration attempts. One authority has stated that the population of Srinagar was reduced from 127400 to 60,000 and others say that of the total population of the valley only 2/5th survived as the famine took away 67,400 persons from the city and 1,74,220 from the villages. As the earth was barren, stripped of its bounties the water bodies were ever present but not for the people. Ranbir Singh based on the belief that Gulab Singh had reincarnated as a fish banned fishing. According to the account in “The Wrongs of Cashmere” by Brickman.

“An English officer passing up the Jehlum in his boat during one of those years of famine observed three half-starved natives chained naked on the bank of the river, at a desolate spot many miles from any habitation. Each of them wore a necklace of stinking fish, and they had been left thus for three days and three nights already without food or drink. What was their offence? They had been driven by hunger to catch a few fish, in defiance of the interdict, and had been found out.”

Famine of 1901

In the early 1900s (around 1901), the state’s indifference and negligence, coupled with the imposition of an entry tax (Chongi) on all food entering the city, had detrimental effects. The consequences of the resulting famine became evident as various grains, especially rice, disappeared from the market. The city’s inhabitants faced extreme

hardship and calamity. Grain traders displayed a complete lack of empathy, causing rice prices to skyrocket. The administration remained indifferent. Continuous week-long rains exacerbated the situation, causing widespread flooding and adding to the suffering of those near rivers like Jhelum, Dal, and Wular. This flood contributed significantly to a severe famine, claiming numerous livestock. Rice, normally priced at one rupee per seer, became scarce. Unscrupulous dealers sold paddy behind closed doors at exorbitant prices. People resorted to surviving on tea, grass, and sag (knol-kohl) or went without food for days. The situation deteriorated to the point where individuals had to sell their properties, homes, and jewellery at rock-bottom prices for survival. Despite the crisis, the apathetic government merely restricted grain exports and advised wealthy grain dealers to procure and distribute grain from villages to the needy at reasonable prices.

The Famine in Popular Culture

Calamities profoundly influence popular culture and proverbs, shaping collective wisdom and expressions. In the aftermath of disasters, resilience-themed narratives emerge in popular culture,reflecting the human spirit’s ability to endure. Proverbs evolve to incorporate lessons from adversity, offering timeless guidance. Calamities often inspire solidarity and compassion, evidentin art and communal rituals that serve as coping mechanisms. The shared experience of survival becomes a cultural touchstone, fostering a sense of identity and unity. Through the lens ofcalamities, popular culture and proverbs serve as both mirrors and beacons, reflecting the impact and resilience of societies in the face of adversity. The distressing economic condition faced by the valley people gave birth to the following proverbs:

‘Doh Kadun Go Koh Kadun’

“In the period of scarcity and starvation, passing a day without food and meals was equivalent to passing a year.”

‘Bujeh Lob Kujeh Tul Cheont Doh Dish Gai Teh Haptan khay’

“In the time of starvation; the people used to go to jungles in search of wild grown fruits and vegetables. In the strife; an old woman found a fruit (an apple) under a tree and continued to visit the spot to collect the fruits for some days for her survival. Finally, she fell victim to a wild bear as one day she encountered the animal in this strife; the food was the food of that animal.”

‘Batah Dadeh Chai Wateh Wil Gachan’

“For want of meals (Rice) the people would lose their way, country and relations as the search for the same would take them to distant lands unheard and unknown to them.”

This sorry state of affairs in Kashmir is captured by Iqbal in his immemorial words that:

‘Aaj Woh Kashmir Hai Makhoom Majboor-O-Faqeer

Kal Jisay Ahle-E-Nazar KehteThay Iran-E-Sageer’

“Today that land of Kashmir, under the heels of the enemy, has become weak, helpless and poor Once known among the wise as little Iran.”

The history of these sorry events in Kashmir represents how a lack of will in the administration leads to chronic problems for the populace. The will of an administration can transform a desert into a metropolis and a metropolis into a desert.

The Golden Age

A Brief History of Pirates

It is not to be forgotten, even if we remain too busy with our devices, that as kids, we loved pirates. We were all fascinated with them. The movie series “Pirates of the Caribbean” was truly like a dream. I still believe that we retain admiration for pirates.

Even if we might not love pirates, it would be appropriate to say that they were some impressive ones in the cohort. The history of piracy has struck fear into the hearts of maritime workers since the origins of trade. Whenever sailors sailed the seas, pirates would plunder and pillage ships. For thousands of years, pirates presented a very real menace to merchant ships and navy vessels. So, even if there is admiration for pirates, there is no love for them.

The word “Piracy,” for a long time, was simply attacking and looting ships. If we delve deeper into its origins, the term pirate (peirato) appears to have been coined around 140 BC by the Roman historian Polybius. Plutarch, a Greek historian who lived around 100 A.D., provided the first precise description of piracy. He defined pirates as individuals who attack not just ships but also marine cities without legal authority. Since then, the world has evolved a lot. Now, “piracy” refers to robbing or other violent actions for private ends without authorization.

The history of pirates is a long one. They have been the terror of the seas for thousands of years, sailing the waters since ancient times. Piracy in the ancient Mediterranean goes back at least as long as the Bronze Age. They have threatened the trading routes of Ancient Greece since ancient times; in Europe, the most famous were the Vikings. Even the great Julius Caesar was once kidnapped by the Cilician pirates at the age of 25.

