Ali Yusufali - My world

The Bloody Kidney Stone

2012-01-29T23:34:00.000-08:00

Saifi Hospital located at Maharshi Karve Marg in Mumbai is a grand, regal and handsome building, outstanding amidst her neighbors that show age, torment and scars from Mumbai’s infamous monsoons. Built by the Bohri community of India, the hospital, unlike Leelavati in Bandra or Kokilaben in Andheri where the stiff upper lips of Mumbai’s recouparate, caters to the less financially endowed. The inside of the hospital is similarly striking; clean, efficient and modern. It is here I find myself laying on an examination table being scanned for woes in my abdomen. A smartly dressed (very) young doctor (intern?) frowns and asks me for the third time what ails me.
I have been told I have gall bladder stones…
He frowns. Huh…by who? By…a Doctor? A pause. A medical doctor?
Um…yes.
Huh…really? Where, which Doctor? Did you have an ultrasound done to confirm this diagnosis?
I hesitate, don’t want to tell him I have flown all the way from Florida for treatment; this hospital is not very accommodating, understandably, to foreigners using subsidized facilities for Indian nationals. I give a vague response.
The Doctor grunts, prods my abdomen some more then utters Gall bladder stones my foot in disgust. A senior Doctor takes over prodding and stabbing the ultrasound scanner into my bladder, nods at his head wisely at his junior and walks away, leaving me rather bothered and perplexed.
Problem? I ask the young Doctor. He shrugs his shoulders.
Well, you have no gall bladder stones, for sure; whoever told you that is talking bakwaas. That is the good news. Bad news is you have a .9cm stone lodged just under your right kidney and other smaller ones as well. These are blocking the flow of urine, giving you pain and may cause major problems. You will have to talk to a urologist and have him remove the stone as soon as possible.
So within 45 minutes, I have a professional verdict that has cost me about US$25, for a (very) painful, uncomfortable matter that has been vexing me for over a month. How come Indian doctors are so good and accurate in their diagnostics? I saw 3 doctors in Florida; one said I have a bad back and 2 diagnosed gall bladder stones, none bothered to recommend an ultrasound, which would have confirmed a cause. Now, what medical books and or training do these doctors in the US read or go to?

Good doctors in India, at least here in Mumbai, are super busy and super rich. Later that morning, Dr. Ashiq Raval, a renowned urologist has promised to meet me at the crowded Prince Ali Khan Hospital Outpatients Ward. When I tire waiting over an hour, I approach a disorderly crowded desk and demand to see the doctor.
He is delayed, the irritated receptionist snaps, because he is still in OT.
And what is OT? I ask, equally annoyed.
The Hindu lady, with a slightly dislodged large red tikka on her harassed forehead widens her kohl-laden eyes in surprise, as if I have asked the most stupid question of the day.
Aree, OT yaar! OT! Operation Theater!
She clicks her tongue impatiently, dismissively and attends to a shrill telephone demanding attention. Dr. Ravel, when I meet him, is a short, heavy-set man with large doe-like eyes, sees me for but 3 minutes. He studies the ultrasound report, nods his head several times, as if what he sees is exactly what he expects, says he can remove the stones day after tomorrow, Friday at 10AM at this hospital, instructs me to get several blood, urine and x-ray tests done and meet him later in the day for pre-surgery orientation. And how much will he charge for the surgery? Lazy eyes appraise my worth for a moment. US$1,000 or thereabouts he replies carelessly, but pay US$20 for this consultation now. And the deal is done. When I come out of his office, there are about 50 other people seated outside, waiting to see him. I do the math; $1,000 earned in about 2 hours ain’t so bad. Later on, I learn he performs average of 5 surgeries daily, so that’s about $2,500 after splitting profits with the hospital. Yes, earning US$1.2 million a year living in Mumbai ain’t bad at all. I am not attempting to demonize Dr. Ravel’s earning skills here, mind you, he is a very good and adept urologist; more power to him.

The tests all done, I show up at the hospital to get a shock of my life; why, I would not have been more shocked if the Doctor had slapped me silly.
Yusufbhai, kaise ho? Now, I am going to insert a tube up your pxxxx and try removing the large stone, but I doubt that will work. So I’ll have to crush the stone into tiny fragments first and these will flow out with urine, theek hai?
I nearly choke at the protests that spring to my lips. You are going to do – what!!!?
I think the Doctor is as surprised at my shock; a lazy smile appears on his lips.
Hahaha, you didn’t think I’d cut you up, did you? Don’t worry, noting is going to happen to your pxxxx and you’ll be fast asleep to feel anything. I have done thousands of these procedures. They are very routine these days. And 100% safe. Now chalo, I will see you Friday, theek hai…?
Now, I not only have to deal with the pain but also fret about some guy messing around with my very private parts (VPP). I call up my cousin Dr. Afzal Yusufali in Dubai for advice but he is nonchalant about the procedure, recommends doing it.

Friday morning I am sleeping on my back on the operating table in the OT, waiting for the abuse to begin when I see Dr. Ravel peering down at me. But it is not only one set of eyes that gaze at me, there are several eyes, feminine eyes. I am introduced to the anesthesiologist, Dr. Patel, a pretty petite lady in white; I notice other eyes as well, all female. Eyes that will have unfettered view of my body, tubes being poked in me while I am dead, my VPP being violated. OMA, this is unfair, what about my dignity! I want to protest at the top of my voice, but these are unexpressed complaints, screams that echo only in my head. The humiliating process is already underway; I feel a prick of a needle, a mask is clamped on my face. From a distance, as if through a tunnel, I hear Dr. Ravel yell Sleep tight and a faint sound of feminine giggle before overpowering slumber overwhelms me.

I wake up to sting of slaps that Dr. Ravel’s heavyset assistant is tormenting me to. Mr. Yusufali, Yusufalibhai, uuthoo, uuthoo. Operation hojaya, the procedure went very well, Dr. Ravel managed to crush the stone, the bloody kidney stone, you are now very fine, very very fine.

I want to, because of this experience:

1. Thank Dr. Abbas Vakeel and Aliakberbhai Ratansi from Najfi House, Mumbai for arranging and facilitating the doctors, specialists and hospital. As easy as all these appointments seem from my write-up, the actual process can be a maddening maze of woozy headaches.
2. Thank driver Sarfaraz of Najafi House for all the care, attention and running around undertaken on my behalf.
3. In December of 2011, two poor full-term pregnant women in complicated labor attempted to drive to a government medical clinic, about 5 hours away, in the remote district of Dykoondi, Afghanistan. Tragically, their rented vehicle skidded in the ice and snow and crashed into a ravine, claiming all 4 lives, amongst others. While I have the blessings of Allah (S) and the good fortune to travel over 10,000 miles for my ailments, the poor and destitute of Afghanistan, especially women and children, have these tragedies to reckon with, daily.
This particular 35,000 strong community has no medical facility whatsoever and the government clinic may or may not have a doctor or (proper) drugs, even if the sick do make it to the clinic. CAI will, insha’Allah open her 3rd medical clinic in Afghanistan this spring in Dykoondi; this personal experience makes me want to redouble my efforts towards (attempting) some relief to these wretched people.

Insha’Allah.

A $50,000 Surgery…

2012-01-18T08:35:00.000-08:00

I am near to finishing a nine-mile run about a month ago when, with about one mile to go, when I slow down considerably for the mandatory cooling off stretch, I realize something is amiss. At about this time in the run, the good feeling hormones in my system get released and I cherish the feel of accomplishment; legs aching comfortably, sweating profusely and looking forward to a well deserved hearty breakfast. Today, however, there is a dull ache in my lower back instead, a pain that accelerates by the time I complete stretching and final cool off. I do have the hearty breakfast, but it is a forced feast, not enjoyed, a feel of nausea dominates.

The pain stays with me, a dull ache, increasing in intensity instantly after meals, with the feeling of wanting to barf every time; very odd, as I am alham’Allah, quiet healthy, careful what I eat and generally conscious about my health. This feeling and uneasiness continues for the next two weeks I run, but these are forced runs, my mind willing but the body stubbornly, strangely reluctant. When I get an acute pain in my back about two weeks later, fearing reoccurrence of kidney stones, I quit running, making my variable temperament more disagreeable; I love running. Now, I know women claim there is no pain greater than childbirth; I digress. Kidney stone pain, I think, comes straight from jahannum as a warning.

When the pain does not abate, I am forced to seek medical help, but there is a problem. I am, you see, one among millions who make up the uninsured statics in this great country we call United States of America. Not that I have not tried to insure my family and me, I have. Since my return to the US from India, I have tried three different sources, two declined saying I have no established history (?) and the one that accepted wanted a huge bite out of my IRA in premiums, enough money for me to pay an average monthly mortgage and lease a nice vehicle. So I suffer in pain (in barf mood) that is dulled only by healthy dosage of OTC medication.

A caring member of HIC community Fatema Manekia tells me about free medical services by Shepherds Hope, a church financed medical care run by volunteers. After a four and half hour wait, I get to see a bored, tired doctor who examines me robotically, says he sees nothing wrong, cites the reason for pain from a bad back perhaps, gives me (strong) pain medication and sends me home. I am relieved by the verdict; begin planning for a run next day. The doctor is awfully wrong, I am convinced next morning however, acute pain persists. So I become a doctor instantly, a degree conferred to me by Google search engine. I spend an entire day researching the symptoms I have and they all point an accusing finger to gall bladder stones. I talk to a couple of people who have been through this; yes, our experiences tally. Hmmm.

I turn to Seminole County medical services and they grudgingly give me an appointment to see a doctor at reduced cost. This service is much better; they give you an appointment and you see a doctor in about thirty minutes. The doctor is a young medical trainee from a medical college. Supervised by a qualified women doctor, who is handicapped, riding on an electric wheel chair, I am examined. Both of them are thorough, professionals and seem to know what they are doing. The verdict comes in minutes – gall bladder stones. Many gall bladder stones. I get slips for blood tests and an appointment to meet with a surgeon.

Now, just because Seminole County let me see a doctor for twenty bucks does not mean they will test blood and remove the gall bladder for free. No-no, this is the great USA; I must pay. How much, I ask? Well, nobody at the clinic will tell me (officially) but a young sympathetic Hispanic nurse confides it may be in the region of fifteen thousand dollars if the County coordinates it for me (it’ll take about two months, I stay on pain killers until then). Else, it’s about fifty thousand, give or take a few thousands. I stare at her, flabbergasted. She stares right back, nodding her pretty head sadly, understandingly; yes Sir, that’s how much it’ll cost. Or, she leans forward and whispers conspiringly, if it gets really bad, you are in bad pain, call 911, then tell the hospital you have no money, they’ll write if off eventually. They wont let you die, hehehehe…’

Huh, that much? I am sure she’s made a mistake. I try to find out. I call the Central Regional Florida Hospital but nobody there understands surgery without insurance. I finally get to talk to a PR guy who says its impossible for any hospital to quote rates for any surgery, depends on many variables but yes, fifty thousand dollars is not a number to be surprised at. Now I know how a person can go bankrupt getting sick in this country. Well, to hell with this nonsense, I cannot stand the pain and feel of wanting to vomit no more. I call my friends at Najfi House in Mumbai, India. An appointment is set at Saifee Hospital for January 25 and probable surgery for January 27. I had a planned visit to India in February anyway, I’ll simply prepone it and have the surgery there for fraction of the cost here.

God bless you, may He bless me and may He bless United States of America, the greatest, most developed, most mighty, most civilized, especially her health care services industry, country in the world.

Amen.

A Hairy Affair

2011-12-27T09:14:00.000-08:00

‘Hair,’ my marhoom friend Shafiq Allaina, who was blessed with thick, almost unmanageable mane of wiry hair once disclosed at a Banyani saloon in Tanga, Tanzania, ‘is everything. Without hair, a person is inadequate, almost like a man without manhood.’ The Hindu barber, with a pate as shiny as a simmering desert wasteland, nodded his head sagely, strangely; Shafiq was a generous tipper.This was when I was about sixteen, a very impressionable age, and this fact, from apparent experts, filled me with indescribable dread.

The hair on my crown, you see, was thin and fine, especially at the tips. Any attempt to grow it fashionably long and over the ears, like then Bollywood actors, make me look comical, at best. The locks above both ears had minds of their own, they changed course and ascended to the heavens in defiance of gravity, instead of coming down to earth. No matter what and how much I tried, these tips were hell bent to frustrate me. No matter I spent an inordinate time in front of the mirror taming them, using water, expensive, high-priced sprays (there were no fancy gels then), various (smelly) oils and even spit, my hair stayed rebellious. If there was one issue we siblings clashed about the most, it was my time spent in the bathroom, in front of the mirror, disciplining wayward scalp hair. So I stayed in fashion sidelines, forced to content with fine hair cut well above the ears. Jeetendra from Bollywood would have been most disappointed; his most ardent devotee not even able to match his hairstyle, let alone pursue maidens around rose shrubs in tight fitting white pants, white t-shirts and matching shoes.

At about age twenty-one, dread was replaced with terror, absolute panic; not only were my scalp hair disobedient, they started abandoning me. Not one or a couple here and there, no-no, this was exodus. They came away in clumps on my towel after a shower, they clouded the white bathroom sink when I combed standing over it, they lay glinting with mischief on my pillow when I got up in the morning and they dropped on to my shoulders unannounced; I began wearing dark shirts, much to Mama’s annoyance, ‘It’s not Muharram yet, you know, and I’m still alive!’ She’d quip. For me, it could have been many Muharrams put together; such was my anguish. I feared the worse - no girlfriends, no marriage prospects, people calling me baldie, or taklo, or worse. If the time I took in the bathrooms was lengthy before, it was now eternities.

I tried fighting back against nature; buying the most expensive shampoos available in markets, stood inverted on my head for hours on the advise of my gym guru, applied raw egg yolk before going to sleep, rubbed fresh lime juice on my scalp…alas, the hair kept a-falling. All this did was deplete my savings, give me frightening headaches, have Amina Bhabhi look at me suspiciously when she saw the soiled pillowcases and kept my young nieces and nephews a fair (odor-free) distance from me. I would not allow anyone near my scalp, touching was sacrilege, would invite instant and furious rebuke. I hated the wind outside so the windows of my car never left their closed position, much to Mama’s ire. The mirror, any mirror, many mirrors, became my constant buddies; I disappeared to washrooms and cursed the fallen fuzz I met but blessed and prayed for long(er) life for those that hung on.

When I proposed marriage to a maiden at a very tender age, she accepted, much to my shock and surprise; poor her, little did she know she would soon be forced to defend her future husband’s desolate scalp with couplets like ‘koon kehta hai mera aadmi ganja hai, chaand pe khabhi baal dekha hai…?’ I was much relieved however.

Marriage revived by hairy fortunes – somewhat. Much latter did I learn hormones and hereditary played an important role in my scalp’s fortunes. With pressure off and hormones under control, my hair fall steadied and even spurted back some, so I enjoyed few years of respite from the battle. But I was on always on guard, however.

Then came Rogaine and hope for men’s vanity, mine specially, brightened considerably. I smiled more readily (which made my boss and coworkers look at me oddly), sang in the shower (which made my ex-wife eye me with suspicion), walked with a spring in my step (which made others warily yield way) and kept all windows in my car open in Minnesota winter (which almost gave my ex-wife a scary pneumonia, sinuses that she still may very well be suffering from). This euphoria lasted until an exasperated dermatologist looked at me in the eye and told me to stop being a fool, wasting money and dabbing into the unknown. He assured me my scalp and remaining hair were fine and opined that although Rogaine did help (some) men re-grow (some) hair, it also worked wholeheartedly in wholesome growth of hair on shoulders, the back, ears and buttocks as well. I swallowed hard, painfully, felt the floor spin and open up, swallowing last hopes of saving my hair.

It took hairdresser Maria, a divorced Hispanic mother-of-two from Austin TX, to finally install confidence in me. She was reasonably priced (you will not believe the money people pay for a haircut in Austin), very good, quiet attractive and worked a fair distance away, but both my nephew Sibtain and I patronized her. She would trim my hair short, the military way and then admire her labor lovingly. She once remarked I had a perfectly shaped head, which made me blush silly but when Sibtain revealed I was single and she made known her interest in dating me, why, I giddily floated in fluffy clouds. Wow, if an attractive gal like Maria was interested in me, who cared about an ever-expanding barren scalp?

Maria lost interest fast-fast when she found out alcohol was not part of my lifestyle and temporary marriages were not part of hers. ‘Santo hijo de María!’ she exclaimed, ‘even if I were to agree marrying you temporarily, I would have to be sloshed as hell…sober men are so very boooooring!’

After all this, it is now fashionable to sport a shaven scalp, ha!

I wish you lots of ready, happy laughter for 2012.

Baby Sultana's Eyes - The Aftermath

2011-12-18T17:48:00.000-08:00

I seem to have kicked up a Minnesota style blizzard regarding my latest Blog - Baby Sultana's Eyes. Some people, mostly 'family members' imply, no, accuse me of fabricating a fairy tale, ha! Some say I used 'unpalatable' words like prostitute and brothel while others opine my description of (possible) Sultana's beauty excessively vivid. A lot more (enlightened and selective perhaps?) readers emailed compliments for a blog par excellence, not only for my writing style alhamd'Allah, but also, more importantly, portraying stark realities of life, especially concerning women of India. Regarding Baby Sultana's Eyes, strangely, the critics overlook my core message; a pitiable, seemingly impossible life saved, liberated, a lost soul returned to Lord’s worship, a budding life salvaged.

The story of Baby Sultana is absolute fact, like all subjects I cover in my Blogs; for imaginative inventions, I (try to) write fiction. Yes, I use vivid descriptions, only because the reader can image and taste events as experienced. If Zulaikha was a prostitute, what else can I write, she was not one? If she worked in a brothel, well, that is fact. If I found her face kind of familiar and exceedingly beautiful, it would be very silly and peculiar to describe her ordinary or otherwise, yes?

Now, I can choose to stay quiet and keep such memories and experiences to myself or write about mundane issues that 'censor' realities and this, perhaps, would make everybody happily hunky-dory. Alas, this is not my cup of tea, not my preferred nature. I write, and will continue writing insha'Allah, any and all subjects I believe makes life interesting, especially about people that have made an important impact, positive or otherwise, to my life. Just like my trip reports, I cover all (three) sides of a coin, the good, the bad and evil; of countries and mankind. This motivates, I believe, how we (can) play our part, however little or much.

I sincerely request all you who find my blogs unsavory to please use the "DELETE" button - liberally; I will most certainly be offended, not! Just spare me grief and (especially) do not question my right (or style) to write. Poa basi.

Baby Sultana’s Eyes - Final

2011-12-11T17:56:00.000-08:00

Continued...

I encourage her to leave the brothel, but she is scared of Khaala and the consequences; Zulaikha might have her face disfigured by acid by Khaala’s goons. I accompany her to a local but foreign affiliated and funded NGO for battered women who refuse help initially, but quickly change their minds when I assert myself and firmly tell them I will make it my business to propagate their existing attitude on my return to the US. Zulaikha gets shelter, few (used) clothes and one hot meal a day.

I see Zulaikha very frequently, at the spot in Chopatty Beach, for meals at restaurants and at my place in Bandra. Mrs. D’Souza goes berserk with surprise, consternation, disgust and ‘I did not think you were like this’ comments. Arguments follow, some heated, but I prevail in the end when I threaten to leave and demand return of prepaid rent and deposit. She relents then, but insists I keep my bedroom door open all times Zulaikha visits. I give Zulaikha (some) money with which she keeps her paan habit alive, warning her no further support if there is any ganja involved. I also visit the smelly, crowded and filthy alley at Grant Road where her life as a prostitute played out but cannot muster the courage to actually enter the building.

Zulaikha expands dramatically, rapidly, from a slim, trim girl to a chubby, plump woman with a healthy glow that all expectant mothers develop. Alarming is her vivacious appetite for food; she wolves down everything in sight and more, leaving my wallet uncomfortably thin. With no occupation, her presence at Mrs. D’Souza’s residence is by nine in the morning, sometimes even before I return from my morning run. She declares I am nuts I run, is wowed by my sweat-soaked attire; this concept is alien to her and suggests the spent energy would be better served pursuing other activities instead. Her early arrivals cause considerable disquiet for Mrs. D’Souza, who grumbles nonstop but still serves Zulaikha butter tea with cookies and freely dispenses advise on healthy pregnancy and childbirth.

I finish my book research by March 1995 and get ready to return home to US. I break this news to Zulaikha who takes it quite dramatically; she disappears. When she does not show up for three days, prompting a protest from Mrs. D’Souza even, I go look for her, rather concerned. She is neither at the shelter nor at the brothel; I ask a prostitute a street away from the building. Looking me up and down, lips revealing stained red teeth, she huskily tells me ‘She disappeared few weeks ago, maybe she has a aadmi, her child’s father? She’s expecting, you know? I’m available Hero, nothing in here.’ She pats her stomach, indicating a flat gut; I shudder and make a hasty retreat, with her cursing in Marathi at my rapidly receding back.

I find Zulaikha exactly where we first met, sitting on the bench at an almost empty beach. Her mouth is full of paan and a glazed look tells me she is high on ganja. As gently as I can, for I am not a very tolerant person to stupidity, try and explain all the horrible effects ganja can have on her child. I assure her I will be in touch from Texas, will help her pay the very subsidized nursing home bill where the NGO has registered her baby’s delivery and also help with money for the baby once born. ‘But what about the baby, Sahib, where will I keep her? What will become of her, growing up at a brothel where I will return after you leave? Why can’t you adopt her and take her with you to Amrika if you don’t want me. I will eek out an existence here, but not my baby. Please Sahib, marry me, I will make you the happiest man on earth, I know how to please a man, what makes them happy. Please Sahib…’ My heart hurts.

It takes me all day to calm Zulaikha down, this girl-child with whom I have so bonded and grown much fond of. I insist she return home to Muzafferpur, which is the only viable solution, an option she has steadfastly before rejected. I very firmly insist return to any brothel is not a choice, under any circumstance. It takes a while, a whole week, but she finally relents. However, she makes me swear on the Quraan she sometimes sees me reciting, that I would return to see her baby, and I concede. She says she will name the baby, if a girl, Sultana, after my long-lost first-born; claims she loves the name and as gratitude and love for her Sahib - me. In return, I make her promise she will begin reciting regular prayers, so she prays sometimes in my presence, a nervous, shy beginning but more assured as her Mama day draws near. Baby Sultana is born a preemie, arriving five weeks early, on May fifth, but healthy, thank Allah. Mrs. D’Souza agrees to keep mum and baby for three month after delivery, only if I pay her the usual rent; I accept.

I return about three months later, in June, when Mumbai is oppressively hot and humid, heralding the coming of monsoon rains. Zulaikha frets on the phone before I arrive, saying she is not convinced I will return, complains she does not want to travel with the baby during the rains and train tickets are hard to come by, so please hurry up. My first sight of Baby Sultana is a heart tug, especially when she clasps her tiny, delicate fingers to my finger and doesn’t let go. But a blast of shock is when she opens her eyes and looks at me; the hair on my hands leap erect, my heart palpitates. Cat eyes, a copy of her Mama!

I meet Zulaikha and Baby Sultana twice again, on my regular visits to India, in Mumbai; they take a train all the way from Muzafferpur. Zulaikha stiches clothes for a living from a sewing machine I purchase for her; she reconciles and lives with her now widowed father and married brother; both younger sisters are married. She has kicked her ganja habit, she tells me, but still indulges in homemade paan, baring red stained teeth and tongue as evidence. Baby Sultana is two when I last meet her, a replica of her Mama, babbling non-stop, coyly warming up to me when I shower her with gifts from the US. When I tell Zulaikha of my pending marriage in July of 1998, I notice hurt and sadness in her eyes. ‘Now you will forget about us Sahib, your wife will consume your life from now on.’ When I protest, she quips in defiance ‘Bah! I know…I am a woman. But don’t you worry; there are men who want to marry me as well…I have several rishteys pending. Perhaps I will accept one…’

The girl disengages our eye-talk and moves to sit next to the Arab man who pauses in his squabble with the Filipino salesgirls. He looks at the girl, I imagine, with love and tenderness, and then does something quite alien to his custom and culture. Very briefly, but assuredly, he reaches around and grasps the girl’s shoulders, whose face is expressionless still and addresses the Filipinos, ‘Show something nice for my wife, something very beautiful…’ The man glances at the (apparent) older wife, who has paused in her destruction of merchandise to glare at him. As if touched by live wire, the man let go his grip and gently, lovingly, whispers something in younger wife’s ear, who continues being expressionless, then resumes his tirade against the Filipinos.

I still stare at the girl, heart thumping and desperately hope she will engage in eye-talk once again; with all my heart, I force her to look at me, but I am to be disappointed. I leave, but with a heavy heart and worried, tangled thoughts. Can it be possible? Is it her? So young, not even sixteen, married to an already married, half-dead, apparently wealthy, stingy buffoon? Can it? Those exclusive eyes, are they Baby Sultana’s? Zulaikha’s Baby Sultana...?

End

Baby Sultana’s Eyes - Part One

2011-12-11T17:53:00.000-08:00

In Dubai recently, at Emirates Mall, browsing for nothing in particular, I notice an Arab family of five, with a nervous maid (Indian, Sri Lankan?) in tow at a department store. Why? The scent. And racket. The whiff of exotic oud coming from this group is overwhelming, but peculiarly, alluring as well, so I linger close to them. The father, an overweight man with a budging belly and a hooked nose, harshly discusses prices of purses and shoes and clothes and designer sunglasses with a couple of harassed Filipino salesgirls, who clearly show sings of fatigue. He gestures wildly, making the worry beads on his fingers crackle and jerk wildly, as if they, too, share his temperament. The salesgirls warily keep on stating prices are non-negotiable, but this fact makes no impact on the man, as he persists with negotiating a lower price.

The obvious wife, a short squat woman covered in black except for face, sits on a chair and rummages through boxes and wrapping without care or courtesy, discarding them and demanding more. Two daughters, very much replicas of their mother, except with gold and diamond jewelry flashing on their fingers, matching glitter on their abaayas, join in gleefully, jabbering in union so I am unable to tell who is listening to whom. A boy, apparently the son, almost dad’s duplicate, as obese, remains aloof, lost to the cellphone world, either texting or gaming, I cannot tell. The maid hovers in the background, ignored. It is, however, the third girl in the group that stands out and grabs my attention.

This girl is exquisite, lean and with a face that makes me stare. She is veiled in beauty and silence, watching the others with measured reserve. I doubt she is from the same family, but could be wrong, certainly don’t look Arab. Blatantly, I admire her demure, lowered eyes, delicate jawline, soft tilted nose and the full curve of firm, fresh lips. Unlike the other two girls, she is almost devoid of makeup, save a trace of lipstick on her full lips. Elusively, the face looks kind of familiar.

I know I should move on, not gawk, but the girl’s fascinating face consumes my attention. Then this girl, she must sense me staring at her, for her attention shifts and dismissively glances my way and away. I am about to rouse from my trance when her eyes suddenly revert my way and we lock eyes. It must not be for longer than three seconds, at most, but feels like an eternity that we speak of I know not. My heart skips a beat and then accelerates; I feel my breathing quicken. These eyes, I have seen them somewhere. My mind immediately processes stored data and retrieves a similar set of eyes. The eyes that briefly, intensely, warmed my heart, from a very long time ago, the eyes of baby Sultana…

Way back in December 1994, when I am in Bombay (then, Mumbai now) researching for my first novel, I chance upon meeting a girl-child on Chopatty Beach off Marine Drive. I have spent an entire day at Central Library, so my mind is full of ideas that need processing and ponder. I therefore decide on a nice long walk, with fresh cool(er) winter sea breeze to give me just that, before putting my life to peril on the Western Railway Line to Bandra, where I live as a paying guest at a kind hearted, albeit grumpy Goan widow, Mrs. Maria D’Souza’s house. It is a pleasant evening, the weather comfortable and the brisk ocean breeze feels good on my face and (then) hair.

Although a weekday, there is plenty of activity all along Marine Drive; middle aged men jog, desperately tying to rid disposable guts, housewives doing the same for hips and thighs, walking but complaining as well, about wayward children, ever increasing price of tomatoes, shocking developments of favorite serial drama, elderly men reading newspapers or worrying about retirement stock market portfolio and couples chancing upon opportunities for intimacy. The ocean growls, swells and crash at the restraining walls, as if venting anger at being stopped in her high tide march. The vendors; chaiwallas, maikaiwallahs, maalishwallahs, madafuwallahs and the beggars, all look up hopefully as I near them, only to divert their hopes to someone else as I walk unseeingly by.

It is almost twilight when I reach Chopatty Beach, which is packed with crowds out to enjoy the mild weather. The evening rush hour traffic jerks forward, stops, jerks, stops; BEST busses ply by spluttering dark toxic fumes. The roads, however, belong to motorbikes, young men with wives or girlfriends plastered to their backs, zoom in and out of the serpentine queue, making headway with every nook and space that open up. I am about to hail a cab to Victoria Station (now renamed a mouthful Chakrapathy Shivaji Station) when I notice a young girl sitting on a caste-off wooden crate, sobbing. She is clearly in distress, her head lowered on her laps and the back rocking in convulsion of grief; I, and others, hesitate for few moments before moving on. One half of my conscience tells me to return and ask if she needs help but the other half cautions otherwise. I retrace my steps and find her sitting up, staring at the distant water with puffed up, watery eyes.

She is no more than eighteen, very pale, much paler than any Bombaite I see, wearing a mismatched faded salwar-kurti. Before I can say anything, she glances at me, averts her face and says, ‘Phooto loafer, I am not for sale.’ I am so stunned and hurt, I am unable to speak, but glare at her for a moment before abruptly turning and walking away. I am so mad (and sorry) at myself, standing on a curb trying to flag down non-vacant cabs that I don’t notice her by my side, talking to me.

‘Maaf karo Sahib, I was rude to you; so sorry. You look to be a decent man and I should not have said what I did. I am very upset, I have had very trying few weeks.’

I am so mad, I want to lash out at her, give her an earful but before I can open my mouth, I see tears in her eyes and my anger evaporates. These eyes, they are different. I am used to black eyes that all Indians have; hers are almost colorless, like cat eyes, and it gives me an uncanny feeling looking at them. Warily fascinated, I ask her the reason for the tears and she tells me.

Zulaikha Bahadoor is a prostitute, and eight weeks pregnant. She tells me this as we sit side by side on a cement bench on Chopatty Beach, facing a robust high tide of the Indian Ocean, eating roasted peanuts and drinking hot chai. She is from the state of Bihar, brought to Bombay by her cousin brother who promises her a sewing job, something Zulaikha is quite good at, at a garment factory. Mired in poverty, with her father desperately trying to raise enough dowry to get the eldest daughter in the family married, Zulaikha is easily lured away; the promised five thousand rupees a month is a lot of money, enough for her family to live comfortably and her mother treated for crippling arthritis that ails her.

They take a crowded train, Zulaikha tells me, from her village in Muzafferpur to Mumbai, which takes almost two days. Once in Mumbai, the cousin takes her for a ride in a black taxi to an isolated place two hours away. There, outside a row of rotting warehouses, she is traded to a group of men who take her in and rape her. They do things to her she cannot tell me, and hurt her in ways she never knew possible. After some time, she does not care what they do, as long as the hurting stops. A few days later, when the ‘animals’ tire of her, she is brought to the red light district near Grant Road where she is sold again and put to work servicing men; drunk, smelly and uncouth men who use her body. There are a few exceptions, gentlemen who treat her tenderly and tip her over and above what is paid to Khaala. This extra money makes it possible to indulge in paan, mixed with a dab of cheap ganja supplied by Rafeek, a local pimp and pusher. The paan eases the taste of filth that customers’ leave on her tongue and the ganja eases the torment of memories; that of her village, ailing mum and family.

She is crying, she says, because she is very desperate, has run out of paan-ganja money and the craving is intense. About ten days ago, she feels dizzy and throws up poori-bhaaji immediately after breakfast, right in front of other eating sex-workers, under the ever-watchful eyes of Khaala, who promptly whisks her away to a shoddy lady doctor who pronounces her very pregnant. When Khaala insists on an abortion and Zulaikha refuses, Khaala slaps her, swears she will not feed another mouth for free and stops Zulaikha from taking on any customers. Although this is a great relief, the paan-ganja stops as well. When she begs Rafeek for some as loan, he demands her body in repayment, something Zulaikha finds loathsome but says she might succumb to if there are no alternatives.

Once again, the two sides of my conscience debate, giving me conflicting advise. Zulaikha has obviously, cleverly, caught on to my vulnerable side and she exploits this, with life tragedies and tender pleas. Alone in Mumbai, recently divorced, with solitary research and writing only to occupy my time, I swallow hungrily, bait, hook, line and sinker. Although I am awfully tempted, and Zulaikha very willing, I am never intimate with her, prompting her to accusingly question my manhood. I give her my reasons, but these are neither relevant nor important to this saga.

To be continued...

The Ultimate Sajda

2011-11-30T12:19:00.000-08:00

'O Land Of Kerbala, My Son Is Innocent...'

This is the lament of Sayyeda Fatemah (A) today, as we commemorate the spilling of holy and innocent blood of her son, Hussein (A), his family, relatives and companions in Kerbala, Iraq, some 1,400 years ago. Hundreds of millions worldwide will grieve, shed untold tears of anguish, inflict pain on selves and share the agony of this superb human being who surrendered not only his life, but that of his entire male family, save an ailing son. Hussein's (A) martyrdom set the stage for his family to be looted, taken captives, paraded uncovered and imprisoned in most inhumain ways. In doing this, Hussein (A) gave root to the most powerful movement for worlds oppressed and downtrodden; that of revolution against tyranny and injustice. All this for, and only for, the pleasure of Allah (S); nothing else mattered.

Hussein (A) will prostrate today, his final one, this from the heir of all prophets. What a sajda, however! A sajda which surpasses that of Adam, Ibrahim, Moosa, Issa and Mohammed - peace on them all. A sajda that is uncompromising against an onslaught on Islam, an adamant refusal to bow in front of tyranny, brutality and subjugation. A sajda that reignites the want for long extinguished human dignity and self-respect, a sajda that today fires up oppressed masses in countries from Morocco to Bahrain, and beyond. For the return of human dignity and justice that will continue to passion up people to rise up and really live. Live with dignity and justice, live a little bit like Hussein (A).

So I (and like minded people in today's world), dedicate my life to the mission of this blessed personality, the inheritor of Allah's religion on earth, grandson of Prophet Mohammed (S), son of Ali (A) and Fatema (A), brother of Hassan (A), brother of Zaynab and Kulthoom and father to nine other infallibles (A).

O Hussein (A), because of this sacrifice, I will educate myself, so that:

1. I will not accept subjugation, injustice, degradation or humiliation, from no matter who or how powerful the culprit.

2. I will submit only, and only to the will of Allah (S), as enlightened in His book, the glorious Quraan and follow laws laid down therein by His Seer (S) and the Aaimaas (A).

3. I will conduct myself as a proper Muslim, my behavior criteria much above other individuals.

4. I will cherish and lament the memory of Hussein (A) through Zainab (A) and Sajjad's (A) powerful gift of majaalisis of azaa in dignity, appropriate for their mission. I will certainly not follow rituals and will definitely not spill blood (mine or anybody else's) in Hussein's (A) sanctified name, no matter what and how much (some) learned or popular aalims preach to the contrary.

5. I will simply ignore 'aalims' who misuse the pulpit to insult other faiths (sects) or personalities and focus on mending my moral blemishes. I will propagate the mission and mention of Hussein (A) by concentrating on his virtues and qualities rather than other's vices and evils. I firmly believe your lovers (current and ones that come later, till the Day of Judgement) will cherish your memory, as promised by the Prophet (S) until your holy blood is avenged by the Mahdi (A).

So here is my salute, my intense salutation and sacrifice of my life, easily, to you, O Performer Of The Ultimate Sajda, on this catastrophic day of Aashoora. My profound salutation to your sons, sisters, brothers, cousins, nephews, nieces, friends and companions who laid their lives in your cause. My intense and profound salutation to the severe thirst and hunger that gripped your young children; for the intense pain and hallowed blood that was shamelessly spilled from your sacred bodies.

And by doing ALL this I may, perhaps, be able to salvage (some) redemption and intersession from your mother, Lady of Light Fatemah (A).

Rescued!

2011-11-20T16:57:00.000-08:00

Some five years ago, Nazim Mirza, a destitute peasant farmer from Mursheedabad, WB India, moves to congested and grimy, smelly community of Matia Bruj, Kolkota in the hope of work and a better life for his family. He staggers around Matia Burj, followed by his frail wife and two very young daughters for a few days, surviving on handouts and sleeping on pavements. He is in luck, for he gets employed as a grocery store worker, albeit for a measly pay. Finally, after much struggle, Mirza has some money; the family can eat one hot meal a day.

Mirza is illiterate, has no idea about contraceptives, and couldn't afford any even if he knew about birth control. So Mrs. Mirza gets pregnant, yet again, and gives birth to an underweight but relatively healthy baby boy. Days later, Mrs. Mirza dies due to complications of the child's birth and severe lack of blood; the poor lady just did not have any resistance on her and gave up the will to survive.

Blinded with grief and over his head with the care of three children, Mirza struggles, leaving them with an uncompromising but accommodating Wahabi neighbor while at work. The Wahabi couple offers to buy the boy, Mirza refuses at first, struggling within his community for help. Desperate, he relents in the end, selling the infant for approximately US$200.

When I get wind of the situation, I am livid and immediately offer to 'buy' back the infant; a donor agrees funding, I intend to send him to one of CAI orphanages in India. The Wahabi couple refuses. We offer to double, triple and even up the offer ten times; they will not budge. The transaction is legal; all 'adoption' documents airtight, the courts will not intervene. Fearing Mirza will sell his daughters as well, CAI steps in and moves the two girls to Sakina Girls Home in Andheri, Mumbai.

I had the good fortune of meeting the two girls during my recent visit there on Eid day; click here to see their photograph in their Eid attire. Both Sabah, 13 and Roshni, 11 are doing very well, alhamd'Allah. They have a secure home, have three square meals a day but most importantly, they get a quality education, an opportunity for a brighter future insha'Allah. The girls have no contact with Mirza.

One more service for the pleasure of Allah (S). Thank you donors, for it is your sacrifices that make these orphanage services possible.

My Afghan Escapade – Zuher Somji

2011-11-20T16:46:00.000-08:00

While I jump at the opportunity to accompany Yusufali on his most recent adventure to Afghanistan, his only condition that I write about my experience afterwards is a rather daunting task; something that ace Yusufali has been doing for more then a decade!

After a short and restful flight in Dubai, we fly to Kabul and land in a backward airport that I am told is a brand new structure, donated by the government of Japan. If that is a brand new structure, what must have been the state of the old airport?

We wind our way down several exit security checkpoints, curbside vendors and even an outdoor kebab place before we meet our hosts Wasim and Bashir; two engineers who are extremely kind, cultured and thorough gentlemen, obviously highly educated. We start our drive from the airport to Wasim’s house. OMA, if you think Indian traffic is bad, this is an experience in the ultimate trust in the Almighty, with cars weaving in and out at breakneck speed, with sudden jerky stops throughout the entire trip.

Squatting - a science that I need to quickly relearn from my childhood days. Probably the only time I question what I am doing in Afghanistan; how to hold the minute torch in the airless, dark outhouse, where to fold and lay my pants without them getting soiled, the balancing act, the unavoidable evil stench filling my nostrils, how to avoid all that icy water splattering on my feet while trying to wash… And oh, that stench of accumulated feces in the pit, my, my, my!!!

Doctor Asif, coordinator of two CAI run medical clinics in Afghanistan, joins us for a meal and I am thoroughly impressed with the humility of all these learned people. The delicious meal prepared by Wasim and Bashir is spoilt only by Yusufali's sharp, probing and pointed questions on CAI operations logistics administered by these three men.

