Kabul, Afghanistan - Friday February 26,2010
Six heavily armed men casually walk towards the entrance of Park Residence Hotel and as casually, pump several bullets into the heavy set middle aged guard sleepily guarding the entrance on this calm and sedate Friday holiday. They quickly overpower and kill 2 other guards just inside the iron enforced gates and then run into the open compound of the hotel and set off a number of explosions so powerful, the entire facade of the building comes crashing down. The assailants proceed to gun down anybody that moves; but there are not many guests out and about, sleeping in perhaps on this Muslim Sabbath. The obvious leader of these assassins, a tall, powerful, fully bearded man with shoulder length hair, kicks in the reception door and in Urdu, demands to know what rooms Indians occupy. The night clerk, terrified out of his wits, trembles violently, unable to speak; he gets shot dead. Frustrated, the leader commands his team to explode more bombs.
After the Afghanistan Defence Forces finally kill the attackers and mop up this latest onslaught on Kabul, 18 innocents lay dead, 9 Indians, mostly doctors working in the Indian Medical Mission serving Afghans desperately in need of medical attention.
Kabul, Afghanistan – 2005, 2006, 2007
After spending my first trip ever to Kabul at the (un)Insaaf Hotel in 2005, freezing because of no heat in the rooms and either boiling water or ice water options in the bathrooms, Park Residency Hotel was an oasis of relative comfort, not too far away. The rooms were fairly large, well cleaned and food, catering to many Indians who preferred staying here, fairly palatable. Security, with heavy armed guards manning massive iron doors and frisking everybody coming in was seemingly (apparently not) adequate and assuring. Sayyedna Mussawi, Gulambhai Virjee, Aliakberbhai Ratansi, Mohammed Somji, Mohammed Dewji – all of us will remember this hotel very well.
Kabul, Afghanistan, March 12 - 15, 2010
I am in Kabul, this my 14th trip here on behalf of Comfort Aid International to inspect and complete final formalities for opening of Imam Hussein (A) High School at Daste Barchi, a sprawling Hazare slum on the outskirts of Kabul. I am staying as a guest at the home of our engineer Wasi Mohammed, who is insisting this; he feels his modest home the most secure for me, considering what happened to Park Residence Hotel just 3 weeks ago. I am reluctant to impose on Wasi’s modest means, especially after he makes a whole room, nice and warm, available for me, but he is right, it is a “right” neighbourhood and I will be safe, insha’Allah.
These are long days for us; the entire team work throughout the day and late into the night to make sure everything is covered for the grand opening on June 3rd, birthday of Lady of Light, Sayyeda Fatemah (S). There are several issues to be resolved (this being Afghanistan, not surprising), but looks like we will overcome them, insha’Allah. The school building itself is turning out very beautiful maasha’Allah; I can find very little, if anything, to fault with the construction of the building; this is unusual, for I tend to be exacting, a perfectionist, a pain.
It is while we are returning from dinner that we chance drive by the now shell of Park Residency Hotel. I request Wasi to stop; he hesitates, unsure, uneasy. The area is shrouded in darkness and looks eerie; Wasi stops and I get out, viewing the destruction that is so apparent. The building is covered up to hide the blackened shell, there is nobody around and I can make out the collapsed front façade. How must it have felt for the guests that were slain that Friday? The guard whom I knew well, the demure receptionist, the bellboys…? How many Fridays have I and those that accompany me sometimes slept in that very same spot…?
I say a prayer for those that perished, some faces so fresh in my mind, I can see their expressions vividly. I know Wasi is getting anxious, nervous, so I hurry back to the relative safety of Wasi’s neighbourhood.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Monday, March 8, 2010
You give me bad gas, My Baap…
My distant relative, a pious man of advancing age, regards me with watery eyes, his mouth struggling to cope with overflow of paan remnants so when he speaks, his speech is incoherent and I have to pay special attention to understand him. This relative, (I can’t pinpoint how we are exactly related, but he has bandaged together a relationship from my mother’s family from Kilwa of yore, in Tanzania), let’s call him My Baap for convenience sake, is a man with great exposure to worldly affairs, since he has travelled far and wide. He has made good money, a businessman lucky enough to have started early when Dubai was still wearing business pampers.
My Baap is visiting Mumbai for a health physical, wants to make sure he is hale and hearty so he can enjoy his wealth in old age. Not my words, he told me so with a knowing, cheeky wink and a twinkle in his eyes. Now, I know he has a wife in Dubai (a second marriage, for the first abandoned him a while ago) a fine one, who has been with him for a considerable time. Is he insinuating more unions, I wonder, alarmed? I dismiss the thought, probably my imagination working overtime? All the tests are within acceptable levels considering his age and doctors at Kokila Ambani Hospital here in Andheri have given give a clean health chit with the caveat that all the encouraging results can very quickly deteriorate if he were to continue his paan guzzling (and disgusting, I might add) habit. He is paying me a courtesy call, he says, because we are related. Somehow...
People visiting us from anywhere outside India is a treat for me; gives me a an oppertunity to catch up with events from many homes I have made over my life in Africa, Dubai, Canada and the USA. So I am happy he is here and mama ya watoto makes him comfortable; serves him tea and goodies from the kitchen.
Anyway, he is in fairy good mood, which is rare, for My Baap is (usually very) strongly opinioned about every Khoja community issue under the sky and rants away at perceived ills within us and any entity that struggles to hold it together. So when he takes off ranting about the massive Imam Hussein (A) School CAI is building in Afghanistan, I am unsurprised, unmoved; amused even, because I either smile or smirk. This sets My Baap up into an ugly mood fast-fast, for his features change, his color change, his voice shrills and he loses composure as a tickle of paan juice escapes and quickly dribbles down his chin.
It is my turn to change color and panic; if that drip from his chin falls on our new sofa, I will not hear the end of lamenting from mama ya watoto. I quickly move to offer My Baap a napkin but he brushes away the paper and proceeds to wipe his chin with his palms and rub them clean together; I cringe.
Why do you insist on taking away our (?) huquuq funds and put them in Afghanistan? He shrills. Do you not know the predicament of your Khoja brothers in Dar es Salaam? They are suffering, I tell you, young man, suffering badly! This economic crises has wiped out a lot of our people, you should be helping them first. There are families who have no house; they live hand to mouth in rented flats. We have medical cases that we have to bring here to India; we have no money for that. Our children suffer poor education, we need better teachers and we need schools...
