In appearance only, Kramer Kramer (real name altered) resembles Christopher Lloyd, the Reverend Jim Ignatowski character from television sitcom Taxi; raggedy, unkempt. My new home sales agent recommends him to me when I purchase my current home. Kramer is a very good handyman, suitable and thorough at almost all work he undertakes at home, from doing up Tasneem’s salon room to minor alterations or additions I want, his finished works a delight.
Tall, overweight, in rumpled clothes, thick hands carved heavy with incomprehensible tattoos, meeting Kramer for the first time is a bit intimidating. But he is an amiable character, once you get to know him, plenty of interesting tidbits to contribute about everything in general as he works along. He is originally from New York area, a staunch White Republican, an ex drugs addict, now reformed, former alcoholic, now sober but alas, a religious smoker. What strikes me most about Kramer is his inquisitive mind, with loads of questions about my background and culture, especially about the religion of Islam.
Listening to conservative radio talk show hosts the likes of extremely unpleasant Rush Limbaugh et al, have predictably, manipulated Kramer’s mind on Islam, so he is full of questions, loads of them. Some of our conversations go something like this:
What is Sharia law? Do you support it?
Well, Sharia law is a vast subject and I am not qualified enough to tell you a lot about it. Unlike US laws, for example, Sharia laws govern all aspects of a Muslim’s life, personal life, business practices, marriage laws, children’s rights, family inheritance and so on…
But do you support it?
I do, of course, as a Muslim, I do.
Hmmm, but we in the USA believe in the separation of church and state…
Oh, Sharia law is not applicable to non-Muslims.
Kramer makes a dour face.
Why are your wife and daughter all covered up? Do they dress up like this all the time? Are they not hot?
No, they are not covered up, they have to be modesty dressed and have their hair covered in front of strangers; they can uncover their hair in front of close family members. They maybe hot at times, but they must follow our religion.
I think women look beautiful uncovered, the less the better.
Kramer laughs out aloud and lowers an eyelid in a lazy, knowing wink.
Exactly why our religion wants them dressed the way they are! Keep them safe from prying eyes, yes?
The sour expression appears once more.
What? From dawn to dusk? No eating, drinking, even water? No sex? You gotta be insane Owlie!!! And your daughter as well??? God Owlie, that is so cruel, that is awful! In Gods name, why?!
We are discussing the holy month of Ramadhan, of course. The guy is so horrified and looks truly alarmed to know we don’t eat or drink during the day, with him gulping down gallons of cold water to replenish all his sweating, working in the furnace-like attic. Americans get tongue-tied with names like Yusuf Yusufali; I can relate many hilarious tales getting my name recorded with American institutions when I first set foot in this country some thirty years ago, but that is another story. So I settle for Ali except Kramer can’t (or won’t?) pronounce that either; so it’s Owlie. Owlie – sounds awful…
It is really matter of the mind. Once you make up your mind you are not eating or drinking until such time, your body adjusts. Why? Well this is a law ordained by God, not only to Muslims, but to Christians and the Jews as well, if you were to follow the Bible and Torah. I think God wants us to contemplate the hunger of less fortunate in this world. It is a month of connecting with God, purging your sins, asking for His mercy… Plus it is an excellent way to cleanse your body; drop some pounds as well.
Kramer looks at me dubiously but cringes somewhat as I look up and down his overweight body.
He is most respectful in and around the house however, always knocks before entering to make sure womenfolk are in hijab and promptly leaves the house when the call to prayers goes off from our prayer clock. He is also most intrigued with the holy Quraan, asks several questions on it. He wants to see what a mosque looks like so I ride in his dump one mile down the road to see Masjid Al Hayy under construction. It blows his mind.
Wow, Owlie, this is beautiful! Beautiful! Man! It is huge!
He shakes his head in astonishment.
You guys are really committed to your religion.
Do I hear a tiny twig of envy in his voice? I invite him to visit our current center sometimes, if he wants.
We have a wonderful preacher, a young guy with a lot of good things to say; he can answer a lot of your questions I could not. But let me know much in advance when you want to visit. Our preacher, although very good, makes many disappearing acts, so we need to plan it out.
Kramer agrees, says he had wanted to visit, even talked to another community member whose home he is repairing about a visit with his live-in girlfriend; she even agreed to cover her hair! But he is now single again, had a huge falling off with the girlfriend, whom he has had to evict from his home.
One day, he curiously reads a wedding invitation card sitting on the kitchen counter.
Hey Owlie, it says here someone dead has invited you. How can a dead person invite you to anything?
Eh?
Kramer points out the words in the card… Late xxx and Late xxx Requests The Honor Of Your Presence…
I scratch my (barren) scalp, stumped.
Kramer loves dogs; goes on and on about his pet dogs that he says will lick you to death. Now, I am unsure about being licked to death by any animal but I am fond of dogs as well, so is Maaha Zainab. I explain Muslims consider dogs unclean and are not allowed, by religious law, to keep them in the house, the nose is considered unclean, they smell everything. This infuriates Kramer, for he looks at me as if I had assaulted, insulted him.
Unclean, eh? Hmmm…
He wags his head in despair, rolls his eyes to the heavens.
How about cats, are cats allowed?
Yes!
I respond enthusiastically, almost shout, so happy to share a common animal Islam allows me to domesticate.
Owlie, did you know, cats are even dirtier than dogs? And they, too, sniff at everything? A dog will whimper and let you know he needs to pee or shit and run out to do his business. A cat, they are a nasty. They will either pee or shit on your carpet and stink up a storm…
I scratch my (barren) scalp, stumped, a dour look on my face.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
A Sneak Preview
Preface
I was born a manhoos; ill-fortuned is the closest English translation, the verdict decreed by our next door neighbor Ramjanbhai, when I was born. This recount came from Salma, when I was old enough to understand what the word meant. My dislike for Ramjanbhai, and his for me, proceeded long before I understood the meaning of the word. I made rude sounds from my mouth whenever he passed by our house, sounds I heard him let out from both ends of his body constantly, even through the thin, porous walls that separated our hovels, for Ramjanbhai suffered from a severe case of flatulence. My insults drove him wild, for he attempted an assault on my nimble self, only to give up moments later, heaving, coughing, muttering obscenities and curses. He then went complaining about my awful behavior to either Abbu or Salma, but they paid him no mind.
Ramjanbhai was not technically wrong for calling me a manhoos, for I am one really, if you hold those kinds of viewpoints. My Ammi, you see, ceased breathing at about exactly the same moment I commenced life; a bad omen for everybody in the family, more so for our neighbors and almost everybody in our basti who knew my family. Many relatives and some of our neighbors, like Ramjanbhai, who made a fuss every time we met, shunned me. About a week after I was born, a major fire destroyed much of slum settlements just two rows beyond our house and the local government, instead of helping rebuild these homes, brought out bulldozers and flattened everything left standing. The destroyed homes were illegal, said the local municipal commissioner, the local authorities were just polishing up what nature had taken care of. So you see, my birth was not an auspicious event.
My immediate family, except for my dad, did not care and loved me unconditionally, especially Abbu and Salma. Tabu was of a different nature, not prone to much emotion, busy with fashion, boys and Bollywood pursuits. Baarish did not comprehend the meanness of the whole affair. Abbu doted on me, for he saw his future linage in me, the only male descendent worthy of mention, for he had expunged his son from memory. My world of comprehension began with Abbu as I followed him around when he was not selling fruits at the market. Salma fed and cleaned me then, but it was Abbu who meant the world to me. I remember the first time he tried to make me to go pee, when I was about three years old.
'You have to go pee, Salman.'
'No.'
'You drank a whole glass of sugarcane juice and you been sucking ice all day, you must go pee. I don't want you peeing in your chuddies and on my bed. Then I'll have to wash everything before I say my prayers and Salma will yell at you for making me use up all the water. Hurry up, let's get you to pee.'
'No, no, nooooo...'
'I'll buy you the red lollipop you like...'
We stared at each other; I wanted to make sure I was not being set up. Abbu was a man of his words so this was not a bad deal at all. It's not that I didn't want to go pee, but proper toilets were at least half a mile away and the corner shed we used for peeing stunk real wicked.
'Will Abbu go pee with me?'
Abu looked at me in astonishment but then smiled. 'I'll buy you two lollipops if you go pee, else I'll have Salma take you and no lollipops.'
Salma, although always nice and kind to me, had a temper when things didn't go her way. She had tons of things to do around our house and pee cleaning was not something she had on regular schedule. So I ran outside, tangy taste of strawberry flavored lollipops already on my tongue, ahead of Abbu and dropped the loose cloth piece that served as my training diaper. Suddenly, the force on my bladder was unbearable and I would have let go standing but Abbu pushed me down squatting and I peed and peed, like the proper Muslim gentleman Abbu was training me to become.
Later on, Abbu returned with the two lollipops he had promised and I went pee again, in a controlled manner, squatting like a gentleman, exactly the way Abbu wanted me to. The lollipops were a super treat and I made a meal of them both; Salma gave Abbu disapproving looks as I always fussed at dinner and Tabu sulked because she got only one lollipop. As always, I finished the lollipops and carefully licked all sugar crystals from the wrappings. Abbu always found this greediness strangely endearing and so it was that day as well. He scooped me up in him arms and hugged me, planting kisses all over my face, I twitching and squealing in ticklish delight.
'What did Salmaan do today?'
I said, 'Pee pee.'