There was a common source for piracy, the privateer. It was a privately owned and armed ship commissioned by the government to retaliate. Its officers and workers shared some of the profit from their plunders. Then, with time, they would become tempted to continue this profitable business without authorization. As years passed, it became hard to differentiate between pirates and privateers.

In the annals of maritime history, the epoch of the Golden Age of Piracy unfolded during a time when the seas were dominated by daring buccaneers seeking treasure and adventure on the high seas. This was the time between 1650 to 1720 when thousands of pirates became active and flourished. This so-called Golden Age was when we came to know the names of legendary pirates such as Henry Morgan, William ‘Captain’ Kidd, ‘Calico’ Jack Rackham, Bartholomew Roberts, and the most infamous and fearsome pirate Blackbeard (Edward Teach, the captain of the great ship “Queen Anne’s Revenge”). In fact, Blackbeard was so famous that the character “Davy Jones,” the eternal captain of the Flying Dutchman (a legendary ghost ship doomed to sail the seven seas for eternity) in the film series “Pirates of the Caribbean,” was inspired by him. They flew the worst pirate flag, the “Jolly Roger,” with its picture of a skull and crossbones, symbolizing death or the devil. The best of these pirates came from the Caribbean, where they lived on a small island named Tortuga. The pirates looted large Spanish ships called “Galleons.”They threatened commercial shipping in the Indian Ocean, the North African Ocean, and America. Even though movies and media romanticize pirates, the Golden Age of Piracy was a time of unmatched maritime robbery.

In these times, piracy became a popular profession. In England, there was disruption and unemployment, forcing people to look for work in urban areas, leading to a lot of displacement. Due to this, young men left for the sea, even though it was a tough life.

The age of piracy ended in 1730 when the navies of West European countries, North American countries, and colonies in the Caribbean began combating the pirates. However, pirates still flourished in the Indian Ocean and South China in the 1800s. There still remain some pirates in the seas out there, but they are too small in number and don’t have the power they used to have. Even though pirates may be dead, they still live in our hearts with advmiration for them!

Fiction Star

SYED IMAAD, CLASS XI

White tiles, a pungent smell of alcohol, antiseptics, and bleach. This has become a staple for me.

I got up and looked out the window, witnessing the same boring parking lot. It was night, and the city was still brightly lit as people went on with their everyday lives. I often missed the sense of normalcy people had.

The night sky was bright too, yet it seemed to miss something, something personal. Then again, I reached this same conclusion every night.

The past two years have all been a constant repeat of nausea, pain, drowsiness, and disappointment. My parents tried to keep a hopeful demeanor in front of me, yet I know they too are tired of this cycle.

They took the whole news of me being terminally ill rather well. They were strong initially. I don’t blame them for not visiting anymore; it must be painful to see their son wither away. Anyway, one meeting a month does suffice. With that thought, I leave my room and start walking rather slowly (otherwise my head starts spinning) to a room with a white door at the end of the hallway.

I go for the doorknob to enter. It’s cold, unforgivingly so. I enter the room, and I’m greeted by the same white uniform and artificial warmth. Their demeanour seemed to be that of a heater trying to pose as the sun. Even though one did not exactly freeze to death with it around, it was clear that it was no match for the real thing.

I lay down on the nearby bed as they attached the greenish liquid to my IV. Soon after (nausea and pain), sleep takes me.

I wake up to a shooting pain in my liver (a possible side effect of all the medicines they’re pumping into me). I try to shrug it off and sit up.

(Another repeat it is): I eat breakfast, then sit in bed waiting for the liver pain to subside. Suddenly, a small kid, looking to be around 6 years old, makes her way into my room.

“You want to play cards!” She exclaims. The loud noise felt like a bullet to my head, causing me to almost shrug.

“Are you supposed to be here, kiddo?” I asked.

“I’m no kiddo; the name’s Lily, and the nurses said I could play with you,” explained the kid.

I internally whined as I said,”I’m sorry, Lily, I’m in no mood to play.”

“Not even UNO! Everyone loves UNO!” Exclaimed the kid.

Not wanting to take any more bullets to the head, I finally succumbed to her pleas.

We decided on playing three games. As the first game began, I tried my best to be nonchalant and boring to remove any interest she may have in me. I deliberately acted stupid and made bad moves, all in the hopes of her getting bored and leaving. Instead, she started childishly insulting me, and that was when I decided I was going to win all three games and send this toddler flying.

Alas! The first game was way too far gone to be salvaged. I lost and listened to even more of her childish ragging. But as the second game started, I had the upper hand at every move, and finally she stopped talking and did her best to concentrate and win.

Her efforts, though sincere, could not help her much. I won the second game and threw her a small smirk. She got visibly angry as she exclaimed, “I let you win this time!” My smirk grew deeper as we started the third game, and I, unsurprisingly, won again.

Lily got all red and stormed out of the room (in kiddo-fashion). My original goal of getting her away had been fulfilled, yet I did feel a little bad that I couldn’t bully a kid any longer. The rest of the day went by the same way. The same food, the same cold sting, and the same nausea.