My Baap, pauses to empty another sachet of RMD (Rooz Marneki Dawa as it is notoriously referred to in Mumbai) into an upturned mouth and wants to litter my not too long ago swept and mopped floor (Nasreen, our daily help would have a fit if she were to witness this brazen act) so I take it away from him and discard it into a dustbin not too far away from My Baaps’s reach and eyesight.
Well, I am not known for patience and political correctness either; rather, I am regularly accused of being frank and very abrupt and I am now hot under my kurta. So while My Baap chews and struggles with the offensive overflow in his mouth that has silenced him momentarily, I go on the offensive.
Uncle My Baap, I say, I am not sure what you mean by your huqooq money; I get these from all over the world. Most of CAI projects are donor driven and they choose where and what projects to support. Charitable spending is like going to the grocery store which sells many varieties of fruit. You may like apples, I oranges, the next person grapes. Nobody has come to me with money and specifically instructed me to spend on needy Khojas of Dar es Sallam else CAI would have done exactly as instructed. CAI can’t do it all; there are many other fine humanitarian organizations that may be helping these very people. In fact, why can’t you take the initiative? I am sure you can do much, why don’t you start something that will help your brethren?
I know I have wounded him for his eyes narrow and he takes deep gulps of air to control him. The tea he has half finished remains, catching a cold and snacks from Tasneem’s kitchen are untouched. I know he is calculating how to respond but I want to cut off this nonsense and give him no chance; he is, after all, on my turf.
Uncle My Baap, I continue, huqooq funds are for all deserving Shia Ithnaasheries, be they in Das es Salaam, here in India but more so in Afghanistan. You moan about the plight of Khojas in Dar es Sallam, have you asked or inquired about why CAI invests in Afghanistan? You talk of economic crises while your Shia brethren of Afghanistan have no economy at all? You talk of widows that have rental homes; what about widows who have no homes, not even rental ones, widows whose husbands were massacred just because of their religious belief? Widows and young orphans who walk for miles just to fetch a pail of water? What about children who have not seen a doctor, no immunization, no medicines, ever! Pregnant women who die together with their unborn babies because there is no medical facility for miles and there is six feet of snow outside? What about villages that have no schools, none whatsoever! Why? Because they belong to a religious minority, like yours! Consider the Khojas of Dar es Sallam lucky and gives thanks to Allah (S) you were not born a Shia in Afghanistan…
My Baap’s chewing has ceased and his face is now cast in stone. He does not look at me, but at his mobile that he dials to summon his driver, asking to be picked up. He gathers his belongings and gets up, still not a word out of him, an attribute unknown for his character, that of instant resort and critic. I feel for him then, not sorrow, but something else, I am not sure what. Perhaps it’s a rare defeat for him, outdone by someone younger, perhaps? Stiffly but surely, he leaves and stops at the door which Nasreen holds open for him, turns and looks at me for an instant. I think he wants to say something, a last word perhaps, but his face has a look of only hatred. He is then gone.
Well, My Baap, you give me gas, bad gas...I have to get it out.
My Baap is visiting Mumbai for a health physical, wants to make sure he is hale and hearty so he can enjoy his wealth in old age. Not my words, he told me so with a knowing, cheeky wink and a twinkle in his eyes. Now, I know he has a wife in Dubai (a second marriage, for the first abandoned him a while ago) a fine one, who has been with him for a considerable time. Is he insinuating more unions, I wonder, alarmed? I dismiss the thought, probably my imagination working overtime? All the tests are within acceptable levels considering his age and doctors at Kokila Ambani Hospital here in Andheri have given give a clean health chit with the caveat that all the encouraging results can very quickly deteriorate if he were to continue his paan guzzling (and disgusting, I might add) habit. He is paying me a courtesy call, he says, because we are related. Somehow...
People visiting us from anywhere outside India is a treat for me; gives me a an oppertunity to catch up with events from many homes I have made over my life in Africa, Dubai, Canada and the USA. So I am happy he is here and mama ya watoto makes him comfortable; serves him tea and goodies from the kitchen.
Anyway, he is in fairy good mood, which is rare, for My Baap is (usually very) strongly opinioned about every Khoja community issue under the sky and rants away at perceived ills within us and any entity that struggles to hold it together. So when he takes off ranting about the massive Imam Hussein (A) School CAI is building in Afghanistan, I am unsurprised, unmoved; amused even, because I either smile or smirk. This sets My Baap up into an ugly mood fast-fast, for his features change, his color change, his voice shrills and he loses composure as a tickle of paan juice escapes and quickly dribbles down his chin.
It is my turn to change color and panic; if that drip from his chin falls on our new sofa, I will not hear the end of lamenting from mama ya watoto. I quickly move to offer My Baap a napkin but he brushes away the paper and proceeds to wipe his chin with his palms and rub them clean together; I cringe.
Why do you insist on taking away our (?) huquuq funds and put them in Afghanistan? He shrills. Do you not know the predicament of your Khoja brothers in Dar es Salaam? They are suffering, I tell you, young man, suffering badly! This economic crises has wiped out a lot of our people, you should be helping them first. There are families who have no house; they live hand to mouth in rented flats. We have medical cases that we have to bring here to India; we have no money for that. Our children suffer poor education, we need better teachers and we need schools...
My Baap, pauses to empty another sachet of RMD (Rooz Marneki Dawa as it is notoriously referred to in Mumbai) into an upturned mouth and wants to litter my not too long ago swept and mopped floor (Nasreen, our daily help would have a fit if she were to witness this brazen act) so I take it away from him and discard it into a dustbin not too far away from My Baaps’s reach and eyesight.
Well, I am not known for patience and political correctness either; rather, I am regularly accused of being frank and very abrupt and I am now hot under my kurta. So while My Baap chews and struggles with the offensive overflow in his mouth that has silenced him momentarily, I go on the offensive.
Uncle My Baap, I say, I am not sure what you mean by your huqooq money; I get these from all over the world. Most of CAI projects are donor driven and they choose where and what projects to support. Charitable spending is like going to the grocery store which sells many varieties of fruit. You may like apples, I oranges, the next person grapes. Nobody has come to me with money and specifically instructed me to spend on needy Khojas of Dar es Sallam else CAI would have done exactly as instructed. CAI can’t do it all; there are many other fine humanitarian organizations that may be helping these very people. In fact, why can’t you take the initiative? I am sure you can do much, why don’t you start something that will help your brethren?
