Tweet
Ghazala Javed wasn’t her usual lighthearted self when she and her sister, Farhat, arrived at the hairdresser’s that Monday evening in June. “Usually she’d start sing-ing her latest soundtrack,” recalls Saima Khan, owner of the Baba Beauty Parlor in Peshawar’s bohemian Dabgari Garden neighborhood. “But that night she was very quiet.” The Pakistani singing sensation was taking a break from the recording studio to get her hair done before going back to wrap up the day’s session. Her musical career had skyrocketed in the six months since her divorce, but Khan says something seemed to be bothering her that evening. “Today I’ve been feeling very upset,” she remembers Ghazala saying. “I sense some unforeseen sorrow.”
Then Farhat’s phone rang. The two sisters’ father, waiting outside in his car with their 5-year-old nephew, Naveed, told them to leave the shop immediately. Muhammed Javed had seen Ghazala’s ex-husband driving by repeatedly and called his wife to let her know. “I told my husband to get Ghazala and Farhat out of there fast,” Nishat Bibi tells Newsweek. Ever since Ghazala filed for divorce from Jahangir Khan late last year, the 50-year-old real-estate developer (no relation to the shop owner) had been alternately pleading for reconciliation and threatening the singer, Ghazala’s family says. No one could be sure what Jahangir would do. It’s almost unheard of for a Pashtun woman to file for divorce, and it’s even rarer for a Pakistani court to grant such a petition.
Peshawar is plagued by power blackouts, and the streets outside the shop were pitch dark when the sisters left, the beautician says. As they headed for the car, Ghazala discovered that she had left her handbag behind, and she asked her sister to go back inside and retrieve it. Farhat did so and was walking toward the car with the bag when she heard gunshots. She says she clearly saw Jahangir and his cousin Iqbal standing beside the car, each with a pistol in hand. Amid the confusion she remembers Iqbal shouting: “Shoot her! What are you waiting for?” After that, she says, the two men fled into the night. The police report says Ghazala was hit by four bullets: one in the hand, one just below the neck, and two more in the abdomen. Police say she died almost instantly. Her father was already lying dead in the car, having been hit by three bullets. The boy was untouched. All of the rounds were fired from .30-caliber pistols.
As tough as it can be to make a living as a musician in other places, the profession is even crueler in the Pashtun world. Ghazala Javed’s voice may have rescued her and her family from poverty, but even before her death she paid a daunting price. Singers, dancers, and instrumentalists are generally shunned by “respectable” people. Like the Taliban, many traditional-minded Pashtuns view music and most other forms of entertainment as an immoral distraction from one’s religious duties, if not as the devil’s work. “Pashtuns love music, but they don’t like musicians,” says Nazir Gul, a vocal instructor who worked with Ghazala. “They would shower money on singers and dancers but would never allow their sisters, wives, or mothers to join this field. For a singer, marrying into a Pashtun family means giving up everything.”
And that’s leaving aside the persistent risk of being murdered by the Pakistani Taliban’s zealots, who have been known to kill musicians merely for being musicians. Fans admired her for carrying on in defiance of the militants’ death threats. “At a time when most singers had left their profession, Ghazala mustered the courage to continue singing, giving us a strong message that no one can silence the music,” says Abasin Yousafzai, a poet and professor of Pashto language at Peshawar University.
Nevertheless, police quickly eliminated any suspicion that the Taliban might have been responsible for her death. “There is no difficulty in this case,” says Peshawar Police investigating officer Aslam Khan. “Ghazala was involved in a dispute with her ex-husband, so there is no need to think of another side.” Jahangir and his cousin Iqbal remain at large, while Ghazala’s family and fans can only grieve. “She was matchless,” says Yousafzai. “Her sudden death at such a young age is a big blow to Pashto music.”
He’s not exaggerating. Beautiful, tall, and talented, Ghazala Javed had recorded 12 albums and countless singles. Her popularity among Pashto speakers stretched from...
Then Farhat’s phone rang. The two sisters’ father, waiting outside in his car with their 5-year-old nephew, Naveed, told them to leave the shop immediately. Muhammed Javed had seen Ghazala’s ex-husband driving by repeatedly and called his wife to let her know. “I told my husband to get Ghazala and Farhat out of there fast,” Nishat Bibi tells Newsweek. Ever since Ghazala filed for divorce from Jahangir Khan late last year, the 50-year-old real-estate developer (no relation to the shop owner) had been alternately pleading for reconciliation and threatening the singer, Ghazala’s family says. No one could be sure what Jahangir would do. It’s almost unheard of for a Pashtun woman to file for divorce, and it’s even rarer for a Pakistani court to grant such a petition.
Peshawar is plagued by power blackouts, and the streets outside the shop were pitch dark when the sisters left, the beautician says. As they headed for the car, Ghazala discovered that she had left her handbag behind, and she asked her sister to go back inside and retrieve it. Farhat did so and was walking toward the car with the bag when she heard gunshots. She says she clearly saw Jahangir and his cousin Iqbal standing beside the car, each with a pistol in hand. Amid the confusion she remembers Iqbal shouting: “Shoot her! What are you waiting for?” After that, she says, the two men fled into the night. The police report says Ghazala was hit by four bullets: one in the hand, one just below the neck, and two more in the abdomen. Police say she died almost instantly. Her father was already lying dead in the car, having been hit by three bullets. The boy was untouched. All of the rounds were fired from .30-caliber pistols.
As tough as it can be to make a living as a musician in other places, the profession is even crueler in the Pashtun world. Ghazala Javed’s voice may have rescued her and her family from poverty, but even before her death she paid a daunting price. Singers, dancers, and instrumentalists are generally shunned by “respectable” people. Like the Taliban, many traditional-minded Pashtuns view music and most other forms of entertainment as an immoral distraction from one’s religious duties, if not as the devil’s work. “Pashtuns love music, but they don’t like musicians,” says Nazir Gul, a vocal instructor who worked with Ghazala. “They would shower money on singers and dancers but would never allow their sisters, wives, or mothers to join this field. For a singer, marrying into a Pashtun family means giving up everything.”
And that’s leaving aside the persistent risk of being murdered by the Pakistani Taliban’s zealots, who have been known to kill musicians merely for being musicians. Fans admired her for carrying on in defiance of the militants’ death threats. “At a time when most singers had left their profession, Ghazala mustered the courage to continue singing, giving us a strong message that no one can silence the music,” says Abasin Yousafzai, a poet and professor of Pashto language at Peshawar University.
Nevertheless, police quickly eliminated any suspicion that the Taliban might have been responsible for her death. “There is no difficulty in this case,” says Peshawar Police investigating officer Aslam Khan. “Ghazala was involved in a dispute with her ex-husband, so there is no need to think of another side.” Jahangir and his cousin Iqbal remain at large, while Ghazala’s family and fans can only grieve. “She was matchless,” says Yousafzai. “Her sudden death at such a young age is a big blow to Pashto music.”
He’s not exaggerating. Beautiful, tall, and talented, Ghazala Javed had recorded 12 albums and countless singles. Her popularity among Pashto speakers stretched from...
Comment