Mwaleemu Kichaa

Now that I am getting on in age (still gives no one the right to call me uncle, chacha, mama or any other silly titles), I look back on malicious but memorial childhood actions that I much regret. These silly but hurtful activities, over forty-five plus years ago, shames and saddens me immensely. I am taught, as a Muslim, to repent and seek forgiveness for wrongful actions from the very person who is aggrieved. There is nothing I will not do to seek this pardon; any place I will not go to beg forgiveness for my unforgivable actions. Alas, the person is long dead. And I do not know where he is buried.

There was a madman roaming the town of Tanga, Tanzania in the late sixties, you see, who we called Mwaleemu Kichaa (Mad Teacher). He was, the more knowledgeable among our elders then explained, was once a religious teacher, now struck with demons. Overweight, unkempt, mangled hair with gleeful lice, clothes in tatters and emitting evil unwashed body odor, Mwaleemu Kichaa would roam the streets adjacent to the Khoja mosque in Tanga and we kids would have a field day. Tormenting him, that is. We would gang up on him at night, after magreeb prayers, excited, but fearful also, for Mwaleemu sometimes demonstrated surprising agility at giving chase, and taunt him with curses. Mwaleemu would respond with colorful obscenities of his own, which would prompt us with justification to pelt him with plentiful pebbles, until he would run for succor to Akber Tharoo’s house. Akber Tharoo was the only person Mwaleemu would allow near him, probably because Akberbhai was a kind man who fed Mwaleemu loaves of bread and tea. Akberbhai would admonish and shoo us away, warning he would report our cruel behavior to our parents. This threat would most certainly curb our appetite for more torture to the madman. Until the next time.

I forgot about Mwaleemu and my dreadful behavior as I moved past Tanga and became an adult. But now, his image haunts me at times and I strongly rue my treatment of the sick guy. I pray for him, that his soul is happy with his Lord. So very, very, very sorry, Mwaleemu Kichaa, poole saana. I hope you will forgive me on the Day of Judgment and the reprisal you choose to avenge will not exceed the taunts and pebbles I threw at you.

Snotty Delights

I board the Hyderabad - Mumbai flight, which is jam-packed. The cabin air is full of varied smells of body odor, thinly masked by scented vapor that Spicejet wisely emits from the aircraft’s air-conditioning vents. It is very chilly, after the hot and humid conditions outside; I instantly shiver and press the call button. After most of my fellow travellers are seated and there is space for movement in the aisle, a cabin attendant comes by and gives me a tired smile. I complain about the chilly air and request the AC be turned down.

Shobha, (that’s what her nametag states), arches an eyebrow my way, blows out her pudgy cheeks, straining thick layer of makeup and gives me a bothered, harassed look. She is a plump gal, obviously fighting a losing battle with her midriff. Shobha has probably been on her feet for several hours, being hassled by travellers like me making seeming frivolous demands. I feel sorry for her and tell her to do it when she has some spare time. Shobha’s large eyes get even larger in unbelief, as if I have blasphemed, tells me she’ll inform the Captain, then leaves in a huff; the main doors have closed and she needs to do the safety demonstration.

It is while Shobha playacts possible disaster scenarios that I notice a spectacular specimen of a human seated across the aisle, two seats front and right of me; I am immediately mesmerized. I have seen some very handsome people in my life, but this guy is gorgeous, absolutely flawless. From the handsome fair chiseled face, to immaculately cut thick hair to the very clothes he wears, he is impeccable and every man, woman and even children gape at him in awe; I begin to feel sorry for myself in an instant. Jeez, Allah, is this fair? I groan. Here I am, running thirty miles a week and still struggling to shed belly fat, my head is almost barren and hair that is supposed to grow there now make sporadic appearances in my nose and ears! My mood turns ugly fast-fast.

Allah answers me lightning quick however. It is while the aircraft is taxiing for takeoff when I notice the Divo with a finger busy up his nose. This act in itself is common in India and I am used to it. Travelling great distances in snarled traffic on busses and trains, people get bored and a finger inevitably finds comfort up a pollution filled nostril. He extracts a booger out, studies it intently and then casually feeds his mouth; again, again and yet again, in quick succession. Ayooo! I freak out and a loud squeal escapes my lips, startling everybody around me, including the Divo. While they gawk at me, astonished, Pushpa comes running, disapproval written all over her face. Is there a problem? She demands from all of us, not sure who the culprit is. The elderly lady seated next to me raises an accusing finger towards me and Pushpa’s face darkens even more. Is there a problem Sir? She demands. Why did you scream? I shake my head violently. No, no ma’am, I say, no problem at all. I hurt my finger tightening my seatbelt, is all, I lie. I smile, hoping to placate her but she gives me a steely stare and tells all of us to behave, we are about to take off. 

I keep my face averted from the Divo all the way to Mumbai, even though the urge to see if he is at it again is heavy-duty. But I repent to Allah earnestly, immediately, and thank Him for ALL the bounties He has bestowed on me and my parents and pray that I may do good that pleases Him and that He does good to me in respect of my offspring’s; surely I turn to Him, and surely I am of those who submit.

