Читать книгу A Long Jihad - Muhammad Abdul Bari - Страница 11
ОглавлениеInto The World of Community Activism
IT WAS EARLY 1987, and my postdoctoral research on semiconductor physics at the Royal Holloway College started in earnest. The campus was in a pleasant hilly location, just over a mile west from the village of Egham, not far from Heathrow Airport. Royal Holloway College was a public research university within the federal University of London.
Working at Royal Holloway College was my first full time job in the UK, albeit on a temporary work permit and an initial contract for three years. Professor Jonscher excelled at securing research funding from various British and American industries. Our laboratory was quiet, as there were only the two of us working there, but Professor Jonscher often came to our lab to oversee and discuss the progress of our work and A-level students from the Greater London area occasionally visited us. After a few weeks of separate journeys by car, Enapu and I decided to car pool to share the burden of cost, as well as the long drive to and from London.
As I settled into my research with a few more publications, Sayeda and I also went through some serious thinking about our future with our two young children. I had a burning desire to return to Bangladesh and serve my own country, a place that had given me so much. 'How could I give something back' was always in my mind. I sounded out with friends and extended family members in Bangladesh whether there were any suitable job opportunities in the capital, Dhaka. I preferred Dhaka because it was near my home and it would allow us to provide better education facilities for our children. But I didn't get much encouragement and some even questioned my desire to return.
In the summer of 1987, we decided to visit Bangladesh to explore the situation directly. We stayed for couple of weeks but surprisingly both extended families, as well as close friends, advised us to stay in the UK, or even move to the US; they honestly felt we would not be able to financially survive in Dhaka. Both Sayeda and I came from modest financial backgrounds, with no other sources of income except the earnings from our jobs; if we decided to settle down in Dhaka we would have had to find extra work to top up our income. I turned to other friends, some of whom were in high positions already. Most of them suggested I would do better in the UK. Only one friend, a few years older than me, instantly offered me a senior non-academic job in a new private university. I was aware of the new emerging universities in Dhaka, and as I knew there were no pure science departments in any of them, I politely rejected the offer. However, we seriously considered such a role: could I give up physics and take a senior management job just for more money? I could not reconcile myself to the idea. We returned to the UK undecided, but I had not given up the idea of going back to Bangladesh – I just could not be so sure about that move, either.
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Life could have been relaxed if I had just stuck with my research, but I felt I should use my weekends and holidays to go to east London and extend my support to the young people there. I spent more and more time in the East London Mosque, which by now served a congregation of around 3,000 people, with a main prayer hall on the ground floor and a multipurpose hall in the basement. My friend Aziz and I continued to expand our efforts to help GCSE and A-level students, and we saw huge potential in them. Some were now gravitating onto adult education courses, switching away from work in the garment trade and restaurant business. We decided to talk to the parents of some of the most promising boys, trying to encourage them to be more 'aspirational' with their children.
Most parents felt that a good knowledge of Islam was important; many also had a special attachment with their local mosque, and wanted their children to be well educated. We convinced some religious scholars to join our side, adding more weight to our initiative. We used reminders from Qur'anic verses, such as: 'My Lord, increase me in knowledge' (Ta Ha 20: 114), and the Prophetic hadith (teaching): 'Seeking knowledge is obligatory upon every Muslim' (Ibn Majah) to encourage parents to guide their children into more fulfilling career paths. There is another powerful hadith: 'Whoever travels a path seeking knowledge, God makes easy their path to Paradise.' (Muslim) The need for better education was paramount, since Bangladeshi children were underperforming in Tower Hamlets. School attendance and punctuality were often poor, and many families suffered economic hardship and lived in overcrowded housing. What they needed was increased confidence and skills in order to create higher expectations at home and generate higher aspirations in their offspring.
With our small efforts, a few young men left their monotonous, low-skilled jobs and enrolled on vocational technical courses. Some even chose new careers, away from a life of catering or sewing. A few went on to positions in business and others in academia, while some came back to work with the area's growing number of charities. The ELM management was very supportive of this effort.
We slowly started to see improvements. During the past two decades, the results of Bangladeshi schoolchildren have improved significantly; they are now achieving higher than the national average percentages of A* to C in GCSEs, including English and mathematics. The outcome is that there has been a significant increase in the numbers of British Bangladeshi children going to university, and the trend has been encouraging for other communities as well. Tower Hamlets, being the spiritual home of the British Bangladeshi diaspora, has always been looked up to by other Bangladeshis in Britain. What is most needed now is to translate this academic success into even better employment and economic opportunities to fully contribute to the wider society. We need improved social mobility.
