In the autumn of 1985, when I was a student at the Patrice Lumumba Peoples’ Friendship University in Moscow, the air across the Soviet Union carried a peculiar mixture of exhaustion and anticipation. The Brezhnev years (1964-1982) had left behind a weary bureaucracy and a cautious society.

Yet, with the arrival of ‘perestroika’ [restructuring] and ‘glasnost’ [openness] under Mikhail Gorbachev, conversations once whispered in kitchens began to surface in lecture halls and student dormitories. Among the names that circulated with particular reverence was that of Roy Medvedev.

For curious students like myself — foreigners navigating the labyrinth of Soviet intellectual life in the mid-1980s — Medvedev represented something unusual: a historian who remained a socialist, even a Marxist, yet refused to excuse the crimes committed in the name of socialism. In a country where dissent often came at the price of exile or imprisonment, he attempted something rarer still — criticism from within the tradition itself.

Roy Medvedev, who died in February this year, lived through nearly the entire Soviet century — and spent most of it insisting it be remembered honestly. Naazir Mahmood looks at the life of a historian who showed that his discipline’s most valuable service is not reinforcing official myths but questioning them…

A FAMILY SHAPED BY THE PURGES

Roy Medvedev, who died in Moscow in February 2026 aged 100, spent most of his life trying to reconcile faith in socialist ideals with an unsparing examination of Soviet history. His work made him suspect to Soviet authorities and controversial among anti-communist critics abroad. Yet, for decades, he remained one of the most respected independent historians to emerge from the Soviet system.

Medvedev was born in 1925 in Tbilisi, then part of Soviet Georgia. His family’s fate reflected the brutal oscillations of the Soviet experiment. His father, a committed communist intellectual, was arrested during the Great Purge (1936-1938) and later died in a labour camp. The tragedy left an indelible mark on Roy and his twin brother, the biologist Zhores Medvedev.

Such an experience might have pushed him into outright opposition to the Soviet state. Instead, it led him down a more complicated path. Medvedev never abandoned socialism as an ideal. Rather, he devoted his life to exposing how those ideals had been corrupted under Joseph Stalin. This position — critical yet intellectually loyal to the broader socialist project — made him difficult to categorise. He was neither a conventional dissident nor an obedient party historian.

THE HISTORIAN WHO CHALLENGED STALIN

Medvedev’s reputation rested, above all, on his monumental study of Stalinism, Let History Judge. He wrote it in the 1960s. It circulated clandestinely in the Soviet Union before being published abroad in 1971. It was among the earliest systematic critiques of Stalin’s rule, produced by a Soviet historian.

In the book, Medvedev rejected the official mythology surrounding Stalin, while insisting that socialism itself should not be condemned because of Stalin’s crimes. Stalinism, in his reading, was not the inevitable outcome of socialism but its distortion.

For Soviet readers accustomed to sanitised historical narratives, the book was revelatory. It documented purges, fabricated trials and political terror in meticulous detail, drawing on testimonies, documents and personal recollections.

Medvedev insisted that the revolution of 1917 had not been destined to produce tyranny. The tragedy of the Soviet Union, he pointed out, was that a revolution carried out in the name of the people eventually came to distrust those very people.

Such arguments were radical in the intellectual climate of the 1960s. The authorities reacted harshly. In 1969, Medvedev was expelled from the Communist Party. Yet he remained committed to reforming socialism rather than abandoning it altogether — a position that puzzled many Western observers, accustomed to viewing Soviet dissent in stark ideological terms.

For Medvedev, the issue was moral as much as political. The crimes of Stalinism had to be exposed, he believed, not to destroy socialism but to rescue it from falsification. A society that fears its own history, he argued, cannot build a just future.

A NAME WHISPERED IN SOVIET CORRIDORS

When I first encountered Medvedev’s name in the mid-1980s, it was spoken almost conspiratorially. Soviet students often referred to books and essays that circulated through unofficial channels — samizdat [clandestinely circulated] copies passed from hand to hand. At the time, the Soviet Union still maintained an elaborate system of censorship, though this began to loosen after Mikhail Gorbachev came to power in 1985.

Libraries guarded their collections carefully; some works could only be consulted with special permission. Yet ideas travelled nonetheless. Medvedev’s writings were among those quietly discussed in dormitory rooms and student cafés. Their significance lay as much in intellectual stance as in content.

Medvedev showed that one could criticise Stalin without renouncing the broader socialist tradition. For a foreign student observing Soviet society from within, this was illuminating. The Soviet Union was often portrayed abroad as intellectually monolithic. In reality, it contained a rich undercurrent of debate — careful, coded and persistent.

Perestroika and rehabilitation

The arrival of Gorbachev transformed Medvedev’s position. As the Soviet leadership encouraged historical reassessment during the late 1980s, historians who had once been marginalised were suddenly being vindicated. Medvedev’s insistence that Stalinism represented a deviation rather than an inevitability resonated strongly with the new political climate.

It felt as though the Soviet Union was finally rediscovering its suppressed history — however briefly. Medvedev became a prominent public intellectual and later served as a deputy in the Soviet parliament during the reform era.

The collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991 presented a new challenge. For a historian who had spent decades defending the possibility of democratic socialism, the disintegration of the state raised difficult questions.

Unlike many former Soviet intellectuals who embraced Western liberalism, Medvedev remained cautious. He believed the Soviet experiment had failed, but continued to argue that socialism as an ideal retained relevance.

Over the decades he produced a remarkable body of work — studies of Stalinism, biographies of Soviet figures such as Nikita Khrushchev and Nikolai Bukharin and, later, reflections on Russia’s turbulent transition during the Boris Yeltsin era. His tone remained measured rather than polemical. Even critics acknowledged the seriousness of his scholarship.

HISTORY AS CONSCIENCE

Medvedev’s life spanned nearly the entire Soviet century — from its consolidation under Stalin to its collapse and aftermath. Few historians were so personally entangled with the events they analysed. He believed that a society must confront its past honestly. As he argued in Let History Judge, the falsification of history was among the most damaging legacies of Stalinism.

Historical truth — even when uncomfortable — is essential for political and moral renewal. For a student wandering the corridors of Soviet universities in the mid-1980s, that lesson felt both daring and hopeful. Decades later, it remains no less relevant.

Indeed, Medvedev’s example carries an important message far beyond Russia. In many parts of the world, history remains a battlefield, where political power seeks to impose its preferred narrative of the past. The pattern he identified — power rewriting the past to serve the present — is hardly unique to Russia. South Asia offers striking illustrations.

In Bangladesh, the interpretation of the liberation struggle has often shifted with political change; the ouster of Sheikh Hasina has once again reopened debates about how the events of 1971 should be remembered. In India, the rise of Hindu nationalist politics has produced sustained attempts to reshape historical interpretation, particularly in school textbooks, recasting the Subcontinent’s past as a civilisational conflict between Hindus and Muslims.

Pakistan presents another version of the same dilemma. For decades, official narratives — especially those found in Pakistan Studies textbooks — have offered a selective account of the Subcontinent’s past, designed largely to justify the two-nation theory.

Medvedev’s life suggests that historians perform their most valuable service not by reinforcing official myths but by questioning them. A nation confident in itself does not fear historical scrutiny.

The willingness to confront uncomfortable truths may be the surest sign of intellectual maturity. As Medvedev understood better than most, the writing of history is never merely an academic exercise. It is also a moral responsibility.

The writer is a columnist, educator and film critic. He can be contacted at mnazir1964@yahoo.co.uk.
X: @NaazirMahmood

Published in Dawn, EOS, April 12th, 2026

Hasan Raheem’s latest offering to the world, ‘Bewajah’ [Without Reason], is a song that is food for the melophile soul. It pushes boundaries and experiments with electronic layering in both music and vocals. The song’s production is as beautifully complex as the messaging in the poetry it uses.

I love the experimental, avant-garde nature of Raheem’s work in ‘Bewajah’. I suspect that most people may not love the song at first, but will grow to do so over time.

‘Bewajah’ is a song that feels both intimate and deeply rooted in place. Known for blending contemporary pop with the sonic textures of his northern heritage, Raheem continues to carve a space where modern longing meets the cultural memory of Gilgit-Baltistan.

‘Bewajah’ unfolds as a melancholic dialogue — two perspectives suspended in emotional limbo. Built on sparse, traditional percussion and a stripped-back melodic structure, the song leans into stillness, allowing the weight of unsaid words to linger. Raheem’s vocal delivery is restrained yet piercing, echoing the isolation of mountain landscapes that seem to inform both his sound and sensibility.

In his latest single, ‘Bewajah’, Hasan Raheem transforms a story of love and miscommunication into something far more expansive that is rooted in the language, landscapes and traditions of Gilgit-Baltistan

What makes this track interesting is that the producer, Umair Tahir, has layered several tracks of percussion over each other — one even sounds oddly similar to the galloping sound of horses’ hooves. The vocal tracks are layered over each other, making the song sound like something out of a vivid dream, wherein one reality merges into another.

The first verse introduces a man who chooses separation over inevitable betrayal, portraying a relationship starved of emotional reassurance. His longing is quiet but persistent; he waits, he hopes and, ultimately, he withdraws. His reference to his partner’s sarkashi [rebellion] suggests not just defiance, but a kind of emotional distance he cannot bridge.

The narrative then pivots. In a mirrored monologue, a woman’s lyrical persona interrogates the relationship from her own vantage point — questioning whether love ever truly existed. Her grief is sharper, edged with accusation. She speaks of unmet needs, of carrying the burden of his unresolved pain, and ultimately reframes the break-up as his failure to stay emotionally present.

What elevates ‘Bewajah’ beyond a conventional break-up ballad is its linguistic and cultural layering. Raheem weaves in Shina (a language spoken in Gilgit-Baltistan) during the bridge — a deliberate artistic choice that grounds the song in his heritage. In doing so, he not only expands the sonic palette of Pakistani pop but also introduces wider audiences to a language and cultural identity often underrepresented in mainstream media.