I know I have wounded him for his eyes narrow and he takes deep gulps of air to control him. The tea he has half finished remains, catching a cold and snacks from Tasneem’s kitchen are untouched. I know he is calculating how to respond but I want to cut off this nonsense and give him no chance; he is, after all, on my turf.
Uncle My Baap, I continue, huqooq funds are for all deserving Shia Ithnaasheries, be they in Das es Salaam, here in India but more so in Afghanistan. You moan about the plight of Khojas in Dar es Sallam, have you asked or inquired about why CAI invests in Afghanistan? You talk of economic crises while your Shia brethren of Afghanistan have no economy at all? You talk of widows that have rental homes; what about widows who have no homes, not even rental ones, widows whose husbands were massacred just because of their religious belief? Widows and young orphans who walk for miles just to fetch a pail of water? What about children who have not seen a doctor, no immunization, no medicines, ever! Pregnant women who die together with their unborn babies because there is no medical facility for miles and there is six feet of snow outside? What about villages that have no schools, none whatsoever! Why? Because they belong to a religious minority, like yours! Consider the Khojas of Dar es Sallam lucky and gives thanks to Allah (S) you were not born a Shia in Afghanistan…
My Baap’s chewing has ceased and his face is now cast in stone. He does not look at me, but at his mobile that he dials to summon his driver, asking to be picked up. He gathers his belongings and gets up, still not a word out of him, an attribute unknown for his character, that of instant resort and critic. I feel for him then, not sorrow, but something else, I am not sure what. Perhaps it’s a rare defeat for him, outdone by someone younger, perhaps? Stiffly but surely, he leaves and stops at the door which Nasreen holds open for him, turns and looks at me for an instant. I think he wants to say something, a last word perhaps, but his face has a look of only hatred. He is then gone.
Well, My Baap, you give me gas, bad gas...I have to get it out.
Monday, February 22, 2010
A day in the life of Amjad Hussein
There are many people who make the success of what CAI is today possible and one such man is Amjad Hussein. I pay tribute to this humble, tireless and most critically, a kind man who genuinely cares for orphans and is their mother, father and everything else in between. Thank you Amjadbhai; for your total commitment and selfless dedication to the orphans of Matia Bruj and all others in whose service you have sacrificed so much of your life. May Allah (S) bless and reward you in this and afterworlds.
Cough. My name is Amjad Hussein. I was born in Lucknow, Uttar Pradesh, in India oh, some 59 nine years ago, son of a poor zari worker who fathered very many children. We had very little food to eat so all of us had to start earning as soon as we were able, so this meant tailoring apprenticeship for me at age 9. I worked hard and learnt to sew all kind of clothes but I was not fated to be a tailor. Circumstances (poor eyesight, marriage) took me away from Lucknow and I began managing orphanages for Najafi House based in Mumbai. I love taking care of children, supervise their activities and guide them; why, I like this so much I have been doing this for over 26 years. Cough, cough.
Sorry, I have this terrible cough. Here in Matia Brug, on the outskirts of Kolkta, India, it has been a bitter winter and I have been coughing nonstop for weeks now. I had myself thoroughly checked by a doctor, blood tests and chest x-rays, even for TB but the doctor just scratches his hair and says I am not diseased. Cough. Yusufali keeps on insisting I go for a full body check but I don’t know; I have given enough blood for testing and been prodded around as much.
About 5 years ago, I was reassigned to this renovated orphanage in Matia Brug. It is an old building, in ruins, well over 100 years old but built like a fortress. Now, it is a modern building with all facilities for the orphans that live and get educated here. The orphans, when they first come here, are a pitiful lot, some so backwards they cannot put on and zip their trousers. Cough. Why, I even had a mentally retard boy who drove me bananas trying to upgrade him; I had to let him go because he scared me silly, breaking into uncontrollable convulsions. Cough, cough, cough.
Cough. My name is Amjad Hussein. I was born in Lucknow, Uttar Pradesh, in India oh, some 59 nine years ago, son of a poor zari worker who fathered very many children. We had very little food to eat so all of us had to start earning as soon as we were able, so this meant tailoring apprenticeship for me at age 9. I worked hard and learnt to sew all kind of clothes but I was not fated to be a tailor. Circumstances (poor eyesight, marriage) took me away from Lucknow and I began managing orphanages for Najafi House based in Mumbai. I love taking care of children, supervise their activities and guide them; why, I like this so much I have been doing this for over 26 years. Cough, cough.
Sorry, I have this terrible cough. Here in Matia Brug, on the outskirts of Kolkta, India, it has been a bitter winter and I have been coughing nonstop for weeks now. I had myself thoroughly checked by a doctor, blood tests and chest x-rays, even for TB but the doctor just scratches his hair and says I am not diseased. Cough. Yusufali keeps on insisting I go for a full body check but I don’t know; I have given enough blood for testing and been prodded around as much.
About 5 years ago, I was reassigned to this renovated orphanage in Matia Brug. It is an old building, in ruins, well over 100 years old but built like a fortress. Now, it is a modern building with all facilities for the orphans that live and get educated here. The orphans, when they first come here, are a pitiful lot, some so backwards they cannot put on and zip their trousers. Cough. Why, I even had a mentally retard boy who drove me bananas trying to upgrade him; I had to let him go because he scared me silly, breaking into uncontrollable convulsions. Cough, cough, cough.
Aliakberbhai of Najfi House and Yusufali of CAI are visiting today; here for inspection and advice. I have slogged all day, sprucing up the place and ensuring their comfortable (and complaint free) stay on the 2nd floor. I know they will be exhausted from the airport drive; Kolkota traffic is vicious, confusing, lead heavy and sometimes dangerous. It is also a very polluting city; the fumes from ancient cars taxes my lungs, cough, lungs used to toxic waste of Indian cities; Yusufali has American lungs, cushioned against many of our Indian cities ills, I have been told. While I have known Aliakberbhai for years and know his temperament, Yusufali is relatively new. This intense bald (self imposed?) man is relentless in insisting absolute cleanliness of the orphanage and stresses educational excellence of the boys as if there is nothing more important than beating geniuses out of these poor kids. Well, I am not a teacher of math and science and I can only do so much with ensuring good grades; the rest is with the boys and their tutors. Cough.