Book One - Chapter One
Abbu would swipe dust off from a solid empty wooden crate with a flick of his withered wrist, carefully lay a frayed rag on it and gratefully sit down, easing pain from aging, inflamed joints of his feet.
'Bolo, bolo,' he would shout at the top of his voice, adding to the chorus of cries from others around, 'fresh fruit and subzi, cheap fruit, cheap subzi. Best pick from this morning, tomatoes, only eight rupees a kilo.' Only his voice would quaver with age and not carry as loudly as others around us. Bolo was the first word I remember in my life, even before I learned how to walk.
Before I started attending school, Abbu made sure I accompanied him to the market every morning, placing me atop a wheelbarrow full of fruit and vegetable picked from trees in the backyard or bought wholesale from vending women who sold their pick early in order to return to their villages in time for tilling land or other household labors.
'He will grow up to be a fine man, you'll see, a doctor or an engineer,' he would explain with a toothy grin to anyone who cared to listen, pointing to me as I sat in a smaller version of his chair, only this one was upturned and hallow, padded by cast off rags for my yet to develop bones and softer skin. Actually 'Abbu,' was the first word I uttered and 'bolo' came a close second. By the time I was three, I could repeat that whole pattern of Bupu's sales pitch word for word.
Nobody from my family knew exactly what date I was born. My father was out and about, probably in Surat where rumor was he had taken on a second wife and my mother died before I took my first gulp of air. Abbu thought it was a Friday and he was certain it was either in October or November as everybody was in a buying frenzy for Diwali festivals. I am still unsure of the year but I reckon that's really not very important.
As I mentioned before, Mummy, or Ammi as the rest of my family refer to her, died on the same bed I was conceived. As a child, I always wondered how a person could die giving birth seeing many mothers still alive and felt guilty about Ammi dying on my birthday. I learnt a lot about her from my sister Salma, who went on and on about what a wonderful person she was, how she sacrificed everything for her family and got no peace from her husband, our father. He, I was told, was bekaar, useless, a sot, a drunkard. He worked when he was sober, which was rare, spent money on woman and booze and came home only when he ran out of money and could not find a free bed companion.
My family comprised of two sisters; Salma, the eldest, who was nine years older than I and Tabu, short for Tabassum, four years older. We also had an infant aptly named Baarish, whom Abbu had very reluctantly taken in only when it seemed certain she would die from the lashings of monsoon rains beating upon her frail body. She was left abandoned outside our door one thundery July morning. These ages I am approximating, nobody knows for sure; they could be a year older or younger. Except for Baarish, of course. She was an infant then, probably not more than six months old with lungs, I thought, of a grown up, the way she sometimes bawled nonstop. She would turn crimson crying in colic pain and rage, only to be quieted after agonizing long periods of Salma's cooing and hip bumping, few farts and burps later.
We all lived in a two-room hovel close to a filthy stream that cut right in the middle of our slum community called Naroda Patiya. This hovel had tin roof that leaked profusely during monsoons, flooding the floor, making a mess of everything and leaving Salma in a disagreeable disposition almost the entire three months or so; she did most of the cleaning and was fussy about how the interior of our palace looked and felt, never mind the ruin and decay outside. During the super hot months between March and June, it was an oven, which left all of us near naked and short tempered, especially Tabu, as the heat and humidity would create havoc on her cheap makeup. We considered our two ceiling fans luxury; both antiques that wobbled and creaked dramatically but miraculously, never gave way. We had neighbors across the stream, on the left, right, and above our box home.
The walls were so thin, I could hear Ramjanbhai repeatedly fart and burp from next door, even through the complaining fans. I also heard other sounds that I could only figure out much later in life, Ramjanbhai's son and daughter-in-law making love. Abbu, who slept alone in one room because he was a light sleeper, would bang at the wall and shout at them to shut up while Salma would giggle knowingly. The four of us were packed together in the other room. Our bedroom was reduced even further as a comer of it was used for cooking and stacking dishes. We had no running water so the girls woke up very early every morning and hurried outside with pails to stand in line at the public supply; the water stopped running by the time the sun rose. The bathrooms were outside, a block away; ten families shared ours. We considered it very lucky if we ever found one empty and a wait of half hour or more was not uncommon. Visitors, these were few and far apart, who come to our house were revolted by the stench from the sewer stream outside; I found that odd as a young boy; why, it did not bother me at all.
Abbu, who worked a small garden that we owned at the back of our hovel, vended the yields in a corner spot outside Parekh Brothers, a banya shop at the center of Naroda Patiya market. By the time I was old enough to crawl out of my box seat next to Abbu's, I realized he was much respected and admired, not only for his selling skills, but also for his honesty and integrity. Abbu, you see, hailed from Jamnagar, in our state of Gujarat. He was a son of a zameendaar, a landowner, rich and powerful in his own right. But fate and an emotional heart were unkind to him, for he fell in love with and impregnated a Hindu maiden from Kutch. This act, in his youth days, was like writing a death sentence on your life. The enraged father of girl rallied his community and began planning for Abbu's execution while his father cut him off all assets and family wealth. Abbu escaped with his unwed pregnant 'wife' and ended up in our slum of Naroda Patiya.
In contrast, Akber, my father, or just bekaar admi, as Salma called him, hardly ever worked. The little he earned was spent on cheap brew at dingy haddas and on women. When he did come home, he was always in a foul mood, ready with a quick whack to the back of our heads for no apparent reason.
If it hadn’t been for Abbu, I would never have attended school. Jaffery English Elementary School was about a mile away, in a plot of land that was always impeccably clean and well maintained even though the main open sewer lane of Naroda Patiya ran right behind it, exposing all to a terrible stench and a frightening eyesore. In fact, it was the only building for miles around that had a decent coat of paint. I attended school but there was not much teaching in the classrooms. I sat at my depilated desk that wobbled so much I had to hold it upright most times and listened to our class teacher yell at us, banging a menacing looking cane on his desk to silence the class.
Preeti, only daughter of Harshad Parekh, one of the brothers who owned Parekh Brothers, sat one row ahead of me in class. She always smelled of Lifebuoy soap and coconut oil oozed from her scalp. She was quite clever and snotty, which bugged the hell out of me. She had a nasty habit of turning around and sneering at me whenever she correctly answered a question or when she got all her homework right. I pulled her oily pigtails in punishment whenever she did that. She cried and complained to our class teacher sometimes and I either got caned or was made to kneel in front of the class for hours, glaring at her while plotting revenge I knew I could never follow through.
Two o’clock in the afternoon was my favorite time of the day when the rusty bell in the play yard would clang, signaling the end of classes. I would jump up, not caring if my desk toppled over and together with other children, jam the doorway in a gleeful attempt to flee the confines of the room. I would run all the way to Naroda Patiya Central Market and try to squeeze into the box crate that was now much too small for me. From there, I would then polish all fruits to a glossy shine.
In case you are scratching your head wondering what this is all about, please dont fret. This is a preface and part of Book One - Part One from my second novel (title still being debated in my head) that is slated for completion and eBook publishing (all profits to benefit Comfort Aid International, off course!) end of 2011, insha'Allah. I am looking for feedback really, good and bad, hopefully more good? If you do care to comment, please do so to email kisukaali@yahoo.com. I will really appreciate it.
Allah bless and thank you.
I was born a manhoos; ill-fortuned is the closest English translation, the verdict decreed by our next door neighbor Ramjanbhai, when I was born. This recount came from Salma, when I was old enough to understand what the word meant. My dislike for Ramjanbhai, and his for me, proceeded long before I understood the meaning of the word. I made rude sounds from my mouth whenever he passed by our house, sounds I heard him let out from both ends of his body constantly, even through the thin, porous walls that separated our hovels, for Ramjanbhai suffered from a severe case of flatulence. My insults drove him wild, for he attempted an assault on my nimble self, only to give up moments later, heaving, coughing, muttering obscenities and curses. He then went complaining about my awful behavior to either Abbu or Salma, but they paid him no mind.
Ramjanbhai was not technically wrong for calling me a manhoos, for I am one really, if you hold those kinds of viewpoints. My Ammi, you see, ceased breathing at about exactly the same moment I commenced life; a bad omen for everybody in the family, more so for our neighbors and almost everybody in our basti who knew my family. Many relatives and some of our neighbors, like Ramjanbhai, who made a fuss every time we met, shunned me. About a week after I was born, a major fire destroyed much of slum settlements just two rows beyond our house and the local government, instead of helping rebuild these homes, brought out bulldozers and flattened everything left standing. The destroyed homes were illegal, said the local municipal commissioner, the local authorities were just polishing up what nature had taken care of. So you see, my birth was not an auspicious event.
My immediate family, except for my dad, did not care and loved me unconditionally, especially Abbu and Salma. Tabu was of a different nature, not prone to much emotion, busy with fashion, boys and Bollywood pursuits. Baarish did not comprehend the meanness of the whole affair. Abbu doted on me, for he saw his future linage in me, the only male descendent worthy of mention, for he had expunged his son from memory. My world of comprehension began with Abbu as I followed him around when he was not selling fruits at the market. Salma fed and cleaned me then, but it was Abbu who meant the world to me. I remember the first time he tried to make me to go pee, when I was about three years old.
'You have to go pee, Salman.'
'No.'
'You drank a whole glass of sugarcane juice and you been sucking ice all day, you must go pee. I don't want you peeing in your chuddies and on my bed. Then I'll have to wash everything before I say my prayers and Salma will yell at you for making me use up all the water. Hurry up, let's get you to pee.'
