Amna Naqvi – The Unwanted Daughter

There is very little joy in Amna Naqvi's (alias) tender life of eight years so far. All she knows as the daughter of a peasant farmer is an arduous and dreary existence; a daily routine of early mornings, drawing water from the backyard well, sweeping dirt floors, washing clothes and shaping stinking, still wet, sometimes still warm cow dung, swarming with gleeful flies and parasites, into Frisbee-sized discs and slapping them to the cowshed wall for drying. And in the afternoon, after a lunch of leftover rice and watery daal, helping her mother in the kitchen, rolling out chapattis and preparing dinner for a hungry family of seven.

Amna is unwelcomed by her father, Abul Fazl (alias), from the moment the midwife declares the arrival of the baby girl. Abul Fazl, a slight, sinewy, skinny man with a permanent scowl on his face, grunts angrily, curses his karma and storms off from his place on the charpoy outside the hovel from which, moments ago, his wife of thirty years moaned away the painful pangs of childbirth. Amna is a late, errant addition to the family, a surprise to both the parents and her siblings. The parents already have four children, born almost in regular succession, sexes likewise divided. The first two girls are already married off and are now mothers. Abul Fazl had to work hard and long, even go into debt, to come up with the dowry demanded for them. He rarely thinks about his daughters now, seeing them once or twice a year when the family gets together for the two greater Eids. In his ignorant mind, daughters are burdens who almost broke him financially and made life hell for him when he despaired of a lineage. He blamed his wife for the shortcoming; it must be her weak womb that was the culprit. He thanks Allah they are no longer his crosses to bear.

The following two boys, likewise uneducated, are healthy and active, useful labor for the land that the family rents and coaxes to produce wheat and sorghum and corn in rotation; they share the yield with the landowner as land rent. The elder son has recently married and is already a father of a daughter, another catastrophe in the mind of Abul Fazl. But that is not directly his issue, so he does not fret too much about it. The idea of educating children is alien to him, never crosses his mind. The nearest schools are almost ten miles away, another planet away in the mind of a rural UP peasant, and where would the money to educate the boys come from? So, the kids go to a local imam bargah and get their education from the mullahs. For Abul Fazl, that is plenty. He needs his boys in the fields, not in some classroom. As for his girls? Well, daughters from decent sayyed families do not go to school. They stay within the confines of the mud walls and take care of household tasks and serve the men who work in the fields. And when decent rishteys come knocking at age fourteen or fifteen or sixteen, why, they are married off. Jaldi-jaldi.

The parents, the two sons, the bahoo, the infant and Amna live in a semi-permanent mud and straw house in the village of Sayedpurah, UP, on the banks of the river Yamuna. Halwaana is the collective name given to a cluster of five villages. The inhabitants are mostly sadaats from the Rizvi and Naqvi heritage. There are no formal schools for miles around, so the residents are mired in illiteracy, ignorance and grinding poverty that repeats itself with each successive generation. Some of the financially better-endowed families do send their children to school by bus, but not the gentler sex. They are ‘protected’ and disposed of at the most opportune rishta.

When the young bride bahoo, Amna’s cousin, a khaala’s daughter, joins the Naqvi's after marriage, she brings her trousseau as dowry.  She is born and raised up closer to New Delhi, where secular schooling is possible, so she is somewhat literate.  But even then, it is restricted to rudimentary training, and she is betrothed on the day of graduation at age fourteen. Included in her trousseau are copies of fading comics and Bollywood filmy magazines that she shares with Amna, who is instantly glued to them. She understands nothing of course, but the images paint a picture in her imagination. Of a world far removed from hers, of beautiful people and glamourous clothes and an unimaginable lifestyle. She gets to know Shahrukh and Salman and instantly falls in love with them. Her Bhabi claims she had been to the movies and seen both the heroes, larger than life, on huge screens; Amna’s imagination goes wild; there is no power in her village.

Recently, there is excitement in the village when Comfort Aid International (CAI) and Al-Imaan Charitable Trust (AICT) win over the heart of a donor to construct an elementary school within walking distance of the five villages. But the plans are shelved when the donor backs out for personal reasons, the primary one being that the area is too remote for them to be directly involved. A valid and understandable justification, perhaps? Amna’s imagination, hopes and emotions summersaults with the developments.

But these are the very locations that CAI is trying so hard to bring out of darkness into light. We do not seek to make Amna into a doctor or an engineer. Yet. We are working to take the first step. And grasping tightly to Allah’s promise of certain success when we take the first footstep in His way. We at CAI have globally proved this fact thirty-three schools over.