We wake up at 4 AM to go to the airport for our trip to Nili, passing through numerous (rather rude) checkpoints at the airport before being ushered into a 6 seat Kodiac aircraft that flies us through an uneventful but beautiful (in a very harsh way) flight to Nili. That is the easy part; next came a torturous 12-hour drive to Khajran, our trip dotted with punctured tires and getting stuck on an impossible rocky river bed. Kudos to our rented Toyota Prada, she behaves like a mountain goat with strength of an elephant. We reach Khajran late at night and make our way to the hut we are to spend the night, in the remote spot of a mountain valley.

After an excellent hospitable dinner we retire without either changing, brushing or any care for other hygiene. Early next morning, after a meager breakfast, we head over to visit the site CAI has plans to build a school on. Lunch is not in the cards the entire grueling drive of around 100 miles that takes about 12 hours; there is no civilization along the way. We snack on stale naan from last night; surprising how everything tastes good when you are hungry. We call on the current schools where girl students get educated in wretched conditions, under the open sky; that's where the gratifying part of all this torture comes in play. Just the thought I could be a part of something that would somehow help in a truly altruistic fashion is overwhelming. After discussing details and confirming the project as a go, we clamber back into the car for another torturous trip back to Nili.

After another night of Yusufali’s constant visit to the outhouse with all related preparations and commotions of fumbling for a torch and stepping on others fast asleep, we plan a trip to the local hammam for a much needed bath but this is foiled by another punctured tire, without a spare. After witnessing verbal floggings Yusufali subjects Wasim and Bashir for not taking the necessary precautions to get the tire fixed beforehand, we creep back to the house to prepare for our flight to Shabarghan and another onwards 12 hours drive to Belkhaab.

When we reach the airstrip and our aircraft arrives, the pilot informs us there is only 30% chance of landing at Shabarghan due to cloudy weather (it has to be a visual landing). Sure enough, above Shabarghan, the pilot says landing is not possible; thick clouds below cover the land like a sullen ocean, we ascended up and head towards Kabul; Yusufali is bitterly disappointed. CAI has a brand new school (her 9th) to officially open, but we are resigned to Allah’s will. 10 minutes later, the 26 year old American pilot says he sees a clearing ahead and maneuvers the agile machine this way and that; we land in Shabarghan 15 minutes later. I experience similar achievements several times during our trip; seemingly impossible situations eventually become promising! I can only attribute this to the Almighty; He helps those who help His cause, no?

Once inside another Prado, we drive on to Belkhaab, another 10 hours away. The drive is made easy by some excellent, tasty mishkaki, nundu and Kabuki pulau at a dingy restaurant along the way, although Yusufali attributes this to my constant ability to snooze in the forever jostling car on roads so bad, it can make you want to scream in frustration. Once in Belkhaab, we have a halfhearted dinner and settle down to sleep, ready for the opening of the school tomorrow.

In the morning, for the first time since leaving Kabul, we have the opportunity and luxury of a hot, steamy bath. Uhh, uhh, man, is this a treat or what, ridding my body of all the dust and grime; and a smell no better than a sheep’s unwashed behind.

The school is going through final finishing touches but Yusufali declares it open anyway, after much lamentation and barbs towards the engineers, who clearly are uncomfortable at the reprimand. But it’s a beautiful school and I marvel, wonder at the effort that must have gone into constructing it in one of the toughest terrains and hostile environments I have seen ever; I was born and raised in Africa, so I should know.

We return to Kabul and I get a glimpse of massive Imam Hussein (A) School built by CAI. It is dark when we get there and the building has no power supply but it certainty looks huge. I am told 3,600 children study here and will grow to a maximum of 4,100 by 2012. Our return to Dubai is soured by a distressing 7 hour delay by Fly Dubai airline at cramped Kabul airport terminal; a drama in itself, but that is another story.

Afghanistan is a tough, tough country, certainly not everybody’s cup of tea. One has to have a strong stomach, a strong mental attitude and tons of patience to be able to do just about anything. Complicating this dilemma is the precarious security issue to grapple with. There are nervous moments when we learn of a suicide attack on an American military bus that tragically kills 11 of our countrymen. Even more unsettling is news that the incident happens less than a mile from Wasi’s home, where we are to spend the night before departure to Dubai.

The overwhelmingly majority of people in this country are poor, dirt poor, especially the Shia’s who were (and still are to a certain extent) persecuted and discriminated against. For most Afghans, it is the survival of the fittest; you either adapt to the harshness or perish. Afghanistan can be beautiful as well, in a harsh, cruel way; the snow-covered mountains can be breathtaking and her people, especially in the mountain heartland where we were, are exceedingly striking.

In life, living in the West, there are so many things we take for granted, are not aware of the plight of millions that do not have their basic survival needs fulfilled; so we have absolutely no right to complain. I am certainly grateful for the opportunity to see and experience my escapade to Afghanistan.

Zuher Somji – Sanford, FL

Yusufali’s comment:

Zuher overlooked to write about the hospitality of our hosts at Khajran. Seeing we are obviously uncomfortable with using super icy water, they arranged for nice warm water for our bathroom use. What wonderful, considerate, thoughtful hosts; the feel of warm water on an exposed freezing behind is indescribable; simply divine.

View wonderful photos here.

Midair Tamasha

2011-11-09T09:45:00.000-08:00

My recent trip to Afghanistan has been grueling, one of the most taxing I have experienced. The return flight from Kabul to Dubai has been delayed nine hours and we had been caged within the tiny departure hall of the airport without food or refreshments all the time. By the time I reach Dubai, my onward flight to Mumbai is gone and both FlyDubai and Emirates are hard-nosed, unwilling to accommodate me further; I waste three hours at Dubai airport. A three hour flight has now cost me over fifteen horrendous hours. Exhausted, frustrated and disgusted, I buy another ticket and am on Jet Airways aircraft to Mumbai next day. It is an uneventful flight until midway, when a pitiful but hilarious midair tamasha ensues.

There is this middle-aged man sitting in the middle seat, a woman is at the widow seat and I am seated in the aisle. Drinks are served and the man, who later introduced himself as Kwaja, orders a whiskey with Sprite and downs it in one clean gulp, orders one more and exhales disgusting whiskey fumes all around. He orders a third drink during lunch and then promptly nods off to nap, snoring gently. Midway into our flight, Kwaja jerks awake and whispers that he has to urgently go to the bathroom, as if I am interested or care; I let him pass.

Kwaja is all exited when he returns to his seat; face aglow, eyes agitated and wagging his rattail like hair side to side, a generous double chin working overtime.
‘Did you see him?’ he breathes on my face, while I unsuccessfully try to avoid the fumes.
Eh? ‘See who?’ I ask.
‘Aree baba, it’s Ranbeer Kapoor! He is sitting in the seat after ours, on the other side, the one with sunglasses.’
‘Randhir who?’ I ask. The man was not making much sense, must be the whiskey.
‘Aree yaar, where are you from, baba! It’s Ranbeer, not Randhir! Ranbeer, Ranbeer Kapoor, the actor! You know? Rishi Kapoor and Neetu Singh’s son. The hero. You think he will sign an autograph for my girlfriend? She finds him real cute.’

Number I, since when was I his yaar? Number 2, I couldn’t care an ant’s ass who this guy is; I have absolutely very little interest in spoilt, overpaid, jerky Bollywood brats. I vaguely notice them on the screen when Tasneem and the kids sit watching movies that defy even the most illiterate human intelligence. Number 3, why was he traveling coach? However, it was good to know this ‘hero’ was experiencing the discomfort of cattle class. Curiosity getting the better of me, I crane my neck to look anyway. Yes, it looks like the kid I have seen on the tube, hiding behind dark, awful looking sunglasses.

But it is not only Kwaja who notices this dude, others have now begun clogging the alleyway as well and pretty soon it becomes a fiasco. Men, women, children, especially teenage girls, thrust all kind of paper, napkins included, towards the clearly uncaring hero, demanding autographs. The guys is unmoved, nose buried behind a glossy magazine. But Kwaja still wants an autograph for his girlfriend so I have to get up and let him through again; I hope the look on my face tells him I am not too exited by his behavior. Not that he cares, as he dashes out, stepping on my toes.

The food service crates from the front cannot move back, a white man, Russian, I think, from his accent, losses his patience and loudly demands he be let through; nobody pays him attention. He turns to a very pretty stewardess and demands she do something else he will wet his pants; the poor harassed women turns a deep scarlet and gestures frantically to a colleague at the back, who can’t get through as well. An old woman, leaning on a cane, returning from the bathroom at the back complains she is tired of waiting and must sit; a man vacates his seat nearby and she gratefully collapses into it.

I am getting increasingly alarmed the situation is getting out of control with the congestion, commotion and flaring tempers when the captain turns on the seat belt sign and like a teacher reprimanding unruly children, demands everybody to be seated; anybody not complying face arrest at Mumbai. The aisle gradually clears, albeit reluctantly. Kwaja returns to his seat, mumbling and grumbling, clearly crestfallen, the double chin wobbling like a turkey going to slaughter.

Thankfully, we land without further incident. As soon as the aircraft leaves the active runway, the hero is whisked up by the cabin crew, frayed torn jeans and scruffy tee shirt all, to business class and made to sit in a crew seat. A young girl, a Gujarati no less, no more than twelve perhaps, jumps up from behind and dashes forward screaming ‘Ranbeer, Ranbeer, Jaan…’
‘Aree, Ghadereeni,’ screams her mum, ‘beseeja, beseeja…’
The aircraft brakes, the girls stumbles, hits her head on an armrest and falls flat face on the floor; some people snicker, including our Kwaja. The sari clad mother, almost all her flabby midriff showing and dancing, yanks the stunned girl up, smacks her a tight, sharp slap and drags her back to their seat.

I see the hero again at the baggage belt, woodenly staring at the rotating loop. But he is well protected now, three baton wielding hawaaldars surround him, making sure he is not molested further. Again, I feel some satisfaction these super idols have to wait for their baggage, just like us mortals.

Sanford Musings

2011-10-22T09:57:00.000-07:00

So Muamar Ghadaffy bites the dust, pulled out of a sewer casing like a rabid rat, dragged through the streets of his hometown, beaten up like a criminal, shot through the head, body unceremoniously dumped into an animal meat chiller and his people sneer and jeer in the backdrop. Surely he did, at one point or another in his life as a Muslim, read the Quraan and learn about the endgames of tyrants in pat history? Did he, even as recently as ninety days ago, even imagine this disgusting finale to his life? Allah (S) has a definite plan for such people; He is, after all, the best Planner, no? So there you are, glorified soul of Moosa Sadr, the evil spilling of your innocent blood avenged! Khalifa, Saleh, Saud, Assad…take keen note.
Isn’t it interesting how Allah, in His infinite wisdom made two very opposite commodities so alluring to humans? Gold, shiny and beautiful, you can hold in your hands, gives you a heady feeling of power and wealth. And oil, ugly, yucky, smelly and slimy to feel, gives you a heady feeling of power and wealth. Both these commodities making the world go aaahhhh, aaahhh, both these commodities responsible for so much bloodshed and death, the powers to be using both these commodities to make the world go ghoool, ghoool…

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The Florida heat and humidity is history for the year and fall cool and comfortable days are here. Sweaters and coats are out and the nippy morning weather makes for a labored awakening for salaat and run.
Fauja Singh, bless him, became the oldest man ever to have run a marathon, at age one hundred. What a wonderful inspirer! I go running on the shores of Lake Monroe yesterday, in crisp fifty degrees Sanford weather. My doctor in India has advised me to cut down on my running; I am getting older, he says. What backwaas! I usually run about eight miles four times a week but with Fauja Singh’s feat at the back of my mind, I did ten yesterday; I am still nursing the inevitable aches and pains. I hope I can do a quarter of what Fuaja Singh did even ten years from now, IF I am around.

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Finally, after five months living in Sanford, I cave in and attend the famous baraaza at La Fontana restaurant. My host Hassanain Aloo fails to show up, but the rest of the crowd more than make up for the hospitality with food, chatter and the matoosi. OMA, these matoosi’s would make even a seasoned sailor cringe in embarrassment. The word Kh…yo is so liberally used, it makes me dizzy. I realize they mean no harm, really; the word is so frequently and cleverly applied to East African Khoja conversation, however, it can loosely mean Son of a gun!
It can however have rather startling consequences. A long time ago, in Mumbai India, a prominent head of a local charitable organization overheard this word from a visiting respected East African Khoja and he picked it up. He then repeated the word several times at a meeting with another East African Khoja philanthropist. Needless to say, his organization did not get much funding from this particular donor.
The food is served at La Fontana is East African Khoja nostalgic; fried kebabs and fried mohoogo flow freely. This particular Sanford group love their food and have large appetites, mashaa’Allah; they eat and eat some more. I am advised meat pulao and samosas are in the cards for breakfast after fajr salaat tomorrow. Breakfast is served at the Sanford Center every Sunday and exotic dishes like khichroo, paya and even biryani is given due respect.

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I lost my dear paternal aunt in Toronto, Cana yesterday, the only sister of my father and last remaining sibling; she lived to be over ninety, mashaa’Allah. Soora e fateha, please?

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Well, I am off to Afghanistan, India and Kenya / Somalia / Tanzania tomorrow insha’Allah. Will blog after I return in three weeks insha’Allah. If the Talibaans and Shabaabs have not had me for kachoomber first, that is.

Sameer’s Muttah Museebat

2011-10-10T09:10:00.000-07:00

I am in an exceptionally good mood today, sitting at my desk making headway on my novel when my cellphone goes off, displaying a number that is not registered in my contact list. Hmmm…

‘Hello?’

‘Hey Kisukaali, vipi? How are you, my friend?’

‘Good, alhamd’Allah, who’s this?’

‘Allah, wacha wewe, you think you are so savvy, travelling the world, you forget your best friend?’

‘Umm, sorry, I do not recall your voice…’

‘This is Gulaam, Bwana, Gulaam Chotaaro! Remember me now, you Jumping Jack Jitentra! Hahahaha…’

I remember him now, that laugh and the name certainly, (changed for the sake of his privacy). Gulaam and I studied Form 2 at Kinondoni Secondary School in Dar es Sallam, Tanzania in 1971 and were inseparable as friends. His dark skin color and somewhat curly hair earned him the nickname Chotaaro. His Dad, bless him, was doomed to earn a even nastier label – Khangaaro. For those unfamiliar with Kiswahili, khangaaro is a (very) derogatory term for phlegm that gets stuck in your throat and is difficult to dislodge. The Khojas of East Africa had (still have?) a nasty habit of ascribing (usually insulting) nicknames to people within their community.

I am unsure why we chose to call Gulaam by the label Chotaaro; I think it had to do with his father marrying a dark(er) skinned, curly haired Arab wife. It used to drive him wild if others called him by this tag, for he would come to blows with anybody that dared, but I was special; I could call him Chotaaro, or anything else for that matter. His Dad had a habit of a rich, prolonged, deep hack followed by loud expulsion of phlegm through our mosque windows during salaat sessions, thus the nickname.

Gulaam hated his hair and would go to extreme lengths to straighten them. He idolized Rajesh Khanna, the aging seventies Bollywood actor and constantly lamented God for not giving him similar tresses. Never mind that Rajesh Khanna eventually went bald and relies on wigs to sustain his faded image, but that’s another tale. Once, Gulaam bought hydrogen peroxide from a pharmacy and used it on his hair, hoping it would straighten the curls, to dreadful results; he was the laughing stock of the entire (unforgiving) school and community because of resulting bad blond hair color, let alone the thumping he got at home. He called me Jumping Jack Jitendra in turn, after another Bollywood actor, for I fancied his crazed jerky jumping, dressed in tight white pants and white shoes around pretty heroines.

Gulaam was the son of an exceedingly zealot religious father, so his upbringing was rather rigid at home; regular on-time prayers, madressa classes, no movies, no loud laughter, no smoking, no staying out late at night…certainly no girlfriends; Gulaam flaunted all these rules. Except for girlfriends, his luck was a zero in this score (family titles a handicap?) His dad and him were thus constantly at odds, with some very public and vivid quarrels at the mosque sometimes.

Gulaam loved Bollywood movies and would to considerable troubles and risks to squeeze hard to come money for movie tickets. He would either sway his mother or skim it from his elder working brother. Aping Rajesh Khanna, Gulaam would break out into a stanza from the latest Bolywood movie at the sight of (fair skinned) maidens; they would squirm and run for cover. Like other friends I had then, we lost contact; I vaguely knew him to be somewhere in Canada but never got a chance to contact or speak with him. Until today.

‘OMA! Gulaam Chotaaro? How in the world are you? Where in the world are you?’ I exclaim, genuine happiness in my heart. OMA, I used to be so close to this guy; talking to him immediately brings about happy memories with him.

‘I am in Vancouver man, (city name changed). I have been following your blogs and always wanted to get in touch, but you know how it is…work, wife, children…’

So we chitchat a few minutes, asking about each other’s life events over last 40 years since we saw each other. But then, suddenly, we are quiet, awkward, run out of things to say and I find this bothersome. I mean we could not stand to be apart more than a day and now, we are spent discussing 40 years of happenings after mere 10 minutes?

‘Kisukaali,’ he says, ‘I want your advise and help. I mean you are kind of religious, unlike me, although Dad was very religious, but he is no more.’ Before I can correct him about the worthiness of my holiness, he continues. ‘I have a problem with Sameer, my son. He is 18, supposedly in college and a huge heartache to my wife and I…’

I get about 10 minute litany of Sameers ills, from defiance, to smoking, to terrible school grades, to bad company, to girlfriends; in other words, Gulaam was describing himself when he was 16, except for the hair (and girlfriends). It seems Sameer inherited his mothers looks and hair; thick, silky, almost blond. Gulaam, you see, ended up marrying a white, blue-eyed Canadian, possibly trying to mitigate his own dark skin, curly hair ancestry. Perhaps defying his Dad’s choice of wife by marrying an opposite? Maybe. Anyway, Sameer’s greatest evils (in his parents eyes) are all his muttah relationships; his exceptionally good looks attract girls like flies to rotting fruit.

‘When he was younger, I persuaded my wife, (a non-practicing Christian) to send Sameer to the local madressa, hoping he would pick up some akhlaaq and discipline. Bloody hell, the only thing this khabees picked up was how to do muttah! Can you believe it? They hid this concept from us very well, but make it mandatory teaching these days! Sameer says he is doing nothing haram, shows me how do it all from a bloody website, can you imagine!’

I laugh, ‘Lucky Sameer,’ I quip.

But Gulaam gets mad, rebukes me for making light a serious matter. He has tried everything, he says, from counseling to several taweez, except whack his son for fear of arrest and imprisonment.

‘At least my Dad could relieve his frustrations by thumping me to a pulp; I can’t even pinch my son, even though the urge is immense.’

He is despondent and his wife so down, she suffers from depression, even. I am quiet for a few seconds, stumped for a suitable response. I am hardly the person for advise on such personal and complex issues of a wayward teenage son. I have my own battles to fight with my teenage son, nothing that comes close to Gulaam and his son, thank Allah, but battles nevertheless; common to all families, I reckon.

I have to disappoint Gulaam in the end; I feel real sad for him, poor fellow. I sympathize and speak kind soothing words to him; offer to speak to our young aalim here in Sanford, perhaps he can recommend a possible solution? He is reportedly good at counseling troubled teenagers. In the end, Gulaam says something that depresses me even more.

‘I think my problems are punishment from Allah for all the distress and heartaches I gave my parents, especially Dad; the shoe is on the other foot now. I think I’ll have to cut Sameer loose; seems it’s either him or us that can be happy, not together.’

I agree, but urge him not to lose hope, have faith, pray much and hope things turn around; through difficulties, Allah always steers us towards better alternatives.

My good mood nosedives.

Still, lucky Sameer.

Shias Of Haiti – A Pitiable Beginning

2011-09-28T11:25:00.002-07:00

My 4 Days In Haiti

For almost three years, Ibraheem Al Mahdy, a Christian convert to Shia Islam some six years ago, has been pleading for me to visit his lot in Haiti. He says he reads my worldwide travel blogs, claims I will find lots to do for his pitiful country, painful people, please come. I finally find some time this month and decide to visit for a few days. Here are my travel notes, perhaps of some interest to you?

September 19:

American Airlines (AA) flight 1593 departing from Orlando to Miami is delayed 30 minutes and then another 20 minutes; gloom sets in, I know I will miss connecting flight from Miami to Port Au Prince (POP); I pray that one is delayed as well. High hopes. The (ancient) AA counter clerk bares false teeth in an insincere smile and shrugs her creaking shoulders Ask the people meeting this flight in Miami, they’ll assist ya. Sure enough, the POP bound flight is pulling off as we park next gate. Nobody is there to assist me; I walk a great distance to AA customer service counter. Another uncaring clerk, grinding on chewing gum as if there is no tomorrow, says next flight is tomorrow, at 6:20 AM. Because this was a technical delay, AA will put you up in a hotel, and give you food vouchers. 10 years earlier, I would have blown a fuse, but with age, (wisdom?) and patience catching up on me, I take it all in stride. I go to the hotel, call Ibraheem with the bad news, try to work on my book, see if I can squeeze few dollars from trading the FX market, eat fish for dinner and retire by 9.

September 20:

AA flight to POP is delayed yet again! An aircraft bathroom will not flush so a 30 minutes wait while a technician fumbles in there, whiffing up the unholy scent before we take off. We deplane to eardrum splitting music from a band, looking for money; some put change into a gaping hat. Immigration / customs is painless; I met a happy Ibraheem waiting outside. POP is very depressing, grimy, undisciplined and scary. A short taxi trip of less than 5 minutes to the domestic airport burns a $10 pocket hole. In Haiti, you see, one is either super rich or super, super poor; no middle class, virtually. I could have risked my life and walked the distance, but if I want a taxi, I pay; I could eat at a decent restaurant and dish out an average of $25, or risk my health and eat at a dhabba replica for $3…get my point? Ibraheem and I get to know each other, talk a lot, waiting for a 30-minute 11:45 flight to CAP-Haitian (CH), Ibraheem’s hometown. Ibraheem is 29, single. His grandma brought him up as dad went AWOL after he was born and mum, well, she lost it. His is intense with his religion and talks nonstop about Shia Islam and how positively it has impacted his life.

Tortug Air is a 17 seat Czech manufactured LET410 dual propeller aircraft; we board it to furnace-like heat inside; all of us begin to sweat profusely and robust body odor quickly mixes in with the heat and humidity. When the pilot does show up, he is furious with ground operations. How can you board the aircraft without the captain? He yells; there is not a peep out from any apprehensive of us. The co-pilot eventually comes, strolling leisurely from the decaying terminal building; without another word, the aircraft door is shut, engines started and we have a bumpy takeoff. Even at 27,000 feet, the aircraft remains hot and sticky. It takes a mere 27 minutes from takeoff to touchdown at CH.

Another 5-minute ride in a private taxi outside sets me back $10, airport taxi wanted double. If POP is grimy, CH is shoddier, my temperament gets progressively gloomier; I have to spend the next 2 days in this dump. The hotel is definitely not worth US$150 for a room; TV does not work, Internet WIFI does not work, fan does not work. The skies suddenly go very dark, like it is already night at 4PM and it starts raining. Lo, I thought rains in Mumbai, India were awful, this is evil; for 3 hours it pours, there is blinding nonstop lightning, heart thumping thunder and our room floods. We are moved to a better room, where the air conditioner actually works, TV works, 3 stations, all running American movies. Ibraheem says there is halal food readily available all over Haiti; I am intrigued. His perception of halal food turns out meat that is not from swine family, so poultry, lamb, beef is all okay to consume; he gets an earful from me, a 30 minute lecture on what he can or cannot eat as a Muslim. Poor guy, he looks clearly crestfallen, laments over and over about the sins he is committing; we eat fish.

September 21:

The alternative to pricy taxis is using your legs or a motorbike taxi. I could have walked but it is super hot and humid; just stepping out in the sun saps my strength and I feel immediately lethargic. Ibraheem flags a motorbike taxi and we are off to meet Ibraheems congregation. I am sandwiched between the sweat soaked rider and Ibraheem at the rear. OMG, I have never before prayed so intensely; the guy zips off as if possessed by some voodoo spirit, shrill horn blaring nonstop, cussing everybody along the way; I hold on to the sides of seat for dear life. CH roads are narrow with the entire sewer system running underneath it. Negligence, shoddy work, the earthquake, combination of all these perhaps has opened up huge gapping holes, one wrong move and you plunge into one for a rendezvous with human waste, all kinds; it takes 10 minutes of eternity to reach our destination.

The community worships in an open space up a slippery slope of a mountain, a tricky trek up, what with rains from yesterday mudding up the surface, strong stench of feces and urine creeping up my nose as I exert up. Children greet Ibraheem with Sallam Aleykum, some shout Allah Akber in a tune, probably mimicking the call to prayer that is cried out 5 times a day from the mountain top. I meet a ragtag group of about 20 Muslims, new converts to Shia Islam in various stages of salaat. Of them, Ibraheem, Bilaal, Abudhar and Luqmaan are veterans, Muslims for 6 plus years. They are all absolutely thrilled to meet me, wide, very white toothy grins testament of their happiness. After a 2-hour question and answers session on rules and laws of Islam, I am exhausted. I am not an aalim, all I say has to be translated to French / Creole, back again to English if there are further questions or clarifications. Although Ibraheem speaks reasonable English, it is very heavily accented and that causes frustrations both sides.

To say these people are poor is an understatement, yet they pool little recourses to surf the Internet, reading up on write-ups about Shia Islam. Over 3 years, they have struggled to build a mosque and a sorry looking foundation is taking shape. But they are now elated, I am here, first person to have visited them ever; one even calls me a prophet! Naturally, this is extremely uncomfortable and embarrassing. After promising to find them a donor for completing the mosque, we return to the hotel and wait out the day for our return to POP tomorrow. We eat more fish. But we also eat a wonderful dessert – a tiny green fruit they call Mamonsillo, very juicy and blissfully sweet. I have not seen this fruit anywhere else in the world; for those that know me, do so as a fruit maniac. We get a big bunch for free; a man goes up a tree and brings us some! I wolf down at least 50; Ibraheem watches me in amused astonishment.

September 22:

We stay at a POP hotel that is slightly better, eat more fish (I better not be fed fish for the next 20 years at home), visit an area that critically needs clean drinking water and take in rows and rows of tent homes, people still living in them since the devastating earthquake, pathetic and resigned, a depressing and heart wrenching sight. I am so blessed, have so, so much to thank for, alhamd’Allah.

I return home to Sanford via Miami next day, both AA flights delayed.

Photos here.

Note: You will not see photographs of women in this report – for a reason. I found most women in Haiti provocatively dressed, everything on show; not appropriate for audience of this blog.

Jaane Kahaa Gayee Woh Din?

2011-09-21T10:21:00.000-07:00

The earliest childhood memories I have are of my eldest sister Marhooma Kaneez Zehra (Bai), who was by then already a divorced single mother of two. She was not allowed to take her elder with her when her husband’s family earlier kicked her out pregnant. Bai was the pillar of our family after her return home; she was the one who (mainly) raised her son Mohammed, 5 months younger to me, and I. Those formative years were filled with happy, carefree days of frolic and play. Although we struggled as a family, economically, I do not remember a single day we went hungry, not one. There was plenty of food, good, wholesome and delicious that Bai and Mama toiled over charcoal stoves, cooking kebabs, samosas et al, catering for a majlis fateha or a marriage waleemo; their labors (mostly) ran our household.

The bond I shared with my other siblings was (nearly) as strong; we were a total of eight in the family, excluding my father who passed away when I was a toddler and sister Nazma who was married off much too early. We shared everything; joys, sorrows, successes, disappointments, worry. One person affected, others felt, like organs of one body. We shared a two-bedroom home and a downstairs toilet that was also shared with neighbors living there, that gives you an idea of bladder / rectum control powers we possessed in those days. Interestingly, this arrangement got us Razia Bhabhi, for it was calls of nature that fated my eldest brother Marhoom Mohammedreza to see and propose for her hand in marriage later on.

Obviously, I did not expect this bond to last and follow us all into adulthood. There was naturally some slippage as childhood turned into puberty, adulthood and separation, as we married and sought our own livelihood. We tragically lost Bai when she was merely 36, felled by ravaging cancer, her young life relentlessly mired in pain and heartache; I don’t believe I have been more devastated ever since. She was a person totally resigned to the will of Allah (S), steadfast in her faith, selfless in sacrifice and someone you could always go for solace and advise. I am convinced my personal live would have been very positively different had she been alive today.

Growing up in Tanga, Tanzania was, oh, so extraordinary. Back in the sixties and seventies, when sisal prices were at a premium, Tanga was a booming town. Mohammedreza and my cousin Habib Yusufali were managers on two sisal estates of Tongoni and Maroongu, not too far from Tanga town, but way out in the boonies nevertheless. Their more progressive homes (leftovers from the Wazungu managers that preceded them) offered picnic sanctuary for us Yusufalis / Mawjis and the clans would gather there on holidays for family get-together and feasting blasts.

The premium elementary school was Saint Anthony’s Catholic School. Students, irrespective of religion, attended church; I learnt a great deal about Catholicism and was amazed how much common Islam had with it, in principal. Our daily assembly / class prayer began with Our Father, Who Art In Heaven… The Sisters, some of them, were another matter however, probably sexually deprived, one even artfully molested me. It was years later I figured out reasons for her labored breathing as she sat me on her lap; I have never ever been rewarded with so many (wet) kisses for simply getting two plus two right. Except for Sister Mary Fabian, the dour looking Headmistress with an ever-ready bamboo cane she applied quite liberally. The first whack was always the most painful; it took all my willpower not to bawl in front of all the pretty girls. I would run to the stinking bathrooms and moan my ache away.

We Shia Muslims had a budding community, full of traditions and petty rivalry; everybody was nosy about everybody else. A neighbor would probably know what was to be served for dinner at home that night, even before the menu was decided. The mosque has nylon mats for carpets, they would hurt and leave furrows on knees and ankles after salaat; not that we cared, of course. Muharram and Ramadhan were favorite times with so much activity and so, so much more food. I bet no Jamaat can now match the pulau or kalyo-pau or kitchro coming out from Tanga mosque of those days. We reigned supreme during Aashoora and Arbaeen, our Juloos unmatched, with almost the whole town gaping at our beautiful taboot and tazeeyas.

I acquired elementary religious education through fear and discipline at the then dreaded madressa, where fooling around and or indiscipline were dealt with an iron fist. During Quraan classes, the Aagha whopped our feet with the mimbar microphone iron bar for not remembering homework sooras; in dinyaat class, some kids wet their pajamas if the teacher as much as raised his voice in anger or frustration. I realize some of you will suppose this to be exaggeration and if true, child abuse by Western standards. Perhaps. However, I can honestly claim I have achieved life discipline, clean living etiquettes and whatever I know and respect of my wonderful religion as a direct result of these madressa years. So may Allah bless you, my then hated teachers.

Secondary education at Popatlal Secondary School was blissful, even though Ujamaa policies of Julius Nyerere were grinding the country to bottomless ruin and abyss. Instead of studying, we were given a hoe and required to till the shamba at the back of the school. I had to attend multiple practice sessions of traditional dance performance for Saba Saba day, in front of a dreaded Area Commissioner because our grim faced Political Science teacher decreed I shook my behind suitably, like a proper African, better than any other Asian; Asians had to be integrated, and dance was one avenue I guess. I failed Political Science miserably.

But it was also a time when impressing girls was suddenly very important; so smart ironed clothes, gleaming shoes, a slick bicycle, the right haircut (I did have abundant hair then!) and an attitude took on much weight. And time. A trip to Raskazone seafront in fine attire on Sunday evenings could not be missed, nor a new released movie at the Majestic or Novelty.

I fell in and out of love with every girl who dared set eyes on me. Mister Ismail, my brilliant Form Two English teacher, to whom I confided about everything, always struggled with my overactive imaginations, sarcastically suggesting they was way beyond vivid. Unfortunately, Hindi movies shaped our perception to great extent; how we interacted with the opposite sex, what we wore and how we emoted, even. Me, I cried my eyes silly together with Sharmila Tagore after Rajesh Khanna died in Aradhna, laughed like a lunatic when Mehmood went Gantia Kha Ghantia and tried to imitate Jitendra’s every jumping moves of Humjoli. And I imagined myself besides every heroine, of course. Ha! You should have seen the Sharmila Tagore / Aasha Parekh beehive hairstyles on some of our ladies. Ha!

Cricket was a passion, of course; I captained the Popatlal School squad and opened medium pace bowling for the team. So was volleyball, where Tanga Jamaat were champions for a number of years. Swimming at Tanga Swimming Club every Sunday morning rounded off my sports exposure. Tanga Swimming Club still had some snobbish, colonial mentality White customers; it was fun to hurriedly use their towels after our swim and delight at their disgust when they discovered them damp. They complained but no meaningful punishment ensued; the Goan Manager, poor fellow, was caught in the middle of trying to pacify his dwindling White and please non-White customers. We were more in numbers; we won. I lost my dear friend Jaffer at a very tender age, who drowned swimming high tides one morning at that Club.

Upon completion of high school, it was decided I would go to Dubai where brother Marhom Husseinali was already somewhat established. Foreign exchange was very hard to get those days and Asians used (still do) every conceivable, bizarre, illegal ways to get hold of some. An arranged telex was send to my attention advising my son had committed suicide, and for me to rush to Pakistan urgently. An Indian clerk at National Bank of Tanzania looked me up and down, all eighteen years old, shook his head in disgust but processed British Pounds 150, the maximum Tanzania government would allow to be converted for attending to such a calamity.

Two days later, I took my first ever flight from Dar es Salaam to Karachi and then to Dubai. The rest is all history…

Jaane Kahaa Gayee Woh Din?

The Inquisitive Mind Of Kramer Kramer

2011-09-15T12:20:00.000-07:00

In appearance only, Kramer Kramer (real name altered) resembles Christopher Lloyd, the Reverend Jim Ignatowski character from television sitcom Taxi; raggedy, unkempt. My new home sales agent recommends him to me when I purchase my current home. Kramer is a very good handyman, suitable and thorough at almost all work he undertakes at home, from doing up Tasneem’s salon room to minor alterations or additions I want, his finished works a delight.

Tall, overweight, in rumpled clothes, thick hands carved heavy with incomprehensible tattoos, meeting Kramer for the first time is a bit intimidating. But he is an amiable character, once you get to know him, plenty of interesting tidbits to contribute about everything in general as he works along. He is originally from New York area, a staunch White Republican, an ex drugs addict, now reformed, former alcoholic, now sober but alas, a religious smoker. What strikes me most about Kramer is his inquisitive mind, with loads of questions about my background and culture, especially about the religion of Islam.

Listening to conservative radio talk show hosts the likes of extremely unpleasant Rush Limbaugh et al, have predictably, manipulated Kramer’s mind on Islam, so he is full of questions, loads of them. Some of our conversations go something like this:

What is Sharia law? Do you support it?
Well, Sharia law is a vast subject and I am not qualified enough to tell you a lot about it. Unlike US laws, for example, Sharia laws govern all aspects of a Muslim’s life, personal life, business practices, marriage laws, children’s rights, family inheritance and so on…
But do you support it?
I do, of course, as a Muslim, I do.
Hmmm, but we in the USA believe in the separation of church and state…
Oh, Sharia law is not applicable to non-Muslims.

Kramer makes a dour face.

Why are your wife and daughter all covered up? Do they dress up like this all the time? Are they not hot?
No, they are not covered up, they have to be modesty dressed and have their hair covered in front of strangers; they can uncover their hair in front of close family members. They maybe hot at times, but they must follow our religion.
I think women look beautiful uncovered, the less the better.

Kramer laughs out aloud and lowers an eyelid in a lazy, knowing wink.

Exactly why our religion wants them dressed the way they are! Keep them safe from prying eyes, yes?

The sour expression appears once more.

What? From dawn to dusk? No eating, drinking, even water? No sex? You gotta be insane Owlie!!! And your daughter as well??? God Owlie, that is so cruel, that is awful! In Gods name, why?!

We are discussing the holy month of Ramadhan, of course. The guy is so horrified and looks truly alarmed to know we don’t eat or drink during the day, with him gulping down gallons of cold water to replenish all his sweating, working in the furnace-like attic. Americans get tongue-tied with names like Yusuf Yusufali; I can relate many hilarious tales getting my name recorded with American institutions when I first set foot in this country some thirty years ago, but that is another story. So I settle for Ali except Kramer can’t (or won’t?) pronounce that either; so it’s Owlie. Owlie – sounds awful…

It is really matter of the mind. Once you make up your mind you are not eating or drinking until such time, your body adjusts. Why? Well this is a law ordained by God, not only to Muslims, but to Christians and the Jews as well, if you were to follow the Bible and Torah. I think God wants us to contemplate the hunger of less fortunate in this world. It is a month of connecting with God, purging your sins, asking for His mercy… Plus it is an excellent way to cleanse your body; drop some pounds as well.

Kramer looks at me dubiously but cringes somewhat as I look up and down his overweight body.

He is most respectful in and around the house however, always knocks before entering to make sure womenfolk are in hijab and promptly leaves the house when the call to prayers goes off from our prayer clock. He is also most intrigued with the holy Quraan, asks several questions on it. He wants to see what a mosque looks like so I ride in his dump one mile down the road to see Masjid Al Hayy under construction. It blows his mind.

Wow, Owlie, this is beautiful! Beautiful! Man! It is huge!

He shakes his head in astonishment.

You guys are really committed to your religion.

Do I hear a tiny twig of envy in his voice? I invite him to visit our current center sometimes, if he wants.

We have a wonderful preacher, a young guy with a lot of good things to say; he can answer a lot of your questions I could not. But let me know much in advance when you want to visit. Our preacher, although very good, makes many disappearing acts, so we need to plan it out.

Kramer agrees, says he had wanted to visit, even talked to another community member whose home he is repairing about a visit with his live-in girlfriend; she even agreed to cover her hair! But he is now single again, had a huge falling off with the girlfriend, whom he has had to evict from his home.

One day, he curiously reads a wedding invitation card sitting on the kitchen counter.

Hey Owlie, it says here someone dead has invited you. How can a dead person invite you to anything?
Eh?

Kramer points out the words in the card… Late xxx and Late xxx Requests The Honor Of Your Presence…

I scratch my (barren) scalp, stumped.

Kramer loves dogs; goes on and on about his pet dogs that he says will lick you to death. Now, I am unsure about being licked to death by any animal but I am fond of dogs as well, so is Maaha Zainab. I explain Muslims consider dogs unclean and are not allowed, by religious law, to keep them in the house, the nose is considered unclean, they smell everything. This infuriates Kramer, for he looks at me as if I had assaulted, insulted him.

Unclean, eh? Hmmm…

He wags his head in despair, rolls his eyes to the heavens.

How about cats, are cats allowed?
Yes!

I respond enthusiastically, almost shout, so happy to share a common animal Islam allows me to domesticate.

Owlie, did you know, cats are even dirtier than dogs? And they, too, sniff at everything? A dog will whimper and let you know he needs to pee or shit and run out to do his business. A cat, they are a nasty. They will either pee or shit on your carpet and stink up a storm…

I scratch my (barren) scalp, stumped, a dour look on my face.

A Sneak Preview

2011-09-07T09:21:00.000-07:00

Preface

I was born a manhoos; ill-fortuned is the closest English translation, the verdict decreed by our next door neighbor Ramjanbhai, when I was born. This recount came from Salma, when I was old enough to understand what the word meant. My dislike for Ramjanbhai, and his for me, proceeded long before I understood the meaning of the word. I made rude sounds from my mouth whenever he passed by our house, sounds I heard him let out from both ends of his body constantly, even through the thin, porous walls that separated our hovels, for Ramjanbhai suffered from a severe case of flatulence. My insults drove him wild, for he attempted an assault on my nimble self, only to give up moments later, heaving, coughing, muttering obscenities and curses. He then went complaining about my awful behavior to either Abbu or Salma, but they paid him no mind.

Ramjanbhai was not technically wrong for calling me a manhoos, for I am one really, if you hold those kinds of viewpoints. My Ammi, you see, ceased breathing at about exactly the same moment I commenced life; a bad omen for everybody in the family, more so for our neighbors and almost everybody in our basti who knew my family. Many relatives and some of our neighbors, like Ramjanbhai, who made a fuss every time we met, shunned me. About a week after I was born, a major fire destroyed much of slum settlements just two rows beyond our house and the local government, instead of helping rebuild these homes, brought out bulldozers and flattened everything left standing. The destroyed homes were illegal, said the local municipal commissioner, the local authorities were just polishing up what nature had taken care of. So you see, my birth was not an auspicious event.