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Raising a community's educational as well as socio-economic standard has always been my passion. Those who find time beyond their regular daily job and make (often unnoticed) contributions to our social life are the unsung heroes of our society. In this age of egocentrism and greed, this service ethos (Arabic: khidmah) is vital to our society's wellbeing. For religious adherents this is also highly rewarding, and Britain's faith groups have always been pioneering in the voluntary and community sector. A community that is otherwise behind others in socio-economic factors needs intervention from some of its members to raise its standards. Those who have the vision to serve, and can find some free time to invest in their future generation, should not shy away. I gradually entered this world of community activism, perhaps through a latent push by my own family tradition, especially the work of my brother, or maybe drawn by my initial attachment to people from my own ethnic background in east London.
Physics research and the world of physics still brought me great pleasure. However, I gradually felt that my success in academia would be limited. As I was becoming drawn further towards youth work, I became less enamoured with research. I felt torn, yet only Sayeda really knew what was going through my mind. Until the end of the 1980s, I had been merely a volunteer at the ELM. I learned from various elders that before my involvement the mosque management had switched alignment from Tablighi Jamaat (a global Muslim missionary organization, born out of the South Asian Deobandi movement) towards Jamaat-e-Islami, the largest religious party in Bangladesh that sided with Pakistan against the country's breakup in 1971. Both these religious movements originated in British India during the British Raj, to educate Muslims in their own ways.
The primary aim of Tablighi Jamaat, created in India in 1927 by Maulana Ilyas al-Kandhlawi, was the spiritual reformation of Muslims at the grassroots level. Its 'Six Point' teachings are: Kalimah (Islam's declaration of faith); Salat (ritual prayer); Ilm (knowledge), Ikram-e-Muslim (respect for Muslims); Ikhlas-e-Niyat (purity of intention); and Dawat wa Tabligh (invitation and conveyance). Tablighi Jamaat claims it is apolitical and focuses on the Qur'an and Hadith.
Jamaat-e-Islami was founded by journalist-turned-Islamic theologian and socio-political reformist, Abul A'la Maududi (or Mawdudi) in 1941 in British India. Jamaat started as a socially conservative movement, but became an Islamic political organization in both Pakistan and Bangladesh. Maududi emerged as an Islamic revivalist and influential intellectual with a belief that politics was 'an integral, inseparable part of the Islamic faith'. Jamaat participated in the democratic movement in Pakistan during the Martial Law period in the 1960s, but when Bangladesh rose against the Pakistani military crackdown in 1971, due to its active support for a united Pakistan Jamaat was banned in Bangladesh after independence. It was, however, allowed to resume political activities in 1978; when Jamaat became a political force and joined with the country's two main political parties, Awami League (AL) and Bangladesh Nationalist party (BNP), in a coalition against military rule in the 1980s.
I respected the elders of both camps in east London, those who were Jamaat-oriented and those Tablighi-focused. I felt comfortable because they were dedicated individuals with a long-standing record of community service in the management committee, including Sulaiman Jetha (formerly of the Ismaili community) and Haji Taslim Ali, a Bangladeshi philanthropist and keen Tablighi.
In 1978, the better-organized leadership of the Jamaat group formed a community organization in the East End called Dawatul Islam UK & Eire (DI), meaning 'Call to Islam', attracting various Bangladeshi elders as well as some youths. These youth members also formed their own group, the Young Muslim Organization (YMO) in the same year. However, after the first purpose-built structure of the East London Mosque was completed in 1985, and the mosque began to gain influence and stature within the local community, tensions began to grow within the DI leadership over who would run the mosque. Having finished my PhD, I also got involved in the ELM as well as DI in the late 1980s.
It was painful to see the misunderstandings and recriminations arise, and I joined in the efforts of a few professionals to try and heal these rifts – but to no avail. During much of 1987, others within the wider Muslim community made attempts to sort out the differences, but could not make any headway. The recriminations were becoming embarrassingly public, and eventually the YMO decided enough was enough and withdrew their support from Dawatul Islam. Well-connected with many youth leaders in Tower Hamlets' Bangladeshi community, they attempted to bring in changes to the composition of the ELM's management.
