My Trip To Sirsi & Phanderi – Nasser Jetta

Inna lillahi Wa Inna Ilayi Raajeoon... the profundity of this beautiful Quraanic verse hit me most when I lost someone dear to me, without whom I wouldn’t be here today - my father, Aunali Jetha, my role model. He lost his battle fighting Leukemia last year. Life hasn’t been the same ever since he passed away. Being the eldest son, responsibilities hit me head on. I had no time to prepare myself but accept fate and move on. Not a single day passes by where I don’t think of him.

As mentioned in the Noble Quran, a man’s mission is not just to live a life doing good deeds but also to have offspring’s who can continue his legacy and spread the love of Ahlulbayt (A) by giving good examples. In honor of my father, my family decided to do something that would shine his name perpetually; this is the least that we could do for him. It is said that the only investment that grows in time, producing the best results / prosperity / betterment of society is education, and my father always emphasised on the importance of education.

With the help of Yusufali (Comfort Aid International) we have been able to fulfill that commitment. He advised us to sponsor a science wing at an all-girls small school located in a rural area called Phanderi, a village in Uttar Pradesh, with many poor sa’daats.

And so, here I am today, 18^th Jan 2014, forcing myself awake at 1:45am to pursue something that we want to do for our late father. I have an early flight to catch that would take me to India to attend the inauguration of that wing.

A three day journey – a matter of 72 hours; enough time to meet different people who become good friends and make beautiful memories. And so I meet new brothers in faith with remarkable personalities: Yusufali aka the ‘Ayatollah Londoni’ (as someone from Afghanistan mistakenly referred his as), Akbarbhai aka the ‘God Father’ and Asgharbhai. Good, down to earth people, with a beautiful mission to help the poor across India. Wish I could do that too; some day, insha’Allah.

The plan is to stay at the Bahman Boys Orphanage located inside the massive Sirsi school complex. The journey to our destination is long, on a cold, rainy and immensely foggy day from the airport in New Delhi (such a contrast to the pleasant Dubai weather!). Even so, I experience a lot of warm humour and remarkable moments during the drive. Right from the amazing parathas served with a dollop of butter and chai served in a disposable clay pot (some well deserved traditional desi food) at a roadside dhabba, to a small stand selling exotic fruit. The fruit of the day is gulaabi, a tropical East African fruit I have before tasted.

When we finally arrive at Sirsi, I am moved by the warm welcoming given at the boys orphanage. Following a well served dinner, though exhausted, we still have room for some stories and joke time with the men – Yusufali, sharing his many adventures and trying to convince us that his famous chewro from New York and juggupak from Tanzania are the best in the world, while Aliakbarbhai cracks some jokes only he has the secret of! But what happens in Sirsi stays in Sirsi – all visitors know this rule...

That’s the end of DAY ONE!

Thankfully the weather clears up the next day. I ignore my nagging mind about my usually healthy diet plan and dig into some traditional Sirsi style breakfast - the pooris are to die for! 

It is time for some play with the boys after breakfast! Aliakberbhai is very good with his batting skills, but as cricket isn’t my cup of tea, I am glad the kids agree to play some serious football (soccer): CANADA vs. UP. Although CANADA team did score the winning goal, UP’s captain – Sir Saab – aka principal of Bahman School decided that the goal was not valid. Instead he wanted a replay in the evening. We couldn’t argue much – after all, who would argue with Sir Saab – he dons a 22-calibre revolver...

Life in Sirsi is generally hard, but these boys are blessed to be at the orphanage, rather than being left uncared in the society. Their future looks bright here. Amidst the surrounding poverty, there is hope...

It is hard to imagine the hard life for many poor; especially in underdeveloped countries like rural India, be it a single mom, a widow, an orphan... Currently CAI is funding home construction for poor widows. With 7 houses already completed (out of 50 still under construction), it is time to give them away to the deserving owners. Their contentment with a sturdy house with bare minimum makes me feel how incomparably blessed we are.