My immediate family, except for my dad, did not care and loved me unconditionally, especially Abbu and Salma. Tabu was of a different nature, not prone to much emotion, busy with fashion, boys and Bollywood pursuits. Baarish did not comprehend the meanness of the whole affair. Abbu doted on me, for he saw his future linage in me, the only male descendent worthy of mention, for he had expunged his son from memory. My world of comprehension began with Abbu as I followed him around when he was not selling fruits at the market. Salma fed and cleaned me then, but it was Abbu who meant the world to me. I remember the first time he tried to make me to go pee, when I was about three years old.

'You have to go pee, Salman.'

'No.'

'You drank a whole glass of sugarcane juice and you been sucking ice all day, you must go pee. I don't want you peeing in your chuddies and on my bed. Then I'll have to wash everything before I say my prayers and Salma will yell at you for making me use up all the water. Hurry up, let's get you to pee.'

'No, no, nooooo...'

'I'll buy you the red lollipop you like...'

We stared at each other; I wanted to make sure I was not being set up. Abbu was a man of his words so this was not a bad deal at all. It's not that I didn't want to go pee, but proper toilets were at least half a mile away and the corner shed we used for peeing stunk real wicked.

'Will Abbu go pee with me?'

Abu looked at me in astonishment but then smiled. 'I'll buy you two lollipops if you go pee, else I'll have Salma take you and no lollipops.'

Salma, although always nice and kind to me, had a temper when things didn't go her way. She had tons of things to do around our house and pee cleaning was not something she had on regular schedule. So I ran outside, tangy taste of strawberry flavored lollipops already on my tongue, ahead of Abbu and dropped the loose cloth piece that served as my training diaper. Suddenly, the force on my bladder was unbearable and I would have let go standing but Abbu pushed me down squatting and I peed and peed, like the proper Muslim gentleman Abbu was training me to become.

Later on, Abbu returned with the two lollipops he had promised and I went pee again, in a controlled manner, squatting like a gentleman, exactly the way Abbu wanted me to. The lollipops were a super treat and I made a meal of them both; Salma gave Abbu disapproving looks as I always fussed at dinner and Tabu sulked because she got only one lollipop. As always, I finished the lollipops and carefully licked all sugar crystals from the wrappings. Abbu always found this greediness strangely endearing and so it was that day as well. He scooped me up in him arms and hugged me, planting kisses all over my face, I twitching and squealing in ticklish delight.

'What did Salmaan do today?'

I said, 'Pee pee.'

Book One - Chapter One

Abbu would swipe dust off from a solid empty wooden crate with a flick of his withered wrist, carefully lay a frayed rag on it and gratefully sit down, easing pain from aging, inflamed joints of his feet.

'Bolo, bolo,' he would shout at the top of his voice, adding to the chorus of cries from others around, 'fresh fruit and subzi, cheap fruit, cheap subzi. Best pick from this morning, tomatoes, only eight rupees a kilo.' Only his voice would quaver with age and not carry as loudly as others around us. Bolo was the first word I remember in my life, even before I learned how to walk.

Before I started attending school, Abbu made sure I accompanied him to the market every morning, placing me atop a wheelbarrow full of fruit and vegetable picked from trees in the backyard or bought wholesale from vending women who sold their pick early in order to return to their villages in time for tilling land or other household labors.

'He will grow up to be a fine man, you'll see, a doctor or an engineer,' he would explain with a toothy grin to anyone who cared to listen, pointing to me as I sat in a smaller version of his chair, only this one was upturned and hallow, padded by cast off rags for my yet to develop bones and softer skin. Actually 'Abbu,' was the first word I uttered and 'bolo' came a close second. By the time I was three, I could repeat that whole pattern of Bupu's sales pitch word for word.

Nobody from my family knew exactly what date I was born. My father was out and about, probably in Surat where rumor was he had taken on a second wife and my mother died before I took my first gulp of air. Abbu thought it was a Friday and he was certain it was either in October or November as everybody was in a buying frenzy for Diwali festivals. I am still unsure of the year but I reckon that's really not very important.

As I mentioned before, Mummy, or Ammi as the rest of my family refer to her, died on the same bed I was conceived. As a child, I always wondered how a person could die giving birth seeing many mothers still alive and felt guilty about Ammi dying on my birthday. I learnt a lot about her from my sister Salma, who went on and on about what a wonderful person she was, how she sacrificed everything for her family and got no peace from her husband, our father. He, I was told, was bekaar, useless, a sot, a drunkard. He worked when he was sober, which was rare, spent money on woman and booze and came home only when he ran out of money and could not find a free bed companion.

My family comprised of two sisters; Salma, the eldest, who was nine years older than I and Tabu, short for Tabassum, four years older. We also had an infant aptly named Baarish, whom Abbu had very reluctantly taken in only when it seemed certain she would die from the lashings of monsoon rains beating upon her frail body. She was left abandoned outside our door one thundery July morning. These ages I am approximating, nobody knows for sure; they could be a year older or younger. Except for Baarish, of course. She was an infant then, probably not more than six months old with lungs, I thought, of a grown up, the way she sometimes bawled nonstop. She would turn crimson crying in colic pain and rage, only to be quieted after agonizing long periods of Salma's cooing and hip bumping, few farts and burps later.

We all lived in a two-room hovel close to a filthy stream that cut right in the middle of our slum community called Naroda Patiya. This hovel had tin roof that leaked profusely during monsoons, flooding the floor, making a mess of everything and leaving Salma in a disagreeable disposition almost the entire three months or so; she did most of the cleaning and was fussy about how the interior of our palace looked and felt, never mind the ruin and decay outside. During the super hot months between March and June, it was an oven, which left all of us near naked and short tempered, especially Tabu, as the heat and humidity would create havoc on her cheap makeup. We considered our two ceiling fans luxury; both antiques that wobbled and creaked dramatically but miraculously, never gave way. We had neighbors across the stream, on the left, right, and above our box home.

The walls were so thin, I could hear Ramjanbhai repeatedly fart and burp from next door, even through the complaining fans. I also heard other sounds that I could only figure out much later in life, Ramjanbhai's son and daughter-in-law making love. Abbu, who slept alone in one room because he was a light sleeper, would bang at the wall and shout at them to shut up while Salma would giggle knowingly. The four of us were packed together in the other room. Our bedroom was reduced even further as a comer of it was used for cooking and stacking dishes. We had no running water so the girls woke up very early every morning and hurried outside with pails to stand in line at the public supply; the water stopped running by the time the sun rose. The bathrooms were outside, a block away; ten families shared ours. We considered it very lucky if we ever found one empty and a wait of half hour or more was not uncommon. Visitors, these were few and far apart, who come to our house were revolted by the stench from the sewer stream outside; I found that odd as a young boy; why, it did not bother me at all.

Abbu, who worked a small garden that we owned at the back of our hovel, vended the yields in a corner spot outside Parekh Brothers, a banya shop at the center of Naroda Patiya market. By the time I was old enough to crawl out of my box seat next to Abbu's, I realized he was much respected and admired, not only for his selling skills, but also for his honesty and integrity. Abbu, you see, hailed from Jamnagar, in our state of Gujarat. He was a son of a zameendaar, a landowner, rich and powerful in his own right. But fate and an emotional heart were unkind to him, for he fell in love with and impregnated a Hindu maiden from Kutch. This act, in his youth days, was like writing a death sentence on your life. The enraged father of girl rallied his community and began planning for Abbu's execution while his father cut him off all assets and family wealth. Abbu escaped with his unwed pregnant 'wife' and ended up in our slum of Naroda Patiya.

In contrast, Akber, my father, or just bekaar admi, as Salma called him, hardly ever worked. The little he earned was spent on cheap brew at dingy haddas and on women. When he did come home, he was always in a foul mood, ready with a quick whack to the back of our heads for no apparent reason.

If it hadn’t been for Abbu, I would never have attended school. Jaffery English Elementary School was about a mile away, in a plot of land that was always impeccably clean and well maintained even though the main open sewer lane of Naroda Patiya ran right behind it, exposing all to a terrible stench and a frightening eyesore. In fact, it was the only building for miles around that had a decent coat of paint. I attended school but there was not much teaching in the classrooms. I sat at my depilated desk that wobbled so much I had to hold it upright most times and listened to our class teacher yell at us, banging a menacing looking cane on his desk to silence the class.

Preeti, only daughter of Harshad Parekh, one of the brothers who owned Parekh Brothers, sat one row ahead of me in class. She always smelled of Lifebuoy soap and coconut oil oozed from her scalp. She was quite clever and snotty, which bugged the hell out of me. She had a nasty habit of turning around and sneering at me whenever she correctly answered a question or when she got all her homework right. I pulled her oily pigtails in punishment whenever she did that. She cried and complained to our class teacher sometimes and I either got caned or was made to kneel in front of the class for hours, glaring at her while plotting revenge I knew I could never follow through.

Two o’clock in the afternoon was my favorite time of the day when the rusty bell in the play yard would clang, signaling the end of classes. I would jump up, not caring if my desk toppled over and together with other children, jam the doorway in a gleeful attempt to flee the confines of the room. I would run all the way to Naroda Patiya Central Market and try to squeeze into the box crate that was now much too small for me. From there, I would then polish all fruits to a glossy shine.

In case you are scratching your head wondering what this is all about, please dont fret. This is a preface and part of Book One - Part One from my second novel (title still being debated in my head) that is slated for completion and eBook publishing (all profits to benefit Comfort Aid International, off course!) end of 2011, insha'Allah. I am looking for feedback really, good and bad, hopefully more good? If you do care to comment, please do so to email kisukaali@yahoo.com. I will really appreciate it.

Allah bless and thank you.

Khoja Kiswahili Paradise

2011-09-04T12:32:00.000-07:00

It is now over three months since I move my family from India to the accusing (towards Cuba maybe?) pinky finger landmass of Florida in the USA. This change has been quite agreeable off course, especially for the children. Maaha Zainab relishes her fifth grade class and new friends; Alihussein is already stressing out with college classes, Tasneem busy messing around with her salon while I try to juggle the forex market. And CAI, off course. Gone are the days of squatting dogs and humans on streets, days of toenail curling pongs, of mind-boggling, undisciplined, punishing, traffic snarls. No frightening drunken Ganeesh parades or nasty (and dangerous) color dousing startles at Holi festival. I do miss the mango madness though…

Here in Orlando, lives my community of East African Khoja’s, a group most unique, in many aspects. You can trace our ancestry well over a hundred years to the general area of Gujarat, in India. The entrepreneurial spirit in our blood propelled us to Africa, where we prospered, many from illegitimate wealth from magendo business transactions, a practice active till this very day, encouraged by governments steeped in contradicting and confusing, corrupt-friendly laws. These laws, resulting in political uncertainty, (some) lawlessness, inept education, health and other infrastructure systems, drove us to migrate again, to shores of Europe and North America. We live here now, as good law abiding citizens (if, when and where short cuts and magendo practices are not quite possible - without detection).

We are a hearty bunch, generally, and nostalgic to everything that is remotely East African, the general area from where we lived before migrating to the US. The desire and will to ape everything cultural from back home is very apparent; from Kiswahili kofia and khanzu worn at the mosque, mbarazi and mandazi served on Sunday mornings after salaat, the Kiswahili language (with quite a bit of colorful matusi at baraaza time) to very strong entrepreneurial desire for wealth and success. Wealth, mind you, that is generously donated to those poor and destitute all over the world.

I was not want of choice for cities to move; I could go back to Houston TX off course, but after living in that gigantic city on and off for 28 years, I was ready for a change. I, however, chose Orlando. People have (generally) good things to say about this particular community in SE USA. The various activities for children at the religious center, including a vibrant madressa, an agreeable warm tropical weather, reasonable real estate market and more importantly, a compatible cultural mindset makes Orlando an ideal choice.

Holy, blessed month of Ramadhan has just ended, and what a delight it was to be able to attend salaat, partake in shared iftaar arranged by HIC, the traditional practice of Quaraan recitation, dua Iftetah and lectures by invited specialists. I did not realize how much I had missed this very Kiswahili Khoja type of arrangements all these years in Texas and India! Now that it is over, Maaha Zainab laments she misses her Madressa workshops; I miss the exotic kitumbua, mkate mimina, kalemati…yum, umh, yum…, no wonder I did not loose the body mafuta I had hoped.

HIC was alive with prayer and activities, beginning with children’s workshops, Quaraan recitation, magreeb / ishaa salaat, scramble for iftaar, short baraaza outside with (almost all) men relishing their first puffs, choice of meetha, khaara or khimaam pan and colorful Kiswahili conversation. One man in particular had a peculiar habit of breaking out in an ancient, loud Bollywood stanza from eras gone by… Lectures followed in English by our own educated Khoja young aalims, occasionally brilliant, at times humdrum and sometimes outright corny; encouraging start? It was heartwarming and huge relief to see Abdul Jaffer on his feet once again after giving us a nasty scare. I missed a week due to commitments towards our starving brethren at Somalia / Kenya border…

The Eid crescent was mercifully locally sighted, so recurrent controversies were avoided, even though the actual day was observed worldwide spanning three separate days! Tuesday for us in Florida, Eid day, was spent meeting, hugging families, friends, and (alarmingly) watching a pile of dollars thin out dolling Eidy to children. It was another (gastronomical) struggle at HIC with neehara for breakfast and (calorie galore) heaps of mutton biryani for dinner; ah, what would we be without the parbaaros. Not that I complain, mind you.

I see a bright future for us Khojas of Orlando. We are a growing community with an intact, traditional outlook, albeit progressive one hopefully. And we are going to grow, no doubt, insha’Allah, what with the massive new Masjid Al Hayy coming up soon, not more than a mile from home.

Yes, the decision to move here to Orlando Florida was the right one. Alhamd’Allah.

Suk-Suk - Part Two

2011-08-24T20:55:00.000-07:00

I have, this week, concluded 50 tons of CAI donor funded food distribution tour at the Somalia – Kenya border region, alhamd'Allah. This project was initiated and executed within 3 weeks after the decision was made to do something, anything, when images of dying and malnutritioned children appeared in the media. It was, for me, unconscionable to simply express pity and remain inactive. All credit for this very successful program goes to Allah (S) for the taufeeq and opportunity to serve at His pleasure, our very generous and ever ready donors and the team put together by Dr. Muhsin Sheriff (Docta) of local Kenya NGO CHEPS for arranging, assessing, planning, travelling, actual distribution and all other incredible, at times seemingly impossible logistics this scale of project demanded; CAI is profoundly indebted to all of these for the incredible opportunity.

The following narrative of the trip is first hand, through my eyes and I take full responsibility for words used in describing events, not very civil for some readers, perhaps. Sometimes, there are no ‘nice’ ways to describe stark realities. Who knows, you may enjoy the chronicle.

Pinpoint accuracy?

The communal bathroom is outside, an unlit smelly shed with no running water; you lug in a lotta. I slip and almost fall upon entry, franticly grab at the wood frame supporting the tin shed; my fingers come away with something slimy, something I cannot see, something smelly; I shudder in disgust and run out to cleanse my hands. You guessed it, there is no soap…I scrub my fingers raw with almost half bottle of hand sanitizer I carry for just these instances. But I still got to go; my bladder is almost a busting. I take a torch this time and (very, very) carefully, reluctantly, return to the toilet shed. The hole in the ground that greets me is super tiny and I wonder for a minute if this is only for number one business. Well, there are no other toilets around so this must be for both numbers. Wow, talk about practicing squatting with precise accuracy!

The generator is switched off at nine sharp and the place engulfs in utter darkness. I drift off to uneasy sleep but the place is so busy with rattling walls and roof, snores, groans, farts and related smells, it seems the entire camp is vibrating with a gusto of workshop energy from some 40 plus humans temporarily dead; I am wide-awake by one. I grind my teeth and tolerate the torment until it mercifully ends with a muezzin calling the faithful to eat sehri (daku); we are given sweet weak tea and some dates for a fast we will observe but pay back later as well.

Shriveled breast

There are people lined up outside the distribution site by the time we show up and we go to work almost immediately. This camp is all new refugees from war-torn Somalia, in terrible shape. With army like discipline, we disburse the first 10 tons of good nutritious food made up of beans, cooking oil, corn meal (ugaali) and high-energy biscuits for the children. These biscuits, recommended by the WFP, are highly effective in immediate energy for children most vulnerable to diseases due to malnutrition; just 3 pieces are enough to sustain a child for a day. They cost US$2.55 / kilo and comprise:

Typical nutritional composition

Value per 100 gms

Nutrient Content Unit
Fat 22 Gms
Protein 12 Gms
Energy 470 Kcal
Vitamin A 1650 IU
Vitamin C 38 Mg
Vitamin D 165 IU
Vitamin B2 o.8 Mg
Vitamin B1 0.9 Mg
Vitamin B6 o.9 Mg
Vitamin B12 3 MCG
Vitamin E 5 Mg
Iodine 85 Mcg
Niacin 7 Mg
Pantothenic acid 38 Mg
Folic acid 350 Mcg
Calcium 410 Mg
Iron 5.2 Mg
Magnesium 150 Mg

I delight in handing these out, silently urging each child with all my heart to live a long and healthy life. These children are tearjerkers. When I break from the giving, I roam around, snapping photos. There is this one toddler on its mom’s back, bawling away. Mom, who is in line waiting for her share of handout, dances her back in pacification, but the child is inconsolable. In frustration, Mom screws the kanga around, brings the child towards her bosoms and thrusts a shriveled breast into the toddlers open crying mouth. I look away, but the urge to gawk is irresistible; forces me to turn back and stare. The child screams at first, perhaps sensing Mom’s rudeness, then suckles frantically. Alas, the breast is apparently dry, for the child gives up and screams, incensed. There is so, so much helplessness in Mom’s face, I want to weep… We distribute ten tons of food and biscuits here in Dagahley; next stop Dadajibullah.

Ayeah!

Suk–Suk, whispers Abdi Noor, Suk-Suk repeats one of the policemen at the back, Ayeah! acknowledges the driver. We have just spotted a giraffe herd to our right and both Docta and I scramble to take photo shots. I am surprised to see them, did not think they wandered so north in Kenya. There are very, very many, I am told and live amiably with the local population, feeding and thriving on thorny leaves of the all-weather Acacia tree, a diet other animals cannot digest or reach. I was even more surprised to spot a pair of cheetahs, few hyenas, water hogs and many other animal species. All of them are in peril, expanding out from their natural habitat in search of non-existing water.

Suk-Suk and ayeah! are two Somali words I easily pickup from the rapid tongue that flows like a Ping-Pong ball between the four Somalis onboard. Suk-Suk means halt or wait and ayeah, an automatic response or acknowledgement in a one-way conversation. Somalis are loud people and talk spontaneously, all at once, so our car is a hotbed of very rapid and noisy conversation amongst the four Somalis while Docta and I (try) and catch up on sleep.

Where Dagahley distribution is precise and disciplined, Dadajibullah is the contrary; mob-like and unruly. Perhaps it is a more despairing situation; perhaps we are not involving the local sheiks or imams? It takes us seven very hard, long hours to distribute eighteen tomes of food to a boisterous crowd. The women are vocal and feistier here, some ready for a go at fistfights with volunteers struggling with heavy loads. We prevail in the end, using strong-arm tactics of stopping distribution and using local armed guards to keep vigil.

Khaaak…thuuu!

The next three days are a whirl; get up early for sehri of dates and tea, pray, hit the road, distribute to the starving masses, break fast, eat whatever is available to ease hunger pains… The distribution at Wagalla (7 tons), Della (3 tons), Baed (2 tons), Bulla Forest (3 tons), Haggar (3 tons) and Mau Mau (1 ton) go off without incidents, mainly because all logistical arrangements have been taken care of via local sheiks, camp leaders and local mosque imams. Somali’s, both genders, regardless of age, love hawking and spitting; nay, it is a national pastime, no less. We would be gathered in a group, discussing logistics when one would start with a deep hawk and a spit, to be immediately taken up by another person. Khaaak…thuuu! Khaaak…thuuu! Khaaak…thuuu! I object at this disgusting behavior a couple of times, the guys pay me no heed; one simply covers his prize with a quick flip of dirt with his feet as token atonement.

I am really tired by day three and ready to return home; Docta looks exhausted; this is his third distribution trip to these remote areas in less than a month! Both us dread the long trip back to Nairobi so we look for alternatives. There is an airport in Wajir but miraa (a mild narcotic, consumed mostly in Somalia and Yeman) traders operate most flights to Nairobi. One could get a seat, but it is not guaranteed, the flight might come, but might not, the pilot might take you, but might not if he has a full load of the stuff… Our friend Abdi Noor makes a few phone calls and like magic, two seats are confirmed on a regularly scheduled East African Airline flight. Hurrah, I am ecstatic.

Suk-Suk, cautions Abdi Noor, not so fast, we still have tomorrow’s full day of work…

Docta and his team will distribute CAI’s final food consignment, about three tons of high-energy biscuits and seven tons of food this weekend insha’Allah; this will conclude our food aid program. It was my observation that the core food crises is easing with more (Islamic) aid agencies setting up shop. I also now believe long term food aid is not sustainable; rather, efforts should be put into water recourses and farming. Shallow wells dug by refugees and water used for farming is the best short-term solution to this massive problem, both in host country and well into Somalia proper. CAI will, insha’Allah, assist all those that choose to dig a shallow well and use the ready available water for farming. An investment of US$100 per family to secure the well and ways to use the water is, for now, the only viable solution until political games of those in power are played out.

View photos here.

Suk-Suk - Part One

2011-08-24T20:52:00.000-07:00

I have, this week, concluded 50 tons of CAI donor funded food distribution tour at the Somalia – Kenya border region, alhamd'Allah. This project was initiated and executed within 3 weeks after the decision was made to do something, anything, when images of dying and malnutritioned children appeared in the media. It was, for me, unconscionable to simply express pity and remain inactive. All credit for this very successful program goes to Allah (S) for the taufeeq and opportunity to serve at His pleasure, our very generous and ever ready donors and the team put together by Dr. Muhsin Sheriff (Docta) of local Kenya NGO CHEPS for arranging, assessing, planning, travelling, actual distribution and all other incredible, at times seemingly impossible logistics this scale of project demanded; CAI is profoundly indebted to all of these for the incredible opportunity.

The following narrative of the trip is first hand, through my eyes and I take full responsibility for words used in describing events, not very civil for some readers, perhaps. Sometimes, there are no ‘nice’ ways to describe stark realities. Who knows, you may enjoy the chronicle.

Ouch, ouch, ouch!

I find Nairobi quite chilly on arrival morning of Aug 16 and shiver in spite of a warm sweater on me, having flown in from nice sunny and warm Florida; perhaps my tolerance level is low after 27 hours of flying / waiting, lack of sleep? This feeling is more than compensated by warm hospitality at Dr. Muhsin’s home where I rest a bit before we embark on our drive to the border area of Somalia, to Dadab, some 250 miles away. A Toyota 4x4 has been donated for our use by the local MP of area in distress, Sirat Mohammed; joining me are Dr. Muhsin Sheriff of CHEPS, Mohammed Abdi Noor, ex Red Cross Kenya boss who is originally from the area and has very strong connections and 2 armed Kenya Police Force personnel and the driver, off course. Abdi Noor is a volunteer, the rest are curtsey of MP.

It is not long before we leave the relative green of Nairobi and hit a dirt road so bumpy, we seem to resemble yoyo toys let loose with a super hyper child. I see my first animal carcass and want to take photos but Abdi tells me to wait, I will see plenty more ahead. Our Sunni brothers are fasting so we stop by the road at magreeb and feast on dates and water and dry hamburgers. It turns abruptly dark, we wash and I join others in prayers, led by Abdi Noor. Ouch, ouch, ouch! The dirt floor is full of dried thorn balls, I clear a spot with my feet but ouch, there are more thorns when my knees and palms touch dirt and yet again, when my forehead touches soil; hope Allah accepts my prayer, I am more intent on avoiding pain. Abdi Noor completes prayers in record time; feel of pain shared, perhaps?

Seven hours after leaving Nairobi, we drive into Dadab and rest at a surprisingly nice, comfortable hostel with running water, western toilets and a shower. There is some confusion with our food distribution plans next morning. Dadab, you see, is home to 3 ‘official’ refugee camps, each originally meant to accommodate 30,000 people for a total of 90,000; it now has over 480,000, with 2,000 new arrival every day. UN agencies provide food rations to registered refugees only, but give (some) water to all. Our aim is to target the non-registered indigents for relief. Our local contact is Sheikh Mohammed Al Farha, a jovial man, always smiling and talkative. Al Farha is highly respected locally and as we are to soon discover, invaluable in arranging the distribution outside Dagahley refugee camp next morning. We take a tour outside the official camps at Dadab; I get my first glimpse of gut wrenching scenes of wretched people so repeatedly displayed on TV screens back home. In a huge cleared space, throngs of refugees in pitiful conditions line to receive food rations from other Muslim relief agencies already in action. The adults are in bad condition, yes, but it is the children that twitch my heart asunder. Almost all women, gaunt and harassed, has a dirty, runny nosed, face full of buzzing flies and malnutritioned toddler wrapped in a dirty kanga on her back.

We drive to Dagahley in the afternoon and meet with the local Mufti and his committee of volunteers; I am much impressed and relieved. They have the system down pat, organized and disciplined, with a no-nonsense approach to fair distribution. All new arrivals have been identified and issued with an ID card; they will receive at least a months food grains according to the size of family members. The quantity of food looks dubious, to me, seems far too little, but Abdi Noor and the Sheikh simply shrug their shoulders, is there an alternative?

Camel meat - a wish fulfilled.

After magreeb at a kerosene-lamp lit local mosque, we break fast at a local ‘restaurant’. It is dark and difficult to see but can tell (and smell) the table and chairs around an open eating-place is in squalor, full of roaming cats on a lookout for scraps thrown their way - I don’t care; I am famished. I dig in to the plate of samosas (no Al Shabab influence here…as yet) followed by heap loads of boiled meat, delicious! I casually remark if the local people eat camel meat since there are so many of them animals around and express a desire to eat some. I am greeted with polite smiles with Abdi Noor informing me my wish has been granted - I had just consumed meat of a young camel. Really? I feel he is pulling my leg, but Sheikh Al Farha assures me it is camel meat indeed that digests comfortably in my guts. Wow! The service is great however, with Omo (powdered clothes washing soap) dispensed from a torn bag for washing away camel-meat greased hands, water poured from jugs right besides the table onto the dirt floor, scattering the disappointed cats. We are even provided scraps of torn newspapers for wiping our hands and lips.

Sleep and rest that night in a ‘guesthouse’ is a major gut wrenching challenge. It is made up totally of loose, rusting tin (banda), which rattles alarmingly whenever the wind blows. There are about 5 rooms of various sizes, one with 16 beds on all dirt floors; there are beds in the corridor as well, under the open sky. We are given a 4-bed shed; I (very carefully, closely) inspect the dubious looking beds. The bed sheets look like they have not seen water or soap in months, same with greasy looking pillowcases. I shudder; there is however, thankfully, a mosquito net over the beds – a gift from the Malinda Gates Foundation.

View photos here.

Sakina Girls Home - My home

2011-08-12T15:53:00.000-07:00

Marhooma Naseen Jeevan
Saika and Shahina Khan

Saika and Shahina Khan were 5 and 3 (now aged 18 and 16) when their father was killed in a tragic accident. Their distraught mother of 3 children, with an infant son in addition to the girls, turned to Sakina Girls Home (SGH) in Andhari, Mumbai for help. Saika and Shaina were readily accepted and become new family members to other 70 plus orphan girls that call SGH home.

Why would I want to pick out these 2 sisters to blog about? Well, it is not everyday that somebody you care and support tops 94% overall grade at a school in India. This outstanding result, by Shahina, is unheard of, makes me delighted that CAI donors are proud sponsors of SGH, where these 2 sisters grew up to become such successful and productive teenagers. I chanced upon meeting these girls, now back living with their mother, during my recent trip to Mumbai and here is what they had to say:

We miss SGH a lot, a lot; it was haven for us. We miss our friends, sisters really, we grew up with, the daily jamaat prayers, our petty fights, our silliness. But what we miss the most are the 2 people at SGH that shaped our lives - Naseem Auntie and Aliakber Uncle. Naseem Auntie was our mother, she trained and guided us and installed what is best in life for us; made us believe in ourselves. If there are angels in this world, than Naseem Auntie was their sardar! We still can't believe she is no more... Aliakberbhai spoiled us; we were never hungry, treats, picnics, new clothes, yoga classes, it was so wonderful. He is the father we never knew, even now, he guides us...

But the best outcome in our life at the orphanage was the quality education we got while at SGH. We attended the best schools in the neighborhood, followed up by tuition and anything else that we required to excel in class. With this opportunity, both us us have excelled and prospects for a good career are exceptional, especially in the field we have chosen - software development. Once we graduate from college, we will, insha'Allah, have the opportunity of earning exceptional starting salaries we never imagined.

We owe all of this success to SGH and the people who dedicate their lives in running it. I remind them about the donors that make it possible to run SGH. Of course, they are in our prayers every day... And what about paying back to the society that helped you? No question about it, we intend to, insha'Allah, repay all the goodness with our efforts and money. We will never forget, never...our lives would have probably been compromised with almost certain early marriage and poverty; we owe it all to SGH.

The girls now live with their Mum who is a cook. Life is tough on a cook's earnings but they manage somehow. Comfort Aid International continues partial support of the sisters collage tuition.

A few words about our fallen angel, Naseembai Jeevan. This woman was a stubborn believer in quality education, an ideal we at CAI rigidly follow. This kind and giving lady, who's life revolved around SGH, succumbed to the will of Allah and returned to her Creator about 2 years ago at a relatively very young age. We pay fond tribute to her memory and pray to Allah to keep her soul blissfully happy and reward her abundantly.

Aliakberbhai Ratansi is still going strong, keeping a caring and loving eye over the girls at SGH. May Allah prolong his dedicated life in the service of CAI supported orphans all over India.

Ali Yusufali

Bebakshe Aaghaa, besheen

2011-08-05T09:29:00.001-07:00

We are asked to report Kabul airport 5AM sharp; I intensely detest these early morning reporting times, especially in Afghanistan; but we have little choice. Fajr next day is at 3:05AM so I get perhaps 4 hours of restless sleep at Wasi’s hospitable home. Although Kabul can be freeing most winter months, summers are the other extreme. We report at 5 sharp and after understandable checks at 4 separate security posts, we find ourselves at the departure lounge full of groggy adults and irate sleepy children. Kam Air flight to Herat is supposed to depart at 7:30 but there is no ways to tell the status come departure time. Eyes smarting from the lack of sleep, I try to follow an old Dari dubbed Bollywood movie (Amish Poori in an awful costume – Mugaambo, I think) on the screen.

At eight, I become irritable; the lounge is packed with people, many with unwashed bodies and it is getting hot outside; Kabul domestic airport does not have air. I get up and ask a security guard what the problem is, why are we late. The young lad looks at me with bored expression and shrugs his bony shoulders; I don’t think he cares. Don’t know, Besheen Aaghaa – please take a seat, Sir. I return to my seat that is now taken, as the hall is jam packed with people. After about 10 minutes, as if given an invisible signal, everybody, including me, leap up and make a run for the departure gate, as if the flight will take off without us. I later understand there are no assigned seats; the mad rush is for choice seats.

The exit door, however, remains locked, with no security guard in sight. There is very little concept of personal space in Afghanistan, or the Indian sub-continental for that matter. Not intentional, mind you. The line that forms is not single file, but hordes of warm bodies pressed together, straining for an exit. A Kam Air rep comes to the front, pushing his way through the crowd. We are late, open the door, open the door, where is the ahmek guard with the key, he demands into a walkie-talkie. There is confusion for about 5 minutes before a heavyset, potbellied security guard with the key comes jogging from the other side, fumbling with buttons of his pants and a sheepish grin on his face. Where in the world were you, you ahmek goof, demands Kam Air rep. Ah, I have the runs, bad runs, and very bad stomach. Ate very stale kaboobs yesterday, beebakshe. The Kam Air rep snorts in contempt. You have runs everyday! Stop eating – forever! Or at least for a year, open the door! The guard fumbles with the lock, doors swing open and the crowd surges forward; phew, fresh air, I take big gulps. We look at the puzzled Kam Air rep for guidance, where do we go from here?

The Rep looks this way and that, Now where is the baadbakh bus? It looks like he is going to pop a vein, screaming into the walkie-talkie. The aircraft is about 50 feet away from us; I clearly can see the pilots playing piano with instruments. We could have, in half a minute, walked and boarded the aircraft. No, says the Rep, security rules, we must take the bus. This a problem, as both buses are busy ferrying passengers off just arrived Safi Air from Dubai; it may take some time… An old man complains he is tired and cannot stand any longer. Beebakshe Aaghaa, besheen, says the Rep in sympathy; the old man flops on the steps, we wait. After another 30 minutes, the busses arrive and we scramble for our hour-long flight to Herat in the west. Herat is super, super hot, 105F with crippling power cuts; sleeping is almost impossible. After inspecting 41 homes for poor widows CAI donors are constructing, visiting CAI orphanage and her orphans, we return to Kabul the next day.

We have another 5AM reporting for our chartered flight to Yawkawlang the day after. I am yearning for an elusive good nights sleep, but with late dinners and very early airport reporting, this is becoming impossible. Predictably, we are told Bebakshe Aaghaa, besheen, at the hangar where our chartered single engine Kodiak is ready to soar. NATO is on military exercise so we cannot fly, we have to wait. Before my short fuse blows at being called early again just to wait around, Chris, our 28 year old pilot tells me NATO takes a no-nonsense attitude on aircrafts within its training vicinity and would probably blow our aircraft out of the sky if we attempted to take off; I shut up in a hurry. When we do take off, the flight is smooth and eventless, the view over the mountains as usual, fantastic.

We have to attend CAI sponsored mass marriage for 100 deprived couples today at Yawkawlang, followed by sheep distribution to poor widows as part of CAI Economic Uplifting Project and a nights stay at our medical clinic before our flight back to Kabul tomorrow. I request Aziz for a later pickup instead of the usual 6AM next day. You sure, Sir, he asks, strong winds pick up later in the day and the going will get quite bumpy. I have little choice, as the clinic is at least a good 2-hour drive from the landing strip and we have work to do; we settle on 11AM.

The marriage ceremony is on a grand scale with almost the entire village in attendance for this rare occasion to be merry, 25 sheep are handed over to 5 widows to make them economically independent then we drive to Imam Sajjad (A) Clinic in Sacheck. I am here to do a quick audit of CAI operations and meet our new doctor. I am happy to note expansion and modernizing of clinic is on track. As usual, I get to meet few severe medical cases that cannot be treated at the clinic; they want to go to Kabul for treatment but are too poor. A 3-year-old girl with a tumor in her nose and a young boy who rectum pops out every time he has to go to the toilet are approved; CAI donors will foot the bill for their transport and treatment, if possible. It is early next morning, when we are readying to return to Yawkawlang for our return flight that I almost faint in horror. A man working nearly has hit a land mine, his 2 fingers of left hand blown off; there is blood, oh so much blood. The man however, as many of his countrymen in such distress, is stoic, shows no emotion of pain; we dispatch him to Kabul pronto.

Aziz, an alternate pilot we have earlier flown, is at the airstrip on the dot; we take off. I am treated to the co-pilots seat with headphones so I can hear the chatter from fellow aircrafts in the vicinity and Kabul control tower. The aircraft bobs and dances as it is tossed by strong winds streaming through the mountains. Basheer, our engineer, is ashen faced, wants to puke; I am, happily, sitting out of range.

My departure from Afghanistan the next day is no different. I am at the airport at 5AM; spend over an hour pressed in line for security inspection only to be told the flight is delayed.

Bebakshe Aaghaa, besheen.

View photos here.

Poa, I say, poa!

2011-08-02T04:15:00.000-07:00

A customs officer, owner of a massive gut with shirt buttons struggling not to rupture stops me and asks. You shua you have nothing to declare, Sah? Yes, I’m shua Mheshimiwa, I respond, mimicking his accent. Poa, he says, sufficiently impressed, waves me through. I walk out to a much pleasant Dar es Sallam than pervious visits, July being ‘winter’ here in the tropics. Jacob, the regular cab driver that my friend Jabir Habib arranges for my to and from the city is there, his toothy, happy smile a startling contrast to his dark handsome face. I say, Kareebu Tanzania he welcomes me, happily; we are off towards Tanzanite Executive Suits, a new comfortable hotel right in the middle of the city, three minutes walk to the (Khoja) Shia mosque; very convenient.

Nothing much has changed in Dar from my last visit here about 3 months ago, except more prolonged power cuts and resulting water crises that has everybody tied in knots and testy moods, including Jacob. The best way to gauge the mood of a city and her people is by talking to a cab driver, I tell ya. Jacob wants to talk; I can sense his intense desire. But he has a routine and a style, cannot be hurried, before he will give you an earful. So I wait patiently while he clears his throat, hawks loudly, healthily, opens his window and spits a heavy dose on the asphalt, expertly missing various vendors of bottled water, cashew nuts… Then, he rants away:

I say, wewe, you are lucky, living abroad. Hea, things are going to the dogs, literally. Hea, there is no umeme, no maji. Hea, we have lots of chai facilitation (bribery), many taxes and a president who spends more time abroad than home, running away from the power cuts, perhaps. Hea, mama ya watoto gets mad at me because there is no umeme, and I cannot afford a genereto. She points an accusing finger at my neighbor’s genereto every day I return home. She does not want to hear that my neighbor is a government clerk whose chai money far exceeds his salary. Then I get mad and run away from her and the watoto for some bea. I say, things are bad hea. Hea, the government officials must have a cut in everything. Well, I can understand these thugs need to eat and have generetos and many girlfriends and that is okay. But they want to drink all of India’s chai production in one gulp, not small sips. If they sipped it, they would enjoy it better and we would have some funds left over for umeme, water and other services and that would be fine. But they want the whole thing, these bastards. You know what happens if you take a big gulp of hot, steamy chai, no?

Jacob does another (angry) hawking, spitting show before continuing.

I say, hea, the government brings Chinese to work on the new (airport) terminal. Well, actually, they bring in the Chinese to work on everything. But them Chinese, they are no fools, they put their women to work as well. They bring in the women who sell their white skins to poor drunk Africans. I say, so now we have a new problem hea - Chinafs. Chinese Africans. You go to the housing settlement near the airport and you will find a dozen of these Chinafs watotos running around half naked. You Waheendees are not like us Africans, we love white skin, so we get drunk and flood to the Chinese in Kariakoo. But you Waheendees, you stick to your own and go to mujraas in Upanga and garland those pretty dancers with wide eyes and nimble fingers with millions of shillings. Then, if there is trouble, the girl is replaced pronto and another pretty one comes along. I say, things are bad hea. Haya Bwana, tumefika hoteli. Poa!

Hmmm…how interesting. No?

I stay in Dar es Sallam for a day, and then fly to Mwanza in the west with my good friend Murtaza Bhimani for a day to finalize a school building project for poor African children. This is my first visit to this lake city, which is a pleasant surprise. Clean and quiet pretty, Mwanza is on the move, economically; there is no shortage of power or water here.

Returning to Dar is depressing, what with crippling power cuts, din of generators spewing noxious diesel fumes - all making it a chore walking, talking or hearing on the streets. I meet Mulla Mchungu at the mosque and he immediately pounces on me. This wealthy Mulla is a long distance relative of mine, a staunch, pious Muslim and an even stauncher Khoja. He claims he has been to hajj 20 times and even more trips to Iraq and Iran for ziyaarah. Masha’Allah, aqeeq rings adorn his fingers and a dark blotch on his forehead gives him an apt pious Khoja Muslim look. Why are you here, Yusufali, he breathes at me, flashing very white false teeth into a sinister grin, looking for donations? Halaat bauwaj kharaab che, Bana! Business saroo nathi, Bana! I assure him it is not his donations I am after; he visibly relaxes.