The remoteness and logistical challenges notwithstanding, Amna’s village will have a school. Soon insha’Allah. It is a challenge CAI Trustees and I will take on and given Allah’s help and your support, this project will see the light. So Amna, here’s a solemn promise - although you don’t know the CAI donors, Trustees and me yet, you soon will. Your imagination and aspirations will be rekindled, yet again. You will get a beautiful, modern school where you will see and learn that it is your Allah-given right to a quality education; all you will have to do is reach out and grab it.  Then, and only then, will you love Allah the way He wants to be loved and understood.  You will touch the sky, little girl; Shahrukh and Salman are no contest; inconsequential.

Nothing is impossible.

I have used my imagination to bring certain facts and realities in these villages to an interesting read on the dismal situation in Halwaana. Everything stated in this Blog is spot-on, except for the noted aliases.

Afghanistan, My Turn – Mohammed Bhayani

Most places we think of are defined by perceptions and personal experiences. Such is mine about Afghanistan, as I prepare to visit it with a team of Comfort Aid International Trustees, to see firsthand some of the amazing work being done in changing lives of orphans, widows, the sick and the destitute in the badbakth country. I am setting out on this journey with my brother Shaida (Bhaijaan), Sohail Abdullah of New York and Murtaza Bhimani of Dar es Salaam. To be honest, I kind of already know what to expect from the voyage. I am warned of the rough rides on unpaved roads, the sub-standard living conditions, unforgiving winters and blistering summers. About the danger of Taliban attacks, the nature of some Afghan customs and just the mere fact that the rest of the world sees Afghanistan as a high-risk locale to be in. Just a week before we are set to arrive, the US military drops a missile known as "MOAB- Mother of All Bombs" to destroy a terror site. My wife makes it seem like she works for BBC, as the news is relayed to me seconds after it is posted online. She ‘speaks’ her mind of her clear apprehension of my upcoming trip. Bhaijaan has narrated numerous stories of his first trip with CAI three years ago and that I should mentally prepare for no western type comforts. May 4th, we fly out of Houston to Dubai, stay a night with a friend, eat and rest, as if this will be my last meal.

We land in Kabul, Afghanistan the next afternoon; standing six feet tall, I stick out like a sore thumb. Most men on board our flight have long beards, many up to their chest, dressed in Afghani kurta-pajamas, white turbans, ruffled faces that apparently have never used sunscreen in the winter or summer to protect their weathered skin. The new Kabul Airport already looks old, but not shoddy. Immigration is a breeze with fingerprint scanners and cameras, like most international airports; we are out in ten minutes. Here I meet three individuals, may Allah bless them and their families, who define and exemplify believing in a mission, committing to it, and acting upon it. I have heard fantastic tales of Basheer, Wasi, and Assef, of course, the men with boots on the ground that make the impossible, possible. As we walk out of the airport, they welcome us with smiles and hugs. We drive to Wasi's place, where we stay the night with his family. We meet Sohail and Murtaza, both ‘veterans’ to this country, two other gems who vigorously put their comfortable lives aside for CAI.

We set out the next morning on a six-passenger aircraft to Nili, the provincial capital of Dykundy. An hour’s journey by air, which can take upwards of 24 - 36 hours by road, depending on the time of year and security conditions - flight, please. We land on a challenging single unpaved landing strip of this miniature airport in this tiny city. As we exit, our amazing one in the world driver Sher Hussain waits to drive us for the rest of this seven-day trip covering seven remote villages. Grabbing a healthy breakfast of eggs and tomatoes, our first leg begins with an eight-hour roller-coaster drive towards the first CAI medical clinic in the village of Kity. I'll cover the basic ambiance of our drives, which comprises upwards of sixty hours of driving in probably the most grueling and dangerous ‘roads’ in this world; without exaggeration. I’m not doing myself a favor by thinking about time; unpaved roads become a norm; dips in the dirt are like an encore every five seconds, we drive not above ten miles an hour, even though the van seating eight passengers revs as if we are. I look at the speedometer thinking I'll feel the passage of time quicken if I see a healthier speed; it doesn’t happen. It certainly requires a strong stomach, good company, and tons of patience. This is the primary challenge during the entire journey. Because the rest of it is sheer beauty. Everywhere I look, as we drive up and down different mountains terrains and through small and large rivers, I see nothing but beauty.