Following our visit to the Bahman School, few mosques and ImamBargah, it is dinnertime! Menu cried out loud: Seekh Kebabs!!! Cold weather, hot kebabs!! HEAVENLY!! A nice, small gathering with the orphan boys and girls.

As the little girls wish us goodnight, they invite us for dinner at their orphanage the following day, which we happily accept. That’s the end of DAY 2.

As I get up after a night of well-deserved sleep, I am a mix of varied emotions; excited, anxious, happy... This is what I have come here for; it is the big day, for me.  As we hit the dense foggy roads again, we witness a few accidents. Indian driving skills - one hand on the horn and the other on the stick shift, or cellphone or stuffing the mouth with maawo - on a foggy day; what can one expect?

Upon arrival at Phanderi School, we have a relatively lavish welcome – with flowers, green carpet walk to the stage, students reciting poems, du’aas and a ceremonial gathering with students and parents.

I am here, finally, standing in front of the veiled plaque outside the science wing. As they unveil the plaque, a rush of emotion overtakes me on seeing my father’s name. Job very well done, alhamd’Allah. It makes the whole trip worthwhile. I feel our purpose is served. May Allah (S) bless his soul.

After lunch at the Principals house we visit an uncompleted orphanage, where 14 girls are staying, CAI has undertaken to complete the project. It will house 30 orphans when complete.

In Phanderi, something else grabs my attention: a traditional ghor (Jaggery) factory. Who hasn’t had ghor with roti in the morning – such a delicacy! The ‘factory’ uses everything from the sugarcane to good use, including the dried peels, which are used for fuel. Indian creative engineering at its best!

After lengthy goodbyes, we head back to Sirsi, where the little girl orphans are waiting to have dinner with us. The drive back is very challenging, what with dense fog and almost nil visibility.

We reach the girl’s orphanage safely, where we were warmly greeted. The girls hardly have visitors so they are extremely excited to see us. No matter where you go, girls will be girls. A group of them see my phone and it only takes a click of a camera to make them smile, to pose, to feel special... so beautiful, so cute!

There is a kid who grabs my attention: Muskaan (it means smile); a lovely little girl, quite shy, but always with a smile on her face. She shows off her ‘English’ skills, reciting what her favorite things in life are. She had some problem with both her eyes. But thanks to CAI donors, she has one eye cured and the other is scheduled for surgery soon. Alhamdullilah!

Watching these girls sitting down and eating next to us fills my heart with a sense of joy and happiness. Suddenly I forget all my problems; if only life was always like this.

As we return to the boy’s orphanage to wrap up for the night, Aliakberbhai and Asgharbhai still have a lot of work to do - accounts, book keeping. It takes a lot of time and dedication to manage all this hard work. I head to bed with a little sadness in my heart. My journey is almost at its end; we head back to Delhi the following day.

I have been to India for work a few times and every time I come, I always leave with so many memories and thoughts. But this time, it is very special.

I can go on writing pages with word of praises and appreciation towards Yusufali, Aliakbarbhai, Asgharbhai and their team’s hard work and dedication. It is so easy to donate money or build an orphanage, school, clinic, etc. But it is a different ball game to manage it on a day-to-day basis. The whole team is truly devoted for this good cause and together they are paving the future for these kids... May Allah bestow the best of his blessings upon them. Ameen.

Watch a few photos here.

Out Of Africa

I fly to warm, muggy Dar es Salaam, Tanzania and immediately set on feasting on mangoes, pineapples, zambarao and plums that are in season; ahhh, what delight, but promptly get a bellyache and the runs. Dar now resembles mini Mumbai in filth, minus the curs; haphazard construction, rowdy, snarled traffic and backed up sewer lines that leaves a pong strong enough to curl my toenails. I meet grumpy old Mullah Mchungu and he is full of usual complaints: whines about DSM Jamaat accounts not prepared on time, moans that his undies are all wet because the AC at Jooma / Zohrain is switched off, the kutba is agonizingly long...I escape from him as quickly as I politely can. He may have a point about the AC, however. I wonder; why have it off with a jam-packed mosque in peak summer heat but turn it on at magreebain? Ajeeb, no?