We talk of this and that, wasting my time until he startles me. We are calling a very popular reciter for the first 15 days of Ramadhan, he whispers, as if in conspiracy. He names a name that I know is pricey. We are paying him US$1,600 a lecture... I am stunned; feel blood drain from my face, but recover quickly, protesting. But I thought you just said things are pretty bad, business is bad and people are suffering! His face registers distaste as he digests this. Bah! This is for Allah, gando, you cannot put a price to that now, can you…? I make a vague excuse and increase the distance between us; for I am terrified I might utter something so rude I will severely later regret. I convince myself to poa.

But most people I know seem to be doing okay, I see. Swanky new buildings, most Asian / Arab built, are coming up fast-fast, cars are new and trendy but the most telling tale of economic condition anywhere is restaurant business. I am of the opinion most Waheendees in Dar do not cook food. From late morning to late night, I notice, restaurants are jam-packed. I am invited to eat out by many families / friends during my brief stay and most eating-places are swarming with familiar faces from the mosque.

On Wednesday, eve of my departure, after magreeb salaat, Jabir treats me to mishkaaki and nundu at Muchachos, a very good barbecue joint in Upanga. It is a delightful treat indeed and we feast hungrily. Then comes a call from Zeenat, my niece. She is at Mambos and the place is packed, no place to park. I advise her to come to Muchachos but the meat and fat are sold out by the time they get there. So they go to Balis, then to Delhi Darbaar, same fate. Finally, at about 9:30, they finally find an empty table at Mambos. I say…

Halaat bauwaj kharaab che Bana!

Poa!

Interpreting Dreams, Death, Paradise And Loss Of Attentive Maidens With Eyes Cast Down?

2011-07-02T13:06:00.000-07:00

Womenfolk reading this blog may not be too thrilled about the subject matter, perchance. To them, my apologies and a sincere plea to please read this piece in the tongue-in-cheek manner intended?

Part One

My late Mama, may Allah bless her soul, was usually, uncannily, spot-on at dreams fruition, good or bad. She got into an embarrassing predicament one time, she told me once, after she related to her madressa teacher, a dream of his mother passing away, only a few days before the lady did actually die. He never did look at Mama ‘normally’ after that incident, treating her with utmost care. This teacher, or maa’lim as Mama called him, was to later caution her not to peak of the dreams loosely, as she, Mama, might have a special ability in this area. So Mama was very selective in talking about her dreams openly and related only the good ones to me.

They say you never realize how much someone means to you until they are not around anymore. How true. Not that Mama was an interpreter of dreams, but I am certain she would have helped ease my current predicament; devilish dreams tormenting my mind, like the stomping of amateur Whirling Dervishes on my nerves. Let me tell you about a gory nightmare I had last week.

I am outside my own body witnessing my decapitation by a Bin Laden looking type of man (he is dead, yes?). After the beheading, (which is strangely pain free), my head is carried on a tray by my nephew Mohammed Hemraj to a room full of relatives and friends who are (strangely, distressingly) unemotional; it would have been nice to see a tear or two, Bwana. Mohammed places the tray with the bloodless head on a table and everybody gathers around to examine me, including myself, and we all remark how serene and peaceful I look.

This nightmare is interrupted by fajr prayer alarm going off; I am up in an instant, heart thumping and mind dumbfounded. After the initial shock from the traumatic reverie, I settle down and dismiss it to a routine nightmare. Not so, for I have the exact repeat dream this morning – in precisely the same detail, cutoff again by the salaat alarm. Coincidence? Premonition? I am off to Afghanistan next week, thus the disquiet in my mind and a yearning for Mama’s comfort and counsel.

Part Two

Sheikh Nooruddeen is a fine preacher that HIC here in Sanford, FL invites for a lecture whenever required. He is a convert to Islam and educated in Qum with a remarkable grasp of Islamic history. His lecture on eve of Meraaj is predictably excellent, inspiring, reveling and thoroughly enjoyable. He gives a detailed account of the events of Meraaj, some which were quite, for me, new. He then digresses somewhat and drops a bombshell.

Death, to me at least, holds promises, promises of bountiful rewards, as a recompense for goodness on earth and a determined attempt at obeying Allah, His messenger, (natural) leaders from his progeny and other companions; those that matter. My very vivid imagination conjures up these rewards strikingly; gardens under which rivers flow, abundance of fruits and flesh of fowl of every kind, unlimited, as much as the heart desires, and virtuous intoxicating wine, and peace, only peace… Hearty steaks, hamburgers and hotdogs would be nice as well but I haven’t, so far, found any references to animal meat served in haven. And the plum, rajah, apex of all rewards? Why, attentive, obedient maidens with eyes cast down, off course! I don’t need all 72, a handful of these tending to my every need and desires suit me just fine.

Not so, perhaps, according to Sheikh Nooruddeen! Eh? Say what? New research, says Sheikh Nooruddeen, may suggest references to these maidens are something other than attentive, obedient maidens with eyes cast down. What a letdown! I feel betrayed, like someone has smacked me with a sucker punch! You mean I have tried to behave all these years and no attentive, obedient maidens with eyes cast down as dessert?

Can we please stop this new research? I (and absolutely all reasonable men, I am sure) am very comfortable with the initial, literal meaning. We cannot dampen fourteen centuries of yearning, blissful dreams and hope, yes? Can I do rujuh to another aalim if this research is valid but ambiguous? I beg, I plead…I, I, I demand a stop to ijtihaad in this matter! Pretty please?

Bosnia's Killing Fields

2011-06-19T07:32:00.000-07:00

Kamal Pejmahovic, at first glance, looks intense, a loner, angry, even. A tall, handsome, sturdy man of about 40, Kamal works for the Islamic Center in Sarajevo as a handy man, responsible for everything between required repairs to cleaning and general maintenance; he is very good at what he does, a dependable man to have around. I was told he suffered atrocities under the Serbs and lost a lot of family. This was an opportunity for me to know and understand the pain of these victims, so I requested, and Kamal agreed to talk to me on June 13. Here, then, is Kamal’s tragic past, as translated to me.

I am one of 12 children, the youngest. Growing up, my family practiced a very strict tier system; the older sibling to you got the same respect accorded to a parent, no question asked. So Hassan, the eldest, was obeyed and respected blindly, as were others older to me.

Under Marshal Tito, childhood was carefree, spent raising sheep, playing and frolicking in the beautiful countryside. Each sibling had a few animals that (s)he was responsible for. The family unit was generally happy, practicing Sunni Muslims. I experienced little or no trouble with Serbs or Croats, except for minor discrimination at school. Life was generally good.

At age 21, I worked as a maintenance mechanic in Serbia. Increasing aggression of Serbia, aided by Bosnian Serbs, followed Bosnian independence in 1992. When the Bosnian war with Serbia began in earnest, Hassan decided that I would stay away from it, as all rest of men in my family were already serving actively in the Bosnian Army. I married and ended up living in Tuzla, constantly fretting about my siblings but was ordered by Hassan to stay away from the front lines.

When shelling from the Serbs got too intense and excessively close for comfort, Hassan’s family and other siblings escaped into the jungle where they lived for almost a year, foraging for food; coming to join me Tuzla was not possible. Hassan knew the terrain very well, so he used to go scouting surrounding villages in search of food and other survival musts. It was during one such trip that the Serbs caught, tortured and executed him; his body was dumped with thousand others into mass graves. The Serbs, fearing international penalties for their criminality, tried scattering remains of mass graves all over Bosnia. But DNA techniques prevailed and thousands of victims have been identified this way with 99.95% certainty the remains are of the person in question.

Ahmed, closest to me due to our minimal age difference, simply vanished one fine day. His remains were matched using DNA technique most recently. Both Hassan and Ahmed are laid to rest next to each other at the massacre memorial in Potocari. (Kamal had bitterly wept during our yesterdays visit with him there).

My siblings and other families fled to the ‘safe havens’ set up by the UN and NATO at a massive abandoned vehicle battery factory at Potocari. Urged and arm-twisted by the UN and NATO, who assured the refugees and us Muslims total safety, the Bosnians Army handed in their arms. According to numerous witnesses, the Serbs were seen chortling with the Dutch UN battalion, who were supposed to be protecting our mainly Muslim refugees.

The UN contingent closed the ‘protected’ camp to additional refugees after 6,000 but there were at least 40,000 Muslims between Serb front line and the ‘camp’ that offered refuge. The Serbs targeted these; all men over 12 were separated from the women and eventually executed and buried in mass graves. I lost 40 members out of 46 from my extended village clan. Many of our women were raped. All these atrocities were committed under the watch of UN / NATO forces.

When I eventually returned to Srebrenica, I came back to a broken community. The EU and US offered opportunities for a better, safer life in the West but I preferred staying back to care for my aged and emotionally devastated parents. There was also at this time, a lot of garbage being printed by the Salafits and Wahabees about Shia Islam that intrigued me. Research proved otherwise, so I happily became a Shia Muslim and now live very close to the Islamic Center in Sarajevo with my wife, 2 children and aged parents.

I put the blame of the Bosnian Muslims genocide squarely on the shoulders the international community, especially the UN. I believe the UN failed the Bosnian Muslims miserably, especially the Dutch contingent that was, at best, tacit bedfellows with the murdering Serbs.

As translated to me on the morning of June 13, 2011 at Sarajevo, Bosnia.

There is, at Potocari, a nice war memorial for those felled by Serb atrocities, partly, ironically, funded by the Dutch Government, a haunting testimony, perhaps, of (some) guilt?

Bosnia The Beautiful

2011-06-18T15:23:00.000-07:00

Bosnia Herzegovina (BH) is on my wish list of countries to visit for quiet sometime, so when Orison Charitable Trust (OCT) in the UK offers me an opportunity to join their group visiting June 8 – 13, why, I seize it.

The start, however, does not have an auspicious beginning. It is a wet morning of June 8 when Mohsinbhai Jaffer, Nazir Merali, Mujahid Shareef and I board an Austrian flight in London that will fly us to Sarajevo via Vienna. The highly German accented pilot informs us we have to wait 40 minutes due to inclement weather; just as we are to take off later, the aircraft runs into technical hiccups. We are deplaned 2 hours later; the flight is cancelled; I have to re-enter UK, retrieve my luggage and rebook. I am bushed, having flown overnight earlier this morning from Orlando via NY. The penalty of not being a EU national is an immigration clearance line that snakes all the way inside the airport terminal that takes 90 minutes to clear.

True to British love for queues, we are made to wait and wait and wait in lines to be processed for the next available flight. After waiting around for about 4 hours, we are given a flight next morning and a comfortable nearby hotel. But it is compromised sleep. I know not how the British manage waking up at 2:30M for fajr salaat; can you imagine a London Ramadhan in June?

Our flight next morning to Sarajevo via Vienna is eventless; we land at Sarajevo Airport and it is delight after delight that greet us after we clear immigration and customs. Shabbar Abdallah, Kamal Pejmanovic and Shareef from the Center greet us at the airport. BH is an astonishingly beautiful country, a piece of haven, I tell you Bwana; Switzerland, at 1/3rd of the cost. OCT has built a very well planned and cute little center for new Bosnian Muslims and it is a housing complex next to it that is our home for the next 3 wonderful days.

Basic infrastructure of roads, power, water, telephones are excellent. BH is blessed with incredibly green rolling hills; I go bananas reveling at all the blessings she has. Just looking at my surroundings is a delight and much comfort to the eye. There is a cherry tree right behind the house and all I have to do is walk up to it and pick the sweet, juicy fruit for a treat. We relax and meet up with the Bosinan Muslim community the day we arrive; enjoy lovely lunch that Abdullah’s wife has prepared us.

After an hours early morning brisk walk up steep surrounding hills by Abdullah, Nazir and I to burn off calories of yesterday, we drive to old Sarajevo the next day and take in the sights. Legend has it that water fountains in bazaars are in honor of Imam Hussein (A). What surprises me most is how much the city resembles Istanbul; steep mosque minarets, narrow winding bazaars, restaurants selling kebabs (pronounced Chebaab)…until I realize it was Turkish rule that held sway here for hundreds of years. We dig into a mountain of these Chebaabs for lunch, yummy. Except for Mujahid of course, he likes his meat further halaled by smothering of Indian spices, garlic, ginger…

Destination the second day some 95 miles away, is Mostar, much warmer and flatter than Sarajevo, but as pretty. It is a city much divided, with Muslim East and Croat, Serbian Christian West wary of each other after years of war and subsequent genocide of Muslims that ensued. Both communities operate their own civic amenities, hospitals, schools, municipal services, Although many war scars have been restored, repaired, I see many bullet ridden and bombed buildings intact. While the situation is normal for now, it remains tense, with Vatican meddling in and support of Catholic Croats a raw issue with Muslims.

The highlight of Mostar is a visit to Abdallah’s in-laws just outside the city. The house, nestled in a cove beyond the city is from a fairytale. Blissfully serene, with a garden full of fruit trees and a crystal clear river pregnant with fish, flow at the bottom of a ridge behind the house. Plum, apricot, cherry, apple, peach, kiwi, strawberry and pear trees dot the garden. Why, the scene is enough to drive even diehard fruit lovers nuts!

Our final day ends with a heavy heart; tears and sadness greet us in Srebrenica. After Yugoslavia fell apart, the country disintegrated into war, with aggressive Serbs hell bent on avenging their domination and rule by Muslim Turks for over 5 centuries. About 9,000 Bosnian defenseless Muslims, under supposed UN (and NATO) protection, were massacred in a genocide that stunned the modern world; the horror of it all hangs dense at Potocari, where 8,370 graves bear testament of the atrocities.

BH is a gem; in beauty and hospitality; visit it, if you can, it certainly beats any Western European country, but at a third of the cost. It is blessed with many resources that I suspect has a short life, once the country gets really discovered.

The Shia Muslim community of BH is small but with much potential, with proper guidance and support from groups like OCT that has contributed much towards their development. They need long term nurturing however, and continued support to OCT is essential. CAI will support English-speaking classes for the youths at our center; this will keep them together and support their struggle at schools and employment.

You may want to watch some startling, wonderful photos of my trip here.

Back in the USA!

2011-05-26T16:22:00.000-07:00

Phew! It has taken us about 3 (hard) weeks to kinda settle down here in super quiet Sanford, Florida. India is already a fading memory; cannot believe we divorced each other not even a month ago. Coming back is a stressful delight but we are very fortunate to have a very supporting Amina Bhabhi and her wonderful, welcoming home; we would be miserably lost without her hospitality and generosity.

From the moment I land at JFK, to my connecting flight and the drive home from Orlando airport, I look at my surroundings with dazed awe. Yes, I am zonked with jetlag from flying 20 plus hours but unbelievably elated to be back in the USA, my home - interrupted for 3 years due to a bad marriage to India.

My brand new home takes an extra week to complete final touches; we move on May 14 to an eerie, empty but beautiful house that echoes every time we speak. Or fart for that matter, even. Now that almost all furniture is in place, this house looks and feels like a home – alhamd’Allah. This is a brand new community with only 22 homes planned; ours is only the 2nd one populated.

Husseini Islamic Center is a stone’s throw from our home; Maaha Zainab and Alihussein walk to it for Saturday School or prayers sometimes. It is absolutely quiet and still outside, only lush green and ponds of water. Miles and miles of forestry greet me when I run in the mornings; no, no stray dogs to bother me, no, no dog poop to look out for, no, no humans defecating openly, no, no inzzy’s, not one, no, no gutter stink, no, no vehicles hooting away as if there is no tomorrow, no, no spitting of paan or gurka....

Yes, lots of startled squirrels; some squashed to a pulp by passing vehicles, a dead armadillo, bored cows, uncaring horses busy with stuffing their mouths or with student riders on them. Yes, plenty of cow dung smell…did you know there is a company in Hamburg, Germany that is planning to market the pong of cow dung in a can? This is true, and it be priced a cool US$9.99 for about a weeks worth of wafts. Perhaps I can offer them raw material from here in Sanford? A harmless green snake startles me this morning; it seems more scared of me than I of it. Without realizing, I get close to Lake Jesup and run almost close to the thick swamp near the water. A sign warns me of crocodiles, in and off water.

I turn around and run back...in a hurry.

I missed you, good old USA!

7 Days Of Tea In Afghanistan

2011-05-09T19:37:00.000-07:00

I have blogged a considerable amount about my forays into Afghanistan, to a point further narrative, from me, perhaps, might seem excessive repetition. So I will let someone who accompanied me this last trip in April (my 18th, his 1st) tell the story of our adventures in rural Afghanistan, perhaps the most beautiful and cruel place on earth.

I was lucky to have the company of 2 very capable and successful businessmen accompany me this time; I will be ever grateful for their dedication, patience, forbearance and delightful company over 7 days we were together. Dear GVSS and HYL, the 7 days without your company would have been long and humdrum, at least; so thank you for coming, for your advice and solidarity, and for your company, off course. So here it is, a chronology of our days in Afghanistan accompanied by some wonderful photos, in the words of HYL:

I am a long term, diligent supporter of CAI and her worldwide projects, but the prospect of accompanying Yusufali to Afghanistan filled me with dreadful, fearful excitement. The whole trip was filled with escapades, certainly, but it was more than only adventure. Afghanistan a country of contrasts; beautiful and beastly. It took my breath away, soaring above 15,000 feet, the mountains of snow and valleys of pasture green, populated by sheep and goats feasting on fresh, delicious springtime pasture. But I also witnessed non existing, impassable ‘roads’ where we had to give our vehicle a helping hand sometimes, the appalling poverty of countryside Afghans, absent sanitary or medical facilities and mind-boggling lack of education opportunities for her children, always a heartbreaker, for me. And the tea, off course; Afghans drink lots and lots of tea; for warmth in the winter, one reason. I had more than enough to last me a lifetime in my 7 days of tea in Afghanistan.

Day 1: The flight from Dubai, delayed by over an hour, lands in Kabul, a military stronghold of sorts, with NATO choppers seemingly landing or taking off all at once. The airport is security wacky, the only spot we are not body searched is where the sun does not shine. We walk a considerable way before Yusufali and his teams of 2 engineers greet us, beyond another security corridor. We drive through a grimy, potholed city to inspect the massive Imam Hussein School built by CAI which educates over 3,400 children. Evening is at a rented house in a ‘safe’ neighborhood where we have lamb barbecue, Africa style. The bathroom door does not close; we have to leave footwear outside to let others know it is occupied. We drink lots of hot tea.

Day 2: Fajr namaaz is at 3:45 in Kabul late April; I am relieved I do not spend Ramadhan here! We have to be at the airport by 5:45 for our 60 minutes chartered flight to Yawkawlang. The security process is somewhat relaxed because CAI is a registered NGO and we fly a UN subsidized aircraft. The single propeller Kodiak 100 aircraft has weight restrictions so all of us and baggage are scaled, we all pass; GVSS gets to sit by the pilot, lucky him. The takeoff is smooth, the flight smoother and the view, oh, a super, super delight. The pilot, a terrific, soft spoken, very polite American with an unlikely name of Aziz treats us with a slight detour over Band Ameer, an enchanting cluster of lakes with startling blue green water. Aziz has to make a very low pass over the dirt track runway to make sure it is clear of large stones or other obstructions. So we drop, drop and almost touchdown before Aziz abruptly turns the aircraft into a sharp vertical assent; we turn around and make a bouncy landing into a cloud of dust minutes later.
A battered but somewhat comfortable vehicle drives us to delicious breakfast at a local businessman’s home; yummy warm naan, cream, cheese and eggs; we drink lots of hot tea. The crisp, cold air of Afghanistan keeps my metabolic rate elevated, my stomach ready hungry. We then drive 2 hours to Sachek where CAI operates a small medical clinic that caters for about 9,500 most wrenched families I have ever seen. These are dirt poor, traumatized people who at times have to start by 4AM from remote areas to walk to the clinic – in the spring and summer; winters are impossible. I get a good feeling I am a part of this healing process.
We retire at the clinic in the doctor’s room; the nights are chilly, the washroom outside, a hole in the ground without a roof and a curtain for a door, I carry ice cold water in a lota. I make sure I cough adequately to warn others whenever I am in it; there are 16 sharing others that may possibly want relief.

Day 3: We start driving at 5:30; the sun is up and bright, providing much needed warmth. We are going to Belkhaab, about 10 hours away. A 7.2 miles (12 km) water distribution system by CAI for 30,000 people without drinking water is nearing completion and we want to inspect it. This is grueling drive through toughest non existing roads I have ever seen. At times, we have to leave the car and give it a push to overcome steep curves. We stop at a tiny village that has a battered elementary school, perhaps CAI’s next school project? About 300 children study is horrible facilities (see photos). We drive into Belkaab dog tired and dirty. A rented engineers quarters with a sauna like (charcoal heated Bukhara) bathroom is our home for 2 nights; we refresh and have a sumptuous dinner in the presence of the local Governor of Belkhaab Province. We drink lots of hot tea.

Day 4: 8AM and we are out to inspect the water project; I am very impressed. The engineers have done a superb job with the project (see photos) which is almost complete and will insha’Allah be fully implemented by end of June 2011. We rest plenty, catch-up on sleep; tomorrow is another hard drive day. We also drink lots of hot tea.

Day 5: We start early again; the drive becomes steamy as we leave the mountains and enter lowlands. We cannot lower the windows, which will allow fine dust to choke us, so they are wound shut, cooking us. Goshfundi welcomes us after 5 hours of hard driving; we proceed to a brand new medical clinic where CAI is to start services for the poor and destitute beginning Rajab 13, insha’Allah. Rest, dinner, lots of hot tea and sleep at a local supporter house with bathroom about 100 yards away from sleeping quarters, within animal quarters. Yusufali gets a nasty scare squatting next morning, for he looks up to see a pair of large round saucer eyes focused on him; a curious cow wondering why a human squats for relief, perhaps?

Day 6: An important day; grand opening of a brand new school for CAI, mashaa’Allah! A beautiful 7 classroom elementary school in Sarepole, about 2 hours from Goshfundi; home to about 3,200 refugees twice over, once from Afghanistan to Iran and now recently expelled from Iran. Penniless and destitute, they rot in a desolate plain, living in cheap tents provided by UNHCR supported by handouts. Yusufali stumbled upon children shivering in the open last year, using dirt as study material from teachers and volunteers; a dream for a modest school becomes reality. After an hour long opening ceremony at a neighborhood mosque that includes plenty of hot tea, a ribbon is cut and the school becomes official. We proceed to Mazar Sherriff for my final day in Afghanistan. I see asphalt roads for the first time in 6 days; we drive into busy, hot, chaotic and stinking Mazaar – back to civilization?

Day 7: We get a proper bathroom with hot running water at a local hawza, finally; although it is still on carpets and stone like pillows we sleep on; but there is lots of tea…. We inspect a poor neighborhood north of Mazaar where CAI has a few seep water well projects. The community is parching dry, with inordinate time taken in water procurement, mainly by women and children. CAI will take on additional well drilling projects if funding and other logistics allow. With a leisure visit to the shrine of Ali Ibne Abu Taalib (not the Imam) in the afternoon, we retire very early for our next morning’s very early flight to Kabul and onwards to Dubai with GVSS; Yusufali will stay behind for another day to tie up loose ends.

Afghanistan is an eye opener, her problems myriad and complex, impossible for any one person or entity to solve. But there is promise, and amazing progress, from the likes of Comfort Aid International. If we continue doing our part and focus support primarily on education, the future will definitely reap a healthier community; it has to. For now, my conscience will only allow me to do my share for these people who are not only the poorest of the poor but oppressed due to no fault of theirs.

HYL.

Watch photos here.

CAI? Central Asian Institute / Comfort Aid International

2011-05-07T15:43:00.000-07:00

Much has been written, blogged, talked, scrutinized and analyzed after 60 Minutes episode about Greg Mortensen and his activities with Central Asian Institute (CAI). There has been understandable outcry against alleged abuses and misappropriation of funds meant to better education standards in Pakistan and Afghanistan. However, as experience always teaches us, there is always another side of any story. Even if half the 170 schools CAI claims were actually built, this is remarkable and praiseworthy. Of course Greg Mortensen (and or his CAI) needs to be held accountable for any misuse or misappropriation of funds

Schools not being used or staffed in a place like Afghanistan is not believable; I should know, I have been to Afghanistan 18 times as part of (ironically) Comfort Aid International – CIA! I have personally seen children shiver as cold winds scream from surrounding mountains as they try study under open skies or in tattered tents. Like everything in life, the answer is in balance; balance between needs and wants. I am totally convinced all schools built in Afghanistan will educate children; later, if not immediately. The government of Afghanistan is very corrupt yes, but has in place systems to get teachers and (some) books to the remotest part of that wrenched country if you build them a school. CAI (ours) has built 7 schools in some of the most remote parts of Afghanistan; all operate normally. Even if 10% of children, especially girls, who go to our schools become productive members of society, responsible parents and ensure their children are not left illiterate, why, we have won a grueling battle.

There is a need, at times, when scholarships and tuition will also make a difference. In urban cities of India, Pakistan and East Africa, it makes little sense to build schools, even in very poor neighborhoods; scholarship support is an ideal alternative and this is exactly what our CAI has focused on, with amazing results. There are hundreds of success cases of poor students making it out of poverty into life of comfort and privilege, it humbles and amazes me how simple the process can be, really.

Greg Mortensen, I think, was overambitious; ran before he could properly walk. I am not going to comment about the accuracy of his books, I do not know, I was not there. He did err in mixing his book business with that of CAI (his). But the schools that he did actually build will be of benefit to the children of Afghanistan and Pakistan; of this I am fairly certain. Emotions are a big factor in what motivate us aid workers. For me, a child studying in the open and using dirt as books is a no brainer; this is not acceptable, a small modest school will happen, if I have anything to do with the situation. It is easy being a critic sitting in a warm, safe, comfortable room thousands of miles away and pounding away at a keypad; for the real deal, I suggest a few days somewhere in Yawkawlang, Sacheck, Bamiyan, Belkhaab, Goshfundi, Daikundi, Ghazni, Sarpole…, an expanse of Afghanistan so remote and desolate, so poor and people so traumatized, it will make you question if mankind has any conscience.

My latest trip report to Afghanistan with photographs coming up soon, insha’Allah.

A Mutah...perhaps? Final

2011-04-15T07:56:00.000-07:00

To diehard Indian admirers, who cannot bear the criticisms of dark sides of this great country, this article is not for you - please hit the delete button NOW! For the rest, this narration is strictly my opinion, experiences through my eyes as a resident of India the last 3 years. I love this country, my forefathers were born here; I laugh and genuinely am happy for her in her successes and grieve when she hurts and is down. But I am no idealist, glossing over India rising, at the expense of sometimes impossible to cope and complex tribulations. Enjoy...maybe.

...Continued.

4. Wealth: Yes, tiny minorities of your children are making (too) much money; some so much that common sense takes flight. Would you need a 27 storied home with 60 servants, your own helipad, parking garage, etc to make a family of 6 comfortable, Jaan? Wacky, no? One can spend wealth responsibly, one can flaunt wealth stupidly. The Tatas, eager for a pat on the head by a 'white' establishment gifts $50 million to Harvard University! What kind of a batty gesture is that?! Why not spend the money to educate slum children living in your very backyards basic education on hygiene so they can stop defecating on the streets? Go figure! Oh well, all families have some nuts in them, I guess.

5. Education: With great struggle, I put my daughter to a 'good' (read expensive) school, affiliated to some prestigious Australian academia. This way, Maaha Zainab would not have to learn Marathi that is being forced down so many throats. As soon as she is in, we are 'encouraged' to have her take tuition classes after school at a cost almost equal the school fees. This is an industry in itself in you, Jaan; how can you tolerate such blatant fleecing of parents hard earned money? Teachers deliberately defer coaching important exam passing material to force after school tuition classes. I am ashamed to admit I have given in and dole out the moola; unavoidable, it's the system. Have you seen government schools in rural areas of you? One word - disgusting: with absent teachers who work elsewhere and pocket paychecks from the government; non-existing books, classrooms with light bulbs stolen and desks so wobbly, so filthy, a child risks injury sitting on it. I try to find a quality medical school for my son; there are plenty. I have to pay hefty fees all right, and a donation (read bribe) of $100,000; please don't ask for a receipt. What? Why?!!! The Principal looks surprised at my outburst. He shrugs his bony shoulders, blows garlic breath towards me, gives me a toothy smile then mutters, Our rules... This is repeated over and over again at every school we try, the donation amount (and my blood pressure) elevating along. I wonder what these graduating doctors do once they graduate; transact business to repay loans or treat your sick.

6. Apathy: The middle class are making good money in your cities and these are in a buying binge. Refrigerators, air-conditions, washers, dryers, televisions..... I buy all these; brand names, brand new with a 1 year warranty. They work fine, for exactly 1 year. And then, and then, I swear, one after another, they go kaput. I literally spend hours on the phone trying to get (paid) service. I shout, I demand, I very nearly break down in frustration. Phones are not answered; promises are never kept, ever. On lucky days, a repairman may finally arrive and fix the problem; only to have the same issue crop up again in a week's time. Then, I am told there are no parts available and I'll have to wait, wait, wait... I try complaining, the call never gets transferred to a supervisor; he or she is busy in a meeting, leave a number, the call is never returned. These manufacturers are so busy making, selling, who cares about after sales service? The TV repairman, I give him $5 once and waitlisted parts show up mysteriously next day; the problem never recurs. In my mind, a bulb flashes; I get it. I grease all others for a service already paid; it's the system, yaar.

7. Oops, a Muslim: There are housing coops in Mumbai where a Muslim stands no chance of buying or renting an apartment. She won't be refused; it's illegal, at least in law books. She'll be harassed; bring this or bring that document; she'll go round and round until she's tizzy and tire; give up. I am Muslim, but a US national (same Indian wheat skin color, black eyes, hair and looks, except for a slight tangy American accent, perhaps) so the going paradigm puts me above an Indian Muslim, so I get in; see how racist you have become, Jaan? Some exceptionally bright and talented Muslim students are denied admission to top schools just because of religion; this rarely mattered before, nai, Jaan? These are not my observations or findings; these are your own government statistics.

8. Cricket: You win the Cricket World Cup and rightfully go bananas; time for much fiesta and pride being Indian, more so that you beat arch rival Pakistan in the semi finals. Why, even the usually grumpy Prime Minister and usually unruffled Soniaji cannot contain their emotions. All good, no? Then, you dole out over US$3 million taxpayer's money to the winning players; this, in addition to hefty compensation already earned by them. This payout is to some of your wealthiest citizens...makes sense to you? Your children have great successes in running very profitable companies in the West; why not have them come and drive some common sense and value of money to your politicians?

9. Finally: India Shining? India Raising? India the biggest democracy in the world? These slogans are pathetically so removed from reality, I want to laugh, but I am truly anguished about these illusions. Merely a front for the outside world or narcotics working overtime perhaps, to drown you off stark realities. You allow tons food to rot in storage but do nothing because of political pressure; young couples get hacked to death because they are of different castes yet you take lethargic or no action, just to appease vote banks? You kill innocents in Kashmir and Northeast and justify these to the world as self defense (hues of Israel?). India Sullied and India Sinking are more apt descriptions. These words from a well known but hated Indian activist: We have proved to the world - and to ourselves as well - that we are a third world banana republic which is sinking into a bottomless pit.

Not all is lost perhaps; there is a growing class of your children who are getting a decent education, those that can afford it. My fervent prayers and hope are for these to change the status quo, eventually, and vote for leaders out of rational, not Bollywood infected emotions. That votes will not be bought or coerced, rather, cast on basis of competency and logic.

So there, I am done ranting and raving. I am leaving you, Jaan, going back to the USA; my children deserve a better quality of life. I demand a divorce. I am not sure how long this process will take (who knows how much or who to bribe at this point?) but it must happen. I still love you, very much, and will surely miss you...

I heard you! Good riddance is not a nice thing to say to a former lover and departing guest. But I will not completely cut off my ties to you. I still want to come visit you, as a pardesi perhaps? We can recapture our lost affection this way? A Mutah...perhaps?

Blog ends.

A Mutah…perhaps? Part One

2011-04-15T03:02:00.000-07:00

To diehard Indian admirers, who cannot bear the criticisms of dark sides of this great country, this article is not for you – please hit the delete button NOW! For the rest, this narration is strictly my opinion, experiences through my eyes as a resident of India the last 3 years. I love this country, my forefathers were born here; I laugh and genuinely am happy for her in her successes and grieve when she hurts and is down. But I am no idealist, glossing over India rising, at the expense of sometimes impossible to cope and complex tribulations. Enjoy…maybe.

My dearest India,

I struggle arduously, my dear, debate if I should write to you, whether my pleas will make any difference to the sad state of affairs within you. Not, most probably. But I write nevertheless; what to do yaar, old habits die hard, na? You will definitely not agree with what I say after I am finished, and that’s okay; fiery frustrations will ease off my chest. These have been boiling up in me since I migrated to you from USA in early 2008 with my family. You see Jaan, my ancestry is Indian, and I wanted my daughter who was 7 then to get a taste of life in the land of my great grandparents. A land that is great and diverse; to a pardesi, a visitor, a cocktail of frenzied delights and disgusts.

When I first see you way back in 1980, I fall in love, instantly, with all of you, the whole country. You seduce me then, with your exotic Goa and Kerala, historic Agra and Jaipur, rustic and rural UP and Bihar; your cuisine of heavenly handi kebabs of Lahore and dosa delights of Chennai and ras malais relishes of Kolkata; the summer mango madness, your fascination with everything Bollywood. The people in your belly generally are, well, for want of a better world, innocent; welcoming, warm and oh, so hospitable. So you entrap me, with your lovely body; like a temptress in a local mujra and I drink in your heady jasmine. The more I come to you, the headier is your grip until I can bear it no more. I too, want to be near you, inside you.

So I pack up from Houston and move to Mumbai where I have few friends and relatives. Things get off fairly well for a few months of our marriage. But then, slowly, surely, like a jealous husband suspecting a wayward wife, I notice anomalies. You realize I am now a mere resident, not a novel outsider, so you gradually turn on me; the novelty fades, your glances at me are not exclusive any more but furtive, perhaps seeking adventures not of my domain. Our differences commence as irritants mostly, but you, my Jaan, have definitely changed, you have many more admirers, many more seducers. You are booming, economically, with GDP nearing 9%, you are reckless in greed and disregard, sheer neglect. In quantity, you ape the West blindly but shun quality.

Sorry Jaan, I will be very candid, and what I say should hurt; I doubt it however, previous experiences a painful reminder, I now realize you really don’t give a rat’s arse.

The following list of gripes about you infuriate me, to a point my doctor is genuinely alarmed about my blood pressure’s equilibrium:

1. Corruption: I see you are ready for a defensive rebuttal; hold it! Yes, I know corruption is a scourge of every developing nation. Perhaps. But you so proudly proclaim you are now a developed nation, no? Why, even Obama couldn’t contain himself, dancing into frenzy, proclaiming India had arrived; other ‘major’ world leaders couldn’t wait to jig in after him. I grew up in Africa, so am aware of what chai is all about. India, you, however, beats most countries I know silly, easily on this. From the pot bellied policeman on the street corner to the Cheap, sorry, Chief Minister to almost the entire State and Central Monsters, sorry Ministers are deep in it for a slice. Want a driver’s license, want to lodge a police report, want to buy land, want to register as a foreigner, want to use a scarce public loo…? Show me the moola! Shameless. Blatant. Even the above suspicion Army; caught with their hands in the till. The media makes daily headlines of scams or scandals involving officials or lawmakers, there is outrage, horror, calls for action, all eventually futile. Time passes, new, bigger, bolder scams make for new, bigger, bolder headlines. Corruption is in your system my dear, woven into your very fabric, as intricately as an expensive sari on sale at Sheetals.

2. Apathy: Ah, you smile; I see you know what I refer to, no? You don’t care! From the monsoon potholes that jar my car and rattle my brains to the overflowing, stinking garbage heaps on street corners to the shockingly diseased, perhaps rabid cur that is furiously scavenging on top of a heap. If it takes the Supreme Court of India to rule whether stray dogs should be put down or reprieved, I know there is something pretty messed up with the system. From dog and human poop everywhere I walk, the menace of gurka spitting (national pastime, no less), people urinating and defecating in public, the stinky pong that arises from Malad to Mahim that most Mumbaites are seemingly immune to, trains cramped so tight, I am treated to hues of armpit hair wherever I turn my traumatized head, noise polluting so awful it stings my ears…. Brand new airports, supposedly worth billions of dollars, with tiles cracked and misaligned. I won’t even discuss the (un)Commonwealth Games, it will make me puke on you. A $75 million project that ended up costing $15 billion and not even half the work to show for it. Can you imagine how many schools, toilets, roads…can be built with that kind of money? Nobody cares, because funds meant to upgrade most British era infrastructure are sitting in some Neta’s Swiss bank account.

3. Goondagiri: A “political” party threatens violence for perceived insult to anything Marathi or remotely Hindu and the State (and you) kowtows. Ban Valentine Day, ban movies, ban books, ban artists, demand all storefront signs be in Marathi, demand apologies or else. In Mumbai, all non Marathis, out! Your citizens, from UP and Bihar, out! Break some bones, destroy store fronts, threaten violence, all in the name of Marathi Manoos, coerced by none other than one man at the head of civic government; your authorities wring their hands and look on; pathetically impotent. What hope do you have for your redemption if over 70% your elected lawmakers have criminal cases pending? There is a constitution and all well meaning laws within you, my dear; very few, if any, enforced or upheld. Nice to show to the UN, however, no?

To be continued...

Kenya, Tanzania Calling

2011-04-11T09:38:00.000-07:00

I say, exclaims the very black overweight immigration officer at Jombo Kenyatta International Airport in Nairobi, flashing very white teeth at me, you are born in Tanzania; so you speak Kiswahili, then?

Vizoori sana, I say, hoping my love and grasp for the language still shines. But she resorts to English, disappointing me.

So you need a visa?

Yes please, I reply.

Okay, give me money; she flashes teeth.

Startled, I ask, money?

Yes, yes, money, pesa, rubbing fingers of a hand together. For the visa, heh, heh. She bares her teeth, again.

Oh, I say, relieved. How much?

I say, she says looking at me demurely, give me what you have, I’ll give you change…if you want it back.

Huh? I hand over a crisp US$50 bill. She looks and feels it lovingly and then, leaving me flabbergasted, smells it, inhaling deeply.

Ahhh, she croons merrily, nothing smells better than a crisp dollar note, heh, heh, heh.

She turns serious abruptly, writes a receipt for US$25 and hands it to me.

You asked for 5 days stay, I give you a month, kareebu!

I am treated to a flash of teeth yet again; this is one happy mama.

Well, asante sana, I respond.

So I wait for my change but she looks at me unseeingly.

My change, Ma’am? I ask.

Oh, so you want it, sivyo?

Now she is all stern and businesslike, no flashing teeth.

Yes, please, I reply but my voice squeaks for some reason; my response comes out nervous.

Very reluctantly, like a child parting with a favorite toy, she selects a US$20 bill from a wad in her pocket large enough to choke a horse and passes it over to me. Then she returns the stack to her pocket and looks at me; we study each other, I wary, she unmoving. After what seems to be an eternity, which is actually only a few second, she lets out a long disappointed sigh, violently scratches decorated hair and scalp, gruffly reaches into her pocket, looks for a fiver and tosses it curtly on the counter and shouts next! I am dismissed; I grab my passport and walk, run towards the exit.

My due diligence trip to Nairobi, Mombasa, Dar es Sallam, Dodoma and Morogoro are very fruitful.

In Kenya, CAI helps with US$10,000 in food grains to draught stricken farmers outside Mombasa and will, insha’Allah, grant higher education scholarships worth US$25,000 to poor gifted students, especially girls, to pursue and complete a degree or vocation training enabling rapid employment.

For Tanzania, CAI is finishing up due diligence for either an elementary school in a poor neighborhood of Dar es Sallam or a vocational college for girls in Zanzibar. Additionally, CAI will grant higher education scholarships worth US$50,000 to poor gifted students, insha’Allah.