'No, no, nooooo...'
'I'll buy you the red lollipop you like...'
We stared at each other; I wanted to make sure I was not being set up. Abbu was a man of his words so this was not a bad deal at all. It's not that I didn't want to go pee, but proper toilets were at least half a mile away and the corner shed we used for peeing stunk real wicked.
'Will Abbu go pee with me?'
Abu looked at me in astonishment but then smiled. 'I'll buy you two lollipops if you go pee, else I'll have Salma take you and no lollipops.'
Salma, although always nice and kind to me, had a temper when things didn't go her way. She had tons of things to do around our house and pee cleaning was not something she had on regular schedule. So I ran outside, tangy taste of strawberry flavored lollipops already on my tongue, ahead of Abbu and dropped the loose cloth piece that served as my training diaper. Suddenly, the force on my bladder was unbearable and I would have let go standing but Abbu pushed me down squatting and I peed and peed, like the proper Muslim gentleman Abbu was training me to become.
Later on, Abbu returned with the two lollipops he had promised and I went pee again, in a controlled manner, squatting like a gentleman, exactly the way Abbu wanted me to. The lollipops were a super treat and I made a meal of them both; Salma gave Abbu disapproving looks as I always fussed at dinner and Tabu sulked because she got only one lollipop. As always, I finished the lollipops and carefully licked all sugar crystals from the wrappings. Abbu always found this greediness strangely endearing and so it was that day as well. He scooped me up in him arms and hugged me, planting kisses all over my face, I twitching and squealing in ticklish delight.
'What did Salmaan do today?'
I said, 'Pee pee.'
Book One - Chapter One
Abbu would swipe dust off from a solid empty wooden crate with a flick of his withered wrist, carefully lay a frayed rag on it and gratefully sit down, easing pain from aging, inflamed joints of his feet.
'Bolo, bolo,' he would shout at the top of his voice, adding to the chorus of cries from others around, 'fresh fruit and subzi, cheap fruit, cheap subzi. Best pick from this morning, tomatoes, only eight rupees a kilo.' Only his voice would quaver with age and not carry as loudly as others around us. Bolo was the first word I remember in my life, even before I learned how to walk.
Before I started attending school, Abbu made sure I accompanied him to the market every morning, placing me atop a wheelbarrow full of fruit and vegetable picked from trees in the backyard or bought wholesale from vending women who sold their pick early in order to return to their villages in time for tilling land or other household labors.
'He will grow up to be a fine man, you'll see, a doctor or an engineer,' he would explain with a toothy grin to anyone who cared to listen, pointing to me as I sat in a smaller version of his chair, only this one was upturned and hallow, padded by cast off rags for my yet to develop bones and softer skin. Actually 'Abbu,' was the first word I uttered and 'bolo' came a close second. By the time I was three, I could repeat that whole pattern of Bupu's sales pitch word for word.
Nobody from my family knew exactly what date I was born. My father was out and about, probably in Surat where rumor was he had taken on a second wife and my mother died before I took my first gulp of air. Abbu thought it was a Friday and he was certain it was either in October or November as everybody was in a buying frenzy for Diwali festivals. I am still unsure of the year but I reckon that's really not very important.
As I mentioned before, Mummy, or Ammi as the rest of my family refer to her, died on the same bed I was conceived. As a child, I always wondered how a person could die giving birth seeing many mothers still alive and felt guilty about Ammi dying on my birthday. I learnt a lot about her from my sister Salma, who went on and on about what a wonderful person she was, how she sacrificed everything for her family and got no peace from her husband, our father. He, I was told, was bekaar, useless, a sot, a drunkard. He worked when he was sober, which was rare, spent money on woman and booze and came home only when he ran out of money and could not find a free bed companion.
My family comprised of two sisters; Salma, the eldest, who was nine years older than I and Tabu, short for Tabassum, four years older. We also had an infant aptly named Baarish, whom Abbu had very reluctantly taken in only when it seemed certain she would die from the lashings of monsoon rains beating upon her frail body. She was left abandoned outside our door one thundery July morning. These ages I am approximating, nobody knows for sure; they could be a year older or younger. Except for Baarish, of course. She was an infant then, probably not more than six months old with lungs, I thought, of a grown up, the way she sometimes bawled nonstop. She would turn crimson crying in colic pain and rage, only to be quieted after agonizing long periods of Salma's cooing and hip bumping, few farts and burps later.
We all lived in a two-room hovel close to a filthy stream that cut right in the middle of our slum community called Naroda Patiya. This hovel had tin roof that leaked profusely during monsoons, flooding the floor, making a mess of everything and leaving Salma in a disagreeable disposition almost the entire three months or so; she did most of the cleaning and was fussy about how the interior of our palace looked and felt, never mind the ruin and decay outside. During the super hot months between March and June, it was an oven, which left all of us near naked and short tempered, especially Tabu, as the heat and humidity would create havoc on her cheap makeup. We considered our two ceiling fans luxury; both antiques that wobbled and creaked dramatically but miraculously, never gave way. We had neighbors across the stream, on the left, right, and above our box home.
The walls were so thin, I could hear Ramjanbhai repeatedly fart and burp from next door, even through the complaining fans. I also heard other sounds that I could only figure out much later in life, Ramjanbhai's son and daughter-in-law making love. Abbu, who slept alone in one room because he was a light sleeper, would bang at the wall and shout at them to shut up while Salma would giggle knowingly. The four of us were packed together in the other room. Our bedroom was reduced even further as a comer of it was used for cooking and stacking dishes. We had no running water so the girls woke up very early every morning and hurried outside with pails to stand in line at the public supply; the water stopped running by the time the sun rose. The bathrooms were outside, a block away; ten families shared ours. We considered it very lucky if we ever found one empty and a wait of half hour or more was not uncommon. Visitors, these were few and far apart, who come to our house were revolted by the stench from the sewer stream outside; I found that odd as a young boy; why, it did not bother me at all.
Abbu, who worked a small garden that we owned at the back of our hovel, vended the yields in a corner spot outside Parekh Brothers, a banya shop at the center of Naroda Patiya market. By the time I was old enough to crawl out of my box seat next to Abbu's, I realized he was much respected and admired, not only for his selling skills, but also for his honesty and integrity. Abbu, you see, hailed from Jamnagar, in our state of Gujarat. He was a son of a zameendaar, a landowner, rich and powerful in his own right. But fate and an emotional heart were unkind to him, for he fell in love with and impregnated a Hindu maiden from Kutch. This act, in his youth days, was like writing a death sentence on your life. The enraged father of girl rallied his community and began planning for Abbu's execution while his father cut him off all assets and family wealth. Abbu escaped with his unwed pregnant 'wife' and ended up in our slum of Naroda Patiya.
In contrast, Akber, my father, or just bekaar admi, as Salma called him, hardly ever worked. The little he earned was spent on cheap brew at dingy haddas and on women. When he did come home, he was always in a foul mood, ready with a quick whack to the back of our heads for no apparent reason.
If it hadn’t been for Abbu, I would never have attended school. Jaffery English Elementary School was about a mile away, in a plot of land that was always impeccably clean and well maintained even though the main open sewer lane of Naroda Patiya ran right behind it, exposing all to a terrible stench and a frightening eyesore. In fact, it was the only building for miles around that had a decent coat of paint. I attended school but there was not much teaching in the classrooms. I sat at my depilated desk that wobbled so much I had to hold it upright most times and listened to our class teacher yell at us, banging a menacing looking cane on his desk to silence the class.
Preeti, only daughter of Harshad Parekh, one of the brothers who owned Parekh Brothers, sat one row ahead of me in class. She always smelled of Lifebuoy soap and coconut oil oozed from her scalp. She was quite clever and snotty, which bugged the hell out of me. She had a nasty habit of turning around and sneering at me whenever she correctly answered a question or when she got all her homework right. I pulled her oily pigtails in punishment whenever she did that. She cried and complained to our class teacher sometimes and I either got caned or was made to kneel in front of the class for hours, glaring at her while plotting revenge I knew I could never follow through.
Two o’clock in the afternoon was my favorite time of the day when the rusty bell in the play yard would clang, signaling the end of classes. I would jump up, not caring if my desk toppled over and together with other children, jam the doorway in a gleeful attempt to flee the confines of the room. I would run all the way to Naroda Patiya Central Market and try to squeeze into the box crate that was now much too small for me. From there, I would then polish all fruits to a glossy shine.
In case you are scratching your head wondering what this is all about, please dont fret. This is a preface and part of Book One - Part One from my second novel (title still being debated in my head) that is slated for completion and eBook publishing (all profits to benefit Comfort Aid International, off course!) end of 2011, insha'Allah. I am looking for feedback really, good and bad, hopefully more good? If you do care to comment, please do so to email kisukaali@yahoo.com. I will really appreciate it.