After a few hours of unfulfilling sleep, I woke up and walked to the window to glance at the night sky once more. Initially, it looked the same as it did all the previous nights.

But something was telling me it wasn’t. As a guy who was surrounded by repeats and rewinds, my intuition told me this wasn’t one of them.

I scanned the whole sky with my eyes, wanting to find this change. There it was, almost invisible. The perfectly round star whose light seemed to be different than all the others around it. It gave off a serene white light. Even when it was hindered by dark clouds, the light seemed unshaken. I stared at it for a little while and decided to go back to sleep.

“Heyyy!!!! Wake up; you can’t hide like this!!” I was woken by exclamations from my sleep. At first, I thought of this as a weird dream, but then I realized it was the kid standing next to my bed waking me up, her hands holding a deck of UNO cards.

“Weren’t you the one who ran away yesterday?” I asked.

“Noo! I—uh—just had something to do; I have a lot on my plate, y’know” replied Lily.

I sat up and took the deck of cards from her hand, and we started playing. Lily had gotten considerably better at playing; even though I was still winning, I let her play a few games.

With each win, she chuckled right after calling me some sort of synonym for loser.

Soon the time for breakfast came, and Lily left.

I had my breakfast and went back to laying on my bed. The room seemed dull now. Lily, though a little annoying, was a good change.

I closed my eyes, and seemingly not even a moment went by as the nurse came to take me for my chemo session. Walking me there, she started to talk to me about Lily and how she had seen her storming out of my room yesterday. She explained that her mother was in a coma and that she came to visit her every day, spending most of her time here as her father dropped her off and picked her up. She truly had a lot on her plate.

As the nurse was explaining, we reached the room, and my therapy started.

As was the case every night, I woke up and went to the window. I scanned the sky and soon found what I was after. The white star was still there; it had gotten more defined, and its light was brighter.

Maybe it was trying to tell me something. With that thought, I tucked myself back in and slept, which, for a change, felt rather tranquil today.

Another day came, and I was greeted by the familiar exclamations of the little kid. After breakfast,I made the decision to take Lily and walk around the small hospital garden.

Lily, as she told me, loved flowers (which was rather fitting considering her name). So we decided to run around (her running and me following slowly) and try to find the prettiest one (much to my liver’s dismay, which I ignored to the best of my ability).

We didn’t find many flowers, but that didn’t seem to disappoint Lily who kept on chuckling as we looked behind every tree and in every bush.

Finally, as if the universe were rewarding us for our meagre efforts, We stumbled upon a singular pink rose. Lily gasped as she laid eyes on it.

“Look, this HAS got to be the prettiest one,” exclaimed Lily.

I agreed, not wanting to run around any longer (my body would not allow it.)

We sat around it and stared at it. Suddenly, Lily broke the silence.

She said, “Momma loved flowers like these; we used to garden together. I had missed out on it ever since Momma had her accident. Thank you.”

I was taken aback; I had no reply for these heavy words that had come out of a small, feather-like child.

Finally, I collected myself and said, “It was fun for me too, Lily; I’m glad we did this today.”

With that, I got up, gave my hand to Lily, and we walked back inside. We played cards, and soon it was time for dinner and my chemo sessions.

I walked towards that dreadful room and put my hand out to feel that familiar cold sting. But before I was able to grasp it, the door opened on its own.

“I want to spend some more time with you.” She squeaked as she opened the door and led me inside.

I laid down and the liquid was hung, but this time the nausea didn’t feel as bad. The smile that the nurse gave felt a little warmer. The sleep came to me like an embrace instead of a blow to the head to knock me unconscious. I slept peacefully. I got up again, wanting to complete my nightly ritual, as I walked towards the window. The night sky was bright, but one thing was abnormal. A singular star shone. Its light was now stronger than the entire night sky. It was unwavering. It gave me a strange sense of hope.

With that, I went back to sleep. The next day was another repeat. Lily and I ran around, played, and ate just the same, yet it didn’t feel bitter.

I have realized that my life must be like that star if it is to be better. Even though initially there were no traces of it anywhere (though one can assume it was trying to shine), the moment it did succeed, it shone brighter than anything in that plane. Unwavering in its light and having no worry of the unforgiving winter that surrounded it, there was no worry of being clouded. It lived as it could and used every moment of its (possibly short) life to live as wonderfully and gracefully as it could.

I went to sleep just the same that night and woke up to repeat my schedule for weeks to come. Superficially, it may look like nothing has truly changed. But internally, I had changed. I had started to feel better, to make the most of what was available to me, and most importantly, I no longer felt the need to look outside my window and quite ironically this independence came from a part of the dependance I had. Nonetheless, I no longer needed a reason from the outside world to make myself believe in life.

A Light in the Gloom

IMAD TAHIR, CLASS IX

I ran as fast as I could, my rifle waggling on my shoulder. The orders of my superiors didn’t matter. I heard them call me from the shores. I couldn’t care less.