Meanwhile, some British-Bangladeshi professionals both within and outside DI, including some former members of the YMO leadership, felt it was time to build a professional network in the UK and across several other European countries to concentrate on future generations of the Bangladeshi diaspora. I was very unhappy with the nature of community politics from those with supposedly Islamic leanings. I wanted to contribute to the professional class of the Bangladeshi diaspora and their future generations. So I became involved in this process from the beginning, working with a few dozen like-minded people, and in March 1988 we formed an organization called the Islamic Forum Europe (IFE). The YMO became a partner organization of the IFE and I was elected its first president. Its main objective was to bring together Bangladeshi professionals settled in various UK cities and universities, as well as those who were newly arriving in Britain and other European countries, to harness the talents of professionals in order to build the community's capacity. We received support from an influential office bearer at the East London Mosque during the 1980s, Chowdhury Mueen-Uddin, although he was not part of the IFE leadership.
A natural link grew between the ELM, the IFE and the YMO. In Tower Hamlets' close-knit Bangladeshi community, where almost everyone knew one another, the three organizations shared volunteering responsibilities. This cooperation created a synergy later on, towards the end of 1990s, and helped the ELM grow immensely. I remained IFE's president during its early years, it was an exciting period of growth, and all membership and council positions were voluntary. There was a small executive body, with a few designated volunteers, to organize a database of supporters and put together occasional events in major cities with a Bangladeshi presence. I would use some weekends and evenings to meet relevant people and plan for the IFE's future, as well as spend time with young people and occasionally their families. The IFE's initial goals were simple: to harness the contribution of expatriate Bangladeshi professionals and improve the educational and socio-economic conditions of the Bangladeshi community in Britain, and in other European countries. For me, it was an ambitious collective effort to add what we had already been informally doing in the East End on a very limited scale since 1983 (with the mosque's more talented youth members).
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In the summer of 1989, during Rima's school holiday, Sayeda and I decided to perform Hajj (the main Muslim pilgrimage to Makkah). We were both excited with the thought that we would be God's guests. Every able-bodied and financially solvent Muslim needs to undertake this spiritual as well as physical journey once in his or her life, to fulfil religious obligations and also to use the time in the holy places for deep personal reflection and introspection. In our case, the main stumbling block was where to leave our two young children, Rima and Raiyan, for two weeks. There were a few offers from close friends, but eventually we were assured by one nearby, and with full reliance on God we left the children in their house and took a flight from Heathrow.
Hajj, the fifth pillar of Islam, is the largest yearly human gathering for a divine purpose on Earth. It is the collective human expression of the Oneness of God, tawhid. It is also a manifestation of unity among believers; a physical, emotional, mental and spiritual journey by believers passionate and devoted to retrace some of the rituals of Prophet Ibrahim (or Abraham) and his wife Hagar. It is for those lovers of God who are in need of His closeness and acceptance. With the allwhite, two-piece unstitched simple attire for men, Ihram, it brings pilgrims to the same level of equality and demolishes human artificiality and arrogance. Once pilgrims are in the holy precinct, in the midst of a sea of human beings of different colours, cultures and languages, they feel spiritually and emotionally uplifted and overwhelmed – no matter what their background is or where they come from. The few days in Makkah, Mina, Arafah and Muzdalifah are etched into pilgrims' minds and hearts. They have the opportunity to immerse themselves in the intense and irresistible love of God and levitate on His limitless mercy, forget their transient existence on Earth and to make a change for good.
From hard-core sinners to the elevated pious, if one comes to Hajj with pure intentions then the experience is similar. The African-American Muslim minister and human rights activist, Malcolm X, was one such pilgrim who wrote from Makkah about his own feelings during pilgrimage:
Never have I witnessed such sincere hospitality and overwhelming spirit of true brotherhood as is practiced by people of all colors and races here in this ancient Holy Land, the home of Abraham, Muhammad and all the other Prophets of the Holy Scriptures. For the past week, I have been utterly speechless and spellbound by the graciousness I see displayed all around me by people of all colors.1
It was unusually hot in Makkah that summer, with temperatures rising as high as 48°C. The scorching sun above the clear skies made the hot air stifling and the pavements were difficult to walk on with sandals. But the feeling of closeness to God in the precinct of the Kaaba (house of God) gave us a spiritual lift that words could not express. The sight of the Kaaba itself with my own eyes was pure joy and literally made me forget the world outside. It was an exceptional reminder of the willing submission and sacrifices that Ibrahim (Abraham), his wife and son made for God 4,000 years ago. Hajj is a journey towards God, and this global assembly of humanity brings believers of all backgrounds into one place, to purify them and cleanse them from the garbage of our base desires in life. Alas, once they return to their normal life the spirit and message of Hajj are soon forgotten by many Muslims. Sayeda and I prayed for goodness for ourselves, our children and parents, families, community and all the children of Adam.
