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Election day in the UK can be anticlimactic compared to Pakistan’s – but that’s no bad thing Election day in the UK can be anticlimactic compared with Pakistan’s – but that’s no bad thing
(about 1 hour later)
Earlier this week, just returned home from Italy, I was sifting quickly through the post that had accumulated in my absence, dividing it up into two piles – the junk that could be thrown away and everything else that I would look more closely at later – when the contents of one of the envelopes demanded my immediate, close attention. It was my polling card. I looked at all the details I already knew, and then I turned it over and read further information I knew or didn’t need to know about the rules around votes and proxy votes and postal votes.Earlier this week, just returned home from Italy, I was sifting quickly through the post that had accumulated in my absence, dividing it up into two piles – the junk that could be thrown away and everything else that I would look more closely at later – when the contents of one of the envelopes demanded my immediate, close attention. It was my polling card. I looked at all the details I already knew, and then I turned it over and read further information I knew or didn’t need to know about the rules around votes and proxy votes and postal votes.
You do not need to take this card with you in order to vote, it said, as always. But I knew that on election day I would make sure I had the card with me before going to vote. Why? Not because I really thought anyone would try to stop me from voting, or demand proof of my right to do so – but because the act of walking down the street with a polling card in my possession lends election day a sense of occasion. Never enough, though. That eagerness I feel about the arrival of the polling card is always accompanied by a faint sense of the ridiculous – I know, even as I’m carefully placing the card somewhere it won’t be lost, that voting in Britain always feels anticlimactic.You do not need to take this card with you in order to vote, it said, as always. But I knew that on election day I would make sure I had the card with me before going to vote. Why? Not because I really thought anyone would try to stop me from voting, or demand proof of my right to do so – but because the act of walking down the street with a polling card in my possession lends election day a sense of occasion. Never enough, though. That eagerness I feel about the arrival of the polling card is always accompanied by a faint sense of the ridiculous – I know, even as I’m carefully placing the card somewhere it won’t be lost, that voting in Britain always feels anticlimactic.
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The first time I voted in a general election was in Britain, in 2001 – I wasn’t yet British, but as a commonwealth citizen who paid my council tax, I was entitled to vote. I was in my late 20s, and I didn’t know when I might ever have a chance to vote in Pakistan in an election that was anything approaching free and fair – a year and a half earlier, General Pervez Musharraf had overthrown the civilian government and the country had gone back to military rule, as had been the case in my childhood. Between one military dictatorship and the next, there had been four democratic elections, but I was either underage or at university in the US when they took place. And so all my dreams of one day participating in the democratic process filed into a quiet Westminster polling station with me in June 2001, and within a few minutes and no kind of fuss, it was over. I was left thinking: was that it?The first time I voted in a general election was in Britain, in 2001 – I wasn’t yet British, but as a commonwealth citizen who paid my council tax, I was entitled to vote. I was in my late 20s, and I didn’t know when I might ever have a chance to vote in Pakistan in an election that was anything approaching free and fair – a year and a half earlier, General Pervez Musharraf had overthrown the civilian government and the country had gone back to military rule, as had been the case in my childhood. Between one military dictatorship and the next, there had been four democratic elections, but I was either underage or at university in the US when they took place. And so all my dreams of one day participating in the democratic process filed into a quiet Westminster polling station with me in June 2001, and within a few minutes and no kind of fuss, it was over. I was left thinking: was that it?
I finally had the chance to vote in Pakistan in 2008, and again in 2013. The 2008 elections were overshadowed by the assassination on the campaign trail of Benazir Bhutto; and the 2013 poll by Taliban threats to several of the political parties, which meant that there had been almost no campaigning in many parts of the country, including my hometown of Karachi. But however grim the mood in Pakistan, some alchemy takes place on election day, transmuting pessimism into hope and fear into festivity.I finally had the chance to vote in Pakistan in 2008, and again in 2013. The 2008 elections were overshadowed by the assassination on the campaign trail of Benazir Bhutto; and the 2013 poll by Taliban threats to several of the political parties, which meant that there had been almost no campaigning in many parts of the country, including my hometown of Karachi. But however grim the mood in Pakistan, some alchemy takes place on election day, transmuting pessimism into hope and fear into festivity.
In 2013, this mood endured even the failure of the voting to start on time. When I arrived, around 10am, at the school that was serving as my polling station, there were already two long queues – one for men, one for women. In the women’s queue, strangers quickly fell into conversation that ranged in topic from fashion exhibitions to the routines of suicide bombers. “It’s good we’re here early,” said one woman, regarding the Taliban’s threats to disrupt the elections. “Those suicide bombers don’t come out until the late afternoon.” She spoke of them in the same way that Karachi’s inhabitants in those days were talking about dengue-carrying mosquitoes, which were known to swarm about just after sunset.In 2013, this mood endured even the failure of the voting to start on time. When I arrived, around 10am, at the school that was serving as my polling station, there were already two long queues – one for men, one for women. In the women’s queue, strangers quickly fell into conversation that ranged in topic from fashion exhibitions to the routines of suicide bombers. “It’s good we’re here early,” said one woman, regarding the Taliban’s threats to disrupt the elections. “Those suicide bombers don’t come out until the late afternoon.” She spoke of them in the same way that Karachi’s inhabitants in those days were talking about dengue-carrying mosquitoes, which were known to swarm about just after sunset.
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Finally the polling began. Senior citizens were all sent forward by general agreement – by mid-morning the temperature was already in the mid-30s. Fashionable “aunties” who would normally never admit to being anywhere near 65 started claiming geriatric status in order to get to the head of the queue. About half an hour into the voting, a man entered the school yard, yelling something that it took a while to understand. Other men rushed to restrain him. We thought he was trying to disrupt the voting, but it transpired he was a polling agent who knew that all the votes that were being cast were on unstamped paper, which would make them invalid. Dark rumours circulated that the incumbent political party, worried about losing its seat, had prevented the stamps – and many polling officers – from reaching the station.Finally the polling began. Senior citizens were all sent forward by general agreement – by mid-morning the temperature was already in the mid-30s. Fashionable “aunties” who would normally never admit to being anywhere near 65 started claiming geriatric status in order to get to the head of the queue. About half an hour into the voting, a man entered the school yard, yelling something that it took a while to understand. Other men rushed to restrain him. We thought he was trying to disrupt the voting, but it transpired he was a polling agent who knew that all the votes that were being cast were on unstamped paper, which would make them invalid. Dark rumours circulated that the incumbent political party, worried about losing its seat, had prevented the stamps – and many polling officers – from reaching the station.
The women – more than the men – demanded answers and accountability. One of them had mentioned during the pre-polling chat that her husband worked for a news channel; now several would-be voters insisted she instruct him to bring a TV crew to the polling station so the nation could see what was going on. “I will not leave here until I can vote on stamped paper,” said one of the women, and several others agreed. They were clearly women of their word, who could be relied on to see that democracy was returned to its correct path. So while they were taking care of that I went home, had some lunch, rehydrated, and then came out again when Twitter told me that the unstamped paper problem had been resolved and voting had resumed.The women – more than the men – demanded answers and accountability. One of them had mentioned during the pre-polling chat that her husband worked for a news channel; now several would-be voters insisted she instruct him to bring a TV crew to the polling station so the nation could see what was going on. “I will not leave here until I can vote on stamped paper,” said one of the women, and several others agreed. They were clearly women of their word, who could be relied on to see that democracy was returned to its correct path. So while they were taking care of that I went home, had some lunch, rehydrated, and then came out again when Twitter told me that the unstamped paper problem had been resolved and voting had resumed.
There was another hour and a half of queueing, due to the sheer inefficiency of the polling-booth logistics. But it didn’t matter. We were voting. We forgot our cynicism and our fears and our disdain for people who vote differently to us, and remembered the years in which we couldn’t vote, and the politicians who had been killed on the campaign trail – some just a few weeks earlier. It’s just possible some of us were thinking of the free coffee and discounted clothes available at various trendy outlets if you showed up with the indelible ink mark on your thumb that proved you’d cast your ballot. The Taliban’s suicide bombers did not materialise; despite, or perhaps because of, their threat, voter turnout was near 55% – the highest in my living memory.There was another hour and a half of queueing, due to the sheer inefficiency of the polling-booth logistics. But it didn’t matter. We were voting. We forgot our cynicism and our fears and our disdain for people who vote differently to us, and remembered the years in which we couldn’t vote, and the politicians who had been killed on the campaign trail – some just a few weeks earlier. It’s just possible some of us were thinking of the free coffee and discounted clothes available at various trendy outlets if you showed up with the indelible ink mark on your thumb that proved you’d cast your ballot. The Taliban’s suicide bombers did not materialise; despite, or perhaps because of, their threat, voter turnout was near 55% – the highest in my living memory.
I don’t wish any of this on UK elections – except perhaps the free coffee. Election day should feel regular, rather than miraculous. When I say I find UK elections anticlimactic, it has nothing to do with the political parties, the issues, first-past-the-post, or the projections about how close or not the results in my constituency will be. Like most things in the world, that sense of anticlimax can best be explained by a cricketing analogy: several years ago my sister accompanied me to Lord’s, having always watched international cricket at Karachi’s national stadium. It was a West Indies v England one-day international – as fine a day of cricket as you can expect from an ODI. But after it had ended I heard my sister describe it as “a bit boring”. What more did you want of a game? I asked. Runs were scored, wickets fell, it could have gone either way until the last over, and to top it all, there was Brian Lara. Oh, she said, the match itself was very good; but the crowd participation was so dull.I don’t wish any of this on UK elections – except perhaps the free coffee. Election day should feel regular, rather than miraculous. When I say I find UK elections anticlimactic, it has nothing to do with the political parties, the issues, first-past-the-post, or the projections about how close or not the results in my constituency will be. Like most things in the world, that sense of anticlimax can best be explained by a cricketing analogy: several years ago my sister accompanied me to Lord’s, having always watched international cricket at Karachi’s national stadium. It was a West Indies v England one-day international – as fine a day of cricket as you can expect from an ODI. But after it had ended I heard my sister describe it as “a bit boring”. What more did you want of a game? I asked. Runs were scored, wickets fell, it could have gone either way until the last over, and to top it all, there was Brian Lara. Oh, she said, the match itself was very good; but the crowd participation was so dull.