by Elia K. Rathore
This piece contains references to drug use, gun violence, and religious extremism.
Gunshots erupted on the dance floor, accompanied by a shrill scream. Tonight was supposed to be fun. It was senior year, and nights out in the sketchy outskirts of Lahore had become a way to bond before we spread out into the cruel, judgmental world.
Drug- and alcohol-induced catharsis has always been a go-to for bored, rich kids with the luxury of wasting a Sunday recovering from exceptional substance abuse, especially in an Islamic Republic. Rebellion compels.
Raves are documented occurrences in Pakistan, especially in Lahore, where I attended university. There are large, commercial raves, often sponsored by corporations, and frequented by well-known international DJ’s. There are also smaller, private raves, thrown by anybody with money. University students are known for fundraising within their universities to do just that.
“Everyone’s looking for something to do on a Saturday night in Lahore,” Ahsan*, a classmate and frequent rave-thrower, tells me, laughing, “it’s ridiculous, when you think about it, how much we go through for that one experience. We’re insane.”
These raves operate in a liminal space, between civilization and wasteland, between law and disorder. Within that space, there is an ecosystem both allowing them to happen, and never outrightly condoning them. As with most matters of lawlessness, it all begins with the police.
“Typically, you tell them there’s going to be an event, loud music, a stage, lights, and that there might be some alcohol involved too,” he pauses, “of course, alcohol is illegal, but you know.”
Yes, I do know. Everyone knows. If you want the police to leave you alone, you pay them. Or you call someone important, like a politician’s son. Law doesn’t count for much.
Religiosity is the second hurdle. These people are the real bosses, as the recent enough Mango Musik fiasco so clearly illustrated. The festival was hyped up for months, and then shut down at 11:30 PM after threats of mayhem from Pakistan Sunni Tehreek (PST), an Islamist group that I like to refer to as the New Taliban on the Block.
“They heard something fun was finally happening and wanted to take it away from us,” Aisha, an experienced raver from a renowned local art college, theorizes.
To deal with religious factions, discretion is key. Mango Musik was simply too big.
“You think anyone invites mullahs [religious clerics] to raves? All you have to do is keep it a secret,” Hashim, a self-proclaimed party-connoisseur, makes it sound easy. In reality, this exclusivity requires a tightly-enforced guest list, careful strategizing, and controlled word-of-mouth advertising.
Honestly, the private rave scene is such an open secret, writing about it is almost a cliché.
It’s the perfect level of taboo for contemporary Pakistani writers to clamp down upon to give themselves an edge, and has become somewhat of an overused trope in locally-produced stories. But for some reason, nobody outside of Pakistan believes me when I tell them how much Pakistanis party. Images of screaming, crazy-eyed, bearded men, and oppressed women are far more persistent than the alternative of girls in crop tops and guys in leather jackets, dancing under strobe lights to progressive psytrance, the epicurean cacophony that a lot of students in Lahore can attest to. Both these images have elements of truth in them, they are real, and they exist side-by-side.
“We go to raves to find people like us,” Hashim continues, “the rest of Pakistan hates us.”
If the ravenous way in which videos of police-raided parties are eaten up and circulated in Pakistani circles is any indication, Hashim may have a point there.
“There was this little kid, one of the kids of one of the servants at the farmhouse, who just kept watching me,” Aaminah*, from Beaconhouse National University, looks a bit disgusted as she recalls the event, “he just wouldn’t stop staring. A little kid.”
I don’t blame that kid. Witnessing the spawn of the elite engage in a night of unbridled hedonistic debauchery, no doubt leaving behind a mess for you and your father to clean up, is surely a sight to behold. Nevertheless, unrestrained drug-use in Pakistan is not a circumstance reserved for the elite, and is increasingly becoming a severely unacknowledged problem within the already-disenfranchised segments of the country. This is telling of deep, gnawing frustrations within our society, of a need to get away.
Right now, the risks are ever-present. If somebody starts shooting, what are you going to do, call the police? At one rave, a bottle of Absolut came flying out of the darkness and broke on a friend’s head. There are no clinics near these farmhouses, but she survived. Post-candyflip** at a large rave, another close friend witnessed someone get shot, and then saw his body getting dragged away by the killer. I don’t know when this became normal for us. To partake in this culture requires the kind of self-indulgence that comes from being entitled most of your life. Going on vacation to foreign countries, being exposed to clubs abroad — not to mention always bypassing bureaucracy, and getting VIP treatment by the police.
Grow up that way, and you feel like you’re owed what most people in Pakistan can’t afford to spare a thought for; it is the perception that partying is a birthright. Our privilege extends even to something as inherent as our recklessness. Perhaps, if everyone was given access, raves wouldn’t be so polarizing.
To the unobservant attendee, a Lahori rave looks just like any other. However, to the sober 23-year-old sitting in a dark corner of the hallway, dealing with her inebriated best friend, it might look something like a night of unmasking. Let out your inner mini-skirt, make the crucial decision not to wear tights underneath, knowing that one of your friends has got a ride back, and you won’t need to be subjected to unwelcome stares by a random Uber driver. Let out your inner frat boy, shed the business suit that they force you to wear to every presentation. Let out your inner Roman, canoodling on the dance floor with the boy your acquaintance once said was trustworthy. Skirting a line between desire and depression, one finds oneself in another world entirely, and for the night there is no world but here. That is, until the music stops for the Fajr prayer, and you hear your friend complain that the azaan [Islamic call to prayer] is messing with her trip.
When the gunshots stopped, we ran without looking back, hoping to never hear that sound so close to us again. Once safely in the car, we all broke down laughing.
“We thrive in chaos,” Aisha smirks, blowing smoke into my face, “it comes with the territory.”
*Names have been changed to protect the privacy of the sources.
**Candyflipping is when you take both ecstasy and LSD at the same time.
Elia Rathore is a writer, a home chef, and someone with a very loose grasp on the concept of stability. She hopes it’ll all get easier with time. You can find her musings on Twitter (@eliakrathore) or find her other publications on the New York Times (here, here, and here). Art and illustrations by Aaleen Atif (@fridakhala).
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