Allah bless and thank you.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Khoja Kiswahili Paradise
It is now over three months since I move my family from India to the accusing (towards Cuba maybe?) pinky finger landmass of Florida in the USA. This change has been quite agreeable off course, especially for the children. Maaha Zainab relishes her fifth grade class and new friends; Alihussein is already stressing out with college classes, Tasneem busy messing around with her salon while I try to juggle the forex market. And CAI, off course. Gone are the days of squatting dogs and humans on streets, days of toenail curling pongs, of mind-boggling, undisciplined, punishing, traffic snarls. No frightening drunken Ganeesh parades or nasty (and dangerous) color dousing startles at Holi festival. I do miss the mango madness though…
Here in Orlando, lives my community of East African Khoja’s, a group most unique, in many aspects. You can trace our ancestry well over a hundred years to the general area of Gujarat, in India. The entrepreneurial spirit in our blood propelled us to Africa, where we prospered, many from illegitimate wealth from magendo business transactions, a practice active till this very day, encouraged by governments steeped in contradicting and confusing, corrupt-friendly laws. These laws, resulting in political uncertainty, (some) lawlessness, inept education, health and other infrastructure systems, drove us to migrate again, to shores of Europe and North America. We live here now, as good law abiding citizens (if, when and where short cuts and magendo practices are not quite possible - without detection).
We are a hearty bunch, generally, and nostalgic to everything that is remotely East African, the general area from where we lived before migrating to the US. The desire and will to ape everything cultural from back home is very apparent; from Kiswahili kofia and khanzu worn at the mosque, mbarazi and mandazi served on Sunday mornings after salaat, the Kiswahili language (with quite a bit of colorful matusi at baraaza time) to very strong entrepreneurial desire for wealth and success. Wealth, mind you, that is generously donated to those poor and destitute all over the world.
I was not want of choice for cities to move; I could go back to Houston TX off course, but after living in that gigantic city on and off for 28 years, I was ready for a change. I, however, chose Orlando. People have (generally) good things to say about this particular community in SE USA. The various activities for children at the religious center, including a vibrant madressa, an agreeable warm tropical weather, reasonable real estate market and more importantly, a compatible cultural mindset makes Orlando an ideal choice.
Holy, blessed month of Ramadhan has just ended, and what a delight it was to be able to attend salaat, partake in shared iftaar arranged by HIC, the traditional practice of Quaraan recitation, dua Iftetah and lectures by invited specialists. I did not realize how much I had missed this very Kiswahili Khoja type of arrangements all these years in Texas and India! Now that it is over, Maaha Zainab laments she misses her Madressa workshops; I miss the exotic kitumbua, mkate mimina, kalemati…yum, umh, yum…, no wonder I did not loose the body mafuta I had hoped.
HIC was alive with prayer and activities, beginning with children’s workshops, Quaraan recitation, magreeb / ishaa salaat, scramble for iftaar, short baraaza outside with (almost all) men relishing their first puffs, choice of meetha, khaara or khimaam pan and colorful Kiswahili conversation. One man in particular had a peculiar habit of breaking out in an ancient, loud Bollywood stanza from eras gone by… Lectures followed in English by our own educated Khoja young aalims, occasionally brilliant, at times humdrum and sometimes outright corny; encouraging start? It was heartwarming and huge relief to see Abdul Jaffer on his feet once again after giving us a nasty scare. I missed a week due to commitments towards our starving brethren at Somalia / Kenya border…
The Eid crescent was mercifully locally sighted, so recurrent controversies were avoided, even though the actual day was observed worldwide spanning three separate days! Tuesday for us in Florida, Eid day, was spent meeting, hugging families, friends, and (alarmingly) watching a pile of dollars thin out dolling Eidy to children. It was another (gastronomical) struggle at HIC with neehara for breakfast and (calorie galore) heaps of mutton biryani for dinner; ah, what would we be without the parbaaros. Not that I complain, mind you.
I see a bright future for us Khojas of Orlando. We are a growing community with an intact, traditional outlook, albeit progressive one hopefully. And we are going to grow, no doubt, insha’Allah, what with the massive new Masjid Al Hayy coming up soon, not more than a mile from home.
Yes, the decision to move here to Orlando Florida was the right one. Alhamd’Allah.
Here in Orlando, lives my community of East African Khoja’s, a group most unique, in many aspects. You can trace our ancestry well over a hundred years to the general area of Gujarat, in India. The entrepreneurial spirit in our blood propelled us to Africa, where we prospered, many from illegitimate wealth from magendo business transactions, a practice active till this very day, encouraged by governments steeped in contradicting and confusing, corrupt-friendly laws. These laws, resulting in political uncertainty, (some) lawlessness, inept education, health and other infrastructure systems, drove us to migrate again, to shores of Europe and North America. We live here now, as good law abiding citizens (if, when and where short cuts and magendo practices are not quite possible - without detection).
We are a hearty bunch, generally, and nostalgic to everything that is remotely East African, the general area from where we lived before migrating to the US. The desire and will to ape everything cultural from back home is very apparent; from Kiswahili kofia and khanzu worn at the mosque, mbarazi and mandazi served on Sunday mornings after salaat, the Kiswahili language (with quite a bit of colorful matusi at baraaza time) to very strong entrepreneurial desire for wealth and success. Wealth, mind you, that is generously donated to those poor and destitute all over the world.
I was not want of choice for cities to move; I could go back to Houston TX off course, but after living in that gigantic city on and off for 28 years, I was ready for a change. I, however, chose Orlando. People have (generally) good things to say about this particular community in SE USA. The various activities for children at the religious center, including a vibrant madressa, an agreeable warm tropical weather, reasonable real estate market and more importantly, a compatible cultural mindset makes Orlando an ideal choice.
Holy, blessed month of Ramadhan has just ended, and what a delight it was to be able to attend salaat, partake in shared iftaar arranged by HIC, the traditional practice of Quaraan recitation, dua Iftetah and lectures by invited specialists. I did not realize how much I had missed this very Kiswahili Khoja type of arrangements all these years in Texas and India! Now that it is over, Maaha Zainab laments she misses her Madressa workshops; I miss the exotic kitumbua, mkate mimina, kalemati…yum, umh, yum…, no wonder I did not loose the body mafuta I had hoped.
HIC was alive with prayer and activities, beginning with children’s workshops, Quaraan recitation, magreeb / ishaa salaat, scramble for iftaar, short baraaza outside with (almost all) men relishing their first puffs, choice of meetha, khaara or khimaam pan and colorful Kiswahili conversation. One man in particular had a peculiar habit of breaking out in an ancient, loud Bollywood stanza from eras gone by… Lectures followed in English by our own educated Khoja young aalims, occasionally brilliant, at times humdrum and sometimes outright corny; encouraging start? It was heartwarming and huge relief to see Abdul Jaffer on his feet once again after giving us a nasty scare. I missed a week due to commitments towards our starving brethren at Somalia / Kenya border…
The Eid crescent was mercifully locally sighted, so recurrent controversies were avoided, even though the actual day was observed worldwide spanning three separate days! Tuesday for us in Florida, Eid day, was spent meeting, hugging families, friends, and (alarmingly) watching a pile of dollars thin out dolling Eidy to children. It was another (gastronomical) struggle at HIC with neehara for breakfast and (calorie galore) heaps of mutton biryani for dinner; ah, what would we be without the parbaaros. Not that I complain, mind you.
I see a bright future for us Khojas of Orlando. We are a growing community with an intact, traditional outlook, albeit progressive one hopefully. And we are going to grow, no doubt, insha’Allah, what with the massive new Masjid Al Hayy coming up soon, not more than a mile from home.
Yes, the decision to move here to Orlando Florida was the right one. Alhamd’Allah.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Suk-Suk - Part Two
I have, this week, concluded 50 tons of CAI donor funded food distribution tour at the Somalia – Kenya border region, alhamd'Allah. This project was initiated and executed within 3 weeks after the decision was made to do something, anything, when images of dying and malnutritioned children appeared in the media. It was, for me, unconscionable to simply express pity and remain inactive. All credit for this very successful program goes to Allah (S) for the taufeeq and opportunity to serve at His pleasure, our very generous and ever ready donors and the team put together by Dr. Muhsin Sheriff (Docta) of local Kenya NGO CHEPS for arranging, assessing, planning, travelling, actual distribution and all other incredible, at times seemingly impossible logistics this scale of project demanded; CAI is profoundly indebted to all of these for the incredible opportunity.
The following narrative of the trip is first hand, through my eyes and I take full responsibility for words used in describing events, not very civil for some readers, perhaps. Sometimes, there are no ‘nice’ ways to describe stark realities. Who knows, you may enjoy the chronicle.
Pinpoint accuracy?
The communal bathroom is outside, an unlit smelly shed with no running water; you lug in a lotta. I slip and almost fall upon entry, franticly grab at the wood frame supporting the tin shed; my fingers come away with something slimy, something I cannot see, something smelly; I shudder in disgust and run out to cleanse my hands. You guessed it, there is no soap…I scrub my fingers raw with almost half bottle of hand sanitizer I carry for just these instances. But I still got to go; my bladder is almost a busting. I take a torch this time and (very, very) carefully, reluctantly, return to the toilet shed. The hole in the ground that greets me is super tiny and I wonder for a minute if this is only for number one business. Well, there are no other toilets around so this must be for both numbers. Wow, talk about practicing squatting with precise accuracy!
The generator is switched off at nine sharp and the place engulfs in utter darkness. I drift off to uneasy sleep but the place is so busy with rattling walls and roof, snores, groans, farts and related smells, it seems the entire camp is vibrating with a gusto of workshop energy from some 40 plus humans temporarily dead; I am wide-awake by one. I grind my teeth and tolerate the torment until it mercifully ends with a muezzin calling the faithful to eat sehri (daku); we are given sweet weak tea and some dates for a fast we will observe but pay back later as well.