I also visit Dar ul Muslemeen run by the exceptionally talented and dedicated Muslim Bhanji in Dodoma, Tanzania. Muslims’s over 22 year’s sacrificial efforts is paying huge dividends in educating very poor and destitute children in the Dodoma area. Dar ul Muslemeen is a shining example of what a single person’s determination can achieve. The taxi ride to and from Dodoma, about 7 hours each way is an eye delight this time of year, with hues of flower color most of the way, spoilt only by numerous halts from traffic police in unrelenting pursuit of bribes. We are stopped 8 times, and chided for not carrying a first aid kit and even for discoloration of the vehicle hood!

Click here for a few photos – enjoy!

Pakistan – Reign Of Bullets…and Cricket

2011-03-28T23:44:00.000-07:00

This message is for readers of my blogs who, perhaps, may feel I complain too much about hardships in my travel pursuits. I consider myself luckiest bloody person on earth in my role with CAI as she attempts to make a positive difference to worldwide poor, destitute and downtrodden humanity; I would not trade this blessing for any worldly riches. Perhaps. I write my blogs the way I see situations, so you, the readers, may experience what I see and feel. The hardships are all worth it, for me; I only feel sadness that I get to hear countless prayers from widows, orphans and the destitute CAI helps using donor funds, the true beneficiaries of these prayers.

Punjab:
I arrive Karachi from Dubai with much trepidation; this trip was almost canceled because Pakistan decided, at the last minute, to suspend visa on arrival facilities for aid personnel. Frantic string pulls by Brigadier Zamurat Hussein of Husseini Foundation in Islamabad and an exception is made. I am given first class treatment at the immigration, escorted by an official who is waiting for my arrival at the airport. Even so, the visa is valid for 72 hours only and I have to reapply for an extension.

Karachi is dreadfully tense; there are daily target killings between supporters and opponents of MQM, which governs Karachi; the local TV station tells me 52 people have been publicly gunned down last week, in broad daylight. There is also resentment towards the federal government; they have set free Raymond Davis, the American CIA agent who gunned down 2 Pakistanis and a huge demonstration is on the cards for tomorrow. I don’t understand why; Pakistan seems to have humbled a “super power”. When the Americans ordered the release of Davis, Pakistan adamantly refused, starring down the “mighty” Americans. Davis was put through a judicial process, served jail time, paid blood money (was thus forgiven), paid a fine and was released.

After an early morning flight to Multan and an hour’s drive to Kot Addu next morning; I am ready to inspect and hand over 176 homes donated by CAI donors to flood victim. In addition to these homes, CAI donors have also contributed food grains, tents and blankets; for a detailed list, quantity and amounts for Pakistan flood relief project, click here . At Kot Addu, I meet a large delegation of people who have benefited from new homes. Also present is Brigadier Zamurat Hussein, my host and escort for the next 2 days as we drive the length of flood stricken areas of Punjab. In addition, there are 2 cameramen from Al Hadi TV, capturing on camera every small detail; picking a nose or scratching unholy places gets tricky.

Husseini Foundation has done an excellent job with the homes; they are well constructed, neat and sturdy with 100 year warranty for the roof. I wish so much that you, the donors, are present when we give the homes away. I shake hundreds of calloused farmer hands, receive heartfelt prayers and accept countless blessings from victims. Unlike Sindh, where the situation, especially of hunger, is still dire, Punjab looks promising. Ironically, flood waters have revitalized the soil and farmers are all set to have a bumper wheat and cotton harvest, insha’Allah. Miles and miles of tall wheat crop, lush rolling lands unfold before us as we drive through Punjab.

Over 2 days, we have 2 formal presentation sessions with representatives of local government in attendance, one attended by a local MP Rasheed Akber Khan. Khan has survived a suicide bomb attack by the Taliban, even though over a hundred of his constituents perished. He qualifies for official protection, from 4 mean looking heavily armed men surrounding him. This makes me very nervous because these are exactly soft spots that attract suicide attacks. I try keeping a healthy distance from him but my hosts keep drawing me in as a mark of respect. It is a very nervous hour that passes listening to him speak in Saraiki (local Punjabi dialect) to about 300 people in attendance and I am much relieved when it all ends and we depart for Dera Ismail Khan to catch a flight to Islamabad.

There is an average of 2 target killings of minority Muslims in Dera Ismail Khan daily. We are strongly cautioned by our very kind host Kaiser Abbas, not to stop anywhere until we get to the airport. No breaks; no prayer stops or bathroom break stops. The situation is so dicey even our driver is not told we are flying out from Dera Ismail Kahn airport until the last minute. Alhamd’Allah, there are no incidents and we reach the airport, say our noon prayers; we depart for Islamabad late in the day.

Bahawalpur:
I fly to Karachi the next day and extend my expired visa for another 72 hours, courtesy again of Brigadier Zamurat Hussein; it pays to be an ex army man in Pakistan. Large sections of Karachi are shut down; traders protesting the killings of 9 people just outside Sadar yesterday.

Accompanied by Afzal Fazal, chairman of Faiz e Qaim Trust, I fly to Bahawalpur next morning; we are to inspect 2 schools in poor areas, run by this Trust. I spend a restless night at a seedy hotel room where mosquitoes, my real terrorists, reign. Next morning, it is a 30 mile drive to the school. When I enter the very modest Al Abbas Primary School in Alihwan, Basti Saadat, I am showered by rose petals, so many, one or two decide to reside in my mouth; I spit them out. I meet very, very poor, emaciated but smiling children who put on a brief play in my honor. They have also tried to wear their best for my benefit.

Then I notice a 6 or 7 year old bony girl without shoes, desperately trying, and failing, to hide dirty cracked feet from my eyes; I am so shocked, speechless, I cannot think for a moment. I try to see if any other children are similarly attired but find none. The poor girl avoids my eyes; I feel (irrational) anger rise up in me at the apparent unfairness of her situation. I question the school principal, but he just shrugs his shoulders in embarrassment. Then tears come and I stupidly weep; not exactly sure why, but emotions bubble up at the memory my own comfortable childhood, perhaps. I request Afzalbhai to give 2 sets of uniforms and a pair of shoes to each of the 152 students as personal donation. CAI, will, insha’Allah construct a library, provide a water cooler and support other refurbishments the school urgently require.

The other school, Al Murtaza Secondary School, Hateji, Potla Baqar Shah is slightly better endowed; children have uniforms and appear healthy and well nourished. Here as well, I am showered with rose petals; for a brief moment am terrified I might me getting married. Again! The children put on a delightful comedy drama for my pleasure. CAI will facilitate a library and a water cooler for harsh summer months here as well, insha’Allah.

Later in the day, we leave for Karachi from Rahim Yar Khan Airport. In Karachi, there is great ruckus outside the airport; youths in motorbikes with huge Pakistan flags creating peril and nuisance for traffic, celebrating Pakistan’s cricket win against West Indies in the semi finals of the world cup. Hassanbhai Aloolo of Husseini Foundation treats me with excellent barbecued chicken as we update each other with ongoing CAI supported projects in Pakistan. I depart Karachi for Mumbai via Dubai next morning.

Click here to view excellent photos of my trip to Pakistan.

A Mast, Mast Drive To Sirsi

2011-03-21T11:05:00.000-07:00

Sirsi, in Uttar Pradesh, India is about 160 miles east of New Delhi, which takes a whopping 7 hours drive to reach in one of the most bizarre traffic conditions in terms of bewilderment. Comfort Aid International has had the good fortune of building a fine boys orphanage, complete renovation of a rundown school and I have just concluded the purchase of a property that will house about 50 girl orphans here shortly insha’Allah. This will be CAI’s 5th orphanage in India (3 boys and 1 girl already up and running). It has been my Indian experience the gentler gender almost inevitably get the short end of fairness, be it education, marriage or orphan care. While there are several orphanages that cater towards boy orphans in India, girls get second hand management; thus this endeavor.

On this particular trip, reaching Sirsi is not so bad, other than inevitable traffic chaos in bumpy, beat up roads. The orphans, when we get there, are happy, excited to see us again, garland us with flowers, an honor so readily accepted in India but one that makes me acutely uncomfortable, still. Mosquitoes, my bitter nemesis, welcome us as well, hundereds of them, even happier than the kids; I take considerable pleasure in quashing them whenever the opportunity. So it is waving around, slapping and striking myself silly that occupy my stay outside the treated room where we sleep. Allah Himself must have thought my behavior peculiar in prayer at the neighborhood mosque later on that evening, dancing like Michael Jackson, trying to keep clouds of mosquitoes at bay.

Addicted to running almost every day, I take to an empty field outside the orphanage next day, running laps, the boys watch me as a novelty. Later, I visit several homes of very poor people that have requested a proper house. This is perhaps the most unpleasant, saddening and depressing part my role at CAI; the wretched conditions of homes, pathetically hopeful look on faces of applicants and the sheer will it takes me to be detached and impartial in making a final decision. Most of these poor families live in narrow winding roads so close to each other I can see clear a neighbor changing his kameez and smell, together with that of urine and shit, pungent onions, garlic and masalas being changed into curries. I watch a grandmother, perhaps, of a little girl carefully spread newspapers on the pavement immediately in front of an open air bakery and make her squat over it. The girl obediently defecates, is cleaned up. The grandmother carefully, neatly, folds the newspaper, and then unceremoniously discards it into an open sewer nearby. I approve 6 homes to be built, each costing about US$2,000, the maximum CAI budget from donors will allow.

Later on, I spend time with the boys and conclude the deal on the new orphanage late at night. Early next morning, I depart for New Delhi for my return flight to Mumbai. The first hour of drive is eventless but then we are stuck behind a traffic snarl that is miles long. There is chaos as every driver looks for a nook to cut the other off and gain a miniscule lead. Nobody moves on either direction and nobody knows why, the driver speculates a fiery crash of vehicles up ahead. We finally inch along only to halt once more on an extensive bridge spanning the Yamuna River. I watch a pack of red assed monkeys chatter excitedly, perhaps mocking our helplessness and taking great delight at it. When the traffic does move, it is pure selfish mad rush, absolutely no curtsey shown or extended, by anyone to anyone. After about an hour, we cover the length of the bridge, only to stop completely once more.

A massively potbellied cop rests his feet on a latchi alongside an encampment, watching on goings with a bored expression. He yawns wide, then decides to pick his nose, coming away with scant valuables. Instead, he empties a sachet of tobacco into his upturned mouth. His interest perks up when he sees a tractor trying to break through the chaos by driving up a steep pile of dirt by the side of the road, sensing an alternative way through the fields beyond maybe. The cop puckers thick lips and lets out a stream of red tobacco juice, raising a cloud of fine sand at his feet. Then moving swiftly, surprisingly for a man with a pregnant gut, walks up to the tractor, clambers over it and slaps the bewildered driver silly. The cop completes the punishment with a sharp cruel twist of a scarf on the driver’s neck, then, sweating from the workout, returns to the resting spot and resumes his latent position, wiping sweat from his face.

When the traffic eventually clears, we find absolutely no cause for the snarl; abruptly, the roads clears; the driver floors the gas pedal. We stop at Bismillah restaurant, an open air affair famous for her biryani and clouds of very annoying flies. I settle for tea and delicious, fresh baked naan to the background of ear splitting Bollywood songs. Something about a Munni being defamed and some mast, mast pair of eyes tormenting an admirer…

Happy birthday to me!

2011-03-08T07:02:00.000-08:00

It is my birthday today, the Georgian one. I like my lunar birthday better, on Shabaan 5th; birthday of my 4th great Imam Sajjad (A). I sit at my desk and ponder over remarkable 54 years that have passed by; try and humor excited 10 year old Maaha Zainab’s futile attempts to keep a baked birthday cake hidden from me. She takes her birthdays very seriously, expending incredible amounts of energy in broadcasting the day way in advance, preparing for and celebrating it grandly.

I think I wore off birthday thrills pretty early in life, as soon as I realized it took a lot of money throwing the kind of parties my classmates invited me to; these created dilemmas and eventual heartache. My Mamma, Allah bless her soul, would have none of them, for she had very little money to spare, especially not on birthday gifts. So I would sulk until some solution was found; predictably repackaging of rare unused gifts to the family, even if it was a kitchen gadget, absolutely useless to the birthday boy. Reputation intact, I would go to the party with head held high, knowing the gift would be opened well after I was safely back home. When it was my birthday next, Mumma would cook something nice to take to school and there would be cake to cut at night. It was useless hoping for a party; no amount of sulking would warrant that expense.

Once though, in grade 3 (4 perhaps?), feeling brave, I invited Clara (I don’t remember her last name now) to our home for a birthday party that I impulsively invented in my head, thinking she would decline, obviously. Clara was a product of union between an Englishman and a flashy but kind Goan lady. Fair and incredibly beautiful, I (and many, many others in my class) had an overwhelming crush on her. She went home, talked about it with her Mum and next day, gave me shocking news that yes, she would come. This situation created a myriad of very sticky scenarios, the most critical being colossal loss of face in class and making a miserable fool of me in front of the most desired girl in my class.

I threw a tantrum that shocked everybody at home; I wanted to have a birthday party. There was no way I was going to be a laughing stock of my class, especially with Clara involved. Mamma and others would not budge; no party. I cried, sobbed and made myself sick and miserable in the process; still, no relenting. On the fateful day, I refused to take a cake my eldest sister Kaneezbai, may Allah bless her soul, baked me; hurting her feeling to no end. I was on pin and needles all day, trying to find a way and weasel out of this quandary; no solutions readily came to mind.

Sure enough, exactly at 5PM, the time I had invited her, Clara, a neatly wrapped gift (2 brand new tennis balls to play cricket with) in her hands, was dropped off at our very modest home by her Mum, promising to pick her up by 7Pm. I remember clearly, I could have fit the whole morning cake in my sister’s mouth, the way she gaped. But bless her soul, like the angel she was, took matters under control. The same cake was given an ice over, (by Sabira, my other sister, I think) homemade snacks, always plenty at home from Mumma’s business stock came to play, neighborhood children urgently summoned and we had a party! Why, I was the envy of my class the next day, with Clara gushing in her praise for the party; I was on the top of the world, drunk with glee.

Teenage life did bring some cheer during birthdays, with improving family economics and regular pocket money to burn. Nowadays, it is a date on the calendar; a few emails, some text messages, several Facebook greetings, fewer phone calls…wait a second, Maaha Zainab is jumping up and down beseeching me to come to the dining table; she has decorated the cake and five lit candles dance on its iced surface. I’d better go, Tasneem and Alihussein are also waiting, to sing and clap happy birthday.

The Shias Of Sri Lanka – A Tentative Beginning.

2011-03-06T08:13:00.000-08:00

Muslims in Sri Lanka number about 2 million, 10%, concentrated mostly in the east of this exotic island. There was a time when Muslims dominated business and commerce, especially in Jaffna, but war by LTTE saw atrocities against them. Scores of Muslims were gathered in mosques and grenades thrown at them; those that survived had their throats slit. So they scattered, impoverished, leaving behind everything they owned. Almost every Muslim I met expressed happiness and satisfaction with the defeat of LTTE.

The Shias of Sri Lanka number no more than about 2,000, concentrated mostly in the east of the country around Walachil and Calcuda in Batticaloa District; there are also some in Kandy and in Noorelia as well. None of these were born into Shiaism, but have reverted after reasoning and research, especially after the 1979 Islamic revolution in Iran. Though mainstream Shaafi Muslim populace of Sri Lanka is ripe for accepting madhab of Ahlebeit (A), progress has been tentative at best due to a host of reasons, mainly lack of support from Shia countries and institutes that matter in these field.

My contact point in Sri Lanka is Az Zahra Foundation headed by Sister Zaveeni and her husband Haaris Jamil, both committed to the service of humanity and very strong in their love for Ahlebeit (A). I am in Sri Lanka to oversee relief aid to flood victims of devastating floods in eastern part of the country. This will be done through Az Zahra Foundation, for they have humanitarian aid experience and credibility of several years.

Day one takes me to outskirts of Colombo, to Duwatta where many marginalized Muslims live in shacks that flood every time it rains, not unlike Govendhi and Malaad slums of Mumbai. Residents of this area are either new reverts to Shia Islam or almost there, thanks to the efforts of Az Zahra Foundation. Slowly, surely, they are guided along to the right path and gather at the Jalil residence for Dua e Tawwasul and Komail.

We are off to Walachil early next morning to survey flood damage, a distance of about 200 miles. For a ‘poor’ country, Sri Lankan roads are remarkably good and well maintained, at least compared to other ‘poor’ Southeast Asian countries. Remarkable also, is absence of filth and evil smells I have come across major urban cities of India. Even in the slums of stark poor Duwatta, there is semblance of order and cleanliness, unpolluted by the ghastly, revolting gutter smells of Govendhi or Malaad of Mumbai perhaps. An argument can be made regarding the imbalance (and management) of populations between the two; Mumbai’s 14 million is almost two thirds the whole of Sri Lanka’s 21 million, true; but comparing the economies and GDP of the city and country blows this argument away.

The scenery along the way is fantastic; that of rolling meadows and thick forests dotted with small towns and villages offering an array of fruits. It is good this is not summertime, so tropical fruits like mangoes, jack fruits etc are absent, else I would have been delirious in fruit frenzy that my hosts would probably have found peculiar. Nevertheless, yummy pineapples abound and some soursop (ramfur?); this fruit was no more than 10 cents for a healthy piece not too long ago. Prices have shot up 30 times since its cancer fighting benefits have come to light.

We get lost as we near Walachil some 6 hours later and it takes some frantic calls to get us guided to a guest house at a dairy farm. This area was out of bounds and very dangerous not too long ago under the LTTE. We are in an area rich with cattle farming and management; one company has a charming bungalow that it rents out to visitors. Modern and clean with power, even air conditioners, in the middle of nowhere, this is a pleasant surprise. We lunch on delicious fish curry that is a delight. This is a blessing throughout my stay in Sri Lanka, excellent seafood that is spiced just right. I am to be treated on fish head curry and massive prawns later on at the Jamil residence, a culinary experience that I am hard pressed to equate in the past, ever.

We then survey the damaged homes, a mission most depressing and unpleasant. As with other world areas where CAI has helped the unfortunate, I get a lot of requests from poor people appealing for home building aid. Yes, some homes are in pitiful conditions, but my mandate and budget are constrained for flood victims only; unfortunately, I have to disappoint. 12 homes within CAI budget are identified for repair / rebuilding. However, there is chorus appeal for replacement of school supplies lost in the flood from needy students. These are about 500 students that have lost school books and supplies, are finding it very difficult to continue studies without them. CAI will work towards replacing these for the most poor; soon insha’Allah.

At night, after meeting local leaders in a makeshift mosque (the community lack a mosque, Husseinya or community center) and seafood dinner, we retire as we have further home inspections and a long journey back to Colombo next day. In the morning, we visit a hauza, Man Bul Huda, a massive boarding school donated by foreign donors; Jaaferi school of thought is taught here, smack in the middle of a large Wahabi community. After another seafood lunch, we return to Colombo later in the day, stopping for a light non seafood dinner. I am happy to observe most restaurants in Colombo are Muslim owned with prayer rooms for both sexes in almost all of them.

My last day in Colombo is spent visiting a boy’s orphanage that was formed and donated by an Iraqi almost 50 years ago. I spent a delightful few hours at dinner with the Jalil family that night; Sister Zaveena, Brother Haaris, their daughter Amina and granddaughter Aariana, their son Ashique and his fiancée Zainab. My trip to Sri Lanka would not have been so comfortable and memorial without the kindness and generosity of this family for which I will ever be thankful. CAI will, in the future insha’Allah, partner with Az Zahra Foundation in service of humanity for Allah’s (S) pleasure.

I return to India next day without incident, no flight delays, crows crapping good luck on me or rickshaw drivers offering worldly pleasures.

View photos here.

Revenge Of A Crow.

2011-03-01T20:11:00.000-08:00

I watch a crow on a branch of a massive tree intently, who stares back indifferent. Because my Kingfisher flight from Chennai, India to Colombo in Sri Lank has been delayed three times already and soured my disposition, I pick up a pebble and hurl it towards where she perches, missing wildly. The crow simply hops sideways, seemingly mocking me. I resign to waiting outside the terminal in the building tropical heat and order a cup of machine brewed tea from a food stall.

So I am minding my own business, sipping the hot brew when the crow directly above me (I will not swear it was the same one that mocked me 3 minutes ago, but I know, I just know it is her!) crows loudly and voids her rectum. The aim is almost accurate; my right shoulder. I feel moistness and utter shock, drop my cup, scalding my leg in the process and look up, enraged. I utter a profanity and feel my shoulder, my fingers coming away with white-gray, stinking, disgusting goo; I retch at once.

Ayoo, says a dark fat Tamil man sitting on a massive tree root nearby, giving me a toothy grin and bobbing his head violently, ayoo. This is good luck, don’t mind, my friend. A bird shitting on one is a sign of good luck. Don’t mind, no? I glare at this good natured man; since when were we friends and does a crow qualify as a bird anyway? I am not sure who to strangle first, this Tamil or the crow. Instead, I scurry towards a pay and use bathroom close by, fumbling for change. Thank God I did not check in my bag so I had a handy change of shirt with me. After a bit of clean up and change of shirt, I am a little mollified, feel guilty at being mean at the Tamil (not the crow) and return to the tree to make amends perhaps, but the tree root is now occupied by a harassed mother trying to pacify a wailing toddler. I hurry towards the safety of departure terminal, warily stealing glances at tree branches above to make sure no further good luck omens lurk there.

Colombo airport, when I eventually land there 4 hours late, is a refreshing departure in efficiency and cleanliness from airports India wide. The smart looking female immigration officer offers a charming, hospitable smile and allows me stay for 30 days in her country, free. I am out of the airport and into the waiting hotel vehicle in less than 20 minutes from touchdown, including purchase of a SIM card in the lobby. The roads, although busy, are well maintained, with clear markings in Singhalese. The Village Park Hotel in Watala is shabby but will do for the purpose I am in Sri Lanka; to provide relief to victims of devastating floods in eastern Sri Lanka.

My hosts are Haaris and Zaveeni Jamil of Al Zahra Foundation, a remarkable couple whose foundation is relentless in coordinating and distribution of aid relief to the poor and marginalized in Sri Lanka. It is to their home that I head next day for lunch and a meeting with a section of poor mothers that get educational aid for their children. I hoist a 3 wheeler and off we go weaving through traffic.

I sense, then see the driver observing me through the rearview mirror; he gives me a gaping smile missing several front teeth. From which country, my friend? he asks. Now, this country has just concluded a savage war defeating the LTTE, the only country I know that has eliminated a tenacious terrorist group successfully. Still, the uncertain reputation of my country triggers a safe response from me, India, I reply. The guys eyes light up and bushy eyebrows shoot up, Ah, Katrina Kapoor! Ah, nice girl. Ah, nice sexy body! Startled, I stare at him but respond Katrina Kaif, you mean? Yo, yo, very sexy! Then the nut closes his eyes, as if in ecstasy and crashes into a pothole. Although I receive a nasty jar, I am happy to see him back to reality, driving with open eyes.

Derrick, the driver, wants to know if I am married, if I have children and how many, how old, if I am here on a business; I humor him with vague responses and he falls silent. When we are close to my destination, he asks if I want a good time while in Colombo; gums flash. I pretend not to have heard and hide behind my sunglasses but watch him wearily. A very good time? Gums shine again followed by a lazy knowing wink. Mercifully, we are at the Jamil residence and I pay him off. He looks disappointed and sad, wants 100 rupees more than the requisite fare. I let Brother Jamil deal with him; take refuge inside the house.

Dance Of Dictators

2011-02-23T01:20:00.000-08:00

Here we go again, another squirming dictator with dire cramps and julaabs, in Libya this time. If it were not for the bloodshed there, his rantings on TV this morning in a womanly voice would have been comical. You know, I had not heard Ghaddafy speak before and with the press terming him a ‘strongman’ I assumed he would have a deeper, manly tenor. Not so, he sounded almost feminine. Ah, well, perhaps he was just nervous with all the fatakras of gunfire going on around Libya. Nightmares, perhaps, dreaming of life in Saudi Arabia with Ali Zain el Abedeen (maybe Mubaarak and others as well?) as neighbors did not agree with his voice box. Perhaps.

What I do not understand is the US and Europeans posturing on these very interesting and exciting, I must confess, developments in the Maghreb and Middle East in general. BBC and CNN have not a clue, as usual, bringing in dubious ‘experts’ speaking awful English to explain why Ghaddafy would open fire on his own people. Duh! For corrupted power! For exactly the same reason blood was shed in Tunisia, Egypt, Bahrain, Yemen and numerous countries where dictators felt cramps of julaabs from a populace fed up with tyranny and injustice. There, I am no expert, but have simply explained why Ghaddafy did what he did. In simple, plain, snotty Queen’s English; put me on the tube!

Corrupted power supported and fed by the same governments that now go “Oh, what happened? How terrible! No bloodshed! Democracy must rule (except in Gaza and Iran where people are stupid and elect wrong people as leaders)!” The US and UK supported Mubaarak for decades while he prostituted himself in selling out the Palestinian cause and amassed a disgusting personal fortune of about 70 billion US$ – read carefully now, that is a B for billion. They welcomed him at number 10 and White House with honor, dignity, patted his fat arse with an attaboy and made him even fatter with fine food and wine. In Egypt meanwhile, where I used to frequently travel on business, poverty and crime improved every time I returned. Arbitrary arrests, confinements, torture and murders by Mubaarak’s thugs were overlooked in the name of regional stability suitable for western ‘democracy’.

In Libya, where a brilliant lunatic has been able to cunningly outfox both internal and external foes, was able to lure the EU for lucrative oil / gas deals. For money; easily forgotten were the killing of a lady cop outside the Libyan embassy in London and the downing of Pan Am 103. The very powers that were loathing of the dictator welcomed him to Italy and France; Tony Blair, tongue hanging, with that sinister, peculiar sneer on his face, landed dancing in Tripoli, praising, hugging, kissing Ghaddafy, all bhai – bhai. Why, Silvio Berlusconi even allowed Ghaddafy to set up tent right in the middle of Rome with a harem of females, a passion very much close to Berlusconi‘s heart; they have met each other 13 times in 3 years, so much their love and devotion to each other.

Now, as I see Ghaddafy fortunes crumble around him, making him squirm and as the noose tightens around his crown jewels, I can only pray and hope Libya will be saved the inevitable bloodletting that seems imminent. The saturation of Muslims in Europe that Sarkozy, Berlusconi and company most feared looks like an ever increasing possibility. Not through violent jihadist or mayhem, but exactly as Ghaddafy jokingly predicted to Berlusconi in Rome; by the influx of Maghreb Muslims. Little did Ghaddafy realize it will be his persecution, his suppression and his outstanding cruelty that will prove this prophecy true.

Benapole Is The Largest Land Port In Bangladesh – There Are 172 Villages Under Sharsha Thane!

2011-02-14T08:31:00.000-08:00

Except for fatter mosquitoes with meaner stings, Shah Jalal International Airport in Dhaka, Bangladesh is almost the same as I left it some ten years ago. Immigration, customs and baggage clearance is pretty efficient however and I am out of airport into milling crowds outside in less than 30 minutes. The traffic, usually choked, chaotic and unruly I remember, is absent today; result of a strike called by government opposition against corruption (snigger, snigger), stock market, spiraling food, gas prices and power shortages. The drive to our hotel with a seedy name of Sweet Dream Boutique Hotel is a breeze.

I have been to Bangladesh before, several times, with corporate America, as head of International Finance. These were shielded trips, everything first class, from chauffer driven cars to the luxury of Sheraton and meals at some of the finest restaurant foods in the world located in the affluent area of Gulshan. This trip is on a much more modest budget, in service of poor and marginalized minority Muslims on behalf of Comfort Aid International. This trip includes Mujaahid Shareef and Nazir Merali from Orison Charitable Trust of UK as CAI partners to better lives of this community; Aliakberbhai Ratansi of Al Imaan from Mumbai join in as well.

Our first meet is with an all women group, Bangladesh Ladies Welfare Society who are active in the support of education for the poor and marginalized in Bangladesh but desperately struggle due to many funding issues. CAI will support about 100 of most vulnerable children and have committed US$20,000 to this cause. An additional US$5,000 is committed to the welfare of widows whose monthly stipend of US$10 has been stopped due to donor funding gaps.

Real adventure commences as we tour the interior, rural Bangladesh; to Jasore by air and then driving to Noor Nagar, Dobghata, Parulia, Patkelghata, Vlashi, Sharsha Sadar, Narayanpur – remote villages where CAI and OCT have partnered to repair / build small mosques that are shockingly deteriorated / damaged. The drives to these villages are long and stressful with toenail curling stunts from all drivers that see last second swerves avoiding oncoming or other traffic on narrow blacktop roads. It is a miracle we come away unscathed the three days we went driving all these places.

At Narayanpur, an English teacher, God bless him, seated between Mujaahid and me in the vehicle, decides to impress Mujaahid with his English. Speaking with considerable enthusiasm into Mujaahid’s ear, he announces - Benapole is the largest land port In Bangladesh; there are 172 villages under Sharsha Thane! Startled, Mujaahid nods his head wisely and replies, maashaa’Allah. The man is not to be discouraged, he robustly repeats - Benapole is the largest land port In Bangladesh; there are 172 villages under Sharsha Thane! Mujaahid seems alarmed at this, but humors the teacher who is intent on convincing Mujaahid for he goes again - Benapole is the largest land port In Bangladesh; there are 172 villages under Sharsha Thane!

The rest of us have convulsed into uncontained laughter by this time. Mujaahid tries, unsuccessfully, to divert conversation to me, but our teacher seems bent on convincing Mujaahid that Benapole is the largest land port In Bangladesh; there are 172 villages under Sharsha Thane! This is repeated 4 more times before we mercifully reach our destination and Mujaahid is put out of his misery.

When we are ready for takeoff to Dhaka from Jasore later in the day, the stewardess on our GMG Bombardier Dash 8 36 seat aircraft informs us the aircraft is overloaded and our luggage will follow the next day; this announcement is followed by instant pandemonium and some rather colorful Bengali choice curse words. The stewardess is unmoved, she shrugs her delicate shoulders and says – Your luggage goes, you go or none of us go, take your pick. The air calms down considerable, instantly.

I will have none of this nonsense. I storm towards her and with the most pronounced American drawl I can manage, say: We have an early morning flight to catch tomorrow; our luggage must accompany us to Dhaka on this flight. This is a (white) lie, our flight back to Mumbai is day after tomorrow but we have a packed day of appointments tomorrow, I do not want to be chasing around the airport for our luggage. Miss Delicate Shoulders looks me up and down, purses her lips in apparent frustration and directs a baggage handler to reload our bags, much to the chagrin of others. As we take off, I say a prayer for our bags not to endanger the flight; we land in Dhaka 30 minutes later.

After a busy next day, I have an hour of luxurious deep Swedish massage at Scissors and Razors, a professional all men spa across the hotel later in the evening. The masseur, a young teenager, is an expert with his fingers and hand as he relaxes and eases the aches, pains and stress of last few days out of my body. At US$20, it is well worth the treat.

Adnaan Saami...I presume?

2011-01-24T23:27:00.000-08:00

Emirates Airline 202 bound from New York JFK is bang on time today, a few minutes early even; no routine, vague excuse of a tardy inbound flight to contend with. These airlines must think we travelers are pretty dumb and gullible; as if we care ant’s ass if their inbound flight was late. Anyway, we board the flight and I try make myself comfortable settling down for the long 12 hour torture to Dubai; as comfortable as economy class will allow me, that is.

I am nicely satiated after a wonderful dinner of barbecued salmon at the Emirates Lounge and at peace with myself and the world. I plan to sleep if possible; adequately tired and pleasantly achy from my 6 mile run in crisp 36˚F Orlando, FL weather, calm winds and the road almost to myself this Sunday morning.

I am busy reading a novel, waiting for others to board and take off when a shadow falls over my book and I look up to see Adnaan Saami’s scowling chubby face, glaring down at me. Startled, I do a double take, as do others, seated and standing around me, congesting the area near my seat. The last photos I have seen of this lift karaade singer was a few months ago, in tabloid pages of Mumbai Mirror, all slim and trim, in bitter marital acrimony with his (ex) wife, Sabah, having lost considerable fat. Wow, seems the guy can’t keep his taste buds under control for too long. He is as huge as before, with a massive gut preceding his body.

You are sitting in my seat, he grumbles.

Affronted, I glare back. I am not! I say. I am very territorial; I know my seat numbers all right.

He fumbles around his ill fitting coat, breathing hard, presumably looking for his boarding pass, pulls out the stub and sticks it right under my nose. There, see? My seat!

Ordinarily, in dealing with rude and unreasonable people, I can stand my own and can take good care of myself. But this guy is a giant and even a soft punch on my pretty face could do a lot of damage. So I glance at the boarding pass and smugly say, Not your seat! This seat is 67C, which is mine, yours is 67B, next to mine. Look at your boarding pass. He peers at the stub and a sheepish look crosses his face. Shit, he wails, shit. That bitch of a woman. I asked her 3 times for an aisle seat. Shit! I was hoping he would apologize to me for his rudeness first…

This outburst has everybody around us even more fascinated; something to write home about, Adnaan Saami having a fit. He extricates his massive gut from his coat, throws it and a carryon into the storage bin above and proceeds to park an even heftier butt into the seat next to mine; I (and others) look on, curious and quite alarmed. I am curious as to how the poor seat will accommodate that entire butt and if it miraculously does, alarmed as to how I am going to spend 12 hours sitting next to all that blubber. The seat protests for a second or two then relents, and Adnaan (and others) sigh in relief. I feel like crying; a rim of fat has overflowed and sits comfortably on the armrest, pinning my arm towards one side.

I am now livid, there is no way I am going to sit for 12 hours in this position; I get up and try to draw attention of a cabin crew while others gawk at the whale seated next to me. A giggling striking young teenager squeezes past the line waiting to proceed further inside this Airbus A380 and croons Adnaan, Adnaan! I love your voice, can I have an autograph please? Adnaan scowls at her, I am not Adnaan or a singer, leave me alone. You think I would be flying economy if I was him?

Eh? I do a double take again; the girl is not convinced however, bats her eyelids at him then makes a giggly retreat. He looks like Adnaan Saami all right, at least the one in the lift karaade video I have seen. Does he have a twin? I don’t care, I want out, Saami or a twin; I am not going to be compressed like a card box.

A Pilipino crew finally makes it to me and I take her to a discreet side and begin to tell her about my predicament; she cuts me off in mid sentence. Don’t worry Sir, I already know of the situation and understand, we will not let you sit there. The flight is quite empty and I will sit you where you will have a whole row to yourself. Just wait until cabin doors close and I will re-sit you. I could kiss her; so delirious with relief.

I return to my seat and gingerly park myself in my partly usurped seat; Saami or non-Saami has conked off to sleep and snores away, his head nodding, as if in exited agreement, with every intake of a noisy breath. This gives me (and others) the opportunity to observe him. Some debate if he is indeed Saami, others discuss his voice and (mis)fortune with women and one even tries to take a photo but I and my savior stewardess shoo him away; my face does not come cheap.

Things settle down and I wait to be reseated; even look forward to it as I will be able to stretch out for my sleep. Just as speakers come alive with the announcement that doors have closed and we are bound for Dubai, this guy lets out a snort and a fart so loud and foul, I jump up and scurry for cover towards the rear of the aircraft where safety and comfort that a gold card can afford await me.

Sunday gripes.

2011-01-16T04:04:00.000-08:00

I am in a foul mood, perhaps because I am headed to the US tomorrow and will have to spend about 20 plus hours in the air to get from Mumbai to London to New York to Orlando, not counting stopover time. There is another, shorter route through Dubai but incredibly, all cattle class seats to the US from Dubai on Emirates are full for at least a week; business class is available, but I will have to raid and rob the Bank of India branch nearby to make that possible. I usually plan my travels way in advance but this trip is unplanned, abrupt. These bloody Emirates, they have really captured the market with acute logistical finesse and fantastic on-air service. No wonder their Canadian and European rivals find their behinds roasting over live charcoals. My mood is made darker by Kingfisher Airline informing me there are no seats with extra legroom available, so it will be a standard seat. Shucks!

Don’t know about you, but it’s getting harder traveling long distances now that I am a getting grayer and wiser; I adamantly refuse to say older. Huh, if I was getting ‘old’ I could not outrun majority of you men out there twenty years younger. Talking about graying, strange no, I am getting threadbare gray on my scalp, robust gray at the sides of my head, but bloody even healthier gray on my chest, nose and even ears! It seems providence has decided to take hair from top of my scalp and transplant them to these body parts!

Yes, I was talking about the impending trip which may have soured my temperament this fine Sunday morning here in Mumbai. Is it that? It can’t be the weather, as I savor waning days of my stay in this country; January can be a wonderful time of year to be in Mumbai. Calm comfortable days, pleasant cool nights and relief from noise pollution as thousands of air conditioners take a sabbatical in my neighborhood. Of course mangoes and apple custards and jack fruit are all gone now, still, you can’t beat the wonderful pleasant (brief) weather that currently prevail here.

Maybe it’s the price of gas, now raised 11% in 2 months, the damage this will do to the 4 – 5 thousand rupee earner. Maybe it’s the price of onions, skyrocketing to heights she feels she is bloody gold, so indispensable her need in Indian cuisine. Why, one newspaper carried a report about an irate husband getting ready to dismember his 30 old marriage because mama watoto curtailed the quantity of it in her cooking. No, it can’t be the onions. Then it must be the daily, unrelenting headlines of government officials in one corruption scandal after another, for amounts so colossally large, it makes my mind tizzy just counting the zeros. Perhaps Indians need nerves of Tunisians; take charge and bring about a change with corrupt, looting officials. But perhaps I am just sour at the obscene amounts of cash tossed around at the recent IPL auction for current cricket players. God, why didn’t You make me a cricket goddess?

This inflation nightmare is eating into royalty as well, I read in papers. Why, the queen of England (again, why is she a queen in the first place?) has agreed to share her gigantic Buckingham Palace with grandson William so money can be saved. Should not be a problem; I am sure Kate and William will find ample crooks and corners within 818,218 square feet to enjoy a hearty honeymoon and a happy life after.

Oh never mind all my moaning and groaning above, my mood has just changed for the better. I just got a call from Kingfisher Airlines; the representative all exited and out of breath. Kingfisher has upgraded me on the Mumbai to London sector! Business Class? I turn equally exited and breathless, so we communicate each other’s excitement over the phone for a few seconds. I am puzzled however, for I am but a lowly silver member in their frequent flier program; so far. Yes, yes, she says, you have been upgraded to first row in economy with plenty more leg room!

Can I return to my gripping? Perhaps I can write about more inflation woes? No? Well then, can we talk about more upbeat newspaper reports? About this guy’s penis being eaten by a rat in jail? Or a bus driver caught driving with a women sitting on his on lap? Or…

5 Days In Iraq – Through My Eyes

2011-01-04T00:47:00.000-08:00

Maaha Zainab, Alihussein, Tasneem and I are blessed with a visit to Iraq immediately after this past Aashoora in Dubai. Tasneem and I have been to Iraq earlier, under Goddamn, sorry Saddam Hussein in 1998, sailing from Dubai to Basra and overland to Najaf, Karbala, Bagdad, Samara and Kadhemain. It was a memorial trip, leisure one, even if tainted with fear of Saddam’s goons stalking us most places we went.

The flight from Dubai to Najaf via Bahrain is delayed by over an hour, but we make up by a shorter break in Bahrain. Najaf airport, a modern warehouse really, is deserted when we land; the immigration / customs process is painless. The officers and security men all smoke, in open defiance of signs to the contrary; this is the norm all over Iraq, men (and a couple of women I saw) smoke and smoke – a lot. We are met and assisted by our agent, Ali Shamsi, a smooth talking Iraqi who has plenty of right connections in Iraq; it is obvious from his employee’s subsequent behavior Ali is a man not to be messed around with.

