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!
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Interpreting Dreams, Death, Paradise And Loss Of Attentive Maidens With Eyes Cast Down?
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?
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?
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Bosnia's Killing Fields
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?
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Bosnia The Beautiful
Bosnia Herzegovina (BH) is on my wish list of countries to visit for quite some time, 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 canceled; I have to re-enter the UK, retrieve my luggage and rebook. I am bushed, having flown overnight earlier this morning from Orlando via NY. The penalty of not being an 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 greets 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 heaven, 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.
The basic infrastructure of roads, power, water, telephones is excellent. BH is blessed with incredibly green rolling hills; I go bananas revealing 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 Bosnian 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 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 die-hard 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 Serb's 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 densely 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.
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 canceled; I have to re-enter the UK, retrieve my luggage and rebook. I am bushed, having flown overnight earlier this morning from Orlando via NY. The penalty of not being an 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 greets 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 heaven, 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.
The basic infrastructure of roads, power, water, telephones is excellent. BH is blessed with incredibly green rolling hills; I go bananas revealing 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 Bosnian 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 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 die-hard 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 Serb's 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 densely 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.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Back in the USA!
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!
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!
Monday, May 9, 2011
7 Days Of Tea In Afghanistan
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.
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.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
CAI? Central Asian Institute / Comfort Aid International
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.
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.
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