The Chief Minister’s Assassin - A novel

My novel (print version) has sold almost 300 copies so far, with fantastic reviews. Not bad, really. Those interested can now purchase a copy for US$20 (proceeds still benefit CAI’s worldwide orphanage projects). A copy can be ordered from:

Me in the USA - kisukaali@gmail.com

Fatema Alibhai in Canada - alibhai@rogers.com

Sabira Somji in Dubai - sabirasomji@gmail.com

Nazir Merali in the UK - n.merali@sky.com

Murtaza Bhimani in Tanzania - moraf2000@gmail.com. 

Tagging Along With YY

Here is a writeup by M. Khalfan who joined me with friend Sarfaraz in one part of my recent India trip. Enjoy, especially the photos!

I first meet Ali Yusufali (YY) in Florida while attending the funeral of a close family friend. As we discuss CAI’s worldwide projects, YY suggests I visit some of them, promising me it’ll change my life; I am very interested. He mentions Afghanistan and India in May and I ask him to keep me in the loop about the final schedule. I have no stomach for Afghanistan, but India sounds great.

I get an email with some dates a week later. Take your pick. I suggest May 15/16/17, YY writes. Arrive New Delhi on 15. I will have you picked up at the airport and you can join me at Sirsi. I look up Sirsi on Google Maps and come across a small village east of New Delhi, no more than a few streets, including Karbala Road. I tell YY I would meet him there and he arranges a driver to pick me up.I convince my close friend Surfaraz to join me; it is reassuring to have someone who speaks Hindi with me. We land in Delhi late Wednesday and are setup to meet YY the following afternoon in Sirsi, as he is coming from another village where CAI has a possible school project.

Google maps say the drive is three hours, but it actually takes us six, thanks to Delhi traffic and a quick lunch stop along the way. We arrive at Sirsi complex around Magrib when all the orphan boys are at the adjoining Masjid for prayers. The campus, which is across 11 acres, contains a hospital, school for 1,400 students (children from a 20km radius take a bus here), a mosque and the boy’s orphanage. The caretaker welcomes us and we are shown to a humble room that will be our home for the next two days. The large building is single floor, cafeteria/kitchen, boy’s dorm, study room, guest room and bathrooms. YY is still on the way, so we begin to unpack and settle in. 

The boys return from prayers smiling, happy to see new faces. They prepare for dinner and we take the opportunity to get to know them. Ranging from 3 - 17 years old, there are about 33 boys huddled around the dinner table with their plates ready. We immediately notice their remarkable mannerisms; the younger ones sit first and elder ones help serve.  They each get one spoon full of curry and a paraatha, followed by more after they finish; I notice how orderly and organized the entire process is; what a difference from my house! The boys eat quietly and stare at us, smirking. I pull out my iPhone to check emails, as the workday has begun in New York. It’s frustrating, with only 2G (EDGE) data in this part of India. I look up a few minutes later and realize I am the focus of everybody’s attention; I pack up my phone; I forget I am in a remote village in India. I must look like an alien to these kids; dressed like an American, cannot speak a word of Hindi and busy on an iPhone. What a wake up call.

The boy’s watch a bit of TV and the caretaker Zakibhai lets them stay up a bit more as they are excited that YY and AR are coming. Their 8-hour drive is going to be more like 12 hours, so the boys eventually go to bed. Friday is chutti, meaning holiday; school is closed on Fridays and Sundays, so Zakibhai has been lax than usual; the boys go to brush and bed without a complaint. Again, something alien for an American father of four. Even the 17 year old did not complain and all are asleep by 10pm.

A van with YY and his entourage pulls up a few hours later. I am introduced to Aliakbar Ratansi (AR), CAI’s eyes and ears in India. A warm hearted and personable man, thank God he speaks perfect English. Not knowing Hindi is starting to weigh me down. We have dinner and I am informed about different CAI projects all over India. Jetlag kicking in, we prepare for bed. There are three beds and four people in the guest room. Surfaraz and I offer to sleep on the carpeted floor but AR would have none of it. I always sleep on the floor, even when I come alone, he says, I prefer it, please, this is our way. After a brief debate, we finally sleep around 1am. 

A few hours later Zakibhai wakes us up for Fajr. All the boys are at the mosque nearby. Since there are killer mosquitos out there, we decide to pray in our room. I am quite paranoid about getting stung; I wear a repellent band I found on amazon.com on every limb! Everyone is back to bed after prayers. I cannot sleep; the buzz of the trip gets the better of me. Seeing this, AR stays up, offering me a cup of tea. The boys return and gather by the door and start reciting duas in chorus; AR and I go to listen. AR explains this is a daily routine after Fajr. It is beautiful, possibly the highlight of my trip. I record a short clip, though the video is dark; I play the video whenever I want to remember my time there. I am torn and in tears inside, looking at these young boys. I feel so sorry for them but realize they are happy with the little they have. