I wanna be like you: Mirroring Empathy between the U.S.A and Pakistan

 “Bebbee, beeebee, beebeee ooooo. Thought you’d alwahs buhminee..”

The new singing sensation from lower Punjab, ‘Justin Bibis’ belt out the famous and critically acclaimed Justin Bieber song “Baby” on a roadside, clad in traditional Pakistani attire, with their mother creating a beat on cooking utensils. Within three days this amateur video had over 1.5 million views and 68,000 shares on Facebook. The girls have now been stars of several morning shows, undergone intense makeovers and are currently surrounded with talks of making their own album. What surprises most is not the fact that they can sing—no, not the fact that their raw talent has been fine-tuned without any professional help. Rather it’s how two girls from an extremely poor Punjabi family, with just a primary education and command only over a smattering of English grammar made their claim to fame singing Justin Bieber.

Just like Justin Bieber, Hollywood, and icons from the west have made their way as far as small towns and villages in countries such as Pakistan. Their popularity is a testament to how popular culture today, one of the biggest shapers of cultural narratives, once combined with the power of social media, becomes a global language. Areas in Pakistan similar to where the Justin Bibis’ hail from, where sanitation can be a luxury, local barbers advertise haircuts seen on Tom Cruise and Channing Tatum, and posters of the Kardashians are put up. What is it about the lure of this popular culture that finds its way into the most conservative of cultures? How does a culture so different find space in Pakistani hearts? The formula Hollywood and the popular music industry follow is to create universal narratives, embedded mostly in the American lifestyle, embellish them with new technology and breath taking stunts, and then feed them to everyone, everywhere. The effect is such that, two teenage girls, Saania and Muqqdas who didn’t even fully comprehend the lyrics to a mainstream pop song were able to create their own version by sticking to the tune and emphasizing on ‘Babyyyyy’—a term made universally affectionate by a young tween from Canada. These girls had chanced upon Beiber in the affluent household where they worked as the help, and were lured in by the boyish good looks and dance moves of Justin Bieber. Hooked on to his songs but unable to understand any of it, they learnt the song by sounding out the words and transcribing them in Urdu.

Justin Bieber is neither the only nor first sensation to have made their way into the hearts of Pakistanis. Not too long ago, Titanic the movie, crashed into the tumultuous Pakistani society. There were few outlets for the movie to reach the public, after several cinemas still remained shut following the conservative dictatorship of General Zia. However, Titanic seeped in the Pakistani culture, largely through pirated videocassettes and the handful of cinemas that continued to screen the movie for over a year. Highly censored, yet highly coveted, the Titanic became a means for Pakistanis to connect to western narratives and traditions. Most Pakistanis glutted themselves on the romance of the ill-fated Jack and the stunningly curvy-in-all-the-right-places Rose. The female name ‘Ghulab’ translating into ‘Rose’ made its way on to the birth certificates of many females born that year. Products were launched bearing the name Titanic, including a very local kind of tamarind sweet being relabeled ‘Titanic Imlee’. I was drawn in as well; I remember bawling in a department store when my mother refused to buy me the ‘Heart of the Ocean’—a cheap imitation necklace packaged as Titanic merchandise. “My heart will go on” could be heard blaring on cheap tape recorders in rickshaws and wagons on both city streets and village roads. The movie Zinda Bhaag released in 2014, depicts this obsession accurately when in a local talent show, a man in his early thirties sings to the tune of Celine Dion—completely missing the lyrics—but managing to keep the essence of the tune. Like the Justin Bibi’s, he hums the correct tune to gibberish of words that only slightly resemble the correct lyrics. Perhaps this is another concept imperative to empathy—words hardly matter, different languages become insignificant; what makes its away across borders are the ideas and images that capture the imagination. The stories, without an understanding of words, reach the minds of people by using distantly relatable ideals propelled forward by the thrust of media. One of the Justin Bibi’s claims in these very words; “The tune touched my heart. I didn’t understand the words but I felt like he was singing for me. I liked the rhythm so much that I couldn’t sleep or eat until I had learnt the tune by heart.” 

Stories sung to tunes that match the rhythm of hearts. Music with words seems to transcend language barriers, gets people in different places to be able to relate, and become a necessary tool of empathy. Perhaps it is catchy tunes that make this work—but more than that, I believe that there are some human emotions, conveyed in imagery and sometimes in melodies, so universal that the guise of language and culture cannot mask the primal nature of these. Love, a broken heart, desire for fame and money, a desperation for sexual relations, moral dilemmas etc. are all examples of instincts and desires that tunes and song lyrics pick up on. These stories, coated with the mesmerizing glamour and beauty of celebrities and high fashion are then consumed hungrily by the masses. What has augmented this even more in recent times is the evolution of digital media and resulting the increased connectivity.