Murtaza Bhimani, Sadiq Meralli and I fly to Zanzibar next day where we distribute CAI sponsored school desks sitting over 1,200 plus poor children who currently sit on dirty floors while studying; what a wonderful experience. CAI takes on another refurbishing project for a dilapidated wing of a local school at a remote village and the completion of a medical clinic sponsored by BETA Charitable Trust, UK. After feasting on Zanzibar mix and the super spread at Forodhani, we return to Dar and prepare for our trip to Liberia.

The flights that take us to Monrovia are via Nairobi and Accra, so it is with relief and bleary eyes when we land at chaotic Monrovia airport. Joining Murtaza and me in Nairobi is Nabeel Adamali; Sayyedna Muhammed Mussawi of WABIL and Abbas Jaffer, a CAI Trustee from NY arrive later that night. Unfortunately, Abbas comes without his luggage, misplaced on arrival due to chaos at the airport. We are guests of few Lebanese who run businesses in Liberia. We are housed in a scruffy apartment on a busy street of Monrovia, our home for the next three days.

Again, the experience of giving very poor children an opportunity at education cannot be captured in words. A modern school sponsored by CAI donors that will educate about 600 children is inaugurated and another school at Bo Watersite, some 60 miles from Monrovia is initiated; this should be ready by June insha’Allah. These poor children, some in rags literally, are trapped in the vicious cycle of poverty, with no education opportunities. Our schools will insha’Allah now provide them with this fundamental right for a better future.

Our hosts are full of gracious hospitality; the hunger pains of our last visit are forgotten as we are constantly fed. The hospitality is, at times, overdone. Especially for Abbas Jaffer. Our hosts, you see, are avid smokers so the apartment is cloudy with smoke whenever they visit. All of us, except Sayyedna of course, lose control and join in, puffing away in frenzy, as if our lives depend on the nasty habit. The place stinks, my clothes stink and I swear I can smell nicotine in the bathroom. One host takes a special liking to Abbas, offering him cigarettes, one after another and will not take no for an answer. If Abbas asks for a cube of sugar in his tea, he is ordered to have two. Poor guy, he looks to us in bewilderment for succor, but we are all full of mirth, offer him no help.

Sayyedna Mussawi and Abbas are supposed to depart one day before us but a series of mishaps keeps them around for another day. The hosts arrive late for the 3:30AM ride to the airport, some 45 miles away. The front door will not open so it has to be broken down, the vehicle going to the airport in thick fog runs out of fuel, a hard to find taxi replacement runs out of fuel as well; they miss the flight. A miracle occurs however, Abbas demands to be let in at the secure luggage storage room at the airport and recovers his unlocked suitcase, all contents intact.

Apart from the sense of great accomplishments at gifting the two schools to the poor children of Liberia, we gain much more from the companionship of each other and the wise leadership and counsel of Sayyedna Mussawi. He takes on giving short 10 – 15 minutes lectures after leading every salaat and we all learn a great deal from him. Why, this trip is a mini camp of accomplishments and learning!

A proud CAI / donor undertaking.

Please click here for some wonderful photos of our trip.

The Day FBI Raided My House

Tuesday, November 19 2013 begins benign enough; we wake up for salaat, Mahaa Zainab and her mother return to slumber and I proceed with pushups and other exercises, run-up to a six – seven mile run later on, after giving breakfast and dropping Zainab to school. It is 7AM and I have just completed my pushups so my heart is already pumping somewhat when simultaneous loud banging at the front door, the back glass door and side windows rattle me. Tasneem screams there are men with guns outside and not to open the door; my heart goes on overdrive.