We sit and talk late into the night, my eyes heavy with sleep. The duo listen to a litany of complaints I have against the incompetent cleaners and some adolescent orphans whose hormones are on overdrive. They advice and counsel me, sympathize. I know there is so much they can do but it is nice to let off steam. Cough. I live a rather solitary life, the children are a joy but they are children after all. My family all live in Lucknow; my wife is happy with this arrangement and so am I but I miss my kids, 5 of them. So this time with these adults is a break although I wish they would hurry up and let me go rest my aching legs. It is a good thing they leave early tomorrow; I can do my own thing and be away from Yusufali’s discerning eyes. Cough!
As perceived by Yusuf Yusufali through eyes of Amjad Hussein - Matia Bruj, February 15, 2010.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Scared shitless in Nairobi.
I am in Africa, once again. Ah, the sheer joy of breathing the blessed air and refreshing color of its soil and vegetation to my eye. I tell you, I have been blessed to have travelled the world but Africa, East Africa in particular, is an icing on this blessing. It is very warm and super humid of course, but I have escaped the searing heat they tell me, the worst is over. Really?
Dar is the usual delight of an emerging and bustling city full of irreplaceable memories with its many restaurants so the balanced and sensible meal plan I have promised myself melts away with every succulent morsel of fruit and flesh that touches my temptress tongue. The mango season is in full swing of course but I have not tasted the Mouwa (spelling?) verity from Tanga in about 35 years. No problem, says my dear friend Murtaza Bhimani of Moraf Store in Dar. A phone call and hundreds of them are bused in and I am lost to mango madness for which my stomach takes me to task the next day. Madafus that cannot be beat anywhere else in the whole world quench my undying thirst.
I go to Zanzibar for a day and the Isle is in crises; there is no power whatsoever; anywhere. I stay at the Tembo Hotel and mercy in the form of generators rule the city. Many businesses have made fortunes selling generators, I am advised. Everything conceivable runs on them which makes diesel and others fuel scarce, exorbitant, with devastating consequences on inflation. Tourists, with tots in tow even, however, abound, amazingly taking the agony of heat and sweat in stride. I delight in lychees and local badaam halwa and eye my expanding midriff in horror, but I am helpless, I tell you, hopelessly helpless.
I go to Mtwara in southern Tanzania for a business deal; never been that south before. Other airlines should learn from Precision Air, the local private airline of Tanzania. You can fault them for eye popping airfares due to their overwhelming total command over air traffic in Tanzania but not their schedules. Boy, it departed Dar on the dot and why, departed Mtwara early! Now that is service. What I don’t understand, however, is immigration scrutiny at both Zanzibar and Mtwara entry ports within Tanzania; never had to clear immigration travelling within any country before.
I meet Pervez Vatchha, my step cousin in Mombasa for the first time. My paternal grandfather Yusufali, you see, remarried after the death of my grandmother and I vaguely remember Mama mentioning this to me. This lady had six daughters and all have children spread over Kenya. Pervez is the daughter of one such daughter and she is a gracious and hospitable host. The mogo chips, in particular, are out of this world, Pervez, asante saana. I get to present my case for the victims of Afghanistan atrocities to the local Khoja Jamaat there and the response is overwhelming. Thank you for your kindness and fabulous opportunity, Iqbalbhai Sunderji!
Then I go to the crime city of Nairobi; I have heard horror tales of open banditry, robbery and killings that have dominated her fame of recent history and I am nervous. I remember this cool, vibrant and breathtaking city from my childhood and am saddened by the adverse changes that have made her so unpalatable. But I have moments of happiness when I meet many of my step cousins there, especially Fareedoon Abdallah, a kind and gentleman who hosts me and Shaheeda Shah whose gifts to Maaha Zainab and Tasneem are met with much joy and delight back in Mumbai. Asante saana guys, you are special.
It is while I am being driven to the airport by Fareedoon’s driver that I almost collapse in terror and panic. The ancient Mercedes Benz air-conditioner is not working and I have rolled down the window to let air circulate for its uncomfortably hot. We get stuck in a jam due to an accident up ahead. I smell the shit before I see it. A short man, menacing, gesturing towards his repugnant weapon, his face covered in a makeshift mask, holds a pad of newspapers on which lie a mould of squashed feces, the stench of which immediately gag me. He barks something unintelligible, perhaps in Kikuyu. Before my mind can process the horror of what is happening, Francis, the driver, veers the vehicle to the left, probably over the thug’s foot and he disappears from view. Francis then accelerates up the hard shoulder on the right and bumps and hobbles over hard barriers past the accident site and back on the paved tarmac within seconds, then speeds towards the airport.
I am drenched in cold sweat, unsure what is accelerating faster, the Merc or my heartbeat.
Dar is the usual delight of an emerging and bustling city full of irreplaceable memories with its many restaurants so the balanced and sensible meal plan I have promised myself melts away with every succulent morsel of fruit and flesh that touches my temptress tongue. The mango season is in full swing of course but I have not tasted the Mouwa (spelling?) verity from Tanga in about 35 years. No problem, says my dear friend Murtaza Bhimani of Moraf Store in Dar. A phone call and hundreds of them are bused in and I am lost to mango madness for which my stomach takes me to task the next day. Madafus that cannot be beat anywhere else in the whole world quench my undying thirst.
I go to Zanzibar for a day and the Isle is in crises; there is no power whatsoever; anywhere. I stay at the Tembo Hotel and mercy in the form of generators rule the city. Many businesses have made fortunes selling generators, I am advised. Everything conceivable runs on them which makes diesel and others fuel scarce, exorbitant, with devastating consequences on inflation. Tourists, with tots in tow even, however, abound, amazingly taking the agony of heat and sweat in stride. I delight in lychees and local badaam halwa and eye my expanding midriff in horror, but I am helpless, I tell you, hopelessly helpless.
I go to Mtwara in southern Tanzania for a business deal; never been that south before. Other airlines should learn from Precision Air, the local private airline of Tanzania. You can fault them for eye popping airfares due to their overwhelming total command over air traffic in Tanzania but not their schedules. Boy, it departed Dar on the dot and why, departed Mtwara early! Now that is service. What I don’t understand, however, is immigration scrutiny at both Zanzibar and Mtwara entry ports within Tanzania; never had to clear immigration travelling within any country before.