On reaching Kity, we stop at the temporary medical clinic before heading out to the new larger permanent clinic under construction. To witness a modern building in an area surrounded by mud/straw homes speaks wonders to the dedication and hard work of CAI in making it happen. The new facility has an OPD, maternity, pharmacy, vaccination, living quarters for staff, full-fledged bathrooms with heated water and a water well for potable water. The living quarters makes me want to make this my remote weekend getaway, that's how nice it is. We walk around this new construction located on top of a mountain with beauty surrounding every aspect of this land. The clinic will serve more than 30,000 people in a 3-hour walking radius. The next morning, we audit the current temporary clinic, inspect the patient log, pharmacy inventory, the cleanliness of the rooms and general maintenance following, CAI guidelines. After meeting with the staff and listening to their feedback, we take leave. This process is repeated at the clinics at Ahngar, Gazbiri, Dyroos, and Uzmook.

The only way to do justice to my visit is to cover in detail some aspect of my experiences. Just like the roller coaster drive up and down the mountains, I feel the same turmoil of emotions - grateful, pampered, privileged, humbled, and none of them. "Which of your bounties will I deny?" I see a woman on a donkey coming towards a clinic with the husband beside her. A kid lays in the mother’s lap because of malnutrition. Old men lining up to get their aching bones checked out. And many UTI cases because of hygiene issues. Each of the five clinics averages forty / fifty patients a day, seen by a single doctor. The drive shows the many health challenges of people living in these remote areas. And reminds me of how ungrateful I've been in my life at times. I see a woman and child sitting on top of a mountain miles from any visible village, just sitting and gazing over the grandness of the mountains. I came across a man lying in the middle of the road, sunburnt and exhausted. I think he is dying, but apparently, he's just resting, regaining strength to continue his trek on foot - we are miles from the last town. I almost laugh at how easily he regards it as something very normal. It's impossible to imagine living the way I do and how wasteful I am. But every time I enter one of CAI clinics I forget all that retrospective mess. We stay comfortably, are served good food, beds and a place to shower.

The second village we go to is Gazbiri, the newest of the clinics, just starting operations. It is their first operational day in the temporary digs, and the conditions appall us all. It is small, cramped, with flies everywhere. And yet, we have the whole village standing in line to welcome us, a feast for food, and show gratefulness. Because before this facility, they had no medical care whatsoever! Ahngaar is one of the most challenging areas to access. The views are breathtaking as I look at the vista. The clinic faces challenges, especially when it comes to accessibility, but there is a much better permanent location finishing construction soon insha’Allah. Dairus is the best example of what a permanent clinic looks like - beautiful, well maintained, five- star compared to the surrounding dwellings. With the construction of a new CAI sponsored school for kids nearby, I can't wait to see photos of the finished product. The kids are currently studying under a dilapidated and dour looking mud structure. I get to pray underneath the open sky in the morning where I see majestic mountains, starry skies and two joining rivers. It easy to forget where you are and what the people are going through, with such beauty surrounding me. Going to our last stop, we head towards Uzmook. But before that, we stop over at the governor’s place for a meeting and a feast. Uzmook's new clinic sits in the middle of a beautiful farmland surrounded by jagged rocky mountains.

When we return to Kabul the next afternoon, it feels we have left a country within a country. Bustling shops, tall structures, fast foods, colleges, local bazaars, etc. The next day we visit Sakina Girls Orphanage (SGH), and CAI Private English School (CPES) built and operated by CAI. The kids we meet at the school are amazing; I just want to eat them all up. Next is the SGH in the basement of the building hosting fifty of the loveliest girls I have met. May Allah bless everyone involved in these projects because there are no words to describe the work that is being done here. The girls are all happy and eager to greet us, and we get to spend a little time with them. Since Shabaan 15 is almost upon us, an orphan hand us a poem she wrote in English for the Imam (a). It’s eloquent and well thought-out as she reads it out, but I can feel her emotions in every word; there isn’t a single dry eye at the end of it between the four of us.

I fly out to India the next day, leaving the misery, hardship, and hopelessness of thirty-five million humans behind. I have an option of freedom, of living in the West, with relative freedom and security; they have so very little. For a country torn by war over the last decade, I leave Afghanistan with nothing but gratitude and love.

I sincerely thank Yusufali, Basheer, Wasi, Asif, Sohail, Murtaza Uncle, Bhaijaan and the rest of the team of CAI for giving me this opportunity. May Allah bless you guys and your families.

Sydney / London Diaries

Sydney / London Diaries

Sydney Diary

Alhamd’Allah, Sydney is sunnier and a bit warmer than Melbourne and Adelaide. At first glance, the city resembles any others in the US or Canada, with wide roads, traffic snares and a downtown with skyscrapers. Except they ape the British and drive on the wrong side of the road. I get the privilege of being taken around by Zain Sherrif, a long-term resident of the city, and who knows the different center’s leaders very well. The centers are alive with people, where celebrations of the holy month of Shabaan are in full swing. I also meet up with a dear friend, Sheykh Jehad, who helped CAI raise funds for Sakina Girls Home in Afghanistan by flying all the way to New Jersey in 2014. And then I meet Ali Hussein, originally from Myanmar (ex Burma). Ali Hussein is the founder member of Bellfield College in Sydney.