The drive to Karbala is uneventful, the landscape not very much different from Afghanistan, a country I often visit. Private cars are not permitted within 3 miles of the twin shrines of Imam Hussein (A) and his brother Abbas (A) so we change from our vehicle to a taxi and then, the final mile, walking, our luggage on a hand propelled taxi cart. At the final security stop, we run into turbulence. A cagey cop, young and brash, pockets our passports once he sees we are ‘Amriki’. The guide who Ali Shamsi has assigned us protests, the cop is unmoved. Our luggage is thoroughly checked, passerby’s into the shrine vicinity that go through a routine, bored check glance at us curiously, then hurry along. We are made to walk about half a mile to security headquarters for further scrutiny before another young cop, after profuse yakking over his walkie-talkie, apologizes and lets us go. I guess us Americans are not very popular, even in countries we supposedly liberate.

Our hotel, Bab ur Rehma, a stone throw away from Haram of Imam Hussein (A) is small and cramped but modern enough, rather ornate. There are however, no towels and our room is not cleaned the entire 3 days we stay there. ‘Insha’Allah soon’ and in ‘5 – 10 minutes’ is the standard response I get whenever I ask. When I protest firmly, loudly, we are unceremoniously given a few damp, smelly towels, obviously used; I give up.

We visit the twin shrines that evening; a blessing obviously, but also a delight and wonder and amazement at Allah’s compensation to His servants who fell on these holy grounds over 14 centuries ago but now stand high and proud; a beacon for all humanity against all injustice and oppression. The experience, again, is unreal. Much has changed from last time; the shrines have become more comfortable with plenty of lush Iranian carpets to cushion long stays or cold marble floors. The crowds are orderly, perhaps 90% from Iran, until I get closer to the actual place of burials when they become almost unruly, an elbow to my rib and head and Zainab squeezed so hard she bursts into tears. I see Iranians, Turks, Indians, Pakistanis, Nigerians…all lost in awe and pleading with the holy personalities there. Some are so caught up in emotions, they weep and wail openly, some repeatedly kiss the gold and silver, some rub their bodies, jerking around as if suffering from epilepsy against the doors, the floor, the shrine itself, oblivious to the cries of guards to let go, give others a chance…

The municipal authorities in Karbala are super efficient (listen up Mumbai!). With crowds that visit the city, peaking at almost 14 million during Arbaeen, it is a miracle indeed city services survive at all! I am told everybody visiting can be fed free here every day, even at peak periods. Indeed, I see lines and lines of people waiting patiently for a hot meal. These same poor people sleep under the sky at night below heavy, warm blankets made available by the city. The streets next morning are clean and a pleasure to walk through. We have a grand tour of Karbala - Til e Zainabia, the various shrines, sons, friends and companions of Imam Hussein (A), Khaimegah, river Furaat, home of Imam Saddiq (A) and of Imam Mahdi (A).

We leave very early, at 5AM, for Samarra next day. It is super cold, maybe just at freezing as I notice frost on our vehicle. Both the driver and guide smoke inside the car. When I protest, the driver gives me an option – Either I smoke, or fall asleep; so I shut up. After quick Fajr salaat stop at Aun / Mohammed, the gallant sons of Zainab (A), we drive the 120 kilometers to Samarra. There are so many security checks along the way, I lose track after counting 25. Just a quick look inside by a bored policeman who then wave us through. Very heavy, unruly traffic slow us down as we approach the outskirts of Bagdad (déjà vu – Mumbai?). The security is more thorough as we near Samarra, with our passport checked and bomb detectors on overtime. At the shrine of Imams Naqi (A) and Asghari (A), where there are numerous checks and re-checks, our guide urges us to hurry up; he seems nervous. The work on destroyed tombs of the Imams (A) is in full swing, with construction works curtailing a complete, satisfying ziyaarah. A fully armed security guard overhears us discussing the number of security stops along the way and tells me there are 120 between Samarra and Karbala, one after every kilometer. Our return to Karbala via Kadhemein is at 8PM. Exhausted, we eat dinner and crash for our drive to Najaf tomorrow.

Thankfully, the drive to Najaf has only 2 checkpoints, sign of less insurgency. We see the majestic dome of Imam Ali’s (A) shrine; an emotional visit for Zohr prayers follow, then time spent at the courtyard in contemplation and meditation with this great noble and holy personality – a very lucky treat indeed. The hotel is great, even more ornate but with excellent buffet meals; the choice of salads are amazing. Popular as well; there are people staying here I know from elsewhere who I meet. After Fajr prayers at the Haram under numbing cold and breakfast next morning, we tour Masjid Sehla, Masjid Koofa, Masjid Hanana, Masjid Koomail and the shrine of Abudhar. Our last night in Iraq, we say Magreeb at the Haram and then shop for gifts before packing up and readying for our uneventful flight back to Dubai via Bahrain the next day.

Iraq seems on the mend actually. The grinding poverty I saw in 1998 is not evident and people seem well fed, decently clothed and obviously have disposable funds, because they overwhelmingly smoke. Business booms, mainly form zawaar trade and the construction industry is thriving, with hotels and homes coming up all around. I am disappointed not meeting Aagha Seestani; his office informs me they need 5 - 7 days prior appointments now. I am met byAli Shamsi at the airport who gives me my bill which is US$700 more than earlier agreed. Stunned, I argue but it’s no use, he insists it is a misunderstanding; I pay up. Not a big price to pay for the opportunity to be with my Imams (A) but the episode does leave a bitter after-taste in my mouth in otherwise 5 delightful days in Iraq.

Comfort Aid International – The Beginning.

2010-12-17T10:10:00.000-08:00

How did CAI start? What inspired you? I get asked this question very often. The answer is quite lengthy which I had documented way back in 1996. I share and blog this experience now; hope you will find it interesting, informative.

It is a hot and humid monsoon July Saturday some 16 years ago; dark, pregnant skies above threaten to open up any minute and drench me, but worse, make my travel to Govendhi miserable and perhaps impossible. Govendhi lies about 15 miles northeast of Mumbai that takes about two hours to reach on a good day. It is very densely populated, stench - puke smelly, dirty beyond descriptive words dirty and full of slum flies. And yes, it is populated predominantly by Muslims and by over 12,000 families of the Ahle Tashayyo persuation, overwhelmingly Sadaats.

I get to Govendhi all hot and sweaty and harassed and almost swoon. This place is unreal; houses are made of rags with garbage bags for a roof, the lanes between homes squelch and slide wherever I delicately put my foot down, covering my once shiny shoes with a thick sludge of mud, the air is ripe with the stench of raw sewer and flies torment every open skin on my body. There are people everywhere, packing lanes, hurrying here and there, vendors shout their wares or vegetables or fruits amidst cows, goats, dogs and chicken. I sneeze once and two flies enter my mouth and I almost gag. I feel I cannot breathe, the world swims in my eyes and I stumble. My guide, who is increasingly alarmed at my distress immediately props me up until we reach the steps of a crumbling mosque where he parks me on a dry veranda and hurries to get me a cold drink.

I take deep breaths and try to regain my composure, feeling silly and mad at myself for being so weak. I drop my head down, trying to get blood back to my brains and feel better. I look around and simply cannot fathom my surroundings; animals live better in the US. My attention is diverted to a pair of children, a girl and a boy frolicking in a shallow pond of rain water near the wudhoo area outside the mosque. They seem to be oblivious to their surrounding, filling empty water bottles and dousing each other with its filthy contents, and having a bloody merry time of it. They are both clothed in rags and have bodies so thin, I feel either one would fracture or break a bone, falling upon each other as they were. I get a sudden urge to run away from this misery, for the despair and sudden fear I feel makes me break in a cold sweat and I suddenly start shivering violently.

I return to my luxury hotel room at the Leela Kempensky, tear off my clothes and have a long hot shower, trying to rid my body of the grime and sweat and the smell that still cling to it. I resolve never to go back to that hell hole, to hell with what Mullah Asghar has to say about it, the benefits of experiencing what the poor in this world we live through. I was not going back. Ever.

Allah (SWT) however, has different plans for me; and who is the best Planner? That very night, as I nestle and snuggle amongst the lavish linens of the five star hotel I am put up, I dream of the two children frolicking in the filthy waters of Govendhi. I awake but strangely, cannot fall asleep again. I toss and turn amongst the bedcovers; I switch on the television, hoping it will lull me to sleep. Nothing works. Who are these children? Why are they not in school? Why are they so thin and in rags? Are they orphans? They look obviously happy…. On and on and on. Strangely, this dream reappears in my sleep the next day and I spend another night tossing and turning, restless and disturbed. And so it goes on for the whole week; my mind keeps me awake with the thoughts of these two children.

When it is Saturday next and my day off, it is as if the skies have decided to open up and it pours non-stop the whole day; I stay at the hotel, brooding of the kids and Govendhi. So I make a covenant with Allah, a selfish covenant, thinking I can outsmart Him. I promise Him if it stops raining tomorrow, if the sun is out, I will revisit Govendhi and try finding the two kids and at least feed them. Now, the chance of a bright and sunny day in the middle of July in Maharashtra is equivalent of winning a lottery jackpot. Almost. When I walk outside the hotel after my workout and breakfast the next day, it is cloudy all right and I smile, smug I have won. But exactly at that moment, the sun reveals itself and keeps on smiling its hot rays on the humid air, making me sweat immediately

I cajole and promise my guide a hefty bonus if he would leave his family this Sunday and accompany me to Govendhi. He does not look too exited; I guess he is unimpressed with my behavior from last Saturday. Money wins however, and off we go to hunt for my tormentors. I am better equipped this time around, with sneakers and a handkerchief doused in perfume. We spend a couple of hours looking for them and finally, when I am losing hope, we spot them very near the pond, engrossed in making a living. When we approach them, they scatter and run away, fearful. Much to the annoyance of my guide, I dangle a fifty rupee bill from my fingers and they return, cautious, but very interested.

We take them to a local restaurant and both demolish a heap of greasy chicken biryani; I cannot believe such thin people had such appetites. When I offer them falooda after biryani is over, their eyes light up with undisguised delight. The falooda disappear in minutes; both wiping their glass bowl clean. Over orange Mirinda, we extract their life details. Sakina is seven (she thinks, not sure) and Alireza six (he thinks, not sure), both born in the slums of Govendhi and have never been to school. Both were put to work supporting their family of six by the time they could put razor to slice rubber. These two scavenge scrap electrical cables off construction sites and pull out its copper guts. The copper is then wound into a ball and if they have enough (cricket ball size), it earns them about ten Rupees. They give this to their paan guzzling father who would in turn purchase a little rice and daal and their mother would then feed them dinner, their only meal for the day.

Sakina is so thin, I can see ribs jutting out from her skin through a rip on her dress and so is Alireza, who cannot sit still, constantly moving around in his chair, playing around with the salt and pepper shakers or dipping into the hot chutney container. I feel very sad for them, for I know this is temporary and they will be out on the streets as soon as we depart. On an impulse, I ask the duo to take me to their parents, to their home. They look at each other uneasily and balk. I reassure them, telling them that I may help them but want to talk to their parents first. After some more debate, they escort us inside the slum, with lanes getting narrower and the filth filthier. I see a girl child, totally naked, nose running, wailing at the top of her lungs with no apparent guardian around. I see two children sleeping out in the open, near a stream in which flow human feces…I make maximum use of my perfumed hankie.

We arrive at a small hut, similar to hundreds like it around and enter a dark room; it takes me several seconds to focus before I can see clearly. The hut has dirt floor, I notice immediately, three charpoy beds occupy three corners of rusting tin walls and the remaining corner has beaten up pots and pans hanging from it. Clothes hang from strings strung across all four corners and a charcoal stove glows amber, emits sharp acrid odor that begin to sting my eyes. On one of the bed lie an emaciated looking aged woman, probably a grandmother, who stares at me unblinkingly and follows me with her eyes as I am made to sit on an empty charpoy. By her side, fast asleep, is a tiny baby, looks newborn, with a black streak of evil eye across a frowning brow. On another bed, sitting cross legged is Mr. Shahed Rizwi, lord of the hut. Rizwi looks as me suspiciously, does not offer a handshake, but does wave my guide and me to the empty charpoy. He looks very much like Sakina. I do not see Mrs. Rizwi around. Sakina serves us water from dented tin glasses but I decline and sip from my safer water bottle supply.

I ask Rizwi if he is well, but get the typical wag of the head from the neck and bare of paan stained teeth for an answer. I ask him why his kids are not in school.
“School?” He asks, surprised, as if the thought has never occurred to him. “If I send them to school, who will bring roti home?” he asks, gesturing with pinched fingers towards his mouth.
I feel a sudden rash of irritation for this man so I promptly and recklessly reply “You?” My guide finds this funny, for he giggles shrilly and as quickly, covers his mouth, stifling it.
A flash of anger spreads across Mr. Rizwi’s face and he lets out a string of protests; that he is sick, that his mother, gesturing towards the old women, is old and sick, that he cannot find decent work, that his wife has natal problems…
But I insist that education is important, that his children will not stand a change in adult life doing what they did. Mr. Rizwi shrugs his shoulders and exposes paan stained teeth again “Allah’s will…” he mummers. I honestly feel like slapping him silly.

So I bribe him, this Mr. Paan Rizwi. Through my guide, I promise him Rupees 300 a month to keep the kids in school at the nearby Jafri English School. I also arrange to feed Sakina and Alireza one hot meal a day. We arrange to get the kids to school the next day; I take the Monday off. I bring along a local social worker from Bandra mosque and we take the children for a bath and Alireza for a haircut. After the bath, both Sakina and Alireza have haircuts, for we cannot comb through Sakina’s hair, they are a mess of impossible tangles from years of neglect, so we chop them off very short; now, she looks little different from Alireza.

Much has changed in Govendhi since this episode took place. The slum with its decay, hovels, filth, flies and smell still remain. There has been startling development in the edges of the slums, as if an attempt to cut off and hide the eyesores at the core. The roads are mostly asphalt now but hovels still have no running water and most power lines are stolen by gangs and crudely distributed for profit.

Sakina, masha’Allah, turned out to be a brilliant student, scoring above average marks all her school life. We enrolled her in computer programming studies after high school and she excelled here as well. She got married in November of 2006 and now works for a multinational company as a computer programmer, earning about US $1,200 a month. She speaks excellent English, one reason she secured the nice job position. She migrated away from Govendhi with her husband and recently called with good news she is a mother of a daughter and owns the apartment she lives in.

Alireza does well, not as well as Sakina but reasonably well, working as a sales representative for a mobile company, earning about US $250 a month. He moved out of Govendhi as well.

Mr. Rizwi still whiles away his time, talking to cronies in Govendhi, consuming paan supplemented by Sakina; Alireza has stopped giving him money but secretly gives to his mother every month.

Mrs. Rizwi had three more children after the one I saw sleeping by its grandmother. Mrs. Rizwi misses Sakina very much.

All other siblings of Sakina attend school; CAI supplements their fees, Sakina helps out with food and clothing.

The grandmother passed away some years ago.

I tell this story because it was my first investment in humanity that paid off handsomely; because the experience gave birth to CAI. Contemplate the results; for very little investment:

1. Two innocent kids were pulled away from the gutters of slum life.
2. Both got an opportunity to a decent education.
3. Both succeeded, pulled from the brink of poverty and destitution.
4. Both broke the cycle of poverty; for them and their posterity.
5. More importantly both will ensure their kids are never denied an opportunity to education.

CAI focus on education in India has paid off exceedingly well, thanks to Allah and CAI’s very many donors and well wishers. I am trying to repeat the successes in Afghanistan, which is facing many more trails and challenges, more so than India ever did. For more information, please visit www.comfortaid.org and insha’Allah be motivated into action.

Ali Yusufali

Corruption galore

2010-12-11T22:23:00.000-08:00

Living in India, I have to deal with hundreds, thousands, lacs (one hundred thousand), ten lacs (one million) and then caror (ten million). One caror, that’s a tidy sum of money, especially in India. About US$225,000 at today’s exchange rate. To put this amount into perspective, I just sold my apartment (they call it flat here) at about 2 carors Rupees. So you can buy a comfortable 3 bedroom 1,250 sq ft apartment for about UD$450,000. Yes, tiny size and steep in price by US standards but pretty normal here in the upper middle class neighborhood of Andheri West, Mumbai.

Why am I yapping on about Indian money, you wonder? Well, what if I told you that a minister in the current government (allegedly) stole, yes, stole 176,000 caror Rupees. He gave away licenses for mobile phone technology to corporations at 2001 rates, causing the exchequer the colossal loss. That is 176,000,000,000,000 Indian Rupees or US$ 39 Billion, almost two times the entire GDP of Tanzania (2009 statistics). This is a toenail curling amount.

I knew this country was knee deep with corrupt officials; what I did not realize how deep, brazen and unconscionable the politicians involved are. This dude got caught with his pants down, literally. But watching his demeanor and haughtiness on television makes my blood boil. He knows, he bloody well knows nothing will happen to him as the culpability of colluding officials benefiting from this scam run deep. Yes, the newspapers will scream murder, yes there will be an inquiry, yes he will be banished for a year or two. But he will return, yes Sir, he will. Just like past ministers, chief or otherwise, caught with their dirty hands in muck, dismissed, banished and then incorporated back into the system; cleansed and laundered like black money to white.

Tragedy is, citizens of India don’t care. These things happen so jan do, yaar, chalta hai. Not a day goes by without the media lambasting Pakistan, China as enemies, out to destroy India. I suggest these countries may not cause as much destruction to India as, sadly, sleaze will sink her faster, deeper.

Painful Pakistani Plight

2010-11-27T06:41:00.000-08:00

The distance between Mumbai, India and Karachi, Pakistan is about 550 miles; maybe less than an hour’s flying time. But because these two sister countries born from the same clot are estranged, there is but one flight a week between them, PAI. I would stand a better chance winning a Lotto jackpot than secure a seat in this flight and I don’t want to be in Pakistan for a week anyway. So I fly to Dubai instead and then onwards to Karachi, which takes 10 hours instead.

Karachi, surprisingly, has changed from my last visit here, changed for the better, I mean. I am out of the airport terminal in less than ten minutes, the streets are relatively clean, traffic reasonably well behaved and air breathable. There is tight security everywhere however, with heavily armed police at virtually all street corners. The Embassy Inn Hotel driver tells me a massive bomb had exploded outside the Sheraton Hotel about a week ago and hence the heightened alert. He shrugs when I ask him how secure Embassy Inn is; this could mean anything; disquiet sets in on me. Experience in Afghanistan warns me a hotel is probably the worst place to stay in terms of safety in these regions.

All goes fine however and all my meetings go well; I am off to Islamabad the next day for a tour of flood affected Punjab region. Saleem Abedi of Husseini Foundation is waiting for me outside the terminal and we are off Kot Addu, our first stop. It takes us a good eight hours of steady driving to get there; we reach well past dark so can see nothing. After salaat and a delicious meal of spicy teetar (partridge) curry and hot naan, I fall blissfully asleep. Our host, Syed Sajjad Hussein Kazmi, is one of those individuals that our community is blessed to have. Dedicated, tireless and self sacrificing, he and his family have put in everything they possess and more into the relief efforts for the flood victims. He apprises us of the relief efforts, from food to medical to housing. There are 19 homes either complete on under construction at Kot Adu; 40 will be constructed here sponsored by donors of CAI.

The water has receded or completely vanished since my last trip here in September. Although it is gratifying to see the progress so far, it is still heart wrenching to meet the victims. Many are still in shock and unbelief at the devastation that befell them, some have shaken it off and looking ahead and few that are totally devastated by the enormity of it all, especially the elderly. Everybody asks us about warm clothes and blankets; an old man, hardy able to walk unaided, wails that he is freezing at night; and for us to help. I try and calm him down, assure I’ll try my best to get them warmth as soon as possible.

We travel all day; from Kot Adu to Basti Shah Walli to Laiyah to Basti Shadoo Khan and Basti Morani, inspecting CAI initiated housing reconstruction projects, ending up in back in Islamabad at about 1AM the next day. It is a grueling, energy sapping trek but I have little choice as I must be back in Mumbai by Friday as other commitments wait. We are drowned with pleas for homes from those that still wait funding and always for blankets. CAI has received funding for 350 homes from our target of 1,000; let’s see where we end up. CAI has also pledged 2,000 high quality blankets sourced from Multan. These will be distributed no later than December 15, insha’Allah.

The departure entrance at Benazir Bhutto International Airport next morning resembles a zoo with mayhem prevalent; nobody knows (or cares) what is going on and I get no directions from loitering officials. It takes me over an hour just to get inside the terminal, scared silly I will miss my flight. Not to worry; although Emirates is on time and wants to depart, Air Traffic Control insists a tarrying PIA flight to Istanbul gets priority status. So we wait and wait and wait…

CAI is still short funds for both the housing and blanket drives for the flood victims. These are hapless people who have suffered unimaginable grief and lost everything they owned. Please consider investing in their future at $500 a home and $15 a blanket. The new home is made of reused bricks and materials; labor provided by victims.

Please click here for photos from my recent trip for photos from my recent trip.

Mother of 24 children.

2010-11-06T22:44:00.000-07:00

Sirsi is some 240 miles east of New Delhi, in Uttar Pradesh, about six hour drive. An impoverished community where basic education is a challenge for most, CAI supports the Bahman School just outside Sirsi town. CIA began with construction of 7 classrooms, laboratories and will soon embark on construction of additional 7 classrooms to enable students who sit under stairs and in corridors the proper environment to learn and prosper.

CAI has also constructed a beautiful and sturdy boy’s orphanage, Zahra Boys Home, nearby; 24 orphan presently live and flourish here with a decent education and a fighting chance for a better life. This orphanage will eventually cater for 50 boys, insha'Allah.

I meet Aarifa Khatoon at the orphanage during my recent visit there. A motherly figure, Aarifa is the manager of the boys. I observe her operate and can only marvel at what she does. On her feet almost 24 hours, Aarifa Khatoon balances the task efficiently, nimbly. I decide to talk to her, find out what makes her so good at being a mother of 24 children.

Here then, is Aarifa’s story in her own words:

I was born in Sirsi, child of very poor parents who had eleven children in all; I have six sisters and four brothers. Daily survival was a struggle so the easiest solution for my parents was to marry me off at age fifteen. She looks at me in astonishment when I ask her if she went to school, then laughs at the absurdity of my question. In a period of five years, I had three children, one slightly deformed boy and two girls. I was a widow by age 20, my husband died of illness we could not afford to cure at age 35 and my hardships went from awful to unbearable. She weeps then at the memories but quickly recovers. I worked continuously rolling bedis for which I got paid Rs.50 per day (about US$1.10). It was hard, very hard raising 3 children on Rs.50 per day; you realize how difficult that is Saheb? I remain silent as I have nothing meaningful to say. I then did the next best thing; I married off my daughters at the same age I married. Classical poverty cycle pattern amongst the poor and destitute.

I heard about a vacancy at the Bahman School about three years ago and was hired as a cleaner; life improved where I could at least take care of my challenged son. My fortunes changed again when this orphanage was built and I got a chance to work at what I do best, be a mother. Now I am a mother to 24 children. They are good children, hungry for love and affection but even more eager for any opportunity to excel. Sure they give me a hard time sometimes, whose children don’t? But they listen to me when I reason with them and guide them.

My day never really ends. I wake up real early and wake the kids for prayers after which time all hell breaks loose. While they brush their teeth, take a bath, iron clothes, make their beds and fight each other, I am busy preparing breakfast, listening to their many needs and trying to pay referee. I check them out before they head out to school, make sure they have ironed their clothes properly, ties knotted right, shoes shined glossy black and hair neatly oiled and combed. I relax a bit when they leave before I head home to tend to my sons needs. I am back before they return so that dinner is good and ready for them. I make sure they behave afterwards; playing, reading or going for extra tuition. My energy levels are maxed out by the time they are tucked in bed. I get to sleep about midnight.

I ask her how she would feel it if the boys go from 24 to 50 as planned. She thinks for a moment, smiles. Well, I’ll be a mother of 50 then, no?

As told to me on the morning of November 01, 2010 at Zahra Boys Home, Sirsi, UP, India.

Click here for picture of Aarifa and orphans / orphanage.

Dear President Obama, welcome to Mumbai:

2010-11-06T10:08:00.000-07:00

Dear Mr. President:

Wow, you are coming to Mumbai today! Welcome, Sirjee, most welcome. You know what; I was so thrilled when you won the elections. Man, I never in my wildest dreams ever imagined a Black American with a Muslim sounding name preside over the most powerful country in the world. I know, I know, you are a Christian, I heard you saying this enough time during your campaign gigs around the country. Still, with a name like Baraak Hussien Obama, wow, isn't it something? Perhaps there is hope for my daughter, Maaha Zainab Yusufali, now 10 in about 25 years? She has an interesting background resembling yours somewhat, born in the USA from African and Indian parentage. HE does work in ways most mysterious, no?

I would love to meet and welcome Michele and you to my house in this host city of mine but I have about the same chance of that happening as a ban on honking and fireworks in this city. Now, you may be shielded from wrecking your ears from endless, addictive honking in this country what with you in an armored vehicle but please hold on to Michele real close when you retire for the day. It is Diwali here and firecracker blasts that go off at night would put the bombing of Bagdad to shame. Okay, perhaps I exaggerate; a little. So do not worry if you hear loud bangs that make you jump out of your skin or Michele scream in terror. I wonder how they are going to insulate you from the smells, however? Mumbai, at least here in Versova where I live, throws up a terrible pong when the wind changes direction in the evenings, but this is common all over the city, I am told. Ah, well, perhaps the armored vehicle and sealed hotel rooms at the Taj will take care of that.

Why would I want you to visit my home, you ask? Well, you are my President for one so I am being polite but it is the subsequest publicity I fancy. Can you imagine?! Your visit will be the key that opens so many doors in this city! Bollywood? Also, I want to share some secrets with you, secrets CIA and FBI cannot or will not tell you. You see, not everybody is excited as I am with your visit here. Apart from Government officials and the media going gaga over the official visit, I have yet to meet a single Mumbaite who is even a bit thrilled. My driver, who is a staunch conservative Muslim made a sour face when I mentioned that you are coming, but said nothing. The watchman at the gate of my housing complex gave me a puzzled look and asked, 'what's that?'

'It's a person,' I said, 'the President of USA'.

'Really?' said he, 'interesting', and promptly lost interest.

These few individuals were indifferent, but thousands other are disgusted if not livid, I assure you. I thought visits by heads of countries were intended to bring goodwill and friendship but this is not the case here in Mumbai, Sirjee. I went to buy some fresh fish yesterday and the Koli women selling me the seafood had some choice powerful, colorful words for you that I feel embarrassed to pen here.

Here are some of the people aggrieved by your visit:

Thousands of drivers; there is a virtual security clampdown in and around the airport all the way to Colaba where you and your entourage have taken over the Taj and neighborhood hotels.

There is no taxi service in and around the airport and the hotels; you cannot imagine Mumbai without taxis, Sirjee. It is like New York without the Yellow Cabs.

This is Diwali and Guajarati New Year season, when small time traders make most of their yearly profits. All these traders along your official route have been ordered shut for two days.

No fresh fish in Mumbai. That's right, the Sassoon berthing docks where fresh catch of the day arrive have been sealed for three days; its chicken, mutton or veggies, Bwana. Did you retain some Kiswahili words from your Dad? Bwana is Mister if you didn't.

The Chief Minister of Maharashtra is pissed off because your schedulers did not allow a private meet; so are several other states Chief Ministers.

Aditya Thackery is even more upset for not been invited with his schoolmates to meet you. You do not want to mess around with the Thackery's in Mumbai; you can read about them on Google.

So you see, Mr. President, I have yet to meet anybody real happy with your visit. I am sure Government officials will give you a great time, together with the Tatas, Birlas, Ambanis, those that do not drive a taxi for a living or earn from selling fish or saris or shoes. You will dine grandly (mind that curry though, known to clear sinuses from both ends) but never anything from the streets, you do not want to end up with the Delhi Belly. Oops, I forgot, the foods vendors have been chased off from your route, never mind.

Anyway, I just wanted to share these secrets with you, my President. Again, Michele and you are most welcome to visit my home. It is modest by USA standards but very comfortable middle class Indian home. You will be very proud to see how a US citizen family lives in Mumbai. I for one am genuinely happy you have come; but then I have not been inconvenienced in the least; I can eat chicken or mutton anytime. Most welcome.

PS: Try and come in the morning, the winds shifts after about 4PM and I do not have facilities like the Taj or your armored vehicle.

PS again: If you come, please don't mind Maaha Zainab's acquired Indian habit of wagging her head every time she agrees with you. I am sure she'll be adequately Americanized by the time she becomes the Democratic Party's candidate for your current job.

Yusuf Yusufali
Mumbai, India

Afghanistan x 17 – I (still) despair.

2010-09-25T23:55:00.000-07:00

This is my 17th trip to Afghanistan in 5 years. Much has changed (for the better) in Kabul but so much has remained the same or regressed in remote areas. The airport is brand new, paid for by the Japanese but the attitudes of personnel remain ancient as perhaps the city itself. All 5 immigration counters have a sign that says “Open” but only one is manned, causing a serpentine line of irritated arrivals. Those with connections with higher-ups in line behind me send their passport through officers lounging around and my wait is prolonged even more they are stamped before mine; I seethe.

Aliakberbhai Ratansi of Al Imaan Charitable Trust is accompanying me this trip and we are early to the airport next morning for our flight to Heraat where CAI is sponsoring the construction of 36 additional houses for the victims of Talibaan massacres. Aliakberbhai, apart from being genial company, is wise in many years of school construction and administration, CAI task at hand in Sar Pol later in the trip. The housing project is on time, on budget and surprisingly, so is our flight back to Kabul a day later.

We encounter a pretty scary incident on return to our hotel from the housing complex that day. I have my laptop bag containing our passports and some cash by my side, covered up by a keffiyeh, just as a precautionary measure against theft and the ever omnipotent dust of Afghanistan. We are stopped by a 5 man security team who order Wasi to pull up. The country is tense due to parliamentary election on Saturday, with frequent security stops and checks of vehicles everywhere. A bulky solider approaches our vehicle and spots the wrapped bag between me and Basheer and freezes. He frantically gestures a signal and barks something as all 5 soldiers train their automatic M-16 rifles in our direction; it is time for us to freeze.

The scariest part of being in Afghanistan is the apparent flood of arms; countless Afghan men carelessly tote a machine gun; my paranoia is for one going off by accident and somebody (me?) innocent falling prey. Using his machine gun, the officer gestures for us to get out of the car; the thing is ugly looking and very scary, making me so nervous, my tongue feels as dry as the arid terrain outside. He orders me to bring out my bag which he roughly throws on the roof of Wasi’s car. He then orders me to open it; I do with trembling, nervous fingers as all the rest of them now have their weapons pointed at me with fingers on the trigger. Satisfied I am not wired or carrying a bomb, the officer relaxes, takes his finger off the trigger and apologizes, orders us to leave; we do so with extraordinary haste, did not realize we could move so fast.

That night, September 17, as we sleep on the floor of our engineers Wasi and Basheer’s dilapidated office, Kabul hotels much too dangerous as targets of attacks, the ground beneath us shakes. The first jolt is quite severe as I actually feel the cement ripple under my spine followed by a less intense jolt and then tremors and shaking of the structure. Both Aliakber and I rush outside and join the others from the other room. I am surprised the office is still standing; it is a pretty old building in need of major repairs. Our engineers have got the use of it for free so are happy with the status quo and don’t spend any money on it. Wasi, Basheer, Aliakberbhai and Khaleeqdad, the servant, are off and asleep soon afterwards. I spend some time out in the cold alone, contemplating, before it gets too chilly and I head back into the blankets.

The next day is spent doing absolutely nothing as the city is virtually shut down due to the elections; we spend time surfing the internet that loads so slow, I can see and feel my fingernails grow. We do, however, have an excellent open air barbecue; I marinated some lamb chops yesterday and it turns out very tender and yummy. Have that with fresh hot Afghan nan and you are in lamb chop heaven.

We have been asked to report at the airport by 7AM next day to catch the PACTEK chartered flight to Sar Pol but nothing happens until 9AM when we are finally airborne, piloted by Andre the Swiss. I always pray to God to never make me despondent, even if He chooses not to enrich me, for despondency is a terribly horrid feeling to have. And despondency is exactly what I find in Sar Pol among the 2,000 or so internally displaced refugees that Iran has expelled back to Afghanistan. They live in flimsy UNHCR handout tents that I cannot even imagine what will be like this coming winter. This community in Sar Pol has many, many problems, from food to housing to education. CAI has chosen to address the education problem. About 400 students, from grade 1 – 10 study out on the open, literally under the mercy of elements. So schooling is possible only for about 5 months of summer, if not raining, the rest of time is too cold and windy for classes. CAI will begin construction on a modest elementary school that will take care of children not having to fight the elements and study in relative comfort. I leave Sar Pole with a very heavy heart; for the misery of these hapless people is gut wrenching. After presentation of 5 sheep each to 14 widows in CAI sponsored Widows Economic Empowerment at a village 1 hour drive away, we retire at a local home and fly back to Kabul the next day and onwards to Mumbai the day after.

There is apprehension in the air after we land in Mumbai; it is the last day of Ghanpaty festival with loud firecrackers and throngs of people with multicolored streaks in their hair and bodies everywhere. There is also the Ayodhya Masjid verdict on Friday with schools closed and the country bracing for violence. The drive from airport to home is an adventure in itself as we get bogged down in the Ganesh processions that snarl traffic. Our vehicle, a brand new VW Polo that Aliakberbhai’s son Abbas is driving ever so carefully is scratched by an errant rickshaw driver in the melee we find ourselves in. A large group of pulsating teenagers are jerking about, as if possessed by the devil, to very loud throbbing music. Amidst this fracas of teeming people, the dancing and loud music, huge firecrackers are set off, setting off palpitations in tender hearts. For a moment I think I am still in Afghanistan and perhaps have finally made rendezvous with an explosive. But the mass of humanity, grime and filth outside, relentless sewer stink, hopelessly snarled cars centimeters away from each other fenders and noise pollution reassures me I am in Mumbai, India indeed. I will be all right, Insha’Allah.

You may be interested in watching these photographs.

Pakistan drowns – A personal experience.

2010-09-08T19:24:00.000-07:00

Emirates flight from Dubai to Islamabad is uneventful but delayed, typical Emirates style; the pilot wakes up 15 minutes after scheduled departure, tells us how sorry he is and blames late arrival of this aircraft for the delay. As if I care; you are late, period, I don’t care an ant’s ass why; save me the sob story. Would Emirates care if I told them I am late checking in because my driver was delayed picking me up? The food served on board is so bad, my neighbor takes one bite of his chicken korma, makes a face, hurriedly covers his tray, pulls a blanket over his face and is fast asleep in about two minutes; lucky guy. I eat the salad and bread, for I am hungry, this is my iftaar and sleep afterwards is impossible. There is commotion on board after we land, people are on their feet, emptying overhead cabins before the aircraft comes to a full stop; cabin crew franticly force them to cease, but my fellow passengers are in a hurry, they ignore pleas to sit down; the crew give up.

A strikingly young attractive lady immigration officer, scanning through my passport wants to know why I go to Afghanistan so much; I explain I am an aid worker building schools and taking care of orphans, widows there. A sad look clouds her pretty face and says in very heavy accented Pinglish, they kill you American, be careful, no? Some Pakistanis too, I want to add but bite my tongue instead. She waves me towards a desk where I am to apply for visa on arrival. I leave her reluctantly; not sure why, maybe a feeling of shared camaraderie between us in the few seconds of our interaction.

A young, smart looking officer asks me to complete a visa application form, which is difficult, as the form is so light from frequent photocopying, I can hardly read the questions asked. The officer then asks to borrow my pen so he can fill out my visa sticker, his pen has gone missing, he says. I hand it over reluctantly; my pens share common traits with my ex wives; have this nasty habit of divorcing me. Visa sticker complete, he attempts to coax stubborn glue out of a bottle but it is adamant, refuses to come out. Frustrated, he slams the bottle to the floor and storms off, looking for a fresh bottle somewhere inside the adjoining office. I take this opportunity to replace my pen with an inexpensive one that is lying useless in my laptop bag. He returns with mission failed, no replacement glue to be found. He retrieves the abused glue bottle from under his desk and takes off the cap, scoops out some with a pinkie finger and lines the edges of the visa sticker and applies it to a passport page with a look of triumph on his face. He has to validate the visa sticker now but cannot find a suitable place to wipe excess glue off his fingers, so it goes on his jet black thick head of hair. I wish I was with him next time he combs his hair, only because I am suddenly envious of the healthy head of hair he sprouts; puts my barren scalp to shame. It is 3AM when I leave the airport and arrive at my hotel an hour later. I can sleep for three hours only after fajr namaaz as representatives from Husseini Foundation are here to pick me up for our tour of flood affected areas in Pakistan Punjab.

The 3 lane highway out of Islamabad towards Punjab and Dehra E Ismail is smooth and very well maintained; the South Koreans have done a splendid job. It is after we cross a major dam and power plant at a key junction on the Indus River that separates Punjab from Dehra E Ismail that the enormity of the floods slaps me, hard. Everywhere, as far as the eye can see, is crippling devastation. Homes flattened, belongings washed away, people and animals drowned, mosques and imambargahs flattened and miles of fertile agricultural land, crops destroyed. The water that came gushing into these flat lands was so immense, it defies all logic; 600mm or 25 inches of rain fell in one day!

For the next 3 days, I see repeat horrors that I would not wish on anybody. I am besieged in every village we visit, throngs of fatigued, pitiful people in tattered and dirty clothes wanting, waiting, complaining, beseeching. Unanimously, all of their faces have one look in common, hope. Hope I would be their savior, pull them out of their predicament and this makes me feel sick to the pit of my stomach; awfully awful, crush me to a point I internally break down in despair repeatedly. Saidalain, Shadau, Thatta Balochan , Taunsa, Basti Shero, Tehsil, Jampur, Basti Guddan, Chawk Qureshi , Basti Sobay Wala, Basti Kumar, Biat Bogha and Basti Muhammad Ali, tragedy after tragedy, tales of horror that numb me so much I begin to block it all out after a while, else it will drive me insane. Most passionate lament is for lost harvest and homes destroyed; all men, without exception, beg me to help rebuild their homes. It is crushing feeling for village men not to be able to feed and house his family, his honor.

At Jampour and Laiyah, I am so traumatized at the sight of what greets my eye, I become angry at Allah and stupidly question His justice. Why, why, why? We are the first outsiders these victims see since they escaped rising waters; hundreds had to be rescued by makeshift boats pulled by male family members wading or swimming through muddy water. For miles, families with destroyed belongings squat, blocking roads. The Day of Judgment; will it be similar to this? The enormity and hopelessness of it all is suffocating. These people live on the road itself and then bathe and defecate in the flood waters still to recede. It is difficult to draw the line between humans and their animals, as they try to share meager resources rescued.

At a refugee center inside Masooma Qoom mosque in Laiyah, about 600 people have taken refuge. Women and children sit and while away their time doing nothing but stare blankly into space, the shock of what occurred still incomprehensible, even after 6 weeks. Children play or cry all around me, some want to see their photos on the camera screen while others want to touch me, as if I am some sort of celebrity. I meet 3 brand new babies, 2 girls, both aptly named Masooma and a boy, Mohammed, born as refugees inside the mosque. What does the future hold for them?

I get out from my air-conditioned vehicle to take pictures in the suffocating heat and humidity while people lolling around with their families stare at me blankly; the stench of rot and decay is overpowering, disease cannot be far behind. What good will these pictures you take do, asks a very old man looking up at me from a charpoy. I squat next to him and try explaining that I will share it with worldwide community and this will, insha’Allah, bring some help for him. It is okay then, he says, nodding his head in approval, better than these bastard politicians of our country. This, distressingly, has been a universal complaint from victims throughout my tour.

The 3 days and 2 nights I spend on the road in Dehra E Ismail, Dehra Ghazi Khan and Laiyah Districts are exhausting, retiring at about 2AM. The hotel generator at Dehra E Ismail is so noisy, I feel I have been hit by a sledgehammer the next morning. The bathroom is a mess and towel smell of cow dung from yesterdays visit to the devastated farms. Sobering is news from my host that Dehra E Ismail and Dehra Ghazi Khan are hotbeds of secretion violence, with Shias targets of Wahaabi groups. Why, 3 Shia Muslims were gunned down just this morning and a decision is made to avoid going to Dehra Ghazi Khan proper; I become tense and fret about either a bullet or bomb making us targets, even though our trip here has been kept secret just for this reason. The going is slow and laborious, with frequent stops at destroyed roads and pauses to calm or just listen to traumatized victims along the way.