Shriveled breast
There are people lined up outside the distribution site by the time we show up and we go to work almost immediately. This camp is all new refugees from war-torn Somalia, in terrible shape. With army like discipline, we disburse the first 10 tons of good nutritious food made up of beans, cooking oil, corn meal (ugaali) and high-energy biscuits for the children. These biscuits, recommended by the WFP, are highly effective in immediate energy for children most vulnerable to diseases due to malnutrition; just 3 pieces are enough to sustain a child for a day. They cost US$2.55 / kilo and comprise:
Typical nutritional composition
Value per 100 gms
Nutrient Content Unit
Fat 22 Gms
Protein 12 Gms
Energy 470 Kcal
Vitamin A 1650 IU
Vitamin C 38 Mg
Vitamin D 165 IU
Vitamin B2 o.8 Mg
Vitamin B1 0.9 Mg
Vitamin B6 o.9 Mg
Vitamin B12 3 MCG
Vitamin E 5 Mg
Iodine 85 Mcg
Niacin 7 Mg
Pantothenic acid 38 Mg
Folic acid 350 Mcg
Calcium 410 Mg
Iron 5.2 Mg
Magnesium 150 Mg
I delight in handing these out, silently urging each child with all my heart to live a long and healthy life. These children are tearjerkers. When I break from the giving, I roam around, snapping photos. There is this one toddler on its mom’s back, bawling away. Mom, who is in line waiting for her share of handout, dances her back in pacification, but the child is inconsolable. In frustration, Mom screws the kanga around, brings the child towards her bosoms and thrusts a shriveled breast into the toddlers open crying mouth. I look away, but the urge to gawk is irresistible; forces me to turn back and stare. The child screams at first, perhaps sensing Mom’s rudeness, then suckles frantically. Alas, the breast is apparently dry, for the child gives up and screams, incensed. There is so, so much helplessness in Mom’s face, I want to weep… We distribute ten tons of food and biscuits here in Dagahley; next stop Dadajibullah.
Ayeah!
Suk–Suk, whispers Abdi Noor, Suk-Suk repeats one of the policemen at the back, Ayeah! acknowledges the driver. We have just spotted a giraffe herd to our right and both Docta and I scramble to take photo shots. I am surprised to see them, did not think they wandered so north in Kenya. There are very, very many, I am told and live amiably with the local population, feeding and thriving on thorny leaves of the all-weather Acacia tree, a diet other animals cannot digest or reach. I was even more surprised to spot a pair of cheetahs, few hyenas, water hogs and many other animal species. All of them are in peril, expanding out from their natural habitat in search of non-existing water.
Suk-Suk and ayeah! are two Somali words I easily pickup from the rapid tongue that flows like a Ping-Pong ball between the four Somalis onboard. Suk-Suk means halt or wait and ayeah, an automatic response or acknowledgement in a one-way conversation. Somalis are loud people and talk spontaneously, all at once, so our car is a hotbed of very rapid and noisy conversation amongst the four Somalis while Docta and I (try) and catch up on sleep.
Where Dagahley distribution is precise and disciplined, Dadajibullah is the contrary; mob-like and unruly. Perhaps it is a more despairing situation; perhaps we are not involving the local sheiks or imams? It takes us seven very hard, long hours to distribute eighteen tomes of food to a boisterous crowd. The women are vocal and feistier here, some ready for a go at fistfights with volunteers struggling with heavy loads. We prevail in the end, using strong-arm tactics of stopping distribution and using local armed guards to keep vigil.
Khaaak…thuuu!
The next three days are a whirl; get up early for sehri of dates and tea, pray, hit the road, distribute to the starving masses, break fast, eat whatever is available to ease hunger pains… The distribution at Wagalla (7 tons), Della (3 tons), Baed (2 tons), Bulla Forest (3 tons), Haggar (3 tons) and Mau Mau (1 ton) go off without incidents, mainly because all logistical arrangements have been taken care of via local sheiks, camp leaders and local mosque imams. Somali’s, both genders, regardless of age, love hawking and spitting; nay, it is a national pastime, no less. We would be gathered in a group, discussing logistics when one would start with a deep hawk and a spit, to be immediately taken up by another person. Khaaak…thuuu! Khaaak…thuuu! Khaaak…thuuu! I object at this disgusting behavior a couple of times, the guys pay me no heed; one simply covers his prize with a quick flip of dirt with his feet as token atonement.
I am really tired by day three and ready to return home; Docta looks exhausted; this is his third distribution trip to these remote areas in less than a month! Both us dread the long trip back to Nairobi so we look for alternatives. There is an airport in Wajir but miraa (a mild narcotic, consumed mostly in Somalia and Yeman) traders operate most flights to Nairobi. One could get a seat, but it is not guaranteed, the flight might come, but might not, the pilot might take you, but might not if he has a full load of the stuff… Our friend Abdi Noor makes a few phone calls and like magic, two seats are confirmed on a regularly scheduled East African Airline flight. Hurrah, I am ecstatic.
Suk-Suk, cautions Abdi Noor, not so fast, we still have tomorrow’s full day of work…
Docta and his team will distribute CAI’s final food consignment, about three tons of high-energy biscuits and seven tons of food this weekend insha’Allah; this will conclude our food aid program. It was my observation that the core food crises is easing with more (Islamic) aid agencies setting up shop. I also now believe long term food aid is not sustainable; rather, efforts should be put into water recourses and farming. Shallow wells dug by refugees and water used for farming is the best short-term solution to this massive problem, both in host country and well into Somalia proper. CAI will, insha’Allah, assist all those that choose to dig a shallow well and use the ready available water for farming. An investment of US$100 per family to secure the well and ways to use the water is, for now, the only viable solution until political games of those in power are played out.
View photos here.
The following narrative of the trip is first hand, through my eyes and I take full responsibility for words used in describing events, not very civil for some readers, perhaps. Sometimes, there are no ‘nice’ ways to describe stark realities. Who knows, you may enjoy the chronicle.
Pinpoint accuracy?
The communal bathroom is outside, an unlit smelly shed with no running water; you lug in a lotta. I slip and almost fall upon entry, franticly grab at the wood frame supporting the tin shed; my fingers come away with something slimy, something I cannot see, something smelly; I shudder in disgust and run out to cleanse my hands. You guessed it, there is no soap…I scrub my fingers raw with almost half bottle of hand sanitizer I carry for just these instances. But I still got to go; my bladder is almost a busting. I take a torch this time and (very, very) carefully, reluctantly, return to the toilet shed. The hole in the ground that greets me is super tiny and I wonder for a minute if this is only for number one business. Well, there are no other toilets around so this must be for both numbers. Wow, talk about practicing squatting with precise accuracy!
The generator is switched off at nine sharp and the place engulfs in utter darkness. I drift off to uneasy sleep but the place is so busy with rattling walls and roof, snores, groans, farts and related smells, it seems the entire camp is vibrating with a gusto of workshop energy from some 40 plus humans temporarily dead; I am wide-awake by one. I grind my teeth and tolerate the torment until it mercifully ends with a muezzin calling the faithful to eat sehri (daku); we are given sweet weak tea and some dates for a fast we will observe but pay back later as well.
Shriveled breast
There are people lined up outside the distribution site by the time we show up and we go to work almost immediately. This camp is all new refugees from war-torn Somalia, in terrible shape. With army like discipline, we disburse the first 10 tons of good nutritious food made up of beans, cooking oil, corn meal (ugaali) and high-energy biscuits for the children. These biscuits, recommended by the WFP, are highly effective in immediate energy for children most vulnerable to diseases due to malnutrition; just 3 pieces are enough to sustain a child for a day. They cost US$2.55 / kilo and comprise:
Typical nutritional composition
Value per 100 gms
Nutrient Content Unit
Fat 22 Gms
Protein 12 Gms
Energy 470 Kcal
Vitamin A 1650 IU
Vitamin C 38 Mg
Vitamin D 165 IU
Vitamin B2 o.8 Mg
Vitamin B1 0.9 Mg
Vitamin B6 o.9 Mg
Vitamin B12 3 MCG
Vitamin E 5 Mg
Iodine 85 Mcg
Niacin 7 Mg
Pantothenic acid 38 Mg
Folic acid 350 Mcg
Calcium 410 Mg
Iron 5.2 Mg
Magnesium 150 Mg
I delight in handing these out, silently urging each child with all my heart to live a long and healthy life. These children are tearjerkers. When I break from the giving, I roam around, snapping photos. There is this one toddler on its mom’s back, bawling away. Mom, who is in line waiting for her share of handout, dances her back in pacification, but the child is inconsolable. In frustration, Mom screws the kanga around, brings the child towards her bosoms and thrusts a shriveled breast into the toddlers open crying mouth. I look away, but the urge to gawk is irresistible; forces me to turn back and stare. The child screams at first, perhaps sensing Mom’s rudeness, then suckles frantically. Alas, the breast is apparently dry, for the child gives up and screams, incensed. There is so, so much helplessness in Mom’s face, I want to weep… We distribute ten tons of food and biscuits here in Dagahley; next stop Dadajibullah.
Ayeah!
Suk–Suk, whispers Abdi Noor, Suk-Suk repeats one of the policemen at the back, Ayeah! acknowledges the driver. We have just spotted a giraffe herd to our right and both Docta and I scramble to take photo shots. I am surprised to see them, did not think they wandered so north in Kenya. There are very, very many, I am told and live amiably with the local population, feeding and thriving on thorny leaves of the all-weather Acacia tree, a diet other animals cannot digest or reach. I was even more surprised to spot a pair of cheetahs, few hyenas, water hogs and many other animal species. All of them are in peril, expanding out from their natural habitat in search of non-existing water.
