Rather Dull, Actually

Page 42
Q-News, Issue 362
April 2005

Sarah Hussain watches the BBC’s much-anticipated Pakistani actually, an evening of documentaries about British Pakistanis, and finds the results lack creativity and invention. 

If you believe media portrayals of Asians in this country, brown Britain is assumed to be Indian. Pakistanis are usually only mentioned in the mainstream media as malevolent wife-beaters, suicide bombers hell-bent on world domination or rioting it up in Northern towns. Socially, Pakistanis have not been able to assimilate in the same way as Hindus and Sikhs, mainly due to the restrictions on alcohol consumption. Economically, British Pakistanis suffer from marginalisation and well-documented “social exclusion”. So I guess some bright spark at a BBC brainstorming meeting, worried about multicultural programming and imminent charter renewal, decided to commission a series of “public service” programmes in an attempt to rehabilitate the image of Pakistanis in the public consciousness. No doubt, a noble intent, that fell far short of its potential.

The first programme of the night was British, Paki and Proud, a documentary charting the British Pakistani experience through themes of belonging, identity and the debate around the word ‘Paki’. Abdul Rahim an opportunistic and entrepreneurial T-shirt designer thinks the word should be reclaimed and used in a positive way, so he is making clothes with ‘Pak1’ to show that he is proud to be a Pakistani.

However, others are not so keen, Musician Aki Nawaz comments: “Tell the guys who are trying to reclaim it to ask their parents what they had to endure with that word.” I side with Aki. Pakistanis wearing tops with Pak1 on them disgust me. They are legitimising a word of derision and I find it really sad that the BBC broadcast a documentary with the word “paki” in the title at all. This is less reclamation and more commercial opportunism. When language is used as a loaded weapon, the meanings of the words matter less than the way in which they are said. Friendly banter with one’s friends is one thing (ask Blacks who have been struggling with nigger for decades), but to have the word paki hurled at you in the street is hardly a heart-warming experience. We are fooling ourselves if we think we can reclaim and alter the definition of a word which is symbolic of abuse and hatred. The next generation of British born Pakistanis ought to be working to fight racism not tacitly and weakly accepting it. The programme made an altogether unconvincing case for mainstreaming the use of the word, and gave the impression it was alright to throw it around.

In Luton Actually, ubiquitous writer and broadcaster Sarfraz Manzoor (cornering the market in Pakistani celebrities with his distinctive big hair) presented a documentary about his home town. Luton has recently been awarded the dubious accolade of being the most crap town in Britain. A flimsy idea for a documentary perhaps, but the film was a Dickensian look at the life and times of Manzoor, the immigration of his parents, growing up in a predominantly white area, moving away to London and arguing with his brother. It was a real shame that we did not get to meet his mother, the fact that she allows him out in public with his hair the way it is, in itself, shows how far the Pakistani community has come.

Safraz as an interviewer seemed uncomfortable interviewing people, lacking any rapport with them. His meeting with an aspiring Pakistani singer named Khalid was hilarious for all the wrong reasons - with Sarfraz listening on in a vaguely confused manner, never quite understanding what Khalid was singing about. That said, this film was the best of the evening - witty, entertaining and insightful, but sadly, nothing I saw convinced me that Luton is not a crap town.

Tellingly, the most interesting part of Manzoor’s documentary was the interview with his sister. Moving away from home wasn’t an option for her as Pakistani women of her generation did not do that sort of thing, she said. That said, I was bitterly disappointed that this series lacked female stories. All the programmes were dominated by men and male viewpoints (as if the Pakistani community is lacking in this regard). The failure to give Pakistani women a voice and an opportunity to shape their own stories lies at the heart of why Pakistani Actually didn’t really work.

Atta Boy was a portrait of Atta Yaqub, a Glaswegian-Pakistani who came from obscurity to star in Ken Loach’s recent feature film, Ae Fond Kiss. Atta was seen trying to reconcile his religion, community and family with his aspirations to be a film star. It was a mildly interesting film, with the young Atta trying to define his moral boundaries (Ae Fond Kiss features an explicit love scene between Atta and his Scottish co-star Eva Birthisle). Although many of us would disagree with the decisions he made, it was a sensitive portrayal of a young man torn between his faith and upbringing with the allure of western values, something that many British born Muslims face. Not too probing, Atta Boy was a bit of identity-light.

In Who wants to be a Mullah, veteran documentary maker Navid Akhtar went on a personal quest in search of a greater understanding of Islamic education in the UK. He challenged the demonised image of the ‘mad mullah’ and wanted to know if the teaching of Islam in mosques today is relevant to a new generation of young British Muslims. It was refreshing to see the sincere efforts made by the trainee imams both male and female.  

If these programmes were meant to be a way of understanding the concerns, lives and culture of Britain’s huge Pakistani community, they failed miserably. As a card carrying Pakistani myself, I felt that there was no sense of the real Pakistani community. There were no great stories and the vibrancy, culture, community spirit and sense of humour that are so much a part of the Pakistani experience in the UK did not come across. Unfortunately a great opportunity has been lost - the vast majority of Pakistanis in this country are under 30 yet these documentaries had a much older appeal and felt tired and unoriginal. We can only look forward to seeing if the BBC can do any better with Bengali Actually, Arab Actually, Somali Actually - although we may have to wait for the next BBC charter renewal for that.