After completing the rituals of Hajj in Makkah, we travelled to Madinah (where the Prophet Muhammad had once lived with his Companions) with Firdaws, Sayeda's elder brother, who had introduced us both and was at that time working in Jeddah. The Prophet's City, or City of Light, had a serene and soothing atmosphere; people were more hospitable and approachable. I had learned about this difference in Hajj literature and from people who had performed Hajj before, but it was a unique first-hand experience. After a couple of days in Madinah, we went to Jeddah for another couple of days and returned to the UK refreshed and energized. The reunion with our children was exceptionally memorable. For the next few weeks, the memory of Hajj often made me unmindful; though life gradually returned to normal.
After our return from Hajj, I felt more inclined than ever to stay in the UK, but the decision and practical steps towards this were not taken until towards the end of the year.
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After these decisions and our Hajj experience, I was torn by two options: to find a teaching or research job in a university and move up the research ladder; or to secure a teaching job in a school or a further education college that would allow me to have a better connection with the community. Sayeda was insistent I took the first option, my extended contract at Royal Holloway College would come to an end early in 1990. I sounded out Professor Jonscher and was disappointed to learn that he could not secure any new funding. However, he agreed to extend my contract until July, and from then on I was on the lookout for a university research post. Most jobs were outside London, temporary and not particularly well-paid. By this time, a few of my close friends had just finished their PGCE (teacher training qualification) and had begun teaching in secondary schools. They advised me to follow the same path so I made up my mind to go for it and take a PGCE, but I had to do a lot of convincing with Sayeda. I sat with her and gave all my reasons, including my growing passion for community work, and thankfully she relented and gave her blessing.
In the summer of 1990 I returned to King's College, this time on the Waterloo campus, to start my PGCE (Secondary Science) teaching course. It was a new experience in the world of England's statutory education system. Many things were new to me – the admissions process, the examination systems, school governance, types of schools, pastoral care, relationship with parents and career advice. Educational philosophy and classroom management, especially in inner cities, were other areas that I had to quickly grasp. Just like starting my PhD, I had to learn things very quickly to be on par with others who had gone through British schooling. However, the course was enriching and very useful; I thoroughly enjoyed it. When it came to choosing a school for teaching practice, I ended up at Tiffin Grammar School for Boys in Kingston upon Thames, which was actually quite close to my home. I did not know the school, but one of my course friends remarked: 'Man, you're lucky! You've got one of the best schools in the country!' I felt happy and thanked the staff.
Founded in 1880, Tiffin was a selective boys' school that became a grammar school under the Education Act 1944. It then changed from being voluntary-controlled to being grant-maintained in 1992; today it is an Academy and educates more than 1,000 pupils each year. It had always been a high-achieving school and students were selected in year 7 through competitive exams. It had strong A-level teaching facilities, and once I started teaching I was really impressed with the high standards, the behaviour of the boys and the dedication of both teachers and parents. The head of Physics was particularly happy to have a senior physicist teaching in his department for a few months. He put me mostly in the upper school and A-level teaching. We became good friends and he taught me valuable skills to make learning physics easier, as well as fun for young people.
Despite my enjoyable time at Tiffin, I wanted to know how an inner city school worked. Through one of my research projects in the PGCE, I had the opportunity to observe some Bangladeshi pupils in a secondary mixed school in Elephant and Castle. I visited the school for a few days, observed how they behaved in classrooms and talked with them. There was a sharp contrast compared to the Tiffin experience, and I realized that education was far from uniform in British schools. Over the next few years, as I moved into teaching low-achieving children, I was keener than ever in helping the disadvantaged ones.
As the PGCE course came to an end, most of my peers received job offers in various schools. My stumbling block was that I needed a new work permit, as the one for my research job at London University was expiring. It was not an issue for my postdoctoral research at Royal Holloway College, as my salary did not come from public money. I applied to a few schools in South London as a matter of preference. They liked me but were reluctant to go through the hassle of applying to the Home Office for my work permit. Eventually, a school in Haringey's Broadwater Farm, The Langham School (which had a fairly negative image due to the civil disturbances between youths and police in the mid-1980s), offered me a job and the head teacher agreed to apply for my work permit. I had to remain unemployed and survive on the little we had saved for a few months. Eventually, the permit came through and I started as a science teacher; we soon became permanent residents and within a few years Sayeda and I had also become naturalized British citizens.