Take the instance of love. ‘Baby’ is just another example of popular culture successfully creating a modern day sing-along romance that strikes the tune of age-old love stories. Boy meets girl. Boy wants girl. Girl shows some hesitation. Boy is persistent. Girl gives in. They either ride off together to live happily ever after or perish in an untimely, heartbreaking fashion. Tales like Romeo Juliet, Laila Majnu, Shireen Farhad and now the modern Disney fairytales demonstrates how narratives that deal with heterosexual love remain the same across time though the packaging changes. Maybe there’s a reason why these tales carry a similar vein—love, a universal and natural feeling is perhaps a road sign to the path towards creating universal empathy. Though in modern times there is a definite stress on creating global empathy or an understanding and an egalitarian acceptance of different races, lifestyles and cultures, through narratives, love, that ‘warm, fuzzy feeling’ that stems from an ‘unexplainable’ attraction between two individuals, is perhaps the most natural and popular form of empathy that exists world-wide. Everyone knows what love is. Everyone at some point in their lives has experienced the pull and the warmth of love. This primal instinct is taken by Hollywood and translated into a combination of perfect visuals and dialogue ridden with emotion to tug at heartstrings throughout the globe. This ‘enculturation’ starts happening at a very young age. When I was growing up in the 90’s in Pakistan in an all-girls school, I remember how every girl I knew from school dreamt of a golden-haired Cinderella to a Prince Charming who just had to be out there. So powerful are the narratives distributed by Hollywood that a friend of mine, aged 9, cried in class one day upset about the fact that she felt that she wasn’t pretty simply because she didn’t have golden hair. The power of this popular culture notions of love, beauty, love and ‘happily ever after’s’ is reflected in the Justin Bibi’s; they are a testament to how almost every teenage girl-- doesn’t matter if she YouTubes in Pennsylvania or washes dirty dishes in ‘some area’ of the Punjab—believes that she can be the ‘Baby’ that Justin Bieber croons about.

What happens when Hollywood sensations make their way into little known areas? Facets of American culture weave their way into small towns such that two young Pakistani girls with no understanding of English can perfectly mimic a popular pop song, a dirt poor farmer will be supporting a Tom Cruise haircut, a Pakistani child will understand what it means when two people kiss on the lips even though his parents will not tell him that, everyone, regardless of what language they speak, will know how to say ‘I love you’ in English. Altered versions of burgers and fries make it into menus of street side cafes in Sindh. Imitations of Arnold Schwarzenegger sunglasses from ‘The Terminator’ will be selling for Rs.100 ($1) at the local stores. Yes, Pakistanis love and salute the Great Nation of America that promises a happy and successful lifestyle and love that transcends the banalities of human nature. The American Dream then becomes a global dream as people from a little known nation, strive to understand and adore a lifestyle that glares across Television screens. It is the case that an American enters the land of Pakistan and alcohol is made available to him, beverage menus in airplanes and Pakistani hotels clearly state ‘Alcoholic beverages available to UK and USA passport bearers only’. And no, this is not against the law—American’s are allowed to drink and that too in public. Popular culture (most probably in the form of James Bond) has made sure that people understand that if he is an American and chances are he needs his drink. Yes we Pakistanis understand and empathize with the men and women of the west. But what of the people of the Great Nation of America? Do they know or care the effect that their broadcasted lifestyles have on people in remote villages in the Punjab? Consumed in what their own media shows them of their own selves, will they make the effort to learn more about distant cultures and traditions?  Will the people who produced and wrote “Baby” be able to empathize with two girls from the Punjab singing this trademark song?

When I landed in Chicago 9 months ago, I was sure I knew how I could live here. I had seen enough television (including ten re-runs of the show Friends), stated Coldplay as my favorite band on all social media and preferred pizza and curly fries to curry and roti. I was excited and not at all nervous because I felt as if I knew the American way of living inside out and could easily mold myself to living happily, comfortably and successfully here. Coming here, I was thrown an over zealous farewell by my slightly jealous friends to wish me luck on my voyage here. Why jealous? The fact that I had made it to a highly ranked university? No, not really. It was the fact that I would be living independently in America—a land that they know through mainstream Hollywood to have no inhibition when it comes to human desire. Saddled with promises that I would go to strip clubs, go out on random dates, wear revealing clothes and stay out late with no parental supervision was a dream come true for many who were my age in Pakistan. Stories of how Pakistanis lose their heads when they go to America and end up breaking rules related to drinking alcohol, having sex and dressing modestly wafted in and out of the more modest social circles who frowned upon my parents for letting me, a young, vulnerable, impressionable woman to go and live in the ‘land of sin’ without the supervision of a parent, a brother or a husband alone in a city a four hour flight away from my nearest relative. But I was prepared. My familiarity with the American lifestyle through hours and hours of streaming free movies and television shows illegally online had prepared me for every aspect. An understanding of American romance and drama came through One Tree Hill. How snotty Upper East Siders live and an understanding of brands came through Gossip Girl. How a typical American office works in a small town came through The Office.  The skill of how to make socially acceptable yet bordering on inappropriate jokes came through Friends. An understanding of medical insurance and hospital emergencies came through the melodramatic Grey’s Anatomy. And so on.