Suk-Suk and ayeah! are two Somali words I easily pickup from the rapid tongue that flows like a Ping-Pong ball between the four Somalis onboard. Suk-Suk means halt or wait and ayeah, an automatic response or acknowledgement in a one-way conversation. Somalis are loud people and talk spontaneously, all at once, so our car is a hotbed of very rapid and noisy conversation amongst the four Somalis while Docta and I (try) and catch up on sleep.
Where Dagahley distribution is precise and disciplined, Dadajibullah is the contrary; mob-like and unruly. Perhaps it is a more despairing situation; perhaps we are not involving the local sheiks or imams? It takes us seven very hard, long hours to distribute eighteen tomes of food to a boisterous crowd. The women are vocal and feistier here, some ready for a go at fistfights with volunteers struggling with heavy loads. We prevail in the end, using strong-arm tactics of stopping distribution and using local armed guards to keep vigil.
Khaaak…thuuu!
The next three days are a whirl; get up early for sehri of dates and tea, pray, hit the road, distribute to the starving masses, break fast, eat whatever is available to ease hunger pains… The distribution at Wagalla (7 tons), Della (3 tons), Baed (2 tons), Bulla Forest (3 tons), Haggar (3 tons) and Mau Mau (1 ton) go off without incidents, mainly because all logistical arrangements have been taken care of via local sheiks, camp leaders and local mosque imams. Somali’s, both genders, regardless of age, love hawking and spitting; nay, it is a national pastime, no less. We would be gathered in a group, discussing logistics when one would start with a deep hawk and a spit, to be immediately taken up by another person. Khaaak…thuuu! Khaaak…thuuu! Khaaak…thuuu! I object at this disgusting behavior a couple of times, the guys pay me no heed; one simply covers his prize with a quick flip of dirt with his feet as token atonement.
I am really tired by day three and ready to return home; Docta looks exhausted; this is his third distribution trip to these remote areas in less than a month! Both us dread the long trip back to Nairobi so we look for alternatives. There is an airport in Wajir but miraa (a mild narcotic, consumed mostly in Somalia and Yeman) traders operate most flights to Nairobi. One could get a seat, but it is not guaranteed, the flight might come, but might not, the pilot might take you, but might not if he has a full load of the stuff… Our friend Abdi Noor makes a few phone calls and like magic, two seats are confirmed on a regularly scheduled East African Airline flight. Hurrah, I am ecstatic.
Suk-Suk, cautions Abdi Noor, not so fast, we still have tomorrow’s full day of work…
Docta and his team will distribute CAI’s final food consignment, about three tons of high-energy biscuits and seven tons of food this weekend insha’Allah; this will conclude our food aid program. It was my observation that the core food crises is easing with more (Islamic) aid agencies setting up shop. I also now believe long term food aid is not sustainable; rather, efforts should be put into water recourses and farming. Shallow wells dug by refugees and water used for farming is the best short-term solution to this massive problem, both in host country and well into Somalia proper. CAI will, insha’Allah, assist all those that choose to dig a shallow well and use the ready available water for farming. An investment of US$100 per family to secure the well and ways to use the water is, for now, the only viable solution until political games of those in power are played out.
View photos here.
Suk-Suk - Part One
I have, this week, concluded 50 tons of CAI donor funded food distribution tour at the Somalia – Kenya border region, alhamd'Allah. This project was initiated and executed within 3 weeks after the decision was made to do something, anything, when images of dying and malnutritioned children appeared in the media. It was, for me, unconscionable to simply express pity and remain inactive. All credit for this very successful program goes to Allah (S) for the taufeeq and opportunity to serve at His pleasure, our very generous and ever ready donors and the team put together by Dr. Muhsin Sheriff (Docta) of local Kenya NGO CHEPS for arranging, assessing, planning, travelling, actual distribution and all other incredible, at times seemingly impossible logistics this scale of project demanded; CAI is profoundly indebted to all of these for the incredible opportunity.
The following narrative of the trip is first hand, through my eyes and I take full responsibility for words used in describing events, not very civil for some readers, perhaps. Sometimes, there are no ‘nice’ ways to describe stark realities. Who knows, you may enjoy the chronicle.
Ouch, ouch, ouch!
I find Nairobi quite chilly on arrival morning of Aug 16 and shiver in spite of a warm sweater on me, having flown in from nice sunny and warm Florida; perhaps my tolerance level is low after 27 hours of flying / waiting, lack of sleep? This feeling is more than compensated by warm hospitality at Dr. Muhsin’s home where I rest a bit before we embark on our drive to the border area of Somalia, to Dadab, some 250 miles away. A Toyota 4x4 has been donated for our use by the local MP of area in distress, Sirat Mohammed; joining me are Dr. Muhsin Sheriff of CHEPS, Mohammed Abdi Noor, ex Red Cross Kenya boss who is originally from the area and has very strong connections and 2 armed Kenya Police Force personnel and the driver, off course. Abdi Noor is a volunteer, the rest are curtsey of MP.
It is not long before we leave the relative green of Nairobi and hit a dirt road so bumpy, we seem to resemble yoyo toys let loose with a super hyper child. I see my first animal carcass and want to take photos but Abdi tells me to wait, I will see plenty more ahead. Our Sunni brothers are fasting so we stop by the road at magreeb and feast on dates and water and dry hamburgers. It turns abruptly dark, we wash and I join others in prayers, led by Abdi Noor. Ouch, ouch, ouch! The dirt floor is full of dried thorn balls, I clear a spot with my feet but ouch, there are more thorns when my knees and palms touch dirt and yet again, when my forehead touches soil; hope Allah accepts my prayer, I am more intent on avoiding pain. Abdi Noor completes prayers in record time; feel of pain shared, perhaps?
Seven hours after leaving Nairobi, we drive into Dadab and rest at a surprisingly nice, comfortable hostel with running water, western toilets and a shower. There is some confusion with our food distribution plans next morning. Dadab, you see, is home to 3 ‘official’ refugee camps, each originally meant to accommodate 30,000 people for a total of 90,000; it now has over 480,000, with 2,000 new arrival every day. UN agencies provide food rations to registered refugees only, but give (some) water to all. Our aim is to target the non-registered indigents for relief. Our local contact is Sheikh Mohammed Al Farha, a jovial man, always smiling and talkative. Al Farha is highly respected locally and as we are to soon discover, invaluable in arranging the distribution outside Dagahley refugee camp next morning. We take a tour outside the official camps at Dadab; I get my first glimpse of gut wrenching scenes of wretched people so repeatedly displayed on TV screens back home. In a huge cleared space, throngs of refugees in pitiful conditions line to receive food rations from other Muslim relief agencies already in action. The adults are in bad condition, yes, but it is the children that twitch my heart asunder. Almost all women, gaunt and harassed, has a dirty, runny nosed, face full of buzzing flies and malnutritioned toddler wrapped in a dirty kanga on her back.
We drive to Dagahley in the afternoon and meet with the local Mufti and his committee of volunteers; I am much impressed and relieved. They have the system down pat, organized and disciplined, with a no-nonsense approach to fair distribution. All new arrivals have been identified and issued with an ID card; they will receive at least a months food grains according to the size of family members. The quantity of food looks dubious, to me, seems far too little, but Abdi Noor and the Sheikh simply shrug their shoulders, is there an alternative?
Camel meat - a wish fulfilled.
After magreeb at a kerosene-lamp lit local mosque, we break fast at a local ‘restaurant’. It is dark and difficult to see but can tell (and smell) the table and chairs around an open eating-place is in squalor, full of roaming cats on a lookout for scraps thrown their way - I don’t care; I am famished. I dig in to the plate of samosas (no Al Shabab influence here…as yet) followed by heap loads of boiled meat, delicious! I casually remark if the local people eat camel meat since there are so many of them animals around and express a desire to eat some. I am greeted with polite smiles with Abdi Noor informing me my wish has been granted - I had just consumed meat of a young camel. Really? I feel he is pulling my leg, but Sheikh Al Farha assures me it is camel meat indeed that digests comfortably in my guts. Wow! The service is great however, with Omo (powdered clothes washing soap) dispensed from a torn bag for washing away camel-meat greased hands, water poured from jugs right besides the table onto the dirt floor, scattering the disappointed cats. We are even provided scraps of torn newspapers for wiping our hands and lips.
Sleep and rest that night in a ‘guesthouse’ is a major gut wrenching challenge. It is made up totally of loose, rusting tin (banda), which rattles alarmingly whenever the wind blows. There are about 5 rooms of various sizes, one with 16 beds on all dirt floors; there are beds in the corridor as well, under the open sky. We are given a 4-bed shed; I (very carefully, closely) inspect the dubious looking beds. The bed sheets look like they have not seen water or soap in months, same with greasy looking pillowcases. I shudder; there is however, thankfully, a mosquito net over the beds – a gift from the Malinda Gates Foundation.
View photos here.
The following narrative of the trip is first hand, through my eyes and I take full responsibility for words used in describing events, not very civil for some readers, perhaps. Sometimes, there are no ‘nice’ ways to describe stark realities. Who knows, you may enjoy the chronicle.