I meet Pervez Vatchha, my step cousin in Mombasa for the first time. My paternal grandfather Yusufali, you see, remarried after the death of my grandmother and I vaguely remember Mama mentioning this to me. This lady had six daughters and all have children spread over Kenya. Pervez is the daughter of one such daughter and she is a gracious and hospitable host. The mogo chips, in particular, are out of this world, Pervez, asante saana. I get to present my case for the victims of Afghanistan atrocities to the local Khoja Jamaat there and the response is overwhelming. Thank you for your kindness and fabulous opportunity, Iqbalbhai Sunderji!
Then I go to the crime city of Nairobi; I have heard horror tales of open banditry, robbery and killings that have dominated her fame of recent history and I am nervous. I remember this cool, vibrant and breathtaking city from my childhood and am saddened by the adverse changes that have made her so unpalatable. But I have moments of happiness when I meet many of my step cousins there, especially Fareedoon Abdallah, a kind and gentleman who hosts me and Shaheeda Shah whose gifts to Maaha Zainab and Tasneem are met with much joy and delight back in Mumbai. Asante saana guys, you are special.
It is while I am being driven to the airport by Fareedoon’s driver that I almost collapse in terror and panic. The ancient Mercedes Benz air-conditioner is not working and I have rolled down the window to let air circulate for its uncomfortably hot. We get stuck in a jam due to an accident up ahead. I smell the shit before I see it. A short man, menacing, gesturing towards his repugnant weapon, his face covered in a makeshift mask, holds a pad of newspapers on which lie a mould of squashed feces, the stench of which immediately gag me. He barks something unintelligible, perhaps in Kikuyu. Before my mind can process the horror of what is happening, Francis, the driver, veers the vehicle to the left, probably over the thug’s foot and he disappears from view. Francis then accelerates up the hard shoulder on the right and bumps and hobbles over hard barriers past the accident site and back on the paved tarmac within seconds, then speeds towards the airport.
I am drenched in cold sweat, unsure what is accelerating faster, the Merc or my heartbeat.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Corruption most foul...
I am depressed. Not the usual blahs that eat us up once in a while, no-no, this is a bit more serious. Perhaps it is the grimy potholed roads of Mumbai, the beggars or the absolutely chaotic and chocker block traffic that has soured my mood? Or is it the sight of two squatting kids lost in process of bowel movement next to a garbage dumpster on the Western Expressway that has triggered my cheerless hormones? This happens in declining age, I have read somewhere, among the hundreds of useless email that are forwarded warning me of this and that, with related miraculous remedies. Perhaps? Or maybe it is just a reaction from having just returned from a month long tour of the West where traffic discipline and pothole free roads are not a novelty?
So I am dwelling in this awful mood when Mohammed, my driver, brakes hard and the car screeches to a sudden and uncomfortable stop; I turn and glare at him. He wanted to beat changing traffic lights and decides not to risk the rapid change from amber to red. There are, however, others glaring as well; at my car. Two traffic cops, one tall and lanky with a drooping mustache that practically covers all his lips and dark shades all his eyes and the other, short, stout and well built, pregnant with years of beer, rich food and lack of exercise perhaps, the buttons of his uniform straining for relief, are staring towards us; Mohammed frets uncomfortably.
As if on cue, the taller one strides to Mohammeds side and gestures angrily for the windows to be lowered, khirki kholo, khirki kholo he shouts, then changes into a verbal onslaught of insults in Marathi, of which paagal ghaandu is the only one I can understand – mad asshole! Mohammed rolls down his window fearfully, he is aware of past violent treatment of non-Marathis in Mumbai, especially Muslims. The cop reverts to Hindi, seeing we are non Marathis. Is this how you drive? Paagal hai kya? He speaks but we can barely see his lips move through the brittle curtain of his moustache.
What did he do wrong, I open my mouth for the first time, making my voice as authoritative as possible. He jerks his head back and cocks it sideways, regarding my face, trying to make up his mind if I am somebody he can intimidate. His eyes are invisible with shades, so are mine, so we can’t tell whose emotions are about to unravel. I know Mohammed has not done anything wrong and the bastard wants a bribe to meet his day’s quota.
What did you do? What did you do? The cop echoes, stops to think, unsure, his demeanor slipping a bit. Ah, he blurts, the shade of glass on your car is an unacceptable dark shade. Come, come, bring your vehicle to one side, I will give you a challan! A ticket. I am convinced he wants a bribe and I feel a flash of rage through me. I could fight this and end up in court but it would cost me several frustrating trips to the court that will cost ten times the bribe, not to mention elevated high blood pressure enough to smack the cop silly. Spending time in a Mumbai jail is not my cup of tea…
Mohammed maneuvers the vehicle to one side, bringing relief to a long line of honking, fuming drivers backed up behind us. How much? I ask Mohammed. Pachaas rupaae lagenge saab, he tells me and I slip him a fifty rupee bill. The cop returns with a device that he slips into the window pane. See, he barks through invisible lips, see, 50 percent! A shower of spit escapes the curtain of hair on his lips and settles on the glass pane and on Mohammed who flinches ever so slightly. Not more than 20% allowed! A challan, let me have your license! More spit follows. Mohammed fists his right hand and offers the bribe. What! What is this? Ah, how much? Fifty? Are you crazy, gaandu saala? Not less than a hundred. Come give me your license, I don’t have all day! Mohammed looks at me helplessly; I want to scream obscenities and hurt the cop so bad I can taste bile in my mouth but hand over another fifty which is snapped up by the cop faster than a chameleon its prey. Now phutto, go, and change the tinge in your car, I have noted your number plates and if I see you again, I’ll pull you in. Having directly paid my first bribe in India, we drive off. I glance at the other cop standing at the corner; he gives me a mock salute, the ugly sneer of his face torments me for a long, long time.
I have known corruption growing up in Tanzania but never really dealt with it personally. Having left the country at age 18 and lived in Dubai and US for over 32 years, it is a challenge to accept it living in India. I read India is a democracy; maybe. To me, still, it is a democracy that can be bought and bribed, a networked system in which corruption is deeply embedded. From school admission to driver’s license to booking a train ticket, the system rules you and must comply; there is no choice. I could leave, of course, but the small joys of making a difference in marginalized lives, where it really matters, outweigh these turbulences. For now.