I run to peer through the front door keyhole; there are about seven men with signs of FBI, DEA and others on black t-shirts standing outside, two of them have their guns draws. Mamma-mia! Now, I have been in pretty dicey situations before, what with my travels for CAI taking me to far-flung and dubious countries globally. But this situation involves my family, involves my daughter Maaha Zainab, so I am plenty rattled. My heartbeat goes haywire, I feel my heart is at all places in my body, not unlike a person possessed by the shaitani of Kilwa, kicking and jerking around, completely out of control. I fling open the door.

Rough hands pull me out. Is there anybody else inside? Someone shouts at me. Dazed, I do not answer, gawk at three men, two with their guns drawn enter the house. Tasneem has already joined me by the entrance and we scream at Zainab to come. She does, annoyed at her best-time-to-nap interrupted, drunk with sleep. Tasneem yells at her to go back and wear her hejaab. I engulf Zainab into an embrace once she returns to the door, hejaab intact. I see men after men, in thick black boots enter and invade my home, where nobody, without exception, is allowed to enter wearing outside footwear, especially the place where I recite salaat; this invasion is pretty painful; a colonoscopy is readily preferable.

After the initial scare, things calm down. The invading guys are firm but polite and courteous; I am assured I am not under arrest. They have a warrant to search my house and seize all documents, computers and cellphones. Why? It is alleged that I have been concealing money from the US government. Okay. Then why is the DEA and other agencies that go after the real bad people here, why with guns drawn? I tell the lead IRS agent I was expecting them, but not this way, with guns draws and an invasion of my house. He looks at me, puzzled. Expecting us, why? Well, with the amount of aid money CAI moves to countries like Afghanistan, the US government would be curious what is going on (although CAI annual tax returns do detail these activities). But I was expecting more courteous method of investigation; an inquiry letter, a visit request to IRS offices perhaps. The agent nods and smiles, assures me these kinds of raids is procedure they follow. How would they know we are not armed, destroying proof or prepping evidence if not a sudden raid? I guess not all of us are Ahlebeyti Muslims...?

Thus ensues about two hours of searching and questions. The house is thoroughly searched, paperwork, passports and electronic devices seized. Maaha Zainab is allowed breakfast, keeping the agents on their toes (especially women agents), busy with rapid questions about the FBI. For Zainab, this is far from scary, why, an adventure really. She is obsessed with being an FBI agent in the future and spends a good deal of her allowable TV watching time looking at detective shows that solve crimes. When I caution her FBI has to use some pretty mean methods to solve crimes, sometimes at the expense of innocent victims, she remains unconvinced. Lets see if the end of this saga results in changing her mind.

True, our lives are greatly shaken up by this invasion and I remain cautious on many fronts. I am absolutely convinced there will be nothing the authorities will find unlawful or incrimination, insha’Allah. CAI or I have broken no laws; in fact I have gone an extra mile, every time, to ensure all transactions are transparent and accountable. Since I do what I do for the pleasure of Allah in serving His downtrodden humanity, I rely on Him to see us through this period of uncertainty; the verdict, however, should be total vindication of all allegations. Insha’Allah.

The home of Hasnain Yusufali, my nephew, dedicated Secretary and Treasurer for CAI is similarly invaded; documents and electronics seized.

I broadcast this so that you, our donors and well-wishers are well informed about what happened. CAI and personal bank accounts are not seized; travel and CAI activities are not restricted or affected. Our mission continues insha’Allah.  

I must add that both the IRS and FBI (DEA’s role was irrelevant) were very polite and courteous immediately after the initial few minutes their operations commenced. Maaha Zainab’s I-Pad and cellphone are not seized, my passports and ID are returned the very same day and the rest of our electronic devices are returned in good order within a week of seizure.

There is a profound question by one FBI agent late on the day of the raid, when a team of five agents arrives home to return my passports and ask more questions. The Agent, a young man, asks me if I will notify the FBI if I knew of another 9-11 in the making, since they are all about preventing a repeat of that tragic, fateful day. I am flabbergasted at the question, a bit angry even. But then I realize where he is coming from, so my reply is appropriate.