My best friend was left behind in the trenches, alone to face the wrath of the advancing enemy. How could I leave him behind? I knew the ships and the soldiers wouldn’t wait for me, they had homes to return to and families awaiting them. But where was I to return without my friend, the only family I ever had? I felt the pair of cigarettes in my pocket and had the vision of him feeling the lighter in his pocket. The corpses around me suggested that he was dead, but that didn’t stop me. All I wanted in this world was for him to light my cigarette, to sit beside me and tell me one among his inexecutable number of tales. Why were we such good friends? In a place like the battlefield where one sleeps and wakes to the sounds of gunfire and sirens, where life is a constant anticipation for better days, even the most rudimentary acquaintance becomes the strongest friendship. Every nightmare flashed before my eyes: the long rainy and cold days we spent in the trenches waiting for the enemy advance that didn’t happen, the days when the morning was dark as the midnight, the few moments of joy on our faces when we heated ourselves using the stolen coal. Together we waited for the day when our forces would finally be defeated, and we would run to the shores of liberation. Today was that day. But could I run towards true liberation without him?

I hadn’t realized how far I had come until I saw our camp.

And there, in one of the trenches, I saw him. Easily distinguishable as the long-bearded giant that he was. He was sitting comfortably against the walls of the trench. His cap - still intact to hide his bald head – was covering his eyes. I could not tell whether there was still life in him. I took off the cap from his eye lids, which inertly opened themselves to reveal his eyes.

THUD.

A bomb had dropped just a few trenches away.

I sat down besides him. This was the end. I could see dozens of trucks moving towards us. I took out the pair of cigarettes from my right pocket. He took out the lighter from his right pocket. I looked around. The smoke in the air didn’t suffocate me, the mud on the ground didn’t annoy me, the constant cold winds didn’t irritate me. The desire to scrape off the crusted mud on my boot didn’t rise in me. The trenches and the battlefield which I had come to loathe as nightmares suddenly appeared... beautiful.

The entire atmosphere had changed. I looked up at the sky. It was the never-changing gloomy weather that I had come to detest. But today, even that seemed charming and colorful. For years I had hated the clouds for their ghastly appearance. But now I could see a little sunlight passing through them.

“There is light even in gloom”, he said. There is light even in gloom.

A Dance with Death MUSA MUTTAQEE

Long ago, in the days of yore, there used to be a quaint town surrounded by rolling hills and a misty forest. In this town lived a man named Ged. Ged owned a tavern. His tavern wasn’t just a place to drink. It was the heart of the community. The laugh of drunken men resonated within the walls, the joy echoing through the dank chambers of this ancient place.

One day, in the dead of the night came a hooded figure. The hooded figure was emitting his own light, like some sort of an aura. The very presence of this figure scared Ged out of his wits. Ged asked, “Who might you be?”. The figure replied, “The one who you least expect, Death, the eternal traveller”. Ged asked in curious tone, “Well Death, you must have a purpose”. The figure replied, their voice a mournful melody, “I have walked through the corridors of time and beyond, and tonight, I seek refuge in your abode, Ged”.

Ged, who was well aware of the ways of the world, replied ,“Death you say?, Well Death, you’re welcome here, like any other soul. Care for a drink?” in a cheerful way. The hooded figure nodded gloomily.

Judging from the tone, Ged guessed the traveller was a man. He poured them a dark ale, and sat there sharing tales of souls they encountered on their respective journey. Ged, just like the patient listener he was, found himself allured by the tales of life and the uncertainty of its end.

As the night unfolded, the tavern became but a sepulchre of misery, each tale recited by death casting a darker shadow on the worn floor of the tavern. Ged’s own painful experiences dug their way form his mind to the surface, horrifying him like ghost apparitions

As the day came to end, Death dropped his hood, which looked like a wisp of smoke. Deaths face was as serene as a dead man, as cold as ice, and his very self a black hole devouring Ged’s soul bit by bit.

Death’s face was an ethereal of beauty, his features shifting like moonlit reflections on water.

Then spoke Death, “Ged, I come here not to claim but to remind, the very essence of life is dependant on death”. I come hear to share with you a secret, Death said, “Death is nothing, but to live defeated and inglorious is to die daily. ... It is not death that a man should fear, but he should fear never beginning to live”.

ASIF, CLASS IX

Saying these words, Death vanished into the atmosphere, leaving Ged. The tales they shared seemed etched in the walls of the dark chambers of this tavern. This tavern had reduced but to a sanctuary for philosophical pondering. In the years to come, Ged’s tavern had become not only a place for drunk men but a place for travelers alike to share their stories, and hopefully catch a glimpse of the elusive dance between Ged and Death.

Philosophy On Suffering and Salvation

SUALIHA KHAN, CLASS XI

The heart of human condition is carved out of suffering— incessant and tedious agony to the point of comedic monotony, as is often embodied in the myth of Sisyphus. A kind of profane and banal suffering plagues our existence, that is often devoid of the sanctity and splendour traced in the grandiose Christian figure of the poignant crucifixion of Christ, or the silk robes of romantic and symbolic ideals draped by the sculptural tragedy of Romeo and Juliet.

Instead, this suffering is like a low-pitched humming that resides in our bones, gnawing and scraping us from within— an intangible force scratching the walls of our being like the screeching of chalk dragged on black board. The mundane tedium cast off by this downtrodden suffering transcends all sanctity and revelry. It feels, as Charles Bukowski says, like “a dog from hell.”

However, paradoxically, within the depths of despair must one look for salvation. The pursuit of hope in spite of hope is counterintuitive, since instead of running away, one must bravely walk into the eye of the storm in order to seek refuge from its destruction.