So I am dwelling in this awful mood when Mohammed, my driver, brakes hard and the car screeches to a sudden and uncomfortable stop; I turn and glare at him. He wanted to beat changing traffic lights and decides not to risk the rapid change from amber to red. There are, however, others glaring as well; at my car. Two traffic cops, one tall and lanky with a drooping mustache that practically covers all his lips and dark shades all his eyes and the other, short, stout and well built, pregnant with years of beer, rich food and lack of exercise perhaps, the buttons of his uniform straining for relief, are staring towards us; Mohammed frets uncomfortably.
As if on cue, the taller one strides to Mohammeds side and gestures angrily for the windows to be lowered, khirki kholo, khirki kholo he shouts, then changes into a verbal onslaught of insults in Marathi, of which paagal ghaandu is the only one I can understand – mad asshole! Mohammed rolls down his window fearfully, he is aware of past violent treatment of non-Marathis in Mumbai, especially Muslims. The cop reverts to Hindi, seeing we are non Marathis. Is this how you drive? Paagal hai kya? He speaks but we can barely see his lips move through the brittle curtain of his moustache.
What did he do wrong, I open my mouth for the first time, making my voice as authoritative as possible. He jerks his head back and cocks it sideways, regarding my face, trying to make up his mind if I am somebody he can intimidate. His eyes are invisible with shades, so are mine, so we can’t tell whose emotions are about to unravel. I know Mohammed has not done anything wrong and the bastard wants a bribe to meet his day’s quota.
What did you do? What did you do? The cop echoes, stops to think, unsure, his demeanor slipping a bit. Ah, he blurts, the shade of glass on your car is an unacceptable dark shade. Come, come, bring your vehicle to one side, I will give you a challan! A ticket. I am convinced he wants a bribe and I feel a flash of rage through me. I could fight this and end up in court but it would cost me several frustrating trips to the court that will cost ten times the bribe, not to mention elevated high blood pressure enough to smack the cop silly. Spending time in a Mumbai jail is not my cup of tea…
Mohammed maneuvers the vehicle to one side, bringing relief to a long line of honking, fuming drivers backed up behind us. How much? I ask Mohammed. Pachaas rupaae lagenge saab, he tells me and I slip him a fifty rupee bill. The cop returns with a device that he slips into the window pane. See, he barks through invisible lips, see, 50 percent! A shower of spit escapes the curtain of hair on his lips and settles on the glass pane and on Mohammed who flinches ever so slightly. Not more than 20% allowed! A challan, let me have your license! More spit follows. Mohammed fists his right hand and offers the bribe. What! What is this? Ah, how much? Fifty? Are you crazy, gaandu saala? Not less than a hundred. Come give me your license, I don’t have all day! Mohammed looks at me helplessly; I want to scream obscenities and hurt the cop so bad I can taste bile in my mouth but hand over another fifty which is snapped up by the cop faster than a chameleon its prey. Now phutto, go, and change the tinge in your car, I have noted your number plates and if I see you again, I’ll pull you in. Having directly paid my first bribe in India, we drive off. I glance at the other cop standing at the corner; he gives me a mock salute, the ugly sneer of his face torments me for a long, long time.
I have known corruption growing up in Tanzania but never really dealt with it personally. Having left the country at age 18 and lived in Dubai and US for over 32 years, it is a challenge to accept it living in India. I read India is a democracy; maybe. To me, still, it is a democracy that can be bought and bribed, a networked system in which corruption is deeply embedded. From school admission to driver’s license to booking a train ticket, the system rules you and must comply; there is no choice. I could leave, of course, but the small joys of making a difference in marginalized lives, where it really matters, outweigh these turbulences. For now.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Of marraiges and shit cakes
We stop on a side road and Aliakberbhai, a devoted and selfless trustee of Al Imaan Foundation, cautions me to be careful of cakes. Cakes, I ask? He smiles. Yes, he says, cakes, shit cakes. You should be familiar with our terminology by now; he chides with a smile. I gingerly step down and immediately understand what he is referring to. These is human and dog poo-poo everywhere I look and to reinforce the unreality of the scene, two kids of about ten squat not more than ten yards from me, lost in call of nature, oblivious to the passing mass of cars, trucks, motorbikes, bicycles, humans and dogs. The stench is intense; overpowering, but I am well equipped; a liberally perfumed handkerchief comes in very handy.
We are here to visit a poor and destitute family; a young girl is to be married in three days and the family has no money for the marriage rites. I have funds specifically donated for the facilitation of such marriages but I must be personally hand over the money. Not that I do not trust Al Imaan, far from it. This is a personal commitment on my part, so I can experience the moment (and perhaps be gifted by dua’s from the recipient) and as an assurance to the donor that I was present when we made the marriage possible. Were it not for the help we are about to provide, this engaged couple will probably languish in limbo until either the groom tires and breaks off the engagement or the bride’s family goes into ever ending debt through a loan shark.
The father of the girl meets us shortly and I can instantly sense his embarrassment and nervousness; I give him an assuring smile and we follow him into the slums. My eyes are cast down, on the lookout for objects that I need to side step. I am aware of the hub of activity in the narrow filthy lanes we pass; music blaring from shabby, shoddy rooms, children, few stark naked, playing or quarrelling, the aroma of pakodas and other fried foods mixed with the stench from the open sewers. We suddenly enter a one man lane and I bang into the back of Aliakberbhai. The lane is totally dark and I am very nervous; I do not want soiled shoes.
When we reach the shack, we have to climb up a rickety staircase; it shakes violently with every step and I breathe a sigh of relief when we finally make it up. It is a 12 x 12 room, devoid of any furniture save two short wooden stools and a box crate, obviously used as a dining table. A few metal plates and other banged up utensils line up one side of the wall. A skeleton of a woman lies on bare floor on the other side, clearly in pain. I can see her one twisted leg and the grim twist of her lips whenever she turns her head to follow us with her eyes as we take a seat on the stools.
She is a grandmother of the bride to be. What is the matter with her, I ask? She is not well, the son tells me. But what is the matter with her, I repeat? He shrugs his shoulders; he does not know. The hospital needs money before they will admit her, he says, we do not have the funds. I feel immediate anger and the urge to rebuke him for ignoring his mother but cool down as quickly. Hearing the word hospital and doctor brings a piercing wail of mournful agony from the mother and I feel the hair on my arms raise. My heartbeat quickens and I suddenly feel very nauseous and have a sudden urge to leave.