I liked to think that with my media exposure and education, I was smart enough to remove the glitzy covers and exaggeration played out in popular culture to reveal actualities of the American lifestyle. I was prepared for America. But what I didn’t think about was whether America was prepared for me. Landing at O-Hare airport immigration, green passport in hand I was expecting a detailed security check. Instead, my stern looking, military uniform clad Immigration Officer snorted to express that he was impressed when he saw ‘The University of Chicago’ neatly lettered within my visa stamp. He asked me a few questions about what I was planning on studying and as he handed me my passport back, he expressed; “Wow, you do really great English. I just though there were bombs everywhere in Pakistan. Just speak slow next time, you’ll get through college.” At this cryptic statement, first I felt an urge to correct him to “you speak English very well”; next I felt the sting of insult. English is more or less the first language in the Pakistani middle-class and I, having grown up in English medium school and having majored in English Literature had to in fact take remedial classes for Urdu. I knew most forms of American slang and even had perfected the American accent, courtesy of the show Friends and various other media platforms. Hence, I felt slightly ridiculed that an Immigrations Officer, someone who supposedly stamped in hundreds of travellers every day, would be surprised that there was more than just bombs and terrorist attacks to Pakistan and that there could be a Pakistani woman who spoke fluent English. I was surprised but I let it pass over without much thought—the ignorance of one man was passable.

But then how to explain the ignorance of highly reputed academics studying at a prominent university? One of the icebreakers in orientation week involved a group study where we were to introduce ourselves and name the artists/songs we spent our summer listening to. While my counterparts belted out names that I was familiar to; Katy Perry, Maroon 5, Fallout Boy etc. I had to think and rehearse in my head. When the circle came to me, I answered confidently; “I spent my summer rediscovering Britney Spears and following the Coldplay tour.” Everyone moved their heads, nodding in vigorous approval and some even chuckled at the idea of ‘rediscovering’ Britney Spears. But that is not in fact what I spent my summer listening to. How was I supposed to explain I spent my summer listening to Coke Studio, a mesh of contemporary Sufi music, trending across South Asia? Would they even understand what Sufi music is? Would they understand that Coke Studio was the hippest thing in Pakistan at the moment? My fears were confirmed when a Chinese friend of mine voiced her favorite TV show-- in Chinese. When she was met with confused looks, she had to explain ‘It’s Korean anime’. People politely responded but confusion didn’t melt away as they moved on.

I’m not complaining or criticizing my new colleagues for not knowing about my favorite band. What I bring to attention is the dilemma that popular Western culture poses—by mass producing a single culture and putting it to a global formula, how will empathy work as two-sided procedure when all the American side sees is a mirror to their own culture? Throughout my time here, I found myself shaping the way I talk, the way I dress and the way I produced narratives from back home into a mold recognizable by most Americans. My romantic interest became my boyfriend to my American friends, even though because of Islamic regulations I would never call him that at home or have relations similar to what the title entails. To my American friends, I would announce myself to be vegetarian simply because I got tired of explaining to them what fell under the category of Halal and why I could only eat fish or salad when we were out to dinner. For my American friends it was impossible to comprehend why I wasn’t applying for a job in the States after graduation and why I had to return to live in my parents’ house until I married. When questions like “Don’t you feel oppressed?” and “Why do you have to do that?” became ominous and insulting, it just became easier to feed a narrative that they understood.

I do not pretend to know everything about the American lifestyle-- my time in the U.S. has been illuminating and I have learnt facets about American culture that popular culture does not advertise. However, my experience has demonstrated an alarming lack of understanding for my story and the stories of the 200 million people in Pakistan on the Western side. Empathy is a two-sided channel. Narratives from both ends need to feed into each other and flow abundantly and uninterrupted. While popular culture and social media ensures that the whole world gets a dose of Western/American cultural narratives, other narratives get lost in translation and their narration is restricted by the noise they’re able to make; whether it’s because of lack of interest, or lack of outlets in third world countries like Pakistan. As the 21^st century rolls on and girls like the Justin Bibi’s rise to fame in a matter of hours, it will be interesting to see if and how the transmission of global narratives morphs to fill this gap in empathy.