Ouch, ouch, ouch!
I find Nairobi quite chilly on arrival morning of Aug 16 and shiver in spite of a warm sweater on me, having flown in from nice sunny and warm Florida; perhaps my tolerance level is low after 27 hours of flying / waiting, lack of sleep? This feeling is more than compensated by warm hospitality at Dr. Muhsin’s home where I rest a bit before we embark on our drive to the border area of Somalia, to Dadab, some 250 miles away. A Toyota 4x4 has been donated for our use by the local MP of area in distress, Sirat Mohammed; joining me are Dr. Muhsin Sheriff of CHEPS, Mohammed Abdi Noor, ex Red Cross Kenya boss who is originally from the area and has very strong connections and 2 armed Kenya Police Force personnel and the driver, off course. Abdi Noor is a volunteer, the rest are curtsey of MP.
It is not long before we leave the relative green of Nairobi and hit a dirt road so bumpy, we seem to resemble yoyo toys let loose with a super hyper child. I see my first animal carcass and want to take photos but Abdi tells me to wait, I will see plenty more ahead. Our Sunni brothers are fasting so we stop by the road at magreeb and feast on dates and water and dry hamburgers. It turns abruptly dark, we wash and I join others in prayers, led by Abdi Noor. Ouch, ouch, ouch! The dirt floor is full of dried thorn balls, I clear a spot with my feet but ouch, there are more thorns when my knees and palms touch dirt and yet again, when my forehead touches soil; hope Allah accepts my prayer, I am more intent on avoiding pain. Abdi Noor completes prayers in record time; feel of pain shared, perhaps?
Seven hours after leaving Nairobi, we drive into Dadab and rest at a surprisingly nice, comfortable hostel with running water, western toilets and a shower. There is some confusion with our food distribution plans next morning. Dadab, you see, is home to 3 ‘official’ refugee camps, each originally meant to accommodate 30,000 people for a total of 90,000; it now has over 480,000, with 2,000 new arrival every day. UN agencies provide food rations to registered refugees only, but give (some) water to all. Our aim is to target the non-registered indigents for relief. Our local contact is Sheikh Mohammed Al Farha, a jovial man, always smiling and talkative. Al Farha is highly respected locally and as we are to soon discover, invaluable in arranging the distribution outside Dagahley refugee camp next morning. We take a tour outside the official camps at Dadab; I get my first glimpse of gut wrenching scenes of wretched people so repeatedly displayed on TV screens back home. In a huge cleared space, throngs of refugees in pitiful conditions line to receive food rations from other Muslim relief agencies already in action. The adults are in bad condition, yes, but it is the children that twitch my heart asunder. Almost all women, gaunt and harassed, has a dirty, runny nosed, face full of buzzing flies and malnutritioned toddler wrapped in a dirty kanga on her back.
We drive to Dagahley in the afternoon and meet with the local Mufti and his committee of volunteers; I am much impressed and relieved. They have the system down pat, organized and disciplined, with a no-nonsense approach to fair distribution. All new arrivals have been identified and issued with an ID card; they will receive at least a months food grains according to the size of family members. The quantity of food looks dubious, to me, seems far too little, but Abdi Noor and the Sheikh simply shrug their shoulders, is there an alternative?
Camel meat - a wish fulfilled.
After magreeb at a kerosene-lamp lit local mosque, we break fast at a local ‘restaurant’. It is dark and difficult to see but can tell (and smell) the table and chairs around an open eating-place is in squalor, full of roaming cats on a lookout for scraps thrown their way - I don’t care; I am famished. I dig in to the plate of samosas (no Al Shabab influence here…as yet) followed by heap loads of boiled meat, delicious! I casually remark if the local people eat camel meat since there are so many of them animals around and express a desire to eat some. I am greeted with polite smiles with Abdi Noor informing me my wish has been granted - I had just consumed meat of a young camel. Really? I feel he is pulling my leg, but Sheikh Al Farha assures me it is camel meat indeed that digests comfortably in my guts. Wow! The service is great however, with Omo (powdered clothes washing soap) dispensed from a torn bag for washing away camel-meat greased hands, water poured from jugs right besides the table onto the dirt floor, scattering the disappointed cats. We are even provided scraps of torn newspapers for wiping our hands and lips.
Sleep and rest that night in a ‘guesthouse’ is a major gut wrenching challenge. It is made up totally of loose, rusting tin (banda), which rattles alarmingly whenever the wind blows. There are about 5 rooms of various sizes, one with 16 beds on all dirt floors; there are beds in the corridor as well, under the open sky. We are given a 4-bed shed; I (very carefully, closely) inspect the dubious looking beds. The bed sheets look like they have not seen water or soap in months, same with greasy looking pillowcases. I shudder; there is however, thankfully, a mosquito net over the beds – a gift from the Malinda Gates Foundation.
View photos here.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Sakina Girls Home - My home
Marhooma Naseen Jeevan
Saika and Shahina Khan
Saika and Shahina Khan were 5 and 3 (now aged 18 and 16) when their father was killed in a tragic accident. Their distraught mother of 3 children, with an infant son in addition to the girls, turned to Sakina Girls Home (SGH) in Andhari, Mumbai for help. Saika and Shaina were readily accepted and become new family members to other 70 plus orphan girls that call SGH home.
Why would I want to pick out these 2 sisters to blog about? Well, it is not everyday that somebody you care and support tops 94% overall grade at a school in India. This outstanding result, by Shahina, is unheard of, makes me delighted that CAI donors are proud sponsors of SGH, where these 2 sisters grew up to become such successful and productive teenagers. I chanced upon meeting these girls, now back living with their mother, during my recent trip to Mumbai and here is what they had to say:
We miss SGH a lot, a lot; it was haven for us. We miss our friends, sisters really, we grew up with, the daily jamaat prayers, our petty fights, our silliness. But what we miss the most are the 2 people at SGH that shaped our lives - Naseem Auntie and Aliakber Uncle. Naseem Auntie was our mother, she trained and guided us and installed what is best in life for us; made us believe in ourselves. If there are angels in this world, than Naseem Auntie was their sardar! We still can't believe she is no more... Aliakberbhai spoiled us; we were never hungry, treats, picnics, new clothes, yoga classes, it was so wonderful. He is the father we never knew, even now, he guides us...
But the best outcome in our life at the orphanage was the quality education we got while at SGH. We attended the best schools in the neighborhood, followed up by tuition and anything else that we required to excel in class. With this opportunity, both us us have excelled and prospects for a good career are exceptional, especially in the field we have chosen - software development. Once we graduate from college, we will, insha'Allah, have the opportunity of earning exceptional starting salaries we never imagined.
We owe all of this success to SGH and the people who dedicate their lives in running it. I remind them about the donors that make it possible to run SGH. Of course, they are in our prayers every day... And what about paying back to the society that helped you? No question about it, we intend to, insha'Allah, repay all the goodness with our efforts and money. We will never forget, never...our lives would have probably been compromised with almost certain early marriage and poverty; we owe it all to SGH.
The girls now live with their Mum who is a cook. Life is tough on a cook's earnings but they manage somehow. Comfort Aid International continues partial support of the sisters collage tuition.
A few words about our fallen angel, Naseembai Jeevan. This woman was a stubborn believer in quality education, an ideal we at CAI rigidly follow. This kind and giving lady, who's life revolved around SGH, succumbed to the will of Allah and returned to her Creator about 2 years ago at a relatively very young age. We pay fond tribute to her memory and pray to Allah to keep her soul blissfully happy and reward her abundantly.
Aliakberbhai Ratansi is still going strong, keeping a caring and loving eye over the girls at SGH. May Allah prolong his dedicated life in the service of CAI supported orphans all over India.
Ali Yusufali
Friday, August 5, 2011
Bebakshe Aaghaa, besheen
We are asked to report Kabul airport 5AM sharp; I intensely detest these early morning reporting times, especially in Afghanistan; but we have little choice. Fajr next day is at 3:05AM so I get perhaps 4 hours of restless sleep at Wasi’s hospitable home. Although Kabul can be freeing most winter months, summers are the other extreme. We report at 5 sharp and after understandable checks at 4 separate security posts, we find ourselves at the departure lounge full of groggy adults and irate sleepy children. Kam Air flight to Herat is supposed to depart at 7:30 but there is no ways to tell the status come departure time. Eyes smarting from the lack of sleep, I try to follow an old Dari dubbed Bollywood movie (Amish Poori in an awful costume – Mugaambo, I think) on the screen.
At eight, I become irritable; the lounge is packed with people, many with unwashed bodies and it is getting hot outside; Kabul domestic airport does not have air. I get up and ask a security guard what the problem is, why are we late. The young lad looks at me with bored expression and shrugs his bony shoulders; I don’t think he cares. Don’t know, Besheen Aaghaa – please take a seat, Sir. I return to my seat that is now taken, as the hall is jam packed with people. After about 10 minutes, as if given an invisible signal, everybody, including me, leap up and make a run for the departure gate, as if the flight will take off without us. I later understand there are no assigned seats; the mad rush is for choice seats.