Salvation as a spirit forms the collective subconscious of humanity, and blows its whistle to channel the subconscious desires of humans into acts and personas and perspectives and ideologies; from immortality to transcendence, humans have but longed for salvation.

And yet, only by walking through the hurricane of one’s suffering does one attain salvation. In the case of humans, rather strangely, the disease is itself the cure, the agony is itself the relief, and the sorrow is itself the salvation. In the words of Kahlil Gibran, “your joy is your sorrow unmasked.”

Literature Junior Book Recommendations

“We must go on because we can’t go back”

Treasure Island is a renowned adventure novel written by Robert Louis Stevenson. It follows the thrilling journey of a young boy named Jim Hawkins as he encounters pirates, embarks on a treasure hunt, and navigates the perils of a remote island. The story is filled with excitement, danger, and the allure of hidden treasure. It’s a classic tale that continues to captivate readers with its timeless sense of adventure.

“Knowledge is power, but it is a terrible power when it is hoarded and hidden.”

Treasure Island is a renowned adventure novel written by Robert Louis Stevenson. It follows the thrilling journey of a young boy named Jim Hawkins as he encounters pirates, embarks on a treasure hunt, and navigates the perils of a remote island. The story is filled with excitement, danger, and the allure of hidden treasure. It’s a classic tale that continues to captivate readers with its timeless sense of adventure.

Senior Book Recommendations

“I call our world Flatland, not because we call it so, but to make its nature clearer to you, my happy readers, who are privileged to live in Space.”

Set in the imaginary world of Flatland, this novella by Edward A. Abbot tells us about the nature and society of a two-dimensional world. It is narrated by a square, a member of the intellectual class, and is narrated to us, the fellow dwellers of Spaceland. While giving us a perspective on the complex idea of a two-dimensional universe, this book also highlights the social norms and issues which reflect our own societies. You explore the fundamentals like how people recognize each other in a two-dimensional world while pitying the Irregular Triangles for their status in the society.

“The more frequently you engage in any activity, the more you’ll think that luck doesn’t matter.”

We often look at stories of successful businesses or individuals and admire the presence of qualities like hard work behind their success. We perceive that the success of famous entrepreneurs or investors are largely due to their own qualities like “dedication” and “perseverance”, while often considering the role of luck as minimal. But in his book Fooled by Randomness, Nassim Nicholas Taleb tries to explain the major and often overlooked role of randomness (or luck) in these events. Taleb argues that many a times we take pride in our abilities when we have achieved something; even though it may have just been a result of pure chance.

Shelves of a Scattered Self

A look at Fernando António Nogueira Pessoa

“We never know self-realization We are two abysses – a well staring at the sky”

Among the works of Fernando Pessoa’s numerous “heteronyms”, a particular collection, said to have been a stash of writings on notebooks and odd scraps of paper, sticks out as peerless – since there isn’t anything quite like it in western literature. Describing The Book of Disquiet as a “factless autobiography”, Pessoa writes, “in these random impressions, and with no desire to be other than random, I indifferently narrate my factless autobiography, my lifeless history. These are my Confessions, and if in them I say nothing, it’s because I have nothing to say”.

Quite similar to his works, Pessoa’s identity is also found to be in vague fragments, even to his own realisation. It becomes particularly ironic when one notices that pessoa in Portuguese is “person”. Unlike what was convention – authors describing the ventures of writing as diving into themselves – Pessoa used writing as a means of escape from himself, creating more than seventy personae in his horizonless self-search. The personae seem less as disguises, as they seem like iterations and versions of his own original self, which he struggled to pinpoint, even if wilfully.

Just a few pages into the book, he mentions:

“Inch by inch I conquered the inner terrain I was born with. Bit by bit I reclaimed the swamp in which I’d languished. I gave birth to my definitive being, but I had to wrench myself out of me with forceps”

In his poetry, three of these stand out the most, and are very crucial when it comes to studying his works. Other than under his own name, he wrote his poetry as Alberto Ceiro, a child of nature; as Richard Reis, a particularly melancholic doctor; and as Alvaro de Campos, an engineer and a traveller who was a supposed devotee of Walt Whitman. Pessoa assigned them birthdays close to his own, and intertwined their stories.

A significant reason for Pessoa’s appeal in most readers are these heteronyms, with their complicated backgrounds and stories. Though Pessoa himself is beyond the supposed conscious dissociation. In a section titled “How to Dream Metaphysics”, he describes a way of deliberate dissociation of consciousness. He highlights the first task to be reading fiction, which trains one to be fond of fiction more than reality; followed by an ability to physically feel what you imagine, and finally after several stages, “the highest level of dreaming”. “Having created a cast of characters, we live them all, at the same time—we are all those souls jointly and interactively.”

Pessoa claims that he is the least real among all of his personas, that he is acting as their literary executor, and that he is pretending in life. “How idyllic life would be”, he writes, “if it was lived by another person”

Saqlain Beig Ex Editorial Board Member

Art GALLERY

Bahija Bint Fayaz Class VII

Zainab Syed Class V

Zainab Iqbal

Class X

Hadiya Javaid Class V

Art WRITING

Large swaths of vibrant colour with tasteful splashes of paint across them, or a single geometric shape, lone at the centre of a canvas. This is the status quo’s idea of abstract art. To be fair, that’s not far off, but even so, abstract art remains one of the only discipline-specific debates which even the uninitiated may partake in.

The primary rhetoric behind its polarised reception stems from how it doesn’t seem to require much skill to create. “I could make that,” is a common comment, while those who call themselves experts may praise the seemingly random choices of texture, colour and shape, deriving life lessons from a simple sheet of canvas.

We know the modern era has a penchant for distorting the process of going from intention to exhibition. To understand how abstract art has reached its current state, the first step is to understand its original intentions.

The History

Abstract art cannot be credited with a single era, a single country or a single artist, since the foundation of abstract art lies in philosophy, and no two people have the same view towards life. However, the were three primary movements preceding it which paved the way for “Abstract Expressionism” in the United States in the 20th century, which aligns with the contemporary idea of abstract artwork. Those are: Impressionism, Suprematism, and Cubism.

Abstract art at first did not emerge as we know it today. The first era of abstract art was initiated by Claude Monet’s (French) impressionist work in the late 18th century. A decade later, with the intention of political agitation, Kazimir Malevich (Soviet Russia), became an important contributor.

Black Square, Malevich, 1913-1915

Malevich was a Russian painter who is considered the founding father of Suprematism in the late 1910s. His Black Square made waves in its time, considered initially to be “pointless”. Eventually, it came to be recognised as a turning point in art history, and the first example of conceptual art.

Suprematism

An art movement associated with the early 20th century Soviet Union. It was the first movement which was entirely based on geometry and the arrangement of shapes. The “first flowerings of Suprematism” were attributed to the opera Victory Over the Sun, conceptualised by Kazimir Malevich.

In the late 1940s, Jackson Pollock became the first abstract celebrity. (He, in his turn, had been inspired by under-recognised Surrealist Janet Sobel.) *Life* magazine dubbed him the “Greatest Painter Living in the United States” in 1949. His critical acclaim understandably baffled many readers at the time. His most famous era is that of “drip painting”, which on some occasions depicted the raucousness and randomness of nature, and on others evoked a sensation of imprisonment of the spirit. It must be noted that Pollock had extensive experience in realism, surrealism and cubism, which guided his understanding of sensation through a medium.

Full Fathom Five, pictured here, was considered an update to the rigid geometry of Cubism, and even a new era of impressionism. Pollock has found a new way to represent the language of the unconscious.

Cubism

(1907-1922): An art style characterised by abandoning realism and Renaissance perspective, in favour of representing figures as arrangements of shapes and volumes. The modern-day ambassador of this art movement is Pablo Picasso.

The Philosophy

Abstract art is upsetting to some, because it can never have a defined meaning. To an extent, abstract art trains the mind to identify sensations more than tangible forms. Each viewer’s experience is supposed to differ based on their unique experiences and personality.

Believe it or not, abstract art can be bad. Uninspired abstract art does not invoke any emotion in the viewers. Any novice can use paint on canvas, but not necessarily give it intention.

Art should, simultaneously, also not be judged by its resemblance to reality. To have commercialised art is one of our greatest failings. Creative expression should not have terms and conditions.

The Deep, 1953, created by Pollock during the darkest phase of his life when he struggled with alcoholism. At this stage he painted only in black and white.

These viewpoints should exist at the same time. Abstract art is, at its heart, a more selfish movement, intended to depict an artist’s internal experience. If the audience resonates with it, so be it. If not, it should be enough for the artist to find meaning within their work.

The Cubist and the Suprematist movement were contemporaries with similar artistic techniques but polarising motives. The former encouraged unique and unconventional forms of expression, the latter was rooted in political idealism and building a culture around that ideal from the ground up. Meanwhile, Impressionist work has become one of the most common desktop backgrounds, and Monet is a name recognisable to most.

Each pioneer within the movement had their own messages to send, and each artist today may enjoy the luxury of not needing to send a coherent messag

Full Fathom Five, 1947, Jackson Pollock

Whispers in the alleys, Shrieks in the room; A bright face is born, The agonised mother blooms.

Poetry

Unsure faces all around, Haze surrounds the house; The child looks into his mother’s eyes, From her loving embrace, he has to rouse.

The train whooshed along the Earth, He closed his eyes, down trickled a tear; Desperately wanted to get back to the warm soul, Wanted to have her near.

The large building stood before him, The strange faces left him agonised; Before him stood a greeting smile, That made him feel wanted and desired.

Disappeared all the warm smiles—

In the rain he sat deprived Sinking in the darkness with bloody eyes, In the merciless world he still strived.

T he V eiled W hispers

Rushing down the lane,

In mind counting the days till his pay; Suddenly he was brought back into the world,

Absorbing in her eyes where emeralds lay.

With his bride he bloomed, Her dress white, spotless, fair; Her emerald eyes gleamed, With no trace of despair.

Lying on his bed, Desperately he waited; For the reaper to relieve him from the pain,

Relieve him from the world, the place he hated.

Indeed, his wish came true, The black angel appeared; Darkness took over his world, Returning to Whom we all hail.