We are given water and offered tea which we politely refuse. Aliakberbhai asks a few questions about the marriage plans and the girl is brought up. She is very young and pretty, only sixteen. She says salaam shyly and I give her the money; Rupees 18,000, about US $500. This money will buy the couple a bed, mattress and a cupboard perhaps, maybe even help in paying for the waleema. Perhaps. More importantly, it will afford the girl respect from her in laws and smoother live ahead. Insha’Allah.
We get up to leave but I cannot stand the agony of the mother as she whimpers on the floor. She is sayyeda and I have some sehme sadaat funds. I give about $75 to her and Aliakberbhai admonishes the son and orders him to have the mother urgently treated. I plead with Aliakberbhai to leave pronto and hurry ahead, but he is unmoved, practical. You might run away from here, but we have four more of such families to visit, he reminds me. I slow down.
When I finally reach my temporary home, the first thing I do is wudhoo and place my forehead on the soil of Kerbala and thank Allah for His bounties, for I cannot erase the agony of the mother from my eyes and ears.
We are here to visit a poor and destitute family; a young girl is to be married in three days and the family has no money for the marriage rites. I have funds specifically donated for the facilitation of such marriages but I must be personally hand over the money. Not that I do not trust Al Imaan, far from it. This is a personal commitment on my part, so I can experience the moment (and perhaps be gifted by dua’s from the recipient) and as an assurance to the donor that I was present when we made the marriage possible. Were it not for the help we are about to provide, this engaged couple will probably languish in limbo until either the groom tires and breaks off the engagement or the bride’s family goes into ever ending debt through a loan shark.
The father of the girl meets us shortly and I can instantly sense his embarrassment and nervousness; I give him an assuring smile and we follow him into the slums. My eyes are cast down, on the lookout for objects that I need to side step. I am aware of the hub of activity in the narrow filthy lanes we pass; music blaring from shabby, shoddy rooms, children, few stark naked, playing or quarrelling, the aroma of pakodas and other fried foods mixed with the stench from the open sewers. We suddenly enter a one man lane and I bang into the back of Aliakberbhai. The lane is totally dark and I am very nervous; I do not want soiled shoes.
When we reach the shack, we have to climb up a rickety staircase; it shakes violently with every step and I breathe a sigh of relief when we finally make it up. It is a 12 x 12 room, devoid of any furniture save two short wooden stools and a box crate, obviously used as a dining table. A few metal plates and other banged up utensils line up one side of the wall. A skeleton of a woman lies on bare floor on the other side, clearly in pain. I can see her one twisted leg and the grim twist of her lips whenever she turns her head to follow us with her eyes as we take a seat on the stools.
She is a grandmother of the bride to be. What is the matter with her, I ask? She is not well, the son tells me. But what is the matter with her, I repeat? He shrugs his shoulders; he does not know. The hospital needs money before they will admit her, he says, we do not have the funds. I feel immediate anger and the urge to rebuke him for ignoring his mother but cool down as quickly. Hearing the word hospital and doctor brings a piercing wail of mournful agony from the mother and I feel the hair on my arms raise. My heartbeat quickens and I suddenly feel very nauseous and have a sudden urge to leave.
We are given water and offered tea which we politely refuse. Aliakberbhai asks a few questions about the marriage plans and the girl is brought up. She is very young and pretty, only sixteen. She says salaam shyly and I give her the money; Rupees 18,000, about US $500. This money will buy the couple a bed, mattress and a cupboard perhaps, maybe even help in paying for the waleema. Perhaps. More importantly, it will afford the girl respect from her in laws and smoother live ahead. Insha’Allah.
We get up to leave but I cannot stand the agony of the mother as she whimpers on the floor. She is sayyeda and I have some sehme sadaat funds. I give about $75 to her and Aliakberbhai admonishes the son and orders him to have the mother urgently treated. I plead with Aliakberbhai to leave pronto and hurry ahead, but he is unmoved, practical. You might run away from here, but we have four more of such families to visit, he reminds me. I slow down.
When I finally reach my temporary home, the first thing I do is wudhoo and place my forehead on the soil of Kerbala and thank Allah for His bounties, for I cannot erase the agony of the mother from my eyes and ears.
Monday, November 9, 2009
The Shias of Philippines
The lady immigration officer at Manila International Airport in Philippines scrutinizes my passport carefully, then glances at me suspiciously. She has seen a number of visa stamps into Afghanistan on my passport and can’t make up her mind if I pose a threat to her country because of that. She asks me wait and disappears for about five minutes; I can feel the glare of those waiting behind me, holding them up. She is all smiles and apologetic when she returns, says I am welcome to Philippines and whispers she has given me a months visa instead of 5 days I have requested. How generous I exclaim mockingly and she flushes pink, covers her mouth with the palm of her hands to giggle in fake complicity, my sarcasm completely lost on her.
The airport taxi drivers outside the terminal immediately seize upon me, offering me hotel rooms to massage saloons, money exchange to nude bars, teen virgins of either sex to cell phone chips... I hurriedly take refuge in a slightly more expensive airport taxi that takes me through very heavy traffic (and I thought nothing could beat Mumbai traffic!) to my hotel. The Diamond Hotel is surprisingly very opulent, belying the reasonable rate I paid online. The service is incredibly warm and friendly, with everybody ready with eager smiles and anxious to please; you would have to be an Ambani (at least) to get this kind of attention in India, perhaps. I am heavily jet-lagged and want to sleep but force myself to go to the modern and well equipped gym to run instead. Works like a charm as I sleep like a baby afterwards, ready for next day’s challenges and adventures.
Abu Mahdi comes knocking at 10AM; he is not a typical Philippine; rather I sense a bit of Malay in him. Abu Mahdi was given my contact more than 2 years ago and he and another head of a huge clan have been pressing me to visit them. Time and budgetary constraints restrained me until now. We talk for over 2 hours and I learn a lot about Philippine Muslims in general and Shia Muslims in particular. I am stunned to know that there are 25,000 Shia Muslims in the country, most of them in Mandanow Island. These converted to Shia Islam after the Islamic Revolution in 1979 and quite a number of them are Roman Catholics converts. Then, Abu Mahdi won a scholarship to study in Qum; he studied there for over 9 years, returned to lead a budding congregation in Zamboanga. Now, he is the Imam of a crumbling building that acts as a mosque and hawze that caters for 50 taalibs who live in miserable and pitiful conditions. I want to go visit Zamboanga so we go into town and purchase the air tickets to travel there tomorrow. For now, I go to an area of Manila where there is a sizable Muslim presence. Several halal restaurants and Muslim owned stores abound; I forget this is the Philippines for a while.
