By Aryn Baker for Time

For a 3-year-old who has yet to master the use of the personal pronoun, Elmo is a whiz at foreign languages. Already fluent in Chinese, German, Hindi, Spanish and Arabic, among others, the fluffy red icon has just picked up Urdu, the most common language in Pakistan. At a time when the U.S.-Pakistani relationship is at its worst in more than a decade, Sesame Street — the quintessential American children’s television program — has burst onto the Pakistani scene in a flurry of fake fur, feathers and infectious ditties about the letter alef, or A.

With its background of ripening wheat, banyan trees and a center stage that features a village snack shop overflowing with exotic fruits and vegetables, the set of Sim Sim Hamara, as it is called in Pakistan, may seem far removed from the urban street scene familiar to most Americans. But the lovable Muppets, child actors and messages of tolerance are pure Sesame. And they have all been brought to life in Pakistan with the help of a $20 million, five-year grant from USAID.

Developed in 1969 by TV producer and early-childhood-education advocate Joan Cooney, Sesame Street was designed to tap the addictive qualities of television to bring early literacy education to American preschoolers. The “quaint” American streetscape, as Cooney then called it, has since grown into the “longest street in the world,” with more than 20 unique programs worldwide, according to Sesame Workshop’s senior vice president of global education Charlotte Frances Cole. Some features dubbed segments lifted from the American version; others, like Sim Sim Hamara, which means Our Sesame, are created in partnership with local production teams to reflect native culture. In Pakistan, Big Bird and Oscar have been replaced by a self-involved crocodile and a donkey with rock-star ambitions. “Children have to be able to recognize their environment and their friends if they are going to learn,” says Faizaan Peerzada, who directs Sim Sim Hamara from a studio just outside the city of Lahore. “So we had to give Elmo Pakistani citizenship.”

On a tour of the workshop where the show’s Muppets are made, Peerzada, a master puppeteer with more than 40 years of experience directing educational puppet shows for Pakistani children for the Rafi Peer Theatre Workshop, slips his hand into a limp, feathered pocket of gray felt. Even without eyes, the unfinished puppet springs to life with the mannerisms of an owl, swiveling its head to listen as Peerzada expounds on Sim Sim’s potential with evangelical zeal. Underfunded and neglected for more than 30 years, Pakistan’s education system is in a parlous state. The recently released Annual Status of Education report in Pakistan reveals that nearly 60% of school-age children can’t read, or even do basic, two-digit subtraction problems. For a country where 35% of the population is under the age of 14, the consequences are enormous.

“As a nation, Pakistan has failed its children,” says Peerzada. If Sesame Street brought the joy of learning to generations of American preschoolers, why can’t it help teach Pakistan’s 66 million children under the age of 14 how to read? he asks. “Our children deserve this. All children deserve this,” he says. Obviously a television program that airs twice a week can’t compensate for missing teachers and limited school access, but it’s a start. “To me, Sim Sim Hamara is a gift to Pakistani children, and a window into homes that might think their children are better employed in the fields than at school,” says Peerzada.

Like the original, Sim Sim Hamara is a half-hour-long program divided into skits, song segments and celebrity appearances designed to appeal to a wide spectrum of Pakistani society. The Muppets caper with live actors on a set that combines features recognizable across the country, a kind of Pakistani Main Street that doesn’t stand out as belonging to any particular region. A dhaba, the ubiquitous snack-and-grocery shop that is the center of any Pakistani community, stands in for Mr. Hooper’s store, and is manned (or womanned) by a heavily made up Muppet auntie who anchors the show with amusing lessons about manners, safety and healthy eating. In an effort to promote tolerance in a country marked by ethnic divisions, the Muppets’ skin colors range from brown to pale orange.

Most striking, however, considering Pakistan’s male-dominated society, is the lead character, Rani, a 6-year-old female Muppet who captains the cricket team and who is passionate about science and reading. In a country where only 22% of Pakistani girls complete primary school, Rani is a model of female empowerment. But it doesn’t stop there. The rest of the show’s characters encourage Rani’s quest for knowledge — “Where does the sun go every evening?” was a recent one — modeling acceptance of women’s progress for a wider society. “You are not just teaching little girls that they can have dreams,” says Sesame Workshop executive vice president Sherrie Westin. “You are also teaching boys that it’s O.K. for girls to have those dreams.”