Across his work, Raheem has quietly positioned himself as a cultural conduit, bringing elements of Gilgiti life — its rhythms, dialects and emotional landscapes — into the national consciousness. The music video deepens this connection to the place.

Set against the dramatic backdrop of northern Pakistan, it centres on a game of polo — not the manicured, codified version familiar to global audiences, but the raw, high-altitude freestyle variant played in the mountains. This form of polo, most famously showcased at the Shandur Polo Festival, is often described as the “game of kings” in its most primal form: no referees, minimal rules and an intensity that mirrors both the terrain and the people.

Polo itself carries centuries of history, tracing back to ancient Central Asia before evolving across regions such as Persia, Tibet and the northern areas of present-day Pakistan. In Shandur Pass — home to one of the highest polo grounds in the world — the sport becomes more than a game; it is a cultural ritual, a communal gathering, and a symbol of identity. By situating ‘Bewajah’ within this setting, Raheem draws a powerful parallel between the chaos of the sport and the emotional turbulence of love and loss.

Visually, the contrast is striking. Dressed in white and subtly adorned, Raheem stands apart from the largely black-clad crowd, embodying both observer and participant. As horses thunder across the field and snow-capped peaks loom in the distance, his introspection gives way to immersion — suggesting that, like the players, he too is caught in something uncontrollable.

In promoting the video, Raheem made it a point to highlight that this is not the “gentrified” version of polo seen internationally, but a freer, more visceral form. His invitation to audiences — to witness it in person, to understand it — feels consistent with his broader artistic mission: to not just make music, but to open windows into a culture often overlooked.

In that respect, Raheem has always left little easter eggs in his music and social media presence that pay homage to his heritage and culture in Gilgit-Baltistan.

In ‘Joona’, for example, he performs a verse in Shina in the middle of the song. In ‘Sweetu’, he is seen walking on the streets of Gilgit-Baltistan with his co-artists. His wedding, which went viral, showed him never missing an opportunity to perform his traditional dance and celebrate the unique colours of his culture. In his own way, he constantly promotes and educates people about his culture. Gilgit-Baltistan couldn’t have asked for a better ambassador.

With ‘Bewajah’, Raheem doesn’t just tell a story of heartbreak. He situates it within geography, language and tradition… reminding listeners that even the most personal emotions are shaped by where we come from.

The writer is a former member of staff.
She can be reached at syed.madeeha@gmail.com

Published in Dawn, ICON, April 12th, 2026

Choosing spectacle over an elaborate story — there is just enough of it here to make the movie stick — The Super Mario Galaxy Movie (a mouthful of a title, for sure) is a good day at the movies.

No, scratch that. It’s a great day at the movies!

Overflowing with manic energy that rivals the power burst Mario gets from a Question Mark Block (if you’ve played the game, you will know what I am talking about), the story is perfunctory.

In the far-off reaches of space, Princess Rosalina (Brie Larson) lives on a Comet Observatory as the caretaker-cum-mother figure of the Lumas, cuddly star-shaped creatures. All is hunky-dory in their world until she is attacked by Bowser Jr (Benny Safdie).

Manic energy, cosmic battles and a star-studded cast make The Super Mario Galaxy Movie a joyride worth every coin

The pint-sized, boarding school runaway has a simple agenda: he wants to kidnap the princess, save his father, Bowser (Jack Black), from Mario’s prison, and then use his artificially created world to blast planets whose inhabitants made fun of the father and son.

As one can guess from the title, things get cosmic fast.

First, Mario and Luigi (Chris Pratt, Charlie Day) recruit the green dinosaur, Yoshi (Donald Glover), to their ranks after finding him in ancient ruins in the desert. They are then tasked with taking care of Princess Peach’s (Anya Taylor-Joy) kingdom when she decides to go save the Lumas.

The cogs running this animated film’s machine are excessively lubricated. A number of zany action set-pieces hit the audience one after another, leading to a late — but very welcome — reveal of a popular Nintendo character voiced by Glenn Powell. The characters find their separate adventures, rendezvous and then team up for another action sequence.

The action sequences underscore why artificial intelligence (AI) will never be able to replace the efforts of real artists. There are just too many layers of animation, minor body and facial nuances and visual effects driving the kinetic action and complicated camerawork. It’s something that may take AI years to perfect — and even if it does, there is no guarantee that it will be able to believably mimic the artistry of human beings.

Technically, this Illumination production reminds one of the quality Pixar used to have. One can credit the success to returning directors Michael Jelenic and Aaron Horvath (makers of Teen Titans Go!), and screenwriter Matthew Fogel. There is much to appreciate, and because of that, viewer interest hardly wanes.

Now, one can argue that one’s interest may partially be there because of nostalgia and partially due to the light-hearted nature of the film, and they would not be wrong. But that’s not really a negative point in my opinion. For the most part, we get just the right blend of emotions that move the characters to do what they must in this 90-minute movie. One cannot ask for more.

Released by Universal Pictures internationally and HKC in Pakistan, The Super Mario Galaxy Movie is rated U and more than justifies the price of popcorn in cinemas these days.

The writer is Icon’s primary film reviewer

Published in Dawn, ICON, April 12th, 2026