Whispers in the alleys, Shrieks in the room; A pale face is covered, With a white cloth of gloom.

- Zainab Shabir, Class VI

The Wash

Jovially my feet jiggle in a misty shower’s symphony Jittery jiggles I forget as I receive an epiphany, Up high is its origin, flaunting grace, Nothing it expects yet granting the peace we chase.

Pearls descend from above, Accept them wholeheartedly, like a treasure trove.

Weaving dreams with each droplet, a hopeful sight, As sorrows transform, answered prayers take flight.

Rain, a non-living entity, understands our needs, Allowing emotions to flow, without fear of misdeeds.

Wails and dances, expressions set free, In the rain’s gentle presence, judgment cannot be.

A holy wash it is carrying our daily weight, Vapours rising, sorrows dissipate.

Raindrops, like pearls, vanish but never betray, Leaving us lighter, as our troubles find their way.

- Asma Iqbal Qazi, Class XII

The LanTerns ahead

As moths we flutter

Round flames of lucre

Hovering, lighted

In the halo of yearning,

Till the inferno it is

Softly chars off

The very wings that carried us thither

To catch a glance upon

The demure spectre

Which never truly departed,

Unlike the vapid flickers

That left us bleak deep within, While this fallacy

Of perpetuity

Forever cloaked by this web of drudgery

Not once did desert us

Till the fantasy itself

Perished in our weary grasp

Yet never do we cease

To stalk the mirages

That are oceans

Within the figments

Of our eternally parched minds

On the very routes

That lead us into oblivion

- Ahmad Abrar Giri, Class IX

Technology

AROUND THE WORLD

US-China Chip War

Tensions have grown between the US and China in terms of technology. The US has imposed several restrictions on computer chip trade with China. Nvidia, a US company, has made minor adjustments to its chips and is continuing to sell them in China in huge numbers as it lacks competition worldwide, undermining the US’s efforts to restrict the technology.

Additionally, the US is considering imposing restrictions on RISC-V, a technology developed in the US that has massive potential to be implemented in all sorts of electronic devices in the future. RISC-V stands for Reduced Instruction Set Computer – Five. It is an open standard instruction architecture that can be used to develop custom computer processors tailored to specific tasks. The United States fears that access to RISC-V and AI chips could help China accelerate the development of its military technology.

Ubiquiti Broadcasts Live Home

Video

Feeds to Strangers

Ubiquiti manufactures smart home products under their UniFi brand name. Recently, they misconfigured about a thousand accounts on their cloud platform, leading to complete access to devices being handed over to strangers. This included access to cameras, networking as well as smart equipment. Ubiquiti spokespersons say this was caused by a misconfiguration for accounts in the UniFi cloud backend.

A similar incident happened a couple of years ago with Eufy – another smart home company. Their cameras also started broadcasting footage to random strangers. For those who wish to avoid such issues, it is best to move away from cloud-based solutions and self-host smart-home services.

“Artificial” Intelligence Running on Brain Cells

Researchers have been able to make lumps of brain cells connected to computers perform basic speech recognition. The “brain organoids” consist of a hundred million brain cells (roughly a thousand times less than a human brain) and, connected to an electrode array to send and receive electrical signals, the organoids can recognize who is speaking, but not the words themselves.

This technology is in its very early stages. One might ask the question, why the need for human brain cells at all? After all, the point of the computer is to overcome the limitations of the human brain.

The answer is simple – AI requires a lot of energy and hardware to run on computers. Human brains can achieve the task with relatively fewer resources.

However, this mechanism comes with its own set of challenges. Firstly, the performance of the organoids is currently much worse than dedicated deep-learning models.

Secondly, these organoids take several months to grow and also just last for a couple of months. Work is being done to extend their longevity.

While it might sound like a far cry right now, in the future, we could have living computers running on brain cells.

Train Company Bricks its Own Trains

Polish train manufacturer Newag has recently been outed for its practice of bricking its own trains. Dragon Sector, an ethical hacking group discovered that Newag can track its trains’ locations and has programmed them to not move if they stay at a third-party repair shop for a few days. Further, Dragon Sector discovered that a secret code could be entered into the trains which acted as an unlock mechanism, causing the trains to function again. Newag has denied that they programmed their trains to cause intentional failures. This has caught the attention of Poland’s anti-corruption bureau, which is currently investigating the matter. Newag’s practices are similar to Apple’s hostility to 3rd-party repair shops – the latter is known to disable features and functionality when its devices detect they have undergone an “unauthorized repair.”

THE HOAX OF PRIVACY

One of the most fundamental tendencies of humans is to seek privacy. To have the comfort of knowing that there can be a situation where you are alone and unjudged, or to have the comfort of knowing that the information you want to keep with you stays with you.

Many of us are prudent about our activities: what books we read, what videos we watch, or what music we listen to. These are not necessarily shameful activities, but we nevertheless are not comfortable putting it out for the entire world to see.

In his novel 1984, George Orwell describes a dystopian world in which private life is non-existent. In this world, citizens live under constant surveillance through cameras and microphones everywhere, even in their own homes. The government surveillance on citizens is so sophisticated, that it could be easily determined whether someone is planning a conspiracy based on how fast their heartbeat is. Everything from a person’s facial expression and physique to their beliefs and loyalty is determined accurately by the government.