Of course progressive values in one culture can be interpreted as transgressive in another. Sim Sim Hamara has the added burden of being sponsored by the U.S. in a country where American meddling is viewed with increasing hostility. For that reason, the program’s authors have had to broach sensitive issues with subtle creativity. One recent segment opened with a despondent Baily, the would-be rock-star donkey, who decided he would never sing again because someone told him it would make him grow horns. “This is how we get at the idea of mullahs who are against singing,” explained one of the producers. The skit ended with the appearance of one of Pakistan’s most famous rock stars leading the whole cast in an uplifting song about believing in your self, entitled, fittingly, “Faith.”

Teachers who see it as a way to promote literacy at home have praised Sim Sim Hamara, as do children who have never really had a program to call their own. “I find that those who regularly watch Sim Sim Hamara know more about health and body parts and their functions,” says Islamabad school principal Masart Sadiq. “They get lots of ideas about careers, which they discuss with their teachers too.” Aniqa Khan, a 12-year-old from Rawalpindi, says she now wants to be a pilot, like Munna, Rani’s 5-year-old Muppet co-star. “He is excellent at math, which inspires me to spend more time on math.”

So far, and against fears in a country where the assassination of a governor accused of blasphemy was celebrated in the streets, there has been no negative response to Sim Sim Hamara. “I think my biggest fear was that the program would be misunderstood before it even aired,” says Peerzada. “People might have thought it was some kind of brain-washing project. But at the end of the day, all we are doing is teaching a child to count.”

The same could not be said of reactions to the program in the U.S., where Fox News in October dubbed Sim Sim Hamara a boondoggle for Elmo and conservative commentators quickly took up the cause. But as Sesame Workshop’s Westin points out, $20 million pays for a lot more than Elmo’s Urdu lessons and a plane ticket to Pakistan. It covers a state-of-the-art studio, high-definition digital-video equipment that won’t be obsolete in a few years, and the foundations of an educational institution that, if all goes to plan, will provide Pakistani children with the basic-literacy building blocks that have been the mainstay of early-childhood education in America for more than four decades. Current estimates say that Sim Sim Hamara is reaching more than 3.5 million Pakistani children who have no other access to preschool education. “This is a smart investment,” says Westin. “Early-childhood education is one of the most effective ways to build stability in any country. An investment like this is not only going to benefit Pakistan, but our children as well. If we can help to create a more peaceful world, that is a benefit to all of our children.” And that sounds like something Elmo would love, in any language.

Pakistanis for Peace Editor’s Note- We commend this great project by the United States government and the USAID program. The $20 million grant and this educational program will not only help the children of Pakistan who are not provided an adequate educational system by their own government but a program like this goes a long ways in the betterment of ties between the United States and Pakistan and leaves a lasting legacy for the area’s children for years to come.

Filed under: Desi, Pakistan, Pakistanis, United States, US-Pakistan Relations Tagged: Ali Azmat, Annual Status of Education, Arabic, Chinese, Dhaba, Elmo, Faizaan Peerzada, Fox News, German, Hindi, Joan Cooney, Lahore, Literacy Programs. Big Bird, Oscar, Pakistan, Pakistani Elmo, Rafi Peer Theatre Workshop, Sesame Street, Sesame Workshop, Sim Sim Hamara, Spanish, U.S.-Pakistani relationship, Urdu

By Hamza Usman

An inevitable question Pakistanis always ask me is, “what are you?” Often, I’ve wondered the same question. Besides ‘Pakistani,’ I don’t know what else to say.  I’m not Balochi or Sindhi. I can’t speak Punjabi. In my house, besides English, Urdu is the only other language spoken. When people ask me what language my parents speak, that’s what I tell them. Unlike many of my acquaintances, I don’t come from a town or village in interior Pakistan. Like millions in Pakistan, my family migrated from India. My grandparents’ families originate from Delhi, Lucknow and Aligarh, the bastions of Urdu-speaking peoples in India. In Pakistan, I am merely a ‘Muhajir;” an Urdu speaking migrant from India, now living in Karachi.

My family, like millions of others, came to Pakistan believing Jinnah’s ideal, searching for a homeland that was ours, for all Muslims, with freedom, tolerance and dignity. During those waning years of the British Empire, freedom across the Subcontinent was not a novel idea; it was a dream that had existed for decades. Students from the Aligarh Muslim University took up the cause of an independent homeland for Muslims; the university was known for the caliber and number of intellectuals it produced espousing the cause for an independent Muslim state to exist alongside a Hindu majority one in the Subcontinent. Thinkers like Mohammad Iqbal and Sir Syed Ahmed Khan were noted luminaries associated with the institution dubbed, ‘the Oxford of the East.’ Iqbal is largely celebrated in modern day Pakistan as the first ideologue championing a united Pakistan; today, his small rectangular tomb, a simple, stone structure in hues of dark crimson and burnt sienna, ensconced between the magnificent Badshahi Mosque and the grand Lahore Fort, welcomes visitors keen to learn about Pakistan’s past; a chapter of rich, Mughal heritage often obscured by the shame of Colonialism and the turbulence of Partition.