First and foremost, I am a man who tries hard to follow the commands of my religion: to protect a life in danger, any life. Period. Two, I am a US citizen, duty bound to the constitution and laws of this country. Three, I live here, earn my living here, my family lives here, my daughter grows up, goes to school here. Surely, the question is redundant? 

I Gift You, My Dearest, An Onion Ring

We are inseparable, India and I, I think. Why, I was here just six weeks ago. I am back, thanks to an incompetent real estate agent who forgot to take a signature in the presence of Land Registry last visit, an absolute must. Well, I am here now, bemused at the ruckus created by skyrocketing onion prices. This absolutely must ingredient in any Indian meal has the country in comical frenzy, passionate subject of many discourses. With prices at five times they were just a year ago, there is talk of incumbent government at grave risk of losing the next general elections if prices don’t come down in a hurry. It is joked poor suitors gift their fiancées engagement rings mounted by a (dehydrated?) onion ring. 

Sarfaraz, driver with Al Imaan Foundation in Mumbai sits in a car under main Andheri Bridge, desperately trying to reach a mechanic who can advise on how to restart the stalled car. Volumes of cars and motorbikes scream around him, making conversation with the repairman almost incomprehensible. A rude rapping on the windscreen startles Sarfaraz, who looks up to see a stern cop-face glaring at him.

‘Aree Saala, what do you think you are doing sitting in the middle of a road talking on a cellphone? Move your car this instant and let me see your license!’

Sarfaraz, who is up to his wits by now, suddenly jumps out of the car, startling the potbellied cop, who registers a look of panic for a second.

‘Why don’t you move the car if you can?’ he shouts back, offering the wary cop car keys. ‘Its broken down and I am trying to call a mechanic!’

Thus ensues a shouting match that Sarfaraz surprisingly wins, refusing to pay a sliding bribe of Rs. 300/200/100/50 ($1=Rs.61). The drama ends with a wishful look of lost opportunity from the cop, when onlookers help push the vehicle to a safer place.

Sarfaraz drops Aliakberbhai and I at the airport early the next morning; we are off to visit CAI refurbished and maintained Shia Boys Home at Matia Burj just outside Kolkata. It is raining profusely at Kolkata airport when we land, with long queues at the taxi booth. We are rudely advised no taxis are available as the city is under water; Matia Burj is at least ninety minutes drive away. Aliakberbhai’s contacts come in handy and a friend comes to the rescue, dispatching an SUV that arrives an hour later. True, Kolkata city is in knee-deep water and the ride to the orphanage becomes tedious and at times, rather daunting. People wade in water everywhere; there is water in every street level home and business. We pass several wedding mandaps, all inundated with water; the poor couples must be ruing days when they ate directly from the pot? Shabbir, the adept driver navigates through the mess and delivers us safely outside the orphanage four hours later.

The Shia Boys Home at Matia Burj is off a horribly congested narrow lane; a butcher proudly exhibits hanging carcasses of skinned goats, blood still dripping from them. Several decapitated goat heads form a neat line on the storefront, dead glaring eyes stare at me accusingly. Three live goats are tethered nearby, huddled together, as if this show of solidarity is going to save them from certain impending doom. The orphanage was built over a hundred years ago. It resembles a mini fort, with thick concrete walls and Victorian design. 

About thirty boy orphans from shockingly poor families call this place home. Oh, what a rebound from pathetic conditions I first met them some nine years ago, when wearing a pair of pants was a novel act for most of them. They are now in the process of acquiring a well-rounded secular / Islamic education in fine schools. They eat well-balanced meals three times a day, study, play, watch TV, indulge in horseplay as children will and naturally dream of a future life of dignity and wealth. CAI donors have / are doing their part in offering them this opportunity; it is now up to them to seize it.