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The Langham School on West Green Road in Haringey (today Park View School), was a mixed comprehensive which had a wide intake of students from many ethnicities and faiths. The catchment area was one of the most ethnically mixed and socio-economically deprived in London. Within a few weeks, I realized that many children of Turkish and Kurdish origin had English as their second language. I was determined to make an impact on my students by giving my best to their education. But, as expected, behaviour was an issue. I was aware that the area was tough and class discipline would be a major issue, which meant I would have to concentrate more on managing my classes than simply teaching. I would have to be tough but flexible at the same time. It was a test for me; I could not afford to give in to deliberate attempts by some children to disrupt my class and establishing a tough but fair image was vital. I realized that in our science department we had a few successful strong-willed teachers who appeared to fit into that category. I followed them and talked with them to gain some practical tips. They would not tolerate indiscipline in the corridors as well as the classroom – using techniques of remaining calm through tough love.
I decided to attend a few day-courses on assertive discipline and techniques of classroom management with mixed ability and often difficult children. One of my techniques was to build individual relationships with the students, especially those who would easily engage in low-level disruption, and empathize with them by getting to know their backgrounds; having a personal touch was always effective. I knew about a highly successful college principal in my home district in Bangladesh who had memorized all of his students' names. It would not be difficult for me to memorize the names of a couple of hundred students – so I thought! I developed a student-centred approach and established clear expectations from each of them. Difficult children are often creative, they develop mental images of their teachers as to whether they are soft or tough and consistent; they take advantage by testing a teacher's ability to handle difficult situations. Students become less disruptive if they are more engaged in their learning, with age-appropriate differentiated materials. Empathetic teachers can relate to students in a mutually and informally agreed understanding; when teachers show the way, students respond positively. I also learned some key words in the first languages of several students to make them feel valued. I felt I needed not only to survive but to succeed and make an impact as a teacher.
To me, teaching has always been a noble profession. Prophets, sages and philosophers are essentially teachers of humanity. Our beloved Prophet said: 'Verily, I have been sent as a teacher' (Ibn Majah). In most cultures, respect for teachers is next to one's parents. Through teaching we also keep on learning and sharing our experiences with others. I was blessed with a number of successful teachers in my primary and secondary school life that helped shape my future. One of my secondary teachers impressed me so much that by trying to emulate him in reading, I became a bookworm. Sayeda's family was also blessed with a number of teachers. I decided to invest in young people, the most dynamic and creative section of human progeny. My aim was not just to help them with their subject education but also to give them the values of life that would allow them to become a force for good in society.
According to Islam's holy book, the Qur'an, human beings are created with the dual ability to do good and bad. It is their environment that affects someone's behaviour. With this principle in the back of my mind, I tried to build a positive relationship with each individual student, concentrating on behaviour management techniques and attempting to reach out to difficult students. Classroom teaching was indeed exhausting. Even with plenty of energy, one has to have good rest and leisure time to recuperate and prepare for the next day's teaching. But rest was not easily available to me, my commitment with the newly-formed professional community of the IFE, as well as voluntary work in Tower Hamlets, was also demanding. However, the feeling that I was given the opportunity in life to help shape others' futures was a satisfaction that drove me.
I continued as a Science teacher until the end of 1996. During this period I became more involved with the Special Educational Needs (SEN) of some students in the school and I set out to learn more about this work. Whenever I encountered a SEN child in my class or corridor, or in the playground, my instinct was to help by trying to understand from the child's perspective. I asked myself what would I do if I was that child and how would I expect my teacher to deal with me. Or, how would I have behaved if, say, one of my own children needed SEN support. I felt strongly that my response as a teacher mattered in dealing with a difficult situation. There were a few tangible successes in the way I handled some students with behavioural difficulties, and some of my departmental colleagues also sought my help when they struggled with aggressive behaviour from some students. I started giving some extra time with the SEN department on occasions and offered my help when I had free time.