Other notable alumni of Aligarh Muslim University include Pakistan’s first Prime Minister, killed by an assassin’s bullet in 1951. In his place as Pakistan’s second Prime Minister came Khwaja Nazimuddin, another Aligarh alumnus who was Pakistan’s second, incumbent Governor General after Mr. Jinnah’s sudden death in 1948 less than a year after Pakistan’s creation. Ghulam Mohammad, Pakistan’s third and last Governor General was also an alumnus; Ghulam Mohammad’s legacy of unchecked corruption and senility  heralded the beginning of Pakistan’s trials by promoting vice-regal politics, weakening democracy and laying the seeds for President Iskander Mirza and Field Marshal Ayub Khan to set a notorious precedent and declare Martial Law in 1958.  Coincidentally, Ayub also attended Aligarh Muslim University briefly.

One lesser known alumnus was Abu Bakr Ahmad (A.B.A.) Haleem, a noted scholar and educationist. Professor Haleem began his career in the Department of Political Science and History at Aligarh in 1923. Ayub Khan was one of students. By 1934, he was Pro-Vice-Chancellor of the University and played a pivotal role in Pakistan’s formation by serving with the All-India Muslim League until Partition. Writer Mukhtar Masood describes Professor Haleem’s welcome to Jinnah, stating, “Mr. Jinnah, we are teaching history and you are making it.” After the birth of Pakistan, Professor Haleem was appointed the first Vice-Chancellor of Sindh University at the behest of Jinnah and later, the first Vice-Chancellor of Karachi University thus filling the noble distinction of being the first Vice-Chancellor for both institutions. In addition, he served in a variety of different roles and positions for the purposes of propagating education and progress in Pakistan. I refer to Professor Haleem because he was a lesser-known luminary who contributed to forging Pakistan’s identity in its early years; he was also my Great-Grandfather.

Following in his footsteps, I too graduated in Political Science and History, and like him, moved to Paris. His association with the Sorbonne and the University of Paris inspired me as I strolled down the Boulevard St. Michel as he once would have decades before, deep in thought, stopping at the Jardins du Luxembourg to sit in silent contemplation amidst the babbling fountains and the verdant green grass. Like him, I spoke French almost fluently. Like him, I expressed a desire for multilingualism and learnt Italian. Professor Haleem spoke over five languages; he even spoke Mandarin. According to my grandfather, he was invited to China to give a speech to Chairman Mao-Zedong on Chinese history.

In the late Professor’s time, the concept of nationhood was being redefined and the notion of identity that still troubles Pakistanis surfaced.  Gandhi argued that religion could not imply a separate nation since language, customs and culture dictated that, not belief. Jinnah contended that religion defined values, customs, beliefs and ideals, thus characterizing Muslims as a separate nation. With neither side willing to budge from their respective positions, the outcome of this arduous conflict was the Partition of the Subcontinent in 1947.

Like me, Pakistan is still undergoing its identity crisis. Debate still looms whether the state is secular, as Jinnah envisioned, or Islamic, as his successors outlined. Its maturity and development into a cohesive nation has been hindered by weak democracy, military dominance in addition to poor governance, lack of resources and partisan politics. Like the former Yugoslavia, Pakistan is a federation of various ethnic groups, tribes, sects and peoples. The most poorly-defined of these groups are the so-called ‘Urdu-speaking’ Muslims that migrated to Pakistan after Partition from all over India. They are defined solely on the basis of language and stigmatized by the local, ethnic populations whose ancestors have pre-existed on Pakistani soil for centuries.