I am invited to the only Khoja family who have made Philippines their home the last 19 years, that of Shakera and Habeeb Janmohammed. They have a beautiful home in a sky-rise in Makati, an affluent area of Manila. Over an excellent dinner, I learn about life and living in a place of the world both alien and exotic to a Khoja layman. They have no complains; Habeeb has done well in business maasha'Allah, and they have 2 children who are born and schooled there. They give a good insight about the Muslim community, what to expect and caution me about the volatile situation in Mandanow, with kidnappings and sudden, unpredictable gunfights between the MLF, a "Muslim" separatist group and government forces. I become more aware of my surroundings as I return to the hotel but then nothing can be worse thanAfghanistan, right? Abu Mahdi is dismissive about the concerns, tells me I will be fine and that an armed Ahlebeyti policeman will guard me round the clock.
Sure enough, after a stomach curling bumpy 90 minute Philippine Airline flight to Zamboanga City, we are greeted by 5 managing committee members of Ahlebayt (A) Philippine Islamic Foundation, a smartly dressed armed policeman amongst them. We proceed to a modest home of a member for my first authentic Philippino meal ever; a delightful mix of colorful seafood that is superb. I learn more about the community and am quite impressed with the progress in their religious maturity, especially the nurturing of the young ones. Although there is the usual struggle for everyday survival within the poorer members of the community, the lament mostly is for a mosque. We head towards this now for noon prayers. Here, I get to meet the 50 taalibs who get educated and trained in Islamic studies; these are a subdued, varied lot, from different parts of Mandanao. I get a sick sinking feeling when I tour the shabby, rickety building; it is miserable, with 1 toilet being shared by all students.
I sit down with the community afterwards and we chat; I tell them about CAI activities and how we can perhaps help them in education matters in a shared, pooled resourced partnership. I also promise them I will try and spread the word on helping them with a mosque. They are all of the opinion that a mosque as their center will go a long way in consolidating and expanding their community.
Zamboanga is busting, noisy city, but perhaps it’s just me and my advancing age when tolerance for such city nuisances seem overwhelming while seem not to affect others? But all is forgotten, forgiven when we reach a local fruit market. My, what a fiesta of colors! We usually associate (tropical) fruits with Thailand - no contest! Jackfruits, mangastinos, papaya, mangoes, pineapple, custard apples, leeches, others I cannot even name, even the smelly, puke initiating durians abound. I am simply amazed at all these bounties from Allah (S), and delight in buying a lot of fruit to splurge and share. Bargaining is accepted and expected; the vendors are shy but delighted at the mock shock I express at the prices they quote, covering their mouth to smile and giggle, only to come down to serious negotiating of price. The city is a colorful, almost equal mix between Muslims and Catholics with Muslims now a majority due to a very high conversion rate.
I sleep at an inexpensive hotel overnight and go visiting several homes that my new community welcome me in. Some of the homes are literally built into the ocean, on stilts. I have to cross tiny planks, some with fearful rotten cracks in them, about 20 feet long to reach some of the homes and a tiny misstep or error will see me dip into the muck and open sever ten feet below; they jokingly call this crossing at various homes daily "saraat mustakeem" trails. Several of them live in such "homes"; I wonder how the children survive all the hazards. It would take very little for anyone to go flying off into the ocean below.
I visit the home of a Shakir, a slim fragile looking man, a father of 9 whose wife gave birth to their 10th child early this morning. He has no money, he says, to take the wife to doctor, so he assisted in the childbirth and cut the umbilical cord with home scissors. The house is just a few planks of wood nailed together, I see a number of children bundled together in a corner, all paused and look at me subdued. Like their father, they look frail and gaunt. Lack of protein, Abu Mahdi whispers to me. There are no chairs to sit, so we stand and engage in polite chit-chat. But there are books, many books, all in Arabic and Farsi, with religious writings and paintings of Aaeemaas (A) all over the walls.
Then, the eldest daughter comes running, navigating the wooden planks that I very carefully crossed earlier as if they do not exist. The newborn baby, who has gone for immunization shots, has been admitted to the hospital with an infection caused by the scissors that cut its umbilical cord. A gloom falls on the household and conversation is now in hushed tones. The doctors at the government hospital have apparently ordered the parents to bring in certain antibiotic shots but there is no money. I offer to help and the problems for this family get temporary relief.
I leave for Manila later at magreeb, accompanied by Abu Mahdi; we want to visit a large clan of Wahabi converted Shia Muslims about a 2 hour drive from Manila the next day. While we wait for the flight, it is salaat time and I join others in prayers; always a delight. We set of for the town of Meycawayan City, Bulacan early the next morning, about 2 hours away in heavy traffic. I am started to be greeted by about 200 plus people, men, women and children, who line up outside a flea market and loudly recite salawaat as they pump my hand in greeting. These are an extension of one single family, children and relatives of Abulrehman Macalolo, a burly (brave) man with 4 wives. He used to be quite wealthy few years ago, with many businesses. But the menaces of Wahaabi take a toll one fine rainy day. As he sits in worship with his extended family in a makeshift mosque in his village, they are attacked by Wahaabi elements that destroy the mosque, heir homes and kill one young son of his; the entire clan flee for their lives and end up here as refugees.
A sympathetic town Mayor gives them refuge in the flea market, where they open up small stalls selling cheap paraphernalia. They sleep in the tiny stalls at night and use it as a storefront during the days. Even here, they have not forgotten their religion; they rent a small space in the middle of the market, put carpets and prayers mats down and complete their religious obligations; pretty neat. Allah tests them further this year with 2 typhoons that destroy their businesses and wash away their merchandise. The entire family flees, leaving only Abdulrehman and his son in law to keep watch over whatever remained, perched high up in the roof of the flea market until water receded.
They have begun anew, with loan sharks charging about 20% per month for financing their inventory needs. Abulrehman tells me they need help, not aid. Give me karze hasena so that I can escape the loan sharks and help us with a small mosque, he pleads. I will repay you the loans, you, my brother sent by Imam Mahdi (A). He then embarrasses the hell out of me by hugging and kissing me profusely.
I leave them with a heavy heart after a hearty lunch equivalent of machi paka in Dar and the team drops me off at the airport for my flight toDubai.
You can view pictures of my visit here: http://picasaweb.google.com/booaliboo/Philippines#
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