The college, a considerable distance from Sydney proper is remarkable in many ways. It is gracefully nestled among a suburban wooded residential neighborhood, so it is an ideal setting for learning. It is the first secular Shia school in Australia, I believe, and currently has a student strength of about six hundred-odd children from various communities. What makes this fact unique is the diversity of students; Hazaras, Iraqis, Lebanese and an assortment of Indians and Pakistanis; some Khojas, even. The contrast and confidence in these children compared to their brethren they left behind is remarkable and startling. These kids, overwhelmingly refugees who escaped turmoil, violence, and persecution from home in very trying circumstances, sailing in ships from Indonesia to Australia, have now seized the opportunities of education as the only way towards genuine freedom. My heart twinges in pain as I compare their good fortune to the plight of ones still trapped back home, who I meet every so often in my role with CAI, with so little hope and so much pain.

The road leading towards the establishment of this school has been an arduous one that Ali Hussein has bravely navigated. With meager resources, a hostile local civic council, a skeptical community, headed by religious figures who know nothing about running a school but are liberal with demands and advise, the team at Bellfield now have an institution that I am very impressed with. The management, staff and Ali Hussein should be very proud of their labors. The schoolchildren are probably the best-behaved ones I have met in the Western world.

I pray that Bellfield College sees nothing but progress and growth as its planned expansion towards sixteen hundred students in the very near future is realized, insha’Allah.

London Diary

A very jaded Punjabi-looking Immigration officer in London, with an extensive and wholesome nose, tragically punctured with an even more tired-looking nose ring, asks me to remove my cap, barely glances at my invisible mane of hair, asks how many days I want to be in the Queen’s country, does not wait for a response, stamps my brand-new passport twenty-two pages from recent activity and waves me away, as if I am an irritant to her boredom. I fume. What a dingbat! Why couldn’t she have stamped it bloody orderly, like the British are supposed to? I want to give her a mouthful, but the person next in line is already breathing down my neck, so I move on. I am in a bad mood, I guess, having flown fourteen hours from Sydney to Dubai and another seven to London.

London is a city always worth visiting. I have a home away from home here with Fatima and Nazir Merali, whose hospitality has no limits in generosity and kindness. They treat me with such extravagant royalty, the Queen would burn with envy, even. This Merali house is blessed with the tastiest and sweetest fruits I am lucky to gorge on, from papaya to melons and mangoes to daaram, and whatever else is in season; a heaven on earth. These are some of the people Allah has gifted CAI, who go out of their way to facilitate and host me in my travels; may Allah bless them abundantly. Now if only the weather will warm up and unfreeze my tush; golly me, it’s already May, and the thermostat at the airport flashes a chilly 9C (48F).

I am here for a few days to attend the wedding of the daughter of an officer, a gentleman and a friend, Nassen Valji of BETA and for the ever-demanding compliance issues related to CAI worldwide projects. Several visits to the Khoja Stanmore center is mandatory, of course. Here is where I can sometimes connect with people I meet after forty plus years. Childhood school or madressa mates from Tanga and Arusha from back home in Tanzania. Also mandatory is the fiery Zanzibari mix from Azad’s shack; the guy is now probably a hereditary icon in the annals of London’s Khoja history?

There is no dearth of halal restaurants in London, of course, so I am treated to good food and better company. Walking the streets of this ancient city, observing the diverse humanity mingling therein, with all religions and intertwining cultures, I am convinced humanity has hope. Real, solid opportunity for a peaceful and progressive future, even with the current global upheaval of gloom and doom that prevail. As a racial and especially religious (read Muslim) minority individual, living and visiting ‘Western’ democracies for almost forty years, I find my hosts practicing Islam without being Muslims. Yes, there are isolated incidents of intolerance, made notorious through social media, but that is to be expected. Especially when we take upon ourselves in sporting ugly looking unkempt beards or exaggerated adornings not mandated by our religion. I shudder to imagine what the scenario would be if the roles were reversed. Politics aside, minorities have been, are, generally welcomed and a vast number of us have, are assimilating, no, prospering in these adopted countries. The situation is never ideal, but what, in life, is. Insaaniyat is still, perhaps now a bit diluted, the underlying ethos.

I am glad to leave London and return home via a very warm India; it’s been too long.

Now, if you can spare fifteen minutes, I encourage you to watch the flowing clip. I promise you will be enlightened, at a minimum, insha’Allah.

http://bit.ly/2pAkkwb