The exit door, however, remains locked, with no security guard in sight. There is very little concept of personal space in Afghanistan, or the Indian sub-continental for that matter. Not intentional, mind you. The line that forms is not single file, but hordes of warm bodies pressed together, straining for an exit. A Kam Air rep comes to the front, pushing his way through the crowd. We are late, open the door, open the door, where is the ahmek guard with the key, he demands into a walkie-talkie. There is confusion for about 5 minutes before a heavyset, potbellied security guard with the key comes jogging from the other side, fumbling with buttons of his pants and a sheepish grin on his face. Where in the world were you, you ahmek goof, demands Kam Air rep. Ah, I have the runs, bad runs, and very bad stomach. Ate very stale kaboobs yesterday, beebakshe. The Kam Air rep snorts in contempt. You have runs everyday! Stop eating – forever! Or at least for a year, open the door! The guard fumbles with the lock, doors swing open and the crowd surges forward; phew, fresh air, I take big gulps. We look at the puzzled Kam Air rep for guidance, where do we go from here?
The Rep looks this way and that, Now where is the baadbakh bus? It looks like he is going to pop a vein, screaming into the walkie-talkie. The aircraft is about 50 feet away from us; I clearly can see the pilots playing piano with instruments. We could have, in half a minute, walked and boarded the aircraft. No, says the Rep, security rules, we must take the bus. This a problem, as both buses are busy ferrying passengers off just arrived Safi Air from Dubai; it may take some time… An old man complains he is tired and cannot stand any longer. Beebakshe Aaghaa, besheen, says the Rep in sympathy; the old man flops on the steps, we wait. After another 30 minutes, the busses arrive and we scramble for our hour-long flight to Herat in the west. Herat is super, super hot, 105F with crippling power cuts; sleeping is almost impossible. After inspecting 41 homes for poor widows CAI donors are constructing, visiting CAI orphanage and her orphans, we return to Kabul the next day.
We have another 5AM reporting for our chartered flight to Yawkawlang the day after. I am yearning for an elusive good nights sleep, but with late dinners and very early airport reporting, this is becoming impossible. Predictably, we are told Bebakshe Aaghaa, besheen, at the hangar where our chartered single engine Kodiak is ready to soar. NATO is on military exercise so we cannot fly, we have to wait. Before my short fuse blows at being called early again just to wait around, Chris, our 28 year old pilot tells me NATO takes a no-nonsense attitude on aircrafts within its training vicinity and would probably blow our aircraft out of the sky if we attempted to take off; I shut up in a hurry. When we do take off, the flight is smooth and eventless, the view over the mountains as usual, fantastic.
We have to attend CAI sponsored mass marriage for 100 deprived couples today at Yawkawlang, followed by sheep distribution to poor widows as part of CAI Economic Uplifting Project and a nights stay at our medical clinic before our flight back to Kabul tomorrow. I request Aziz for a later pickup instead of the usual 6AM next day. You sure, Sir, he asks, strong winds pick up later in the day and the going will get quite bumpy. I have little choice, as the clinic is at least a good 2-hour drive from the landing strip and we have work to do; we settle on 11AM.
The marriage ceremony is on a grand scale with almost the entire village in attendance for this rare occasion to be merry, 25 sheep are handed over to 5 widows to make them economically independent then we drive to Imam Sajjad (A) Clinic in Sacheck. I am here to do a quick audit of CAI operations and meet our new doctor. I am happy to note expansion and modernizing of clinic is on track. As usual, I get to meet few severe medical cases that cannot be treated at the clinic; they want to go to Kabul for treatment but are too poor. A 3-year-old girl with a tumor in her nose and a young boy who rectum pops out every time he has to go to the toilet are approved; CAI donors will foot the bill for their transport and treatment, if possible. It is early next morning, when we are readying to return to Yawkawlang for our return flight that I almost faint in horror. A man working nearly has hit a land mine, his 2 fingers of left hand blown off; there is blood, oh so much blood. The man however, as many of his countrymen in such distress, is stoic, shows no emotion of pain; we dispatch him to Kabul pronto.
Aziz, an alternate pilot we have earlier flown, is at the airstrip on the dot; we take off. I am treated to the co-pilots seat with headphones so I can hear the chatter from fellow aircrafts in the vicinity and Kabul control tower. The aircraft bobs and dances as it is tossed by strong winds streaming through the mountains. Basheer, our engineer, is ashen faced, wants to puke; I am, happily, sitting out of range.
My departure from Afghanistan the next day is no different. I am at the airport at 5AM; spend over an hour pressed in line for security inspection only to be told the flight is delayed.
Bebakshe Aaghaa, besheen.
View photos here.
At eight, I become irritable; the lounge is packed with people, many with unwashed bodies and it is getting hot outside; Kabul domestic airport does not have air. I get up and ask a security guard what the problem is, why are we late. The young lad looks at me with bored expression and shrugs his bony shoulders; I don’t think he cares. Don’t know, Besheen Aaghaa – please take a seat, Sir. I return to my seat that is now taken, as the hall is jam packed with people. After about 10 minutes, as if given an invisible signal, everybody, including me, leap up and make a run for the departure gate, as if the flight will take off without us. I later understand there are no assigned seats; the mad rush is for choice seats.
The exit door, however, remains locked, with no security guard in sight. There is very little concept of personal space in Afghanistan, or the Indian sub-continental for that matter. Not intentional, mind you. The line that forms is not single file, but hordes of warm bodies pressed together, straining for an exit. A Kam Air rep comes to the front, pushing his way through the crowd. We are late, open the door, open the door, where is the ahmek guard with the key, he demands into a walkie-talkie. There is confusion for about 5 minutes before a heavyset, potbellied security guard with the key comes jogging from the other side, fumbling with buttons of his pants and a sheepish grin on his face. Where in the world were you, you ahmek goof, demands Kam Air rep. Ah, I have the runs, bad runs, and very bad stomach. Ate very stale kaboobs yesterday, beebakshe. The Kam Air rep snorts in contempt. You have runs everyday! Stop eating – forever! Or at least for a year, open the door! The guard fumbles with the lock, doors swing open and the crowd surges forward; phew, fresh air, I take big gulps. We look at the puzzled Kam Air rep for guidance, where do we go from here?
The Rep looks this way and that, Now where is the baadbakh bus? It looks like he is going to pop a vein, screaming into the walkie-talkie. The aircraft is about 50 feet away from us; I clearly can see the pilots playing piano with instruments. We could have, in half a minute, walked and boarded the aircraft. No, says the Rep, security rules, we must take the bus. This a problem, as both buses are busy ferrying passengers off just arrived Safi Air from Dubai; it may take some time… An old man complains he is tired and cannot stand any longer. Beebakshe Aaghaa, besheen, says the Rep in sympathy; the old man flops on the steps, we wait. After another 30 minutes, the busses arrive and we scramble for our hour-long flight to Herat in the west. Herat is super, super hot, 105F with crippling power cuts; sleeping is almost impossible. After inspecting 41 homes for poor widows CAI donors are constructing, visiting CAI orphanage and her orphans, we return to Kabul the next day.
We have another 5AM reporting for our chartered flight to Yawkawlang the day after. I am yearning for an elusive good nights sleep, but with late dinners and very early airport reporting, this is becoming impossible. Predictably, we are told Bebakshe Aaghaa, besheen, at the hangar where our chartered single engine Kodiak is ready to soar. NATO is on military exercise so we cannot fly, we have to wait. Before my short fuse blows at being called early again just to wait around, Chris, our 28 year old pilot tells me NATO takes a no-nonsense attitude on aircrafts within its training vicinity and would probably blow our aircraft out of the sky if we attempted to take off; I shut up in a hurry. When we do take off, the flight is smooth and eventless, the view over the mountains as usual, fantastic.
We have to attend CAI sponsored mass marriage for 100 deprived couples today at Yawkawlang, followed by sheep distribution to poor widows as part of CAI Economic Uplifting Project and a nights stay at our medical clinic before our flight back to Kabul tomorrow. I request Aziz for a later pickup instead of the usual 6AM next day. You sure, Sir, he asks, strong winds pick up later in the day and the going will get quite bumpy. I have little choice, as the clinic is at least a good 2-hour drive from the landing strip and we have work to do; we settle on 11AM.
The marriage ceremony is on a grand scale with almost the entire village in attendance for this rare occasion to be merry, 25 sheep are handed over to 5 widows to make them economically independent then we drive to Imam Sajjad (A) Clinic in Sacheck. I am here to do a quick audit of CAI operations and meet our new doctor. I am happy to note expansion and modernizing of clinic is on track. As usual, I get to meet few severe medical cases that cannot be treated at the clinic; they want to go to Kabul for treatment but are too poor. A 3-year-old girl with a tumor in her nose and a young boy who rectum pops out every time he has to go to the toilet are approved; CAI donors will foot the bill for their transport and treatment, if possible. It is early next morning, when we are readying to return to Yawkawlang for our return flight that I almost faint in horror. A man working nearly has hit a land mine, his 2 fingers of left hand blown off; there is blood, oh so much blood. The man however, as many of his countrymen in such distress, is stoic, shows no emotion of pain; we dispatch him to Kabul pronto.
Aziz, an alternate pilot we have earlier flown, is at the airstrip on the dot; we take off. I am treated to the co-pilots seat with headphones so I can hear the chatter from fellow aircrafts in the vicinity and Kabul control tower. The aircraft bobs and dances as it is tossed by strong winds streaming through the mountains. Basheer, our engineer, is ashen faced, wants to puke; I am, happily, sitting out of range.
My departure from Afghanistan the next day is no different. I am at the airport at 5AM; spend over an hour pressed in line for security inspection only to be told the flight is delayed.
Bebakshe Aaghaa, besheen.
View photos here.
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