Being away from university-level physics for a few years, and having some practical experience in classroom teaching – which was getting more tiresome – I thought of moving further into the world of SEN. Special Educational Needs teaching deals with smaller numbers of children, focusing on individual challenges and opportunities. It would need extra patience and empathy to deal with an emotionally vulnerable young person with learning and other difficulties. I felt I had some strength in dealing with such young people, and my skills would be better used in that special area of educational support. I thought about moving to a job in south London, where I lived, or east London, where my community work lay (and I was becoming increasingly busy).
An opportunity arose from the Tower Hamlets Education Authority, and after a series of interviews I was offered a job in its well-resourced and well-known Support for Learning Service (SLS). Beyond teaching, I was also expanding my involvement within the community – not only to Muslims nationwide, but also in the world of interfaith bridging. The East London Mosque was beginning to attract all sorts of people, not only from the East End of London but from all parts of the city – and beyond. It brought me into contact with various groups across the country, including some well-known multi-faith and interfaith bodies.
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At the beginning of 1994, a new phase was opening in my life. When some relatively young community leaders and professionals started discussing the creation of a new national umbrella body, I joined them in earnest. After over three years of consistent work, in 1997 the Muslim Council of Britain (MCB) was born, later to become Britain's largest and most diverse Muslim umbrella body. Its purpose was to help shape the future of British Muslims, meeting and raising the hopes and aspirations of this burgeoning community. The MCB and my involvement with the organization will be discussed more fully in a later chapter.
One day, in the mid-1990s, a well-dressed white man of my age came to visit the mosque to discuss a project he was planning to start in east London. A few of us in the ELM gathered around him curiously: 'Does he have any agenda?' some wondered. He introduced himself as Neil Jameson, and spoke about community organizing by citizens working together to improve life in our neighbourhood communities. We knew little about his background, but he appeared approachable and his smile and body language suggested a gentle, visionary and determined man.
Neil was brimming with ideas and passion as he expanded his vision of using community organizing as a vehicle for social and even political change for good, ideas which immediately chimed with me. It reminded me of the basic Islamic teachings of social justice, i.e., working for the common good of all in society, a crucial civic responsibility for any citizen. Our Prophet himself was involved in a 'League of the Virtuous' (Hilf al-Fudul) in his early adult life, which helped people in need in the very rough and tumble life of Makkah; the whole purpose was to spread the principles of justice as well as to intervene on behalf of the oppressed in the tribal Arab society.
We discussed these ideas and soon signed up to Neil's project. Hence the ELM became a founding member of The East London Communities Organization (TELCO). Various faith organizations from Abrahamic and other backgrounds, as well as non-faith groups, came together to unlock the potential of grassroots community activism on issues such as living wages for low-paid workers in London. It was the start of a bold new experiment that was to bear fruit in the coming years. TELCO gradually expanded London-wide to become London Citizens, an alliance of four chapters with a membership of over 200 institutions from an array of churches, synagogues and mosques as well as union branches, voluntary agencies and residents' associations. London Citizens premier works included a London Living Wage campaign, an urban Community Land Trust and CitySafe havens to tackle knife crime and violence.
At the time of writing the parent body, Citizens UK, has over 350 affiliates in major cities across the UK, and has embarked on many other projects under the leadership of Neil Jameson, now its executive director. With multiple activities involving communities and other bodies, such as educational and trade union groups, CUK has emerged as the premier grassroots civil society organization in the country. In its bid to foster 'change at the local and national level', CUK's unique training programme is the 'combination of theory, practical tools, stories and real action' covering areas including 'Power, Self-Interest, Negotiation, Building Relationships, Leadership, Developing Institutions, Culture, and The Case for Broad-Based Organising.'
Community activism or citizen organizing is vital in shaping a nation as well as giving it a moral anchor. Without individual moral anchoring and public ethics, a society cannot function effectively, and in civic regeneration no section of the society or community should be left out. A vibrant civil society, including a strong voluntary sector, is the eyes and ears of any country. A government alone, however efficient, cannot run a country effectively and harness all its potential. Grassroots participation and non-partisan power politics has been the essence of citizen organizations in several countries. The Industrial Areas Foundation (IAF) in the US has been doing this with religious congregations and civic organizations since the 1940s and has since spread to other continents.
In the midst of a growing 'me first' culture, a greater sense of communal solidarity and community spirit is needed more than ever. Half a century ago, the American civil rights leader Martin Luther King Jr made a remarkable observation of his time: 'Our scientific power has outrun our spiritual power. We have guided missiles and misguided men'. As technological progress is changing our lifestyles, how true are his comments today!