What I experience in these 3 days is unique, I cannot understand it, and so it makes me mad. There are tragedies that are manmade (Afghanistan) and I can blame humans for it. But here, I don’t know, just don’t know; must accept Allah, the Mighty, the Powerful, the All Knowing and the Most JUST has a reason and accept His doing. Ya Allah, please accept our small sacrifices in the service of Your humanity, for Your pleasure, have mercy on these victims, relieve them of their trauma and speed them to full habilitation. You do what You will, there is no might except Yours and nobody worthy of worship but You.

As for CAI, we promise, as usual, full accountability, transparency and hands on involvement – all at zero administration cost. Of course.

Recommendations:
Instead of bogging you down with all statists, I list the loss of lives and property from just Dehra E Ismail District. Remember, this is just one district in Punjab; there are 5 more (Dehra Ghazi Khan, Rajanpour, Muzzaferghar, Laiyah and Bhakkar) not included. And Sindh of course, an area I did not visit.

Area of flooding: 140 by 60 miles, affecting 950,000 people.
10 people died.
20,000 homes destroyed.
136,000 acres of land destroyed – 50,000 wheat, 50,000 rice, 36,000 of corn, millet, etc.
2,000 animals perished.
45 villages completely washed away
40 mosques destroyed.
10 Imambargas destroyed.

CAI, like many other NGO’s, funds Husseini Foundation of Pakistan, a credible and active organization, with good logistical and local area committees that oversee the relief work. There are, obviously, many needs that the victims have; some are already being met; food and medicines are generally being met by many NGO’s and the government, with some exceptions. CAI will concentrate the following:

Housing:
Destroyed homes still have about 60% material that can be reused; bricks, wood, iron frames, doors etc, CAI will not provide these. Labor will have to come from the victims and family, friends. If this rule is strictly applied, a damaged or destroyed home (12x18 sq. ft.) can be rebuilt for an average of USD500 each. If each family where this email reaches blesses these wretched families with one home, CAI can participate in at least 1,000 homes. A tall order perhaps; I am, however, optimistic as we enjoy the blessings of our Eid, we will dig deep to come up with the funds. Insha’Allah. This is 1 room home, nothing else. As long as we can get these people inside a protective environment that will give shelter from approaching winter, we will insha’Allah, save lives.
Blankets:
The coming winter will take its toll. These victims are defenseless against elements as they have lost everything. For this year at least, CAI is changing focus of blankets from Afghanistan to Pakistan. We might still target a smaller group for blanket distribution there, if funds permit, but focus will be Pakistan where we are sure lives will be lost if we are not proactive. One good, warm blanket that accommodates 2 people will cost around USD14.
Economic empowerment for widows / single mothers:
As proved over and over again, in Afghanistan and elsewhere, sheep rearing by womenfolk is one sure way out of grinding poverty. 5 sheep that cost about USD550 awarded to a widow or single mother and well administered will see the victim out of desperation within about 6 months as she will have regular income from milk and byproducts and 100% profit from resale of new babies.

Your USD50,000 contribution so far:
Because of the situation and immediate needs, funds that were advanced to Husseini Foundation went for purchasing grains to feed the victims; 6 trucks of food grain fed 8,500 families with rice and pulses. All future funds will be now directed towards the priority items listed above.

Please click here for a library of photographs from floods areas I visited.

I thank Hassan Aboolo and Brig (R) Zamurad Khan of Hussein Foundation for their assistance and hospitality during my brief stay in Pakistan. Thank you guys - could not have done this without your invaluable assistance.

Leh, India – The skies rained misery. Part Two.

2010-08-22T01:12:00.000-07:00

Part Two. Death, decay and despair.

The district of Ladakh in Indian Kashmir is beautiful, simply beautiful. Kargil and Leh comprise Ladekh with a combined population of about 300,000 people spread over a very large mountainous area. The religious (mostly harmonious) divide is 52% (mostly Shiite) Muslims, 45% Buddhist and 3% others. Very much like the Hazaras of central Afghanistan, people of Ladakh share similar facial characters, both probable decedents of Mogul stock. The views of this entire region, especially from the air, never fail to take my breath away; this happens again as my flight, avoiding traitorous mountains tops, banks steep to make her adjustment for landing.

But there is murkiness that obscures this beauty this time; mud. I can see the destruction easily, tons of slimy mud that descended from surrounding mountains when clouds burst over this tourist town on the eve of August 6. Within minutes, most of this picturesque town was covered in smoldering goo of mud and water, killing at least 200 and leaving thousands homeless; 500 people are still reported missing.

I am met outside the airport terminal by Syed Rizwi and Ashraf Ali from Imamiya Mission and Imamiya Trust, both very active in relief efforts for the victims currently underway. It is still early, 8AM, the streets deserted and eerie. I smell rot and decay all around me as we drive to the hotel I will sleep the one night. And then there is the fine mountain dust from dried up mud, dust that is omnipresent, filling my already congested lungs and setting me up for allergies right away. The damage I see is devastating, unbelievable and bone numbing; I cannot even imagine the horror of it all as the disaster would have unfolded. Entire neighborhoods washed away, people, homes, building, cars; all picked up and washed away by the advancing mud, as if mere toys.

I refuse tea that my hosts insist; it is Ramadhan and they fast. We talk about relief efforts under way and how CAI can assist before embarking on a tour of the most affected areas. It is painful to see so much destruction, so much misery, so much despair. The Imamiya group is struggling to help families of 19 killed and 9 still missing; however, the biggest challenge is lost livelihood from inundated and wasted farmlands and washed away / destroyed homes that will have prolonged affect on the livelihood of so many more.

I meet 2 individuals; both named Hussein Ali, grieving by freshly marked graves at a remote village of Schuzbo in Phang, outside Leh. One Hussein Ali lost his wife and all 3 children and the other a wife and his only child. Both are grief stricken and inconsolable; I am unable to do anything but hold them, there is nothing I can say that will dull the pain anytime soon. The scenes are horrid with bridges, homes, land and roads that have simply disappeared in thin air. An Imambargah, wrecked, its concrete walls small stones and dust and twisted iron. The Sheikh, Gulam Hadi, a petite, frail man frets all the time. What will happen now? How will we complete Ramadhan? What about Muharram? We cannot rebuild here, we must move… He is however, astonished I have come to take stock and ask after them; cannot stop parting with duas for me; he makes it all, oh, so worthwhile.

This scene is repeated everywhere we visit that long hard day. My hosts insist I have some tea at least; we are welcomed into a home nearby and agonizing sweet tea served. As I try to drink the steaming, extra strong, sweet liquid away from the gaze of my fasting hosts, a mournful anguished wail from a grieving woman fills the air and I freeze. The sound is so painful that I leave the tea alone as men folk shush and kindly rebuke the source. The door is shut to block out the sound but I still cannot make myself drink the tea.

Late that night, spent and exhausted, I commit CAI to rebuild 5 completely lost homes and clean / repair 10 at the cost of about USD30k; I’ll think of ways coming up with funds from our magnificent and kindhearted donors. Later. Somehow. Insha’Allah.

Click here to see the devastations in Leh.

Blog concludes.

Leh, India – The skies rained misery. Part One.

2010-08-20T21:43:00.000-07:00

Part One. Perhaps this is why Pakistan is in such a mess…?

Reports are pouring in about death, maim, unimaginable anguish and heartbreak for peoples of Pakistan and Leh, going through devastating flooding and mud slides that have cost so many lives and destroyed so much. Even though it is Ramadhan, I cannot sit still; as head of an organization dedicated to try and help in exactly such disasters, I am on the move; I make plans to fly to Leh via New Delhi (only possible air route), obtain a visa visa to Pakistan in the process. I call Pakistan High Commission in New Delhi; the person in charge of visas tells me if I can bring a letter from US Consulate in Mumbai (I am a US citizen), Pakistan High Commission will grant me the visa. Next day, I visit the US Consulate and they give me a generic letter stating there is no objection in me visiting Pakistan.

New Delhi is a mess, hot and sticky with traffic so messed up in preparation of the (un)Commonwealth Games now so much in disrepute, I feel the city will need genuine miracles for the games to commence. The Pakistan High Commission is about an hour from the airport and I reach it after some trouble; the rickshaw driver a little upset I don’t know the exact location. The place is heavily fortified and I reach the visa counter after having being carefully scrutinized by different sets of armed security men. I find myself to be the only one in line; a pleasant surprise. The widow that separates me from the person inside in similarly fortified with steel bars, the glass pane is one sided, I cannot see anything or anyone inside except the balding head of a person bent on reading something. Hello, I say in greeting; the bald head does not move. Hello!!! I shout a little too loudly. The bald head rises ever so slowly and a set of eyes regard me in irritation. Bolo, kya hai, says invisible lips for I cannot see anything except the man’s eyes; I feel very uncomfortable, feels I am talking to somebody in a neqaab. I explain my reasons for a visa and slide my passport and other papers through a slot to him; the head falls again and I am exposed to a barren pate once more.

The head stays down for a while and I seriously feel the guys fallen asleep when he pushes the papers back towards me and the eyes reappear. Sorry, I cannot grant you a visa. The letter from US Consulate is not specifically asking us to issue you a visa. I am stunned, unable to speak for quite a few seconds during which the head falls back again and I am exposed to white pink scalp once more. I swear, had that window been open, I would have slapped that thing silly; it would give me immense satisfaction. I protest verbally instead; loudly. Window Number One , says the bowed head and I am dismissed.

Feeling bruised and smarting from the insults and brush off, I go looking for Window Number One which turns out to be the main entrance for Consular Section. I explain my predicament to a more sympathetic male attendant who rings for somebody and I am met with assistant Consular Kamal. Kamal is an emaciated, well groomed polite young man, with a thin face and a wobbly Adams apple that seems to have a mind of its own. The man has very little to say; he mainly listens to me, takes my documents and advised me to call him in about three hours; he will discuss the merit of my case with the Consular and let me know. Ah, there is hope, so I return to the airport and check into a nearby hotel.

I call Kamal three hours later and I am told he is out of the office, call back. I call back five times; Kamal is either not in his seat or busy. I fret; he has my most important documents and being Ramadhan, the Commission offices close at three and I am flying out of Delhi very early tomorrow. When I finally get to him, he is abrupt, not so polite. You please go to the US and apply your visa from there; they happy to give you a visa, not possible from New Delhi. You are a US citizen, not Indian. Instinctively, I go on the defensive, but… but you guys promised, I am a US national but I live in India, I have given you my resident permit, I have come all the way from Mumbai for this, it makes no sense for me to fly all the way to the US just to get a visa…. There is a pause; I can just hear Kamal breathing at the end of the line; I am so mad I could just reach out and strangle that Adams apple that must be dancing away at the end of the line. After what seems to be an entirety, he speaks, You wait, commands Kamal, you talk to the Consul.

There are clicks and humming at the other end; I despair the line will be cut off. India, you see, has very good cell phone technology but woeful land lines, as stable as Kamals Adams apple. A commanding, crisp voice, not unlike an Englishman with a stiff upper lip identifies himself as Akram, and how can he help me. I try and stay calm and relate my predicament to Akram in a pleading, emotional manner, that I am CEO of CAI, residing lawfully in India, do a lot of humanitarian work in India, Afghanistan and elsewhere and wish to go to Pakistan and possibly help there. There is a pause while Akram, I guess, digests this data. Our discussion and demeanor is straight downhill from that point, with the conversation going something like this:

Akram: Well, I understand you want to help Pakistan, but I have no authority to issue you a visa.
Me: You are the Consul General; surely you do have the authority and can make an exception for the betterment of suffering Pakistanis. Please understand I am not a visitor to India, I LIVE here so I have the same rights to a visa an Indian national would have.
Akram: Really, so you want to teach me the rules of visa issuance by Pakistan, do you?
Me: Well, it makes no sense for a resident of India to travel to the US to obtain a visit visa for Pakistan. Does that make sense to you Sir? You are in your position because you have a good education and can make an informed, rational and wise decision. I am sure you will agree with me? I’ll tell you what, you issue me that visa, only 3 days visa and I’ll donate the USD2,000 it will cost me to travel to US to get the visa (It’ll cost me much more but since I am intrinsically a Wania, might as well try save some bucks) to the flood victims of Pakistan.
Akram, after a long pause: Well, that is very generous of you, but no, you will have to go to the USA and Pakistan will be happy to grant you a visa. I am sorry I can’t help you. I will have your documents waiting for you at the reception, please pick them up.
Me, with my blood pressure at unprecedented high levels: Can I appeal your decision? Is there anyone else that you report to that I can talk to, anyone else who can help me, who has the authority to grant me the visa?
Akram, with a mocking laugh in his voice: Not even Obama.

The line goes dead. Oh, I am so frustrated and disappointed, I could cry. I take a rickshaw to the High Commission with a heavy heart and my lungs filled with New Delhi motor vehicle fumes. The receptionist hands me my documents with a kind sympathetic expression on his face. I return to the hotel and wait for very early tomorrow for my flight to Leh. Ya Allah, I tried; I tried very, very hard.

Next stop Leh…to be continued.

Ye hai mera (H)India….

2010-08-13T02:22:00.000-07:00

Sirsi UP, India, site of CAI sponsored school and orphanage:

Just as I decide to leave the relative comfort of the orphanage, it begins to pour. The school bus has no air-condition, so the windows must stay down or I risk being suffocated in the heat and humidity that is all powering this midday early August. So I get wet and wetter as the rain intensifies.

The distance between Sirsi and Samble, an administrative center of sorts, is only about 10 kilometers but the drive is a fight for space in the narrow tar-top that leads us there and school bus driver is as aggressive as any as we near my destination, the District Registrar of Moragabad. You see, I have to register a Power of Attorney given to Lozi, our school administrator, so that a piece of land I have purchased in Sirsi can be registered in my name without me having to come all the way from Mumbai during the month of Ramadhan. Simple little exercise, so I thought.

When we do get to the building that has the Registrar Office, there is no parking in the packed streets and it is raining profusely. Well, there is no choice so I bravely, but very carefully, run the 300 odd feet to get to the building. Discarded plastic bags and bottles, cigarette butts, tobacco paan sachets, a discarded used condom (eeekh, yes, that’s a condom all right!), wet and miserable stray dogs and a lone monkey, its behind red as a Washington apple greet me as I turn into a filthy narrow lane that leads to the Registrar’s office. A few steep steps up and a string of open stalls line the building, lawyer’s offices, perhaps 20 of them, eagerly wait for customers. They are full today, people seeking shelter from the downpour; I join them, frantically trying to shake water from my soaked clothes.

Lozi assures me all forms are ready, typed, checked and rechecked; we won’t have to wait too long - he is oh, so wrong. As I try to stay calm in the crowded lawyer’s “office”, amongst the dampness and smell of unwashed feet and untamed armpits. Lozi advises me the lawyer is seeking shelter elsewhere due to the rain, he should be back soon; my God, “soon” could mean an eternity in India. We wait for about 20 agonizing minutes in the dampness and smell, I slapping persistent flies away in irritation and anger while those around me watch me closely, probably wondering why I am so agitated; why, they don’t seem to mind the dampness and flies at all! When the lawyer does come, he folds his hands at everybody in respect and wants to give me priority but my file has disappeared in thin air! Another 10 minutes go by; the file is finally located on top of a support that holds up the office walls, an assistant felt that was the safest place against the rain. My signatures, 10 of them, are taken, I am fingerprinted and we are ready for registration.

We troupe up to the Registrar’s office, a dingy, airless, pan stained hall with a dingier smaller room inside where the Registrar sits, smoking. I am told to sit inside this room while we wait for the documents to be recorded. I enter into a cloud of cigarette smoke and a nasty stench of stale tobacco; a pair of eyes behind thick, heavy lens regard me cautiously. I do Namaste; the man wags his head through the cloud of smoke and finishes his cigarette, discarding the butt on the floor and stamping it dead. A garland portrait of Mahatma Gandhi sternly frowns down at us from the wall above the smokers head, perhaps not too happy with all the pollution.

In the hall, something is amiss; Lozi and the lawyer are frantically gesturing and arguing with the clerk about something. The stench in this office is nasty, so when another cigarette is lit and the man gets busy with new visitors, I escape to the hall and fresher air. Lozi has a pained, embarrassed expression on his face, explains the clerk has made a mistake and stamped a “wrong” page of the POA; will have to fix it. I go back down to get some fresh air; the rain has abated. Exactly opposite the entrance, atop the wall that fences the building, sits the monkey with the red behind, observing everybody and everything. It eyes me uncaringly, I look at it warily. Not wanting to be near an animal that is an expert and wily thief, I try to shoo it away. It is unmoved, stares at me defiant, mocking, as if laughing at me, then bares vicious looking fangs; I hurriedly retreat back up.

There is another argument developing between the lawyer, Lozi and the main Babu (clerk) about the amount of facilitation (bribe) I have to pay to get the POA registered. The Babu, seeing I am not “native” to UP, is asking double the amount, about USD26; Lozi is adamantly refusing; the lawyer agrees with both parties, depending on whose argument would benefit him. The Babu argues that he has expedited the POA matter, seeing I was a guest and that “seniors” above him want a bigger cut every time. He waves the thousand Rupee bill in the air and cries in agitation. See that man inside? He wants a bigger share. And his boss, and his boss’s boss, all the way to the top. How can I divide this thing so many ways?! Still, with a hurt, sour look on his face, he carefully folds the bill and adds it to several others in a memo book, then notes down my contribution below a long list of names in the log. Our job done, we leave the building, I leading in a hurry to get out of the suffocation I feel. The monkey is still there, observing everybody, everything.

I choose to return to Sirsi on Lozi’s motorbike so I can pass by and inspect the land I have purchased. I pled Lozi for some strong chai, so he stops at a grimy little restaurant along a busy intersection. Everything about the restaurant screams a warning for me to stay away. Outside the restaurant, atop a wooden crate, sits a samoosa maker, next to a skillet dark with boiling, bubbling grease full of samoosas that are scooped up by eager customers as fast as he can fry them. He sits cross legged, barefoot; one big fat dirty toe with an overgrown nail full of grime acts as an anchor to a pile of thin pastry pockets that he fills with a mixture of boiled potato mix and spices. He has not a care in the world at the unhygienic, appalling picture he paints and his customers either don’t care or are pathetically insensitive.

I want to drink some boiled tea, with all germs killed, I reason, so partake in the delicious brew. A mound of tiny boondhi, with flies and bees swarming all over it catch my eye and make my mouth water. I ask the guy to give me some from the middle core, hopefully untouched by the flies on top. The guy behind the pile looks at me strangely but complies so I enjoy, enjoy, enjoy. I have a month fasting coming up, the calories will take of themselves, no? Perhaps?

A visit to Malaad slums…

2010-07-28T14:19:00.000-07:00

It is pouring outside, has been for at least a week; non ceasing rain, at times so heavy, it alarms me. I have not seen the sun in this time; the skies are sullen, dark heavy clouds pregnant with moister that open up every few minutes. Aliakberbhai Ratansi calls to say he will pick me up at 11AM tomorrow; we have to go to Malaad slums to inspect CAI sponsored construction of 41 homes for the poor and destitute, 23 of them now ready, it’s important. The thought of making that trip sullies my mood even further, depresses me. Malaad slums, teeming with discards and unfits of Mumbai’s economic growth, is not for the faint hearted and weak stomachs, even in good days. I imagine the filthy flooded alleys, stench of open sewers, flies that will torment me and drenched hovels of the poor; their absolute misery trying to ward of overflowing sewer nallas and hopelessly leaking roofs of tin or tarpaulin.

Well, the Almighty is kind today, for I wake up without the sound of rain pounding on my bedroom windows and I get an immediate lift in my disposition when I see the sun peaking through clouds. I cannot believe it, I have actually seen the sun, in July, in Mumbai; alhamd’Allah. Aliakberbhai is bang on time, another rarity of Mumbai appointments where even 30 minute delay is a pleasant surprise. When we reach Malaad, it is swarming with people and cars and busses and motorbikes and bicycles and dogs and flies and hundreds of potholes and a few goats and few buffaloes; we crawl to a standstill negotiating all these. I swear I would kill someone in an instant if I was driving; Aliakberbhai however, has infinite patience and not at a bit bothered by the racket outside his air conditioned surroundings.

If the entry to Malaad was chaotic, the slums are major manic; lanes so narrow, I can clearly see the sizzling protest wart on a pakoora being tormented in a huge wok inside a tiny, filthy restaurant with a line of eager, hungry customers waiting to add more torment on it by devouring it. The rains of past 6 weeks have made a mockery of repairs by (corrupt!) local municipality with potholes big enough to hide a corpse. Indeed, foul odor of decay makes its way inside our tightly shut windows just as Aliakberbhai avoids running over pulpy remains of a dog; snarled teeth of agony the only identifying feature that tells me it was once a dog.

When we reach the general area where our homes are being built, there is no decent parking in sight; most areas are covered by rain water and few places outside ramshackle shops shoo us away. After a few futile attempts, Aliakberbhai parks next to a shed with people recycling garbage inside, ignoring agitated protests from the apparent owner. I am aptly dressed; sweatpants with elastic at the ankles, a tee-shirt and flip-flops with an umbrella and my camera. I have however, forgotten to spray my handkerchief with a liberal dose of perfume, a must for Mumbai slums if your nose is as sensitive as mine; I despair. Sure enough, sewer stench and flies welcome me gleefully as soon as I open the vehicle door.

A very short walk and a filthy pond overflowing with sewer goo block our way; Aliakberbhai prepares his trousers to cross it; I balk. There is no chance we can cross it without sinking into the ankle deep water. I have read horror tales of people wading through rain water bare feet then contracting deadly viral diseases due to almost certain dog, rat and human urine presence; this substance looks worse than just plain rain water. Kaleembai, our contractor, clad in inevitable stark white (I wonder how he manages keep is so white working in these slums) kurta pajamas impatiently tells me there is no other way to reach the homes we have to inspect and I could always wash my feet with fresh rain water after we cross. He attempts to lay few stepping stones at the edge of the pond but these are quickly submerged and seem so wobbly, I am sure I would be totally covered with goo if I attempt to use them. I grind my teeth, look up to the heavens for a quick prayer, am rewarded by a smiling sun, than quickly plod through. Once through, I hurry my 2 companions to a nearby shop shed where there is a drum of accumulated rain water; Kaleembhai is granted permission and I scrub my feet, using more water than perhaps needed.

Kaleem has done a decent job in the construction of 23 homes so far; I get satisfaction of watching families in durable homes live in relative comfort and safety. The homes are fairly well constructed, keeps the family dry, with bathroom facilities inside, a luxury only new to these wrenched people; these homes should comfortably last without major repairs at least next 20 or so years. Having satisfied ourselves the project is in course but more importantly, on budget, we bid farewell to a small gathering of people curious to see what we are up to, clicking photos of their homes. Aliakberbhai has his business to attend and there is important breaking economic news from the US that will make the forex markets move; opportunities for my bread and butter.

As we leave, we are frantically beckoned to a nearby tin shanty by a wailing woman, beseeching us to look at the state of her home. I don’t want to go, as this would have serious consequences; there is a long waiting list of homeless families that need housing and I don’t want to pay favorites. But the plea is frantic and relentless; call me a bleeding heart liberal, perhaps; however, this anguish from her heart I cannot ignore. Firdaust Asif Hussein lives in a tin shed measuring 10 x 15 with her husband and 3 children. This is the whole home, including kitchen, bedroom, living room and a corner crude shower; toilets are a 15 minute walk to a public facility that charges Rs. 5 per session.

Firdaust and her husband sew tiny beads into sarees all day that earn her about Rs.100 (approx. USD2); to supplement this minuscule, non-survivable income, Firdaust has set up shop in her tiny home; candy and knickknacks for area children who find it a chore going to buy these all the way to the main alleyways. She clears about Rs. 25 (50 US cents) per day; Firdaust is an enterprising woman, a hard worker. We don’t promise her anything, we can’t; all 41 homes budgeted and sponsored by CAI donors have been allotted. But I’ll try and raise USD2,300 it’ll take to build her a permanent home, only because Firdaust is the kind of person who deserves help. She is not waiting for handouts; rather, she is hustling to make a buck and that is always a start to success.

We plod back through muck and grime; I dread wading through the sewage again and actually feel creepy crawly as we approach the offending pond. There, on one side, with her panties on her knees, squats a child girl, about the same age as my Maaha Zainab, 9, urinating. Finishing her job, she casually cleans up with the same filthy water and as casually, goes her merry way. As I write this piece, my feet are still raw red, smarting from the scrubbing I gave them after my return home.

Click here to view pictures of Malaad slums.

Mumbai monsoons

2010-06-26T10:42:00.000-07:00

I am in Mumbai and this is my 3rd monsoon here; a phenomenon marvel to be experienced that can be quite adventurous if caught in one of the many nasty downpours. It is also quite unique, unlike other places I have lived around the world, for it can rain nonstop for days. Not the steady rains of the equator or Americas, no, it is like buckets of rain being poured from heavens with frenzy; you hear the robust downpour on the roof and windows, intensity of it increasing and subsiding like the acceleration of a vehicle on a busy road. Farmers are relieved, tempers come down as the heat is finally overpowered, air-conditioners are rested, streets are colorful rainbows of umbrellas, and children don't care, come out barefoot, dancing and splashing. Even stray dogs seem subdued and the fight for territory or fancied bitch is with lessened frenzy.

The British must be thanked for excellent infrastructure left behind, much of Mumbai still relies on it; by and large the water is accommodated in drainage systems unless the downpours coincide with high tides; then there can be some serious flooding issues. I remember the floods of about 5 years ago when the city came to a standstill for days and hundreds died. The local municipal establishment is so inept and corrupt; Mumbai would have drowned long ago but for the solid infrastructure inherited. Newer crop of leaders are trying to make a difference though, but it’s an uphill task.

These rains serve several purposes; remember, western India gets rains during the monsoons, usually June to September only; period when water tables get replenished, also life giving lakes and water catchment areas. Monsoons are a great cleanser of grime and filth that accumulates for 9 months, Mumbai has some mind boggling, retching filth communities and slums. The rains so far have been handsomely abundant and I am relieved. Although these downpours can snarl already chaotic traffic and cause mayhem commuting from point A to B, the shortage of rain last year were crippling to city water services. Poor areas suffered with 30% cuts in water supplies, the poor got hit with unbelievable spiraling cost of (purposely inflated) grain and vegetable prices and it was the poor and destitute that had to pay more for (hoarded) water supplied to slum communities.

Mumbai is taking a breather from showers today but the forecast is like a broken record from tomorrow onwards; heavy rains, 90F. US Consulate here in Mumbai have a circular out warning us to be vigilant on days when the seas are pregnant with high tides. I will sit tight and feast in the tail-end mango madness, last of season are totopuris and langraas; you have to try them to believe what delightful bounties Allah has given us....

A journey to Waaweila – Final

2010-06-14T17:45:00.001-07:00

Joyful marriages; grinding poverty; going home.

The drive up to Belkaab begins benignly enough; except for the heat and dust, there is not much happening. We pass Sar Pol and pay respects at the grave of Yahya bin Zain, grandson of Imam Sajjad (A); history tells us he was beheaded after a fierce fight here in Sal Pol and his head sent to Iraq. Up ahead, we stop at a local restaurant and have Kabuli rice for lunch, a kind of pulao; quite yummy actually, if your stomach is used to eating out, like mine is now, alhamd’Allah. It is not hawker food that makes you sick in the tummy in countries like Afghanistan (Kabul Belly), India (Delhi Belly), rather it’s the water. Hot, piping food immediately consumed is relatively safe; this I have learnt over the years. Our appalling road ordeals are repeated as we then climb up towards Belkaab; the air thins out rapidly and it is chilling cold again at altitudes where we encounter snow, now in June. I have to scramble for my warmers and sweater again but these are packed in my suitcase, so I battle getting them out, donning them in the jostling back seat of the vehicle; we drive into Belkhaab 12 hours later. A quick, light, late night dinner and it’s snuggling into blankets again; they smell of sheep and goats. I go to sleep a happy man however; this house, though ancient and mud built, actually sport an eastern toilet and a hammaam with adequate supply of hot water – what luxuries!

We participate in a mass wedding the next morning, a hundred very poor couples who have no chance of affording their marriage ceremonies and rituals get united, thanks to CAI donors. We have a turnout of about 10,000 people from in and around Belkhaab; it becomes abundantly clear crowd control is going to be a problem real fast, even though there is a security cordon around us with the Governor and other top officials in presence. Armed police with Kalashnikovs and plain clothed security men and women with sticks struggle shooing away uninvited crowds; it takes a long time to get some semblance of control and the ceremonies begin. I am nervous throughout however, for even a single incident, however minor, would most certainly result in a stampede with disastrous results. This event, you see, is unique for these hapless people; nothing like this has ever taken place here and the excitement is too much. The ceremonies end with an invited comedian who has the crowds in stitches, the couples included; they laugh and laugh until some have streaming tears. I am so happy, I thank Allah CAI (I) could be the cause of this happiness, albeit temporary in nature. There is also lunch for invited guests, about 1,400; nothing doing, as the lunch ground is thronged with crowds; I later learn that the meal prepared for 1,400 guests actually served 5,000 comfortably. A miracle, I say, no less.

The afternoon is spent touring Belkaab and surrounding areas, and to initiate CAI sponsored water project that will bring safe, pure and usable water to about 30,000 people who now use contaminated water, resulting in clearly avoidable waterborne diseases; even deaths in children. An aalim once remarked that poverty in Afghanistan broke his back; this is so true. I am fortunate and privileged to have travelled the world, to some very poor countries in Africa, Asia and Middle East; nothing compares to the grinding Afghan poverty and this is so evident now. Water is obviously a major issues and this is reinforced to me in an unbelievable, horrible manner. I witness a boy, about 8 or 9 go on his knees and hands, and then lap up water like an animal from a spring; this act is later repeated by 2 other children, girls, sisters perhaps. My eyes see this but my mind refuses to accept the horror of it. That tiny spring gushes out a thin stream of drinkable water but is too shallow for the children to scoop it so this animal instinct is practiced. It is such incidents that tear my heart asunder and make me feel so hopeless about Afghanistan sometimes; I initiate the water project later that afternoon. The Governor, pleased he can now boast of one more major achievement under his belt, invites us to his home for dinner and we feast once again that day. It is to Mazaar Shariff the next morning.

Surprise, surprise, the driver is no other than the comedian from yesterdays wedding ceremonies. Not only is he a fine comic who provides entertainment to Wasi, Basheer and Hussein Pur who have a gala time laughing, he is a poet as well, reciting couplets in praise and tragedies of Imams (A), alternating our moods from merriment to sorrow. These are some of the toughest roads I have ever travelled trough in my life. We meet no other traffic save a couple of trucks throughout the drive, a testimony people don’t risk driving through these hostile roads. I feel like being tossed into a concrete mixer for 18 hours and then let out when we arrive in Mazaar Shariff. So beaten up, I naively agree to Basheer’s suggestion of a massage and skin cleaning at a local hammam, which is surprisingly, immaculate.

When it is my turn for the scrubbing and clean up in a hot steamy cabin, I literally weep tears of agony at the treatment from a massive man who labors my body every which way and angle. Fat, warm sweat drop from his face and body on to mine as he scrubs my body raw, then slaps away at regular intervals as if it is naan dough he is getting ready for the tanoor, not a living, breathing and a very tired me under him. I honestly look pink when I see my face in the mirror back at our hotel room; startled to see myself after 5 days. I have forgotten how I look, there are no mirrors in the remote parts of Afghanistan I had been. While I really liked the scrubbing up at the hammam, I didn’t care for the massage; it was too hard, the man too rough.

Unable to keep my eyes open after a dinner of very good pizza and coke, first meal where I did not have nan or drink chai, I collapse in a bed that is much too soft after sleeping on the floor for last 5 nights. Exhaustion takes over however, and I sleep the slumber of the dead. Early next morning, we inspect 2 deep water well projects CAI has sponsored and head for Kabul. The roads are asphalt for the most part and car mercifully air-conditioned, for Mazar is super hot. Another harrowing 7 hours drive; the taxi driver chain smokes, listens to 1960’s Hindi songs and drives like a man possessed by Iblees himself, we mercifully arrive in Kabul. I spend the next day at the office with Wasi, Basheer and others who make CAI run like a fine oiled machine, going over and auditing accounts and records. Kabul is shut down with a security corridor; President Karzai is meeting with many tribal leaders, including the Talibaan; we decide to stay put at the office and not venture out. Next morning, I am taken to the airport and fly without incident to New Delhi and on to home in suburban Mumbai. It is late night when I get home; daughter Maaha Zainab is fast asleep. But she feels for me when I join her in her bed; she hugs, I fall safely asleep.

Blog concluded.

You can view few photographs of this trip here.

A journey to Waaweilah - Part three

2010-06-12T23:34:00.000-07:00

Shafeeqa’s tears of blood.

The greeting party at Imam Sajjad (A) Clinic troop out to meet us; Aagha Amini, the local community religious leader, Dr. Islam Yaar, nurse Mohammed Amin, pharmacist Mohammed Rafiq cleaner Zaman plus Basheer and a businessman, Hussein Pur, who has volunteered to accompany and help Basheer as I have missed my Pactec flight. Per Afghan traditions, midwife Shafeeqa does not venture out; it is cold anyway and she is busy preparing our dinner. The clinic moved to this present location about 2 weeks ago because the former structure was too small. This one however, has no toilets except behind the building with the sky as the roof.

Reluctantly and vexed that our guys could have agreed to rent a place without a toilet in a medical clinic, I mutter incoherently but gingerly make my way through grass and mud to squat behind the building. It is bitterly cold but what makes it worse are biting winds that make mockery of my warmers and sweater. Still, I must go, as the green tea and cold winds have my kidneys working overtime. It is when I am almost done that I see it; teary eyes of a humongous, harmless field rat, perhaps startled and blinded by the torchlight I am waving around fearfully. I let out a shrill scream and lose the torch, but not caring, run, stepping on turds deposits of my predecessors. We are supposed to sleep at the clinic but I refuse, absolutely refuse sleeping at a place without a toilet, even an evil smelly one. I agree to sleep at the dilapidated home of Aagha Amini, with a stinking toilet in the courtyard. Exhausted from our trip, we eat a quick dinner of nan, tea and over salted beef broth before I fall blissfully asleep.

We try to sleep after fajr prayers the next morning at 3, but sleep is elusive, so we bundle up and go out to see the sun rise to some spectacular mountain vistas I have ever set eyes on. Sacheck is a dirt poor village in the middle of nowhere, but her breathtaking beauty cannot be denied. Our breakfast of nan, chai and dry nuts is spent on strategizing and planning the running of our clinic; Dr. Allah Yaar is very vocal about storage of staff and the need for better facilities. He currently sees about 200 plus patients daily and quality attention with this volume is simple not possible. I try and explain CAI limited resources; I can understand his problems; he sees them at micro levels, while I have to focus on macro levels that take in all of CAI projects and funding needs worldwide.

The sheer enormity and scope of clinic services to the destitute is made clearly abundant when we tour the primal facility after breakfast. There is a man laid out on doctor’s office examining table when we get there, no other place available; Moosa Hydery is only about 30 with a huge belly. Liver Cirrhosis, whispers Allah Yaar, not very good chance of survival unless he goes to Kabul. Soon. I arrange for Moosa to be taken to Kabul at CAI expense; I later learn we are too late; medical experts at Kabul Hospital do not give him more than few months. Word has spread that foreign guests are at the clinic and a steady stream of very sick and desperate people arrive, some have travelled since 12 midnight on donkeys, some have walked. Two women, one with chronic Ostio Myalitis, another with Trombo Phibioitis are also dispatched to Kabul as Allah Yaar says he cannot treat them here. Although this decision is taking a toll on CAI sadeqa funds, I simple cannot look the women in their eyes and say no, I cannot help you; the hope and expectation on their faces will not allow me. Then, I simply refuse to see any more sick people, for the wellbeing of my pocketbook as well my personal sanity.

I have a very difficult next 30 minutes as Shafeeqa, the midwife, tearfully relates events leading to her father’s execution by the Talibaan some 8 years ago; you can read all about Shafeeqa’s Tears of Blood here . The entire village seems to be gathered outside, waiting to meet me afterwards; I shake their hardened, farm worked, coarse hands. The village elders hand me a handwritten letter of appreciation for all that CAI is doing for their village, from the clinic, to blankets, mass marriages and Iftaar food packets. It is difficult to fathom the poverty of these people unless you visit and meet them and this tribute is an emotional strain for me indeed; for CAI and I, it is us that are deeply indebted for the opportunity to serve. After many different meetings and audits, we are ready for lunch and drive back to YawKawlang. I do not want us driving in the dark; want to visit Shafeeqa’s destroyed home and rest well for the next leg of my odyssey tomorrow; a chartered flight and another 18 hours drive to the district of Belkhaab.

Lunch has become an issue; Dr. Allah Yaar informs me Shafeeqa is on an emergency call to stabilize a full term pregnant woman who is in a coma and bleeding. The women lives some distance away and Shafeeqa will not be able to cook lunch, would fried eggs, naan and chai suffice? Well, for one, Shafeeqa is not our cook and my Mama always said food tasted excellent no matter what it was as long as you were hungry; so true, no? So, 3 delicious fried eggs each later, we depart for YawKawlang where we arrive in record time of just 2 hours. After visiting Shafeeqa destroyed home, we are guests at Dr. Allah Yaar’s home (with 2 toilet in the courtyard!) and have a feast of lamb pulau for dinner.

Next morning, we drive to YawKawlang “airport” and wait for our Pactec chartered flight to arrive from Kabul; it does, an hour late. The runway is simply a stretch of straight dirt road; the pilot makes a diving fly by to inspect it, make sure there are no major obstacles on it. Another delay ensues when a bored “security” officer drives up and demands clearance papers from the 2 astonished pilots; they have heard of no such requirement. After about an hour of sitting on dirt and many heated telephone conversations between the pilots, security officer and people higher up in Bamiyaan, the bored security officer decides he has had enough excitement and just as abruptly, speeds away; we take off in a hurry.

The aircraft is a single engine Cessna 172 Skyhawk, 4 passengers and 2 pilots; for those with weak stomachs, it will not be a compassionate ride, for it can toss, dance and bounce with mountain winds; Pactec keeps extra sick bags. Andre, the Swiss pilot with whom I have travelled before is a wonderful man, fluent in Dari. He is training Aziz, a young American (assumed name? convert?) today but still flies low enough for us to photograph and video spectacular sights of snowy mountain tops and green valleys. An hour later, we make an uneventful, perfect landing Shabbar Khan, on another strip of dirt, after a precautionary fly past over it.

CAI has sponsored the marriages of 100 poor couples in Belkhaab; in our honor, the Governor of Belkhaab has sent a vehicle to pick us up. My, my, Yakoob’s khatara put this antique to immediate shame; we debate long and hard if we want to risk a hard drive of 12 hours in this heap. The driver, a kid really, shrugs his shoulders uncaringly, asks us to make up our minds, he has a long drive ahead. We have little choice, to find a replacement would take a half day, at least. While it was super cold in YawKawlang, it is opposite in the valley of Shabbar Khan and I for one have no reservations about getting rid of my warmers and sweater, changing in the moving van, a decision I will regret immensely later on.

To be continued…

You can view few photographs of this trip here.

A journey to Waaweilah - Part two

2010-06-08T17:07:00.000-07:00

Bladder control, an agony.

Stalled car.

Weeping windscreen.