When this book was published in 1949, it was impossible to imagine such a level of surveillance; to collect such a huge amount of data on millions of people.

However, today not only has data collection become possible, but it is happening at a rate most of us cannot fathom. Every day, thousands of facts about every aspect of our life – from our physique to our psychology, our inter ests to our ideologies - are collected without our knowledge. We have cameras watching us all the time and microphones picking up the smallest of sounds. We have someone who knows what we want to read, what we want to watch, and what we want to believe in. Our world is becoming alarmingly like the world in 1984.

And the thing responsible for this is the modern-day necessity of life: Internet.

The internet was very simple for the first few years of its existence.

The period from the mid-1990s to the mid-2000s saw simple services like Nets cape, Napster, and Yahoo among others. Most of these earned their money by either charging customers directly or taking a subscription for premium services. Since most customers would pay for the product there was no need for the companies to time on their platforms since that wouldn’t have made a change in their cash flow. During this period, a disruptive social media service, Facebook, was launched. Facebook took over the world by storm and by the Fall of 2007, it had over 50 million users. However, Facebook had no source of income back then and was earning little money. Since 50 million people were using Facebook for free, it was impossible to make it a paid service.

The only way Facebook could earn money was through ads. Therefore Facebook introduced digital ads from November of 2007 and saw a sizable increase in their profits.

However, there was a massive difference between the way other services and Facebook earned money. Where other services relied upon direct payment or premium subscriptions, Facebook relied exclusively upon advertisements for their revenue. This meant that while other services didn’t necessarily need customers to spend more time on their website, it was quintessential for Facebook that customers spend more time on their website because the more the people see an ad, the more revenue Facebook gets.

And with this realization came the first breaches of privacy. At first, users started seeing content based on what they liked or shared more, then content based on their locations and the places they visited, then content based on their personal chats with people, then content based on their physical conversations. Many instances included people talking about a product and that product showing up in their feeds across platforms like Facebook and Instagram. This strategy worked; resulting in an immense increase in Facebook’s cash flow, so much so that by 2021, Facebook’s yearly revenue crossed a whopping $117 billion.

Imad Tahir, Class IX

And it was not just Facebook that did this. Google, Amazon, Twitter, etc. all collected private information about their users. These companies used this information to generate more retention (time per user) and thereby greater profits.

But then came the most horrifying thing about all this. These companies started realizing that they didn’t have systems and algorithms sophisticated enough to process the influx of data efficiently enough to have better ads. Now, they did not bother to develop these systems on their own but instead started selling the data to third parties to process this data for them. This means that our data— which includes not just trivial data like watch history, but also important data like our private chats— goes to the databases of parties that we are not even aware of.

Today these systems have become so sophisticated that they are able to get an idea of our physique and automatically recommend clothes to us; see what posts we like and determine the beliefs we hold; check our health data to see how fast our heartbeat is. Today, there isn’t much of a difference between the world of George Orwell’s 1984 and our own world.

A question then arises: Who is letting these companies collect such private data and then sell it to third parties about whom we have no information? The answer is surprisingly simple—we do.

Every time we accept the Terms and Conditions without reading them, we allow companies to collect our data. These companies deliberately use complicated language and lengthy documents that nobody has the patience to fully read. Therefore we just skip them and agree to them blindly.

Their policy on how they use our data is open for everyone to see. For instance, Instagram’s Data Policy says that: “We use the information we have about you – including information about your interests, actions and connections – to select and personalize ads, offers and other sponsored content that we show you.”

It is a common notion that these tech companies provide us with a service. That it is we who are using their product. But as Andrew Lewis said:

“If you’re not paying for the product, you are the product.”

Playlist

Winter Wonderland

Frank Sinatra

Meri Kahani

Atif Aslam

Saawali Si Raat Pritam, Arijit Singh

December Song

Birdtalker, Joy Williams

Wintertime Love - Rough Mix

The Doors

White Winter Hymnal Fleet Foxes

The Houses of Winter

Peter Mayer

Jolene Ray LaMontagne

Aaj Jane Ki Zid Na Karo

Farida Khanum

Song for a Winter’s Night

Gordon Lightfoot, Canadian Chamber Choir, Bill Hamm

It Was A Very Good Year

Frank Sinatra

Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!

Dean Martin

Black and White

Rainbow Kitten Surprise

Dancing Queen ABBA

Credits

EDITORIAL BOARD

Ayesha Ahmad

Bazilah Kirmani

Ibaad Bukhari

Khalid Khursheed

Mohammad Hammad

Shazia Fida

Sualiha Khan

Syed Imaad

Zainab Iqbal

LAYOUT DESIGN

Zainab Iqbal:

Op-Ed, Cornerstone, Fiction, Literature, Art, Philosophy, Playlist, Credits, Index, Cover and Technology

SPECIAL CONTRIBUTORS

Ahmad Abrar

Fatima Jahangir

Hadi Imtiyaz

Imad Tahir

Zaara Farooq

ART EDITOR

Zainab Iqbal

Bazilah Kirmani

Book Recommendations, Poetry and DPS Times

Imad Tahir

Linguistics & Heritage, History

IMAGE CREDITS

Zainab Iqbal

rawpixel.com

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