The boys are happy to see me, even though I have neglected them; this visit is well over three years overdue. Aliakber and I review their progress with staff and manager Amjaad, the orphan’s mother and father in every sense. There are a few challenges of course, so we put in place possible solutions. The place needs a serious scrub and paint job, a few minor repairs and a new refrigerator; an implementation action plan is put in place.

We dine with the boys, who are in a relaxed mood, being Saturday night. Next morning, after a sumptuous breakfast of fluffy hot poories, omelets, aloo choole curry and fresh, artery clogging malaai, we go to distribute your amaanat to the poor and destitute of Matia Burj.

All the poor and destitute live in cheap, drab apartment complexes put together in a hurry for maximum investment returns. I cannot tell these apartments, built so close to each other, are separate units. For example, I clearly see and hear, from the orphanage guestroom, a plump woman chop onions and fling the rinds from her kitchen window to the alley below and beautifully sing along a Manna Dey song from a radio or TV. He died yesterday and all stations overdo tributes to him thus.

We visit four families going through tough trying times; all in dire need of some housing support, least they end up in the streets. Since these families have teenage daughters, CAI decides to extend support by building them inexpensive rooms on open corners of willing, unscrupulous apartment owner’s properties. Highest cost US$1,000, maximum size of room 160 square feet, housing a family of four. We also make arrangements to feed an invalid family for one year and other charitable distributions. Donor’s sadeqa and radde-mazaalim funds well spent, insha’Allah.

Visiting the poor and destitute is, for me, an upheaval of emotions I struggle to control, even after all these years of repeated experiences. Walking through narrow streets thronging of jostling humanity and energy, the perplexity of senses hits me. First thing I smell is shit; from open sewer lines that run along all structures. This is combined with various other odors; I smell the aroma of frying pakooras and parathas sizzling in open tawwas. I smell nauseating decay that emits from heaping piles of week old garbage now being forked into filthy municipal trucks, I smell goats and cows and dogs and unwashed human sweat, and body odor and cheap perfume from burqa clad women.

I see harassed faces hurrying to work or other errands, even this Sunday. I see children play in the filth of alleyways, chasing after each other, oblivious of ever-present flies. I see kids make a beelike at a bhel poori vendor, to a cheap street goola vendor, eagerly sucking on colorful sugary ice-lollies. I see flies that gleefully make merry on uncovered paratha dough, waiting for its turn of agony on the sizzling tawwa.

The greatest damage of senses is to my eardrums; from constant honking of cars, busses and motorbikes. The noise pollution makes conversing on the streets impossible. It is only when I turn into narrower streets that talk becomes possible. But teenagers, all boys, seem to be having a party of sorts. A computer game room blasts Bollywood dance numbers to which few boys gyrate, angling their thin bodies to seemingly impossible angles. The decibels are so loud, my eardrums vibrate to the roll of drums from various speakers as the kids delight in the music and various games on offer.

But I smell, see and hear something more powerful than all this - in the people CAI donors try and help. I sense despair. The vacant look in eyes of a man who works endless hours supporting four daughters but have no home for them; all the money went into treating a dying wife. The daughters split into pairs and sleep at relatives while the man makes do at a friend’s house. Or the aged couple with six children, all teenage girls. The risteys come with a price of dowry the parents can’t even dream of forking out. Or the destitute sister whose body rocks with sobs as she relates her woes, sitting besides a severely jaundiced brother in a tiny imambargagh, the only place they could find refuge.

The purpose of writing this blurb is not a sadistic desire to depress. It would be the easiest thing for me to channel donor funds through third party and the job would be done, yes. It takes all faculties of senses, however, to actually feel the pain of poverty and destitution. A widow’s grief, an orphans need, a homeless parents hope for shelter, a teenage girl whose marriage hangs on a few hundred dollars... These real life experiences are irreplaceable, nay, necessary to bring me (us) down to earth from out lofty routines. It is my hope I am able to bring alive some of these experiences for you, insha’Allah.