Urdu was a hybrid language growing in prominence under the Delhi Sultanate, but it wasn’t until the emergence of the Mughal Empire in 1527 that Urdu became a language of the regal court. It evolved from a derivative of Farsi to amalgamate Arabic, Sanskrit, Turkish and Hindi influences. As late as the siege of Delhi in 1857, Urdu remained a language of the elite and refined, lending much of its court-like stature to literature and poetry. Urdu speakers in places like Aligarh contributed greatly to Jinnah’s movement of an independent Muslim state in the Subcontinent. As a result, at Pakistan’s birth, Urdu was to be its lingua franca. Ostensibly, this would not only curtail any one ethnic group from dominating national affairs, it would also reinforce national identity through the use and extension of a common language, keeping the federation united.[1]

Naturally, this created tensions that still exist today. Pakistan at Partition was divided into East and West with only Urdu as its national language, however strong opposition and campaigning from Bengalis in East Pakistan made Bengali a national language during the 1950s. Pakistan’s Post-Colonial legacy ensured that English was not only its official language but lent its presence to its law courts, bureaucracy and military.  After its brutal Civil War in 1971, East Pakistan became Bangladesh and Pakistan was left with Urdu as its only national language. English remains the language of the elite, the powerful and the source of high-paying jobs. Prominent families send their children to English or American schools in the hope that acquiring this language will be a passport to success. As Zubeida Mustafa describes in The Guardian, “people believe that English is the magic wand that can open the door of prosperity. Policy-makers, the wielders of economic power and the social elites have also perpetuated this myth.[2]”

And this myth affects the language spoken in my home. Today, the Urdu around me is not the Urdu spoken during Partition. At that time, Urdu’s poetic language structure, its rich vocabulary and literature was common to most speakers. My generation has been fed a bastardized version of Urdu; an Urdu with informal tenses, new verbiage, interspersed with English to create what some call “minglish,” influenced by the melting pot of Karachi’s different cultures. The Urdu I speak can barely be called Urdu; it is Urdu to get by. I can order a cup of tea but I cannot wax eloquent on anything. When I watch television, news anchors speak a strange language and I struggle to read the ticker because I was never formally taught to read Urdu and I don’t know anyone who speaks the pure Urdu that once characterized my homeland.

Pakistan was envisioned as a poly-ethnic state where religion bound peoples together. The effect of nation-building has backfired since inception because ethnic identities remain prominent. Urdu has not achieved the massive national trickle-down effect it was intended to. Urdu is the first language of only 8% of Pakistanis whereas Punjabi, is spoken by almost 50% of the population.[3] In addition, over 70 smaller provincial languages and dialects exist in Pakistan.  Today, whilst much of the mainstream media as well as state-run public schools communicate in Urdu, it is not a first-language for Pakistanis by far. Those homes with access to English find a diminished impetus for learning Urdu as pragmatism and practical exigencies dictate the study of English, primarily because all higher examinations with the exception of Islamic studies in Pakistan are based on the Western models of education.

In my case, Urdu’s oral traditions and rich cultural legacy is lost to me. In Nehru’s words, “I have become a queer mixture of the East and the West, out of place everywhere, at home nowhere.”  I cannot read Ghalib unless it’s an English translation. I cannot even read the Urdu newspaper. I read Saadat Hassan Manto, revered as one of Pakistan’s greatest writers, in English. Often I wonder what richness of language is lost to me, what word play and complex grammatical structures I shall never understand, nor the depth of connotation that one Urdu word conveys but none in English compare.

Upon my return to Pakistan in 2009, I was faced with a quandary. I wanted to document the richness of this country and its cultural heritage; I wanted to highlight its history and its crumbling monuments, preserving those stories and retelling them for a new generation that doesn’t understand what Pakistan is, or what it once was. This new generation, fed on misinterpreted views of Islam accounts for much of the radicalization of the past few decades. I realized that if I needed to undo General Zia’s legacy of Islamization, I needed to show that the people living here weren’t always militant; that before there was a homeland for Muslims, Sikhs, Christians, Hindus, Parsis to name a few lived side by side in peace with Muslims.

Working for a television station, I was making a documentary film but realized my shortcomings when my co-producer handed me a script to OK. The script was written in Urdu. Like a toddler struggling with an elementary primer, I held my finger over each word trying to decipher the script, until I gave up a few lines after and told him it seemed OK to me. What else could I do? When a colleague amazingly remarked that I could speak French and Italian, I turned to her and in my broken Urdu, asked what use was it if I couldn’t speak the language of my own people?

After a few months of struggle, I left the documentary film-making world because of my language handicap and ventured toward Communications. I struggled with the bitter taste of irony, that I, privileged, educated, capable of helping this country through the miasma of failure, extremism, violence and stagnation, was powerless because I couldn’t speak the language properly.  Unlike Professor Haleem who made a difference to change Pakistan for the better, I was restricted and hindered by the same hopeful language that gave this country a voice. Today, my Urdu is mish-mashed with English incorporating more colloquial slang than literal Urdu. Like my Urdu, I find myself a mix of different peoples and personalities, Pakistani at heart, but at home nowhere.