Road to Bamiyaan

Rain, rain

Mud, mud

For a change, there is a line with only about 10 people in front of me waiting for their turn at the immigration counter at Kabul airport. My turn, I step up and hand my passport open to the page where Afghan Consulate in Dubai has pasted the visa; with 14 other prior stamps, it takes time to find the correct one. The immigration officer, a rare clean shaved man with an immaculately trimmed mustache looks at the visa and asks: Where are you coming from? New Delhi, I reply. Your visa is issued in Dubai. I am not sure if this is a question or a statement. Yes, I agree and nod, it was issued in Dubai indeed. Then why are you coming from New Delhi? Eh, is this a trick question? Well, I say, I was in Dubai last week, got my visa from there and then I flew to Mumbai, then Delhi and then I flew to Kabul. I see, he says. He goes through the passport carefully then looks at me; removes his smart cap, scratches vigorously through abundant hair and blows out his cheeks, wafting stale cigarette breath towards my face; I wrinkle my nose. He stares at me for a few seconds that feel like time without end, then suddenly stamps the visa page and slaps the passport on the counter; I am free to go.

Wasi Mohammedan, our engineer and everything else in Afghanistan, greets me beyond the security cordon and we drive to a depilated and shabby house in a neighborhood Wasi feels would be a safe place for me in Kabul. This place is Wasi and Basheer’s office cum residence. After prayers and a quick meal of naan, macaroni and green chai, I spread a quilt on the carpet and try sleeping; tomorrow will be a hard day as we have to drive to Bamiyaan, YawKawland and Sacheck starting 3AM. Morning azaan is called at 3 on the dot but I have been awake for a while, packed and ready for certain exhaustion that lies ahead. We move immediately after namaaz, through empty, eerie Kabul streets. It’s an ancient hired Toyota Ace, 4 wheel drive which rattles, coughs and farts dark clouds of noxious diesel smoke every time the driver hits the gas pedal. The driver, Yakoob, a short fellow with rather feminine features; kajal laden eyes look at me suspiciously and asks Wasi who I am. Ferangi, Indian, replies Wasi; stating I carry an American passport would be asking for trouble, I suppose.

Yakoob and Wasi chat away in Dari, some of it I grasp with my so-so comprehension of the sweet sounding language; I try to sleep at the back seat which becomes impossible after I notice Yakoob’s daring moves. He is either insane or drunk, or both, for he accelerates towards oncoming headlights head on, only to swerve at the last second, inviting protest blasts of honking from oncoming motorists. Wasi and I stare at each other, wide eyed and aghast. When Yakoob repeats this dare devil madness a few more times, I lose my cool and order Yakoob to stop the car. Now, you must try and understand the mentality of taxi drivers in Afghanistan, they are most notorious for rash driving, rude, insolent behavior and they fear no consequences, even from the law, some of who they even finance through bribery. Still, I’d rather Yakoob drop us right there in the middle of the highway than have us killed in a head on collision. I ask Wasi to inform Yakoob that he, Wasi, will take over the driving until we reach the dirt road leading towards Bamiyaan, else, we cancel our contract. Yakoob flutters his eyelids at me, acting hurt but then shrugs his shoulders and relents. I relax and fall asleep until we stop for breakfast of naan and green chai at a hole in the mud restaurant after we leave the tar-top road and begin the grinding dirt road accent towards Bamiyaan.

If you look at the map of Afghanistan carefully, you will learn that it is a relatively large country, with countless peaks and valleys. During summer, valleys can become unbearably dry and hot, while the peaks remain cold and dry, with snow at elevations even in June and July. These valleys posse a deadly torture weapon – very fine sand. This sand billows up when wind blows and when it is disturbed by vehicles. With our windows tightly shut to keep the dust out, it soon becomes hot -hot, so we strip away sweaters and roll up our sleeves. The dirt road becomes increasingly nasty and torturous, with boulders along the way Yakoob maneuvers, keeping in mind there might a car or truck bearing down at us around the next mountain bend. There are times when it feels the steering wheel has a mind of its own, turning to one side while Yakoob wants it on another.

And so it is, a mammoth struggle; not a moment when I can relax, sit still or even engage in easy, coherent conversation. The fine dust is what torments me most; it gets into my nose, my ears, my eyes, and in every nook and cranny of my body. Why, if I can, I will not be surprised to find it deposited in some unholy crevices of my body as well. It takes us 10 hours to reach Bamiyaan, a distance of about 90 miles. When I alight from the car, my knees are so wobbly, I have to hug her for a moment and regain my motor skills. I am uncomfortably pressed at the bladder and I must relieve myself now; I run towards the mosque bathrooms in the courtyard but Wasi restrains me, reminding me to take a can of water with me. Well, there is a line of men waiting to do exactly that at the water-well so I have to wait my turn, alternating between my feet in a dance for bladder control the people around me can only deem loony.

When it is finally my turn, one step inside the toilet and I gag violently at the stench; I struggle for air that is bent on suffocating me. Evil, evil, evil! This is the only description I have for the toilets at that mosque. There are about 10 toilets there, in a line, all just a simple hole with about a 10 foot drop. I very, very carefully squat at this hole to let go. The problem is the sight and smell, both impossible to avoid. If not careful where I put my foot, I am liable to fall through the hole so my eyes are wide open to take in the sight of heaps of feces below; and I must breath in short bursts. When I am almost done, I cannot hold it anymore and finally vomit and then run out gasping for air. Unfortunately, in rural Afghanistan, this situation is not an exception but rather common, as I am to discover in the following days.

After a lunch of delicious kabobs with nan and chai - my stomach is empty from all the barfing - we are on our way to YawKawlang, a village I have been to before, some 5 hours of agony away. Along the way, the skies open up and it begins to rain, lightly at first and then torrents of water. The sand turns to red mud, splatters on the windscreen, reducing visibility severely; the tires lose their grip and we begin slip sliding away, Yakoob curses the heavens. There is a preexisting crack in the windscreen that I have not before noticed and this now begins weeping profoundly, tears that make patterns on his cap and shirt. When we are very near to YawKawlang, Yakoob navigates an acute corner and exclaims Waawailah! He brakes hard and the car comes to a sliding stop; he shakes his damp head, muttering. A rather steep, formidable hill confronts us. Yakoob leaps out, locks the tires, hops back in, engages 4 wheel drive and we lurch forward. The rain has let up, but not the slimy mud; the car slides this way and that but does not find traction. I am very worried, any wrong move either way and we would drop at least 3,000 feet; we are in between two high mountains with drops on either side. Yakoob floors the gas pedal and we leap forward and stall, then begin sliding, sliding, sliding to one side. Wasi makes a move, as if he wants to open the door and escape, I am right behind him, clutching my black bag with the most valuable document in it – my passport. But the vehicle straightens; stalls.

Wasi’s cell phone comes alive, it is Abdullah, the driver who drove Basheer to the mass marriage in Sulej; he is looking for us, wants to drive us to Sacheck. He drives over without much effort; his vehicle is newer with fresh tires with good threads; Wasi pays Yakoob off and we transfer over. Once in the village, I know a hammam with hot water that I insist I must go. We have to travel to Belkhaab day after tomorrow and I am not sure when and if I’ll be able to bathe next; I simply must get rid of the clinging dirt on me. Wasi is doubtful it’ll be open by the time we get there, but it is, it is! I am delirious with delight. I strip off my clothing and give myself a rough scrub, blowing my nose so hard and long, the next stall person yells at me in Dari to cut it out, so I switch to poking my fingers inside instead; I am that frantic to get all that dirt out of me. After the shower I feel a lot better and another cup of chai warms me up nicely, for it has suddenly become quite cold. If green tea is really the de-toxicant it is touted to be, Afghans must be the most toxic free people in this planet with the amount of this liquid they consume; it is a passion to drink green tea here. We depart for Sacheck shortly afterwards and make it safe and in one piece in Abdallah’s nice comfortable Toyota Cruiser, having covered approximately 140 miles in just over 18 hours.

To be continued…

A journey to Waaweilah - Part one

2010-06-06T05:57:00.000-07:00

Part 1 – Indian Airlines, outstanding incompetence.

When I land in New Delhi from Mumbai, it is as if the pilot must have made a mistake and landed at Kuwait or Dubai airport instead. But no, this is Delhi all right, no artificial glitter or shiny marble floors where you can almost see your jetlagged face or evaporated lip gloss here. When GoAir cabin crew had on landing announced outside temperature is 48 Celsius, I did not realize how hot that could be, Fahrenheit being more established for me; that is 118F!!! It feels I have opened an oven door and is difficult to breathe, even. Thankfully, the airport terminal is nicely cool; I console myself I am here for a few hours only anyway; my Indian Airline flight to Kabul is only about 2 hours away.

IC843 to Kabul is announced almost on time and we go through motions of a secondary security check by bored security men; mine waves me through without even opening my bag. When everybody is on board, I quickly jump seats to an empty bulkhead aisle seat; more legroom. 12:35 passes and I look forward to us taking off; the air-condition will kick in and I am hungry. But nothing happens and the pumped cool air becomes increasingly unfriendly warmer. After about an hour, the pilot comes alive and says there is a “slight” technical problem and we are “slightly” delayed. Another 30 minutes pass, babies begin wailing, children start fretting and adults begin conversing in an increasingly loud tenor. The man across from me begins to pick his nose, tentatively at first and then in earnest, positioning his face at every angle to get maximum leverage; I look away.

As I am seated in the first row after business class, I get to hear snippets of what happens in business class and all activity outside the cockpit further up. I learn the Indian Ambassador to Afghanistan is onboard, with a group of 6 bodyguards. There is constant talk of a strike by the lethargic and non-responding airhostesses but I do not fathom what this means. 2 hours after departure time, the technical problem is apparently fixed as doors shut and the aircraft slowly limps towards an active runway. Once lined up on the active runway, the engines rev up nicely, the aircraft strains forward for release when abruptly, the pilot eases takeoff thrust and the bird idles once more; we quickly taxi back towards a parking bay.

Tempers are now flying, mine included, although I am very relieved that the pilot aborted flight if the aircraft was not air worthy. Apparently, word is circulating that IC843 was cancelled yesterday for the same “technical” reason and non Delhi passengers were accommodated in some shabby hotel near the airport. Few of these passengers, Afghani teenagers, now storm forward and demand to be taken off an ailing aircraft, they have had enough. There is much argument by the door but I cannot make out what is said. The dissenters troop back to their seats after a while, grimfaced; they were denied permission to disembark. So we sit and wait, and wait and wait but no word from anyone regarding future plans. Babies begin wailing, children start fretting, there is loud talk about how unfairly Indian Airlines treat their customers; the guy across from me resumes snot picking.

I may have earlier mentioned in my prior blogs that I am, by nature, quite an impatient person, always in hurry. I cannot just sit still, without knowing I have no other choice. However, CAI and working in Afghanistan has forced me to accept the virtue of patience; up to a limit. When there is no communication from IA crew again the next 30 minutes, it is I that storm past the curtain barrier that divides business from cattle class. I round up on an aging stewardess with a sagging gut protruding through standard IA saree uniform flipping through a filmy magazine; our conversation goes something like this:

Madam, would you please care to tell me what is going on? She reluctantly lifts heavy makeup coated eyelids towards me and looks me up and down; is not impressed, for her attention reverts back to the magazine. Technical snag, she rasps, apne seat pe beth jao (return to your seat and sit down). My mind snaps and I see bloody red. Before the old cow can lift another page, I step forward and slap my hand on the magazine. She jumps, 2 other stewardesses lolling around jump, the ambassador sitting nearby probably jumps. I am asking you a question, ma’am, and you ignore me with this outrageous attitude of yours? We have been holed up in this aircraft now for 3 hours and all you can tell us there is a technical snag? It is hot in here, there are children and babies here, you have not offered us any food, not even water, is this the best IA can do? What do you think, we are cattle for you?

There is stunned silence for a while; I wait to be arrested for my action but most people in business class nod their heads and mummer their agreement with my assertion; this probably saves me. A much younger airhostess with a much firmer gut approaches me and tries to calm me down. Sir, we understand your discomfort but we cannot do anything. It is in the hands of operations, they make all decisions, you will have to ask them. And where are the operations people, I demand. We don’t know. Who knows where they are? We don’t know. Is this flight cancelled? We don’t know. When will you know? We don’t know. When will we be let go from the aircraft? We don’t know. Where is the captain? Uh, we don’t know.

I know when I am defeated so head back to my seat with my tail between my legs and sit down, fuming. But then, only about 5 minutes later, we are ordered off the aircraft and returned to the terminal on a bus. There is another technical snag however. All of us have been processed by immigration as having left the country so there is much confusion between operations and immigration with some shouting between them while we toast and profusely sweat outside terminal doors. It takes a woman officer to point out that there are babies and young children in the crowd that may be medically compromised due to the heat before the doors swish open and we enter the blissful cool inside of the airport terminal.

After much arguments, discussions, an hour and an almost fistfight later, IA cancels flight 843 to Kabul for the 2nd time in so many days; I begin to worry much. I have a non cancellable chartered flight at 7AM tomorrow morning from Kabul to YawKawlang and a drive to Sulej for a wedding of 59 poor couples sponsored by donors of CAI. I frantically call up Wasi in Kabul; as practical and pragmatic as any Afghan can be, he tells me I will not be able to attend the wedding; Basheer will represent CAI. He also asks me to get mentally prepared for an 18 hour drive to YawKawlang the day after (more on this escapade in later parts of this blog). We are processed by immigration quite efficiently; our exit stamp is cancelled and we end up in the customs holding area where another argument between IA and customs ensue. Customs wants us all removed while IA pleads there is no other place they can take us.

There is total mayhem when it is learnt that IA staff have gone on countrywide strike and we are abandoned; thankfully, senior IA staff take over and begin a laborious task of assigning non Delhi residents a hotel room for the night. Tomorrow is Wednesday, the only day of week when IA does not have services to Kabul, but that is insignificant; the strike worries me more. An agreement is struck whereby KAM Air (a local Afghan airline not certified by IATA) will take about 52 of us to Kabul tomorrow. And what about the rest? The senior IA manager I talk to can only shrug his thin shoulders; I want to strangle him until he consults his list and assures me I am one of those that have been assigned a place on KAM Air. Phew!

We wait some more; it is not until 7PM, six and a half hours from scheduled departure that I get a seat in an oppressively hot bus for a ride to our hotel. Not only is the bus overcrowded with sweaty passengers, the heavy luggage we have brought up is strewn around wherever there is place. The bus is incredibly hot, with a lot of people, exhausted children and reeks of body odor and unwashed bodies. I sweat and sweat and sweat some more. When we arrive at the hotel, I am startled to see a patch of dampness on the front of my trousers, like some map of a continent on an atlas; for a split second, I am horrified I may have soiled myself, but it is just sweat.

I am assigned a reasonable room with an unbelievable surprise; a treadmill! I get temporarily exited. It works but is useless with power cuts every 10 minutes or so. I was liable to kill myself using it with sudden stops at my running speed of 6 mph. I have a shower, eat dinner and fall asleep but power cuts and the generator kicking in every so often makes resting difficult. The next morning, I make a snap decision. There is a Pamir Air flight that afternoon; I decide to cancel the IA ticket and rebook on Pamir. I am not sure how long the strike will last and I am sure no other airline can match IA’s incompetence.

Listen to me IA, it may not make too much of a difference to you, but I will never (I know you should never say never), never, ever fly you again.

I reach Kabul later that day incident free.

To be continued…

My tears of blood – Shafiqa Ahmed Hussein

2010-06-05T05:56:00.000-07:00

Sacheck village.

Shafiqa's destroyed home.

Shafiqa's destroyed home.

Shafiqa

Shafiqa

This is the story of Shafiqa Ahmed Hussein who I meet in the village of Sacheck, Afghanistan at Imam Sajjad (A) Clinic on May 27, 2010. A demure, pretty woman of 22, Shafiqa tells me the following heart wrenching story of her Dad’s massacre by the Talibaan; here is the story in her own words:

I am Shafiqa Ahmed Hussein, a midwife at CAI sponsored Imam Sajjad (A) Clinic in Sachek, Afghanistan; about 18 hours of hard driving from Kabul. For those not familiar with this general area of Afghanistan, for many, it is probably one of the most remote areas in this world. This village is home to about 9,500 of very poor farmers and sheep herders who can only relax about 5 months of any year; the rest of time is survival of the fittest in severe and bitterly cold snow and ice.

In 2001, I was a happy teenager, daughter of a small shop owner Ahmed, who managed to provide our family with a lifestyle better than most in the village of YawKawlang, about 2 hours drive from Sacheck. At age 12, I was as cheerful and innocent as any teenager her age would be. I went to school with my siblings, sisters Najeeba 15 and Aziza 9 while Mother Hallema stayed at home with Latifa 4 and brother Momin 2, too young for school.

On January 1, 2001, a blistery, bitterly cold day, I was home helping Mum with breakfast so Dad could go and open the grocery store we owned; school was on winter break. At about 10 that morning, while I and the elder sisters cleaned home and prepared for our next meal, Dad came running in, anxiety and fear written all over his ice cold face. We must leave immediately, all of us, he yelled. The Talibaan have entered YawKawlang and arresting people. We will go up the mountains for a few days. Pack up all you can, especially food. We must leave now! Most people have already left, hurry up!

All of us were paralyzed with fear, could not believe nor understand what Dad was on about, which made Dad uncharacteristically mad and irritated. He franticly began stuffing empty boxes with clothes and flour and sugar and cans of cooking oil. The crazed and frenzied looks on Dad’s face jerked Mum into action and then all of us as well. We packed as much as we could carry and some more; Mum wanted to pack the whole house! But Dad, usually a calm and easy going man who gave in to Mum’s occasional whims easily, was very firm and abrupt and ordered Mum to leave everything except warm clothes and food, which made Mum weep. We wore our coats over our home clothes and with wheelbarrows full of boxes, clumsily trekked up through piles of snow and ice into the mountains that surround our village.

We stayed in the mountains for about a week, sometimes with sympathetic animal headers and some days in caves. It was bitterly cold and I remember all of us huddled together for warmth and as security in case our cave was visited by wild wolves. I also remember the days spent in utter boredom, fear and absolute, miserable, bone chilling cold. After about a week, we ran out of food and Dad decided to go back to town to get more and assess the situation. All of us, but especially Mum were not willing to let him leave but Dad, again strangely, roughly told us to be quiet and left the next morning, even before I woke up. We never saw him again, alive or dead.

Dad did not return after a few days, I don’t remember how many now, but they were the most difficult days of my life when I cried tears of blood. Mum was an emotional wreck and my other sisters helpless to do anything for her. Latifa and Momin took cues from Mum and cried along with her. When it was evident something very bad must have happened to Dad and afraid we would die of hunger if food was not imminently available, I decided to take us all back to YawKawlang. We returned to a dead and devastated village. The Talibaan had massacred 351 men and children, from age 7 to 80 in front of our Jamia Masjid on the day we had escaped.

Shafiqa breaks down and weeps long and bitterly at this point. I and my interpreter look away and I ask Basheer who is videotaping this interview, to stop. There is so much emotions a human can take; not a single person in the clinic room is dry eyed at this point. Shafiqa apologizes and continues after regaining composure:

We learnt later that Dad was arrested and sent to a military commander who sentenced him to death for practicing a faith not recognized by the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan. He, along with many others were tied behind their backs using belts or shalwaar strings they wore and then murdered in cold blood with a single shot of a bullet through the back of his head.

There is a bout of bitter weeping again and we break for a short while once more before Shafiqa continues:

A sole survivor of the massacre whom we knew, later informed us about Dad’s murder and possible burial 5 days after the killings when the band of killers departed YawKawlang. A woman went looking for her dad and discovered him in a pile of bodies. She brought all of the bodies to the main masjid and the martyrs were given a mass burial because the bodies had begun to decompose even in the bitter cold of January. We have yet to determine with absolute certainty that Dad is among others in the mass grave but we have no other choice but to assume that is the case.

My tears of blood did not end here; when we finally went home, we found it razed to the ground, with all our contents inside destroyed. My Dad was murdered in cold blood; my Mum, already an old woman at age 23, was a widow with 5 children to support and our house was burnt and destroyed. Time, however, is the best healer of wounds. Although fate had slapped us hard, we regrouped and survived. My Mum is still devastated of course, but resigned to her fate. Najeeba is married; Aziza, Lateefa and Momin all go to school and alhamd’Allah, I support them all. Although we were not allowed to study under Talibaan rule, I still managed to complete high school after which I studied nursing during the day and worked at a local hospital in the afternoon, getting important firsthand experience. This has made me possible to work in an important role of Midwife here at Imam Sajjad (A) Clinic in Sacheck.

I must add that Comfort Aid International is the only NGO or any other organization that has made it possible for a human being a chance to survive here. The clinic is a lifeline for many, many desperate people who would have simply died but for the medicines and our medical services. For example, I had to walk quite a distance today to a home where a full term pregnant woman had vaginal bleeding. I gave her a serum immediately and she stabilized; this woman would have definitely lost her baby had it not been for the medication.

Interview concludes.

The pregnant woman gives birth later that day to a healthy baby girl and both baby and mother are doing well up to the time I leave Shacheck. I go visit Shafiqa’s house afterwards, see the remaining shell of her burnt home and feel immense sadness for this young, unique girl-woman; what she has been through. Remember, this is Afghanistan where women do not work outside of the home to support families. Shafiqa has broken all taboos in conservative, rural Afghanistan by her sheer will for survival. Her entire family depends on her salary for continued existence. At age 22, when most Afghan girls are married and have children, it will be hard for Shafiqa to find a life partner (working outside of home does not help either). But I am sure Shafiqa will survive; she has not shed tears of blood for no reason.

CAI would like to rebuild Shafiqa’s home; it will cost about USD5,000. If you are interested in helping, please visit www.comfortaid.org and click on donate link; make sure your write “Shafiqa Home Fund” as description.

The New Ahlebeyti Muslims – A revealing experience.

2010-05-20T01:06:00.000-07:00

INDONESIA:

The burly Iraqi Faris el Husseini in traditional Arab gown stands out amongst mostly Indonesian crowd at Jakarta International Airport and after introductions, upon knowing I am an East African Khoja, Husseini instantly starts conversing in very acceptable Kiswahili, startling me. Husseini, you see, spent 3 years in Arusha, Tanzania so is quite good with the language. I am in Indonesia on my way to Zamboanga City, Philippines to inspect the first Shia mosque project in the country. We head towards the city where Aagha Seetanis liaison office, which Husseini manages, is located.

The traffic is horrible, simply horrible; drivers in Jakarta must have infinite patience for apart from an occasional blast of horn, the traffic is reasonably orderly and disciplined. I immediately compare it to home city mayhem of Mumbai; it amazes me that that my hearing is still functioning fairly after 2 years of ghastly Mumbai street exposure. The Ahlebeyt (A) Center in downtown Jakarta is a nice 2 story building where Husseini puts in considerable tableegh efforts. Thsee combined tableegh efforts of many worldwide groups in Indonesia are startling; anywhere between 3 to 5 million Indonesians identify themselves as Ahlebeyti Muslims.

Now remember the term “Ahlebeyti” for this is the identifying difference from our cousins Ahle Sunna. The Ustaads (not Sheikhs, Aaghas etc used elsewhere worldwide) who graduated from Qum or elsewhere are identified as Ustaads and a very subtle, gentle approach is adopted in spreading Shia Islam. Indonesians are generally very gentle people; they will avoid any form of confrontation and by and large understand and accept the family of Prophet Muhammed (S). There is no bad mouthing of any personalities, rather, the values and benefits of Ahlebeyt (A) are stressed, analyzed and disseminated; a very powerful and effective method indeed. One day, a local Indonesian visited Husseini and harshly demanded to know if Husseini was a Shia. He replied negatively but stated he was an Ahlebeyti upon which Husseini was warmly embraced and kissed by the man. Go figure.

I visit a fine new home of an Austrian gentleman, an owner of 3 fine restaurants in Jakarta that night; we have been invited to bless the home with Hadees e Kisaa and dinner. A new convert to Shia Islam, this pleasant man whose head competes for lack of hair with mine, is interesting company, for I have not met a convert to Shia Islam from Western Europe before. Also in attendance are 8 orphans that Husseini cares and educates; a pleasant evening indeed.

Next day I visit a distant village where a plot of land has been purchased to build a community center by Husseini and his group. The volcanic soil of Indonesia matched that of Arusha in Tanzania and I see and sense many similarities with by birth country. Indeed, Husseini serves me with fried muhoogo (cassava, yucca) at his home for dinner! Afterwards, we drive to the airport to pick up Abbas Muljiani, one of CAI’s ardent supporters who is joining me for the rest of my trip.

Day 2 is spent spending time (and battling traffic) with local Shia groups in and around Jakarta, including an impressive Iranian setup called Islamic Culture Centre (ICC) - http://www.icc-jakarta.com/; very active in translation and publishing of Islamic works. There is a Dua e Komail session at Hussieni’s setup - Islamic College of Advanced Studies (ICAS) - http://www.icas.ac.id/; where we get to meet and interact with local Indonesian community converts. A dinner is hosted in our honor at this centre by a distant cousin of Abbas Muljiani who has lived in Jakarta for a long time. Hassanbhai is a content man in Indonesia, likes it here, what with guaranteed halal food and Islamic environment. We have a good Pakistani dinner and meet some young Ustaads who explain briefly how they work in the communities and even lead prayers in Sunni mosques. They are interested in knowing about Afghanistan and explain how all events are subdued including the Aashura which is otherwise an event with emotional outbursts. They also mention that there are almost no Shia women who want to work overseas as ‘maids’. There appears to be less Wahaabi type opposition to Ahlebayti tabligh; hijaab is a little odd in Indonesia for women carry a sort of hijab which is slipped over when praying in a mosque. With more literature, Ustaads, websites in local languages, Shia beliefs can be expected to grow over the coming years.

Day 3 we visit a local school headed by a local Shia family and are escorted by Ahmed Afzal, a soft spoken, perpetually smiling man who manages the school (born in Afghanistan but lived in US for a long period and married to an Indonesian), where the teachings of Ahlulbayt (A) are introduced in an academic environment. Abbas John, an Indian national working in Jakarta kindly takes us around this last afternoon before we are driven to the airport for our flight to Manila by Husseini late at night. All very nice and a pleasurable experience.

PHILIPPINES:

The 4 hour early morning flight to Manila is eventless, except trying to figure out when exactly Fajr time set in. We are met at the airport by our good host, a long term businessman and resident. A Saturday, it is a rest day for us for we have been awake almost all night flying.

On Sunday, we drive to Malaccan with Cairoden (Khairudeen) Dimasangca (another Qum graduate active in tableegh efforts) where a donor has sponsored 10 new Shias sustain their flea market businesses. Along the way, we stop at the Ministry of Energy where we meet an interesting gentleman. This man, who heads the Ministry was a rebel with Moro Liberation Front and got this job as part of peace agreement with the government of Philippines. He has translated the holy Quraan in the local dialect of Maranao, a tremendous feat accomplishment. The blackboard in his office is covered with ayaats from the Quaraan and several Quaraans stacked on his desk. A devout Ahlebeyti Muslim, he radiates powerful energy and oratory powers of persuasion in excellent English; a gem that Allah (S), in His wisdom has strategically blessed and placed.

This community in Malaccan, headed by an Abdulrehman was a thriving business community in the island of Mindanao when they were attacked by Wahaabi elements one rainy day while worshipping at a makeshift mosque. The entire community lost their homes, all burnt to the ground, including the mosque and Abdulreman lost a young son; killed. Everybody in the clan fled to Malaccan, Manila and took refuge in a flea market where they started up a flourishing business under the patronage of a sympathetic mayor. Read their story here: http://shiajafaribulacan.multiply.com/photos/album/41/A_short_biography_on_becoming_a_firm_follower_of_Ahlul_Bayt_as_

Fate tested them once more in early 2009 when devastating floods wiped out their small business fortunes and they were penniless and homeless twice over in 2 years. Abdulrehman survived by sleeping 3 nights on a single supporting beam of the market while others fled to higher grounds. After they regrouped, Abdulrehman’s Imam found CAI website and appealed for help. I was fortunate to visit Philippines in October that year and was blessed once more to secure a donor who readily helped.

We are greeted by the beneficiaries of the sponsor program and spend some time going through their stalls, encouraging them to refrain from trades that involve music and movies. The sponsored businesses have received a loan of USD1,000 which they must repay in 10 monthly installments. Every month, a new beneficiary gets USD1,000 from repayment of the installment; this way we will insha’Allah cover the entire 70 plus individual seeking assistance; eventually. The community has a makeshift mosque within the flea market where we pray Zohar and then feast on a homemade delicious lunch. We fly to Zamboanga City the next day.

We are met at the airport by the trustees of Imam Mahdi (A) mosque project, headed by their Imam and mentor, Abu Mahdi, a Qum graduate. This first ever Shia mosque in the Philippines is well under construction; busy with construction equipment strewn about. Unfortunately, the old building used as a mosque/madressa and everything else had to be demolished to make way for the masjid so we study and discuss the project at our hotel room. Along the way we stop at a fruit market that had stunned me last visit and this time around was no exception. As a fruit lover, this market is paradise with an array of color and every fruit imaginable on sale; we (I) splurge.

At the hotel, expectations and budgets are set, suggestions offered. CAI donor is footing the entire bill for the first phase of a comprehensive mosque cum hawza / madressa project so they are still in need for considerable funding. Channel 41 at the hotel beams a lecture by Abbas Virjee (Abbasbhai had just met him on his Muscat – Doha flight few days ago!); we were pleasantly very surprised. Lawrence Martin Ebojo (now Qasim) manages to download videos through internet at night and deliver to the local cable operator to broadcast, here, in a remote part of Philippines. Subhaan’Allah, the planning of Allah (S) and the miracles of internet! Abbasbhai may be able to help with a CD duplicator and provide additional broadcasting material. We have a greasy dinner of fried chicken / fish at a local Muslim owned restaurant and retire for the night.

Next morning, we hire a motor boat and ride about 40 minutes to the Island of Santa Cruz where clusters of new convert Shia Muslims live. A poor community that relies exclusively on fishing, these are remarkable people; even in the mist of poverty, a small mosque beckons; inside, a blackboard boldly, proudly proclaims Imam Ali (S) wilaayat. We tour the island and come across a tiny open shack with cracked and torn thatched roof - a school; children actually learn here! Abbasbhai kindly agrees to put in a more permanent roof and repair the structure somewhat.

We meet a young girl skillfully breaking open nasty looking live Sea urchins with poisonous needle like projections and extracts the flesh; these probably sell for about 200 pesos for an entire bowl. Considering this to be possibly an important source of income, Abbasbhai does not have the heart to advise her Sea urchin flesh may be haraam to consume or sell. After touring the island some more, we return to Zamboanga City for a leisure, delicious lunch after salaat at Abu Mahdi’s home (with more fruit included, of course).

CAI has started an Education sponsorship scheme as there are many children who are unable to pursue further education due to funding; small amounts required as evidenced by detailed forms filled shown to us over lunch and insha’Allah, 22 students will benefit immediately.

It appears Philippines will insha’Allah have aalims who can be expected to impart the right knowledge over the medium term for increasing the number of Ahlebeyti followers in the midst of a nation where women mostly wear are scantily dressed and exploited but hunger for the truth and safety that Islam offers.

It is to the airport in the evening and to Manila that night for a midnight flight to Dubai and Dar es Salaam for me; Abbasbhai will fly later tomorrow evening to Muscat via Doha. For us who are fortunate to be able to travel far and wide, these trips are eye openers to Allah (S) vast earth, and its diverse global Muslim communities, particularly her ever budding and expanding Ahlebeyti followers. Just imagine, I believed we Khojas were “it”. Subhaan’Allah.

Please click here to view some sample photographs of our trip:
http://picasaweb.google.com/booaliboo/IndonesiaPhilippines#5473206293917814514

The day Emirates ruined Helena's mascara.

2010-05-02T04:01:00.000-07:00

Emirates flight 725 from Dubai to Dar es Salaam begins with hassles; the aircraft is parked quite a distance away from the main terminal and we have to ride a bus to reach it. Funny no, you never have to do this when traveling to say, Europe or the Americas or somewhere exotic; just one of the things that make me go hmmmm. Then, there is a mix-up with my seat assignment although a tall, pretty face with impeccable makeup that goes with a name tag of Helena quickly, effortlessly resolves. We take off on time but when the seat arm reveals the folded entertainment screen, it is all scratched up. So very unlike Emirates, but we are going to Africa, so it makes me go hmmmm. I have flown from Zamboanga City to Manila in the Philippines then to Dubai and now am on my way to Dar; this has been almost 20 hours with stopovers, so I am sleep deprived and tired. I console myself I will sleep and do not need the screen anyway. Still, the whole affair makes me go hmmmm.

Food's not bad for economy although the service is wanting with banging of trays and the crew more interested in hurrying up everybody than having them enjoys a culinary experience Emirates brags so much about. Sleep afterward is fitful and as comfortable as any economy class will allow. When we begin initial descent about 5 hours from takeoff, the pilot comes on the intercom loud (but then, this could simply be my aging ears) and with a terrible accent tells us there is heavy rain and thunderstorms over Dar and to prepare for bumps on the way in. As I am seated in an exit row, Helena sits facing me all buckled up, pretty as a princess, the toils of 5 hours of serving and smiling unrevealed.

The pilot is right, the aircraft bumps and dances as we final descend towards Dar; the wheels are let loose and I see the grainy outline of runway from the screen in front of me. Just as I think I will feel the jar of tires on asphalt, the aircraft shudders, changes course and pulls up, up, up, gaining rapid altitude. As everybody scratches their heads in nervous bewilderment, the pilot comes alive and informs us he aborted landing because he saw a chopper hovering over the runway cleared for landing. Eh? Is Dar Air Traffic Control sleeping? How can a jumbo jet be cleared for landing when there is other traffic on an active runway, even by Tanzanian standards? This far-fetched excuse makes me go a nervous hmmm.

We go around and begin descent once more; it is totally dark outside, I cannot see a thing. The sour weather temperament outside is matched by my tense and nervous fellow travelers; even the toddler in middle bulkhead seat who has spent last 5 hours bawling off her voice coarse on and off is subdued at her mother’s bosoms. I strain to make out the runway on the screen but see nothing but dark gray and rain. Again, anticipating the jar of tires for landing, I brace myself but its repeat of the first attempt; the pilot reverses thrust, pulls up at the last second and we are airborne once more. The pilot apologizes; says he could not see the runway so aborted the landing. Strange, pilots in India land aircrafts all the time during monsoon months so this is new to me.

We circle once more, this time at a much lower altitude; the pilot says he has requested landing from the opposite direction as the visibility is much better that end. There is pin drop silence in the cabin, only the changing tone of the aircraft throttles and flapping of wing-flaps making any difference. When the wheels are released for this third time, I realize we have a good chance of touching down. Visibility is much better and I can clearly see the runway on the screen; I relax, others relax, Helena and I share a relieved smile. But I can sense an anomaly in the engines tone; call it a sixth sense or just experience from hundreds of take off touchdown experiences over the years. Then I realize the problem, the idiot is too fast! Now, I am no pilot but I can tell as an experienced traveller, the pilot is too bloody fast! I clearly see the stripes on the runway flying past; yes he is much too fast; I start reciting the sahaada. Sure enough, the thrust reverses once more and the aircraft takes such a steep vertical climb, I see, sense and feel terror in me and others around; Helena’s face could not be whiter and her lips a thin tight line. The miracles and flaws of makeup.

There is no word from the pilot for quite some time; I see faces with fear in deep prayer, trembling lips rapidly moving, inviting divine relief perhaps. Inordinate thoughts invade my rational thinking as I pray as well and wonder if I’ll ever see my daughter or family again. When the pilot does speak, he sounds frustrated, says sorry, he had to abort again but does not give reasons why. He says he called headquarters in Dubai; they want him to land in Dar so we’ll circle around for about an hour to see if the skies clear else we fly to Mombasa; an hour away, that’s all the fuel we have. I’d rather we go to Nairobi or Kilimanjaro, these weather systems tend to affect entire coastal areas and what happens if we can’t land in Mombasa as well? We’d have no fuel left!

There is a rush for washrooms as nervous bladders press for relief; I join this line. As we circle around, I chat with Helena about her flying experience. She is from Czech Republic and has been flying as cabin crew for 3 years and but has never been through 3 aborted landings. Why, she has never experienced an aborted landing ever; this fact depresses me further. I can see she is depressed, worried, it shows on her face; so it is I that assure and speak with confidence I do not feel. Then, after about 40 minutes, the wheels come down this forth time and we make textbook landing to tumultuous applause and even lauder clapping and whistling when we come to a full stop. Alas, Helena is too overwhelmed to celebrate; her face is a crumpled mess; fat white tears stream down her face smearing her mascara; she sobs and tries to stop damage to her perfect face at the same time, very unsuccessfully.

I am relieved; look forward to nyama ya kuchooma, Natasha chicken, muhoogo, khunaazi, madafu…..

Help most vague!

2010-04-19T15:09:00.000-07:00

Bewaqoof! Says an elder, Bewaqoof ladki! He repeats. Idiot, idiot girl!

This admonishment is directed towards Begum Mumtaz, a dirt poor almost blind orphan girl living with her mother in the village of Nagaram in AP, India. The anger and irritation is because Mumtaz refuses to visit an eye specialist to check if a medical solution is possible for her eyesight. I am here, visiting this oppressively hot and muggy village to oversee the construction of sixteen homes for extremely poor families.

I chance upon this pretty girl lurking in the shadows of her hovel, one eligible for a new and small but decent home that will not flood this coming monsoon season. I ask her to come out of the shadows and present herself; she is shy, reluctant. The elders of local community accompanying me encourage her, sweet-talk her and Mumtaz shyly emerges into light. I take to her almost immediately, a tug to my heart, for she can be not much older than my own Maaha Zainab. How pretty Mumtaz is, maasha’Allah; I experience pain and sadness at her plight.

I ask her name, her age, whether she goes to school…she replies coyly at first, then gains confidence and talks. She thinks she is ten, maybe eleven; she used to go to school but has now stopped. Why, I ask? I can’t see, she says, and the teacher gets frustrated at me, so I stopped going. An elder thrusts five spread fingers very close to her eyes and demands to know how many she can see. Four…no, five, five, five! Well, I ask, have you seen a doctor about your eyesight? You can still see close up so there should be something that doctors can do for you. There is an embarrassing silence for a few seconds before an elder leans towards me and whispers, they are poor Sir, they don’t have money to see doctors or worry about surgery.

For some inexplicable reason, I feel an acute irritation at that remark and an even greater urge to rebuke the guy but I breathe deeply and remain calm instead. Well, I volunteer, CAI will be happy to pay for her surgery if resorting of her eyesight is possible. Is it? The elders look at each other and I can tell it has not even crossed their minds to inquire or research. Weeeell, they all start, but I cut them off. Can you guys please take her to a good specialist eye doctor and find out if surgery or any other treatment is possible? Don’t worry, CAI will foot the bill, just make sure you see a good specialist doctor. Please do this on an emergency footing.

While the entire troupe of elders erupts in joyous celebration of the good tidings and sing inevitable and customary (but always awkward and uncomfortable) praises of CAI and me, the subject person is forgotten. But when she speaks, everybody listens and the joy becomes instant surprise that turns to shock and unbelief.

Mei nahi jaaunji. This comes from Mumtaz, confidently, unequivocally. I will not go to the doctor, she whines. They will poke into my eyes and hurt me. I heard one girl with my condition was killed and her body parts stolen on the operating table. No, I will not go to any doctor, leave me be!

Everybody looks at Mumtaz Begum in astonishment; I gape at her while one elder call her bewaqoof, an idiot.

Now to the point of my writing this piece. I have come across many cases in my line of work where people, many educated and experienced, refuse (or can’t or don’t) take the initiative of simple first few steps that would make help possible and easier; this inevitably irks and dismays me. Here is obviously a serious problem with Mumtaz’s eyesight, everybody knows this, but nobody takes the initiative to find out if there is a solution to this problem. Okay, Mumtaz is a child and immature and scared; she will come around insha’Allah and we’ll try and get her the medical attention she needs.

I go to homes with acute needs or communities that are in critical poverty and all they will do is complain they are poor. When I ask how CAI can help, they have no clue, apart from direct financial assistance that is short term in nature and a quick fix; this is terrible defeatist mentality. This opinion or feeling of mine is probably unfair and false, there may be other factors and variables at play, perhaps; still, I cannot get rid of my irritability. It maybe has to do with lack of education and or poverty that drives this stubborn mentality. Surely a possible solution is available for every problem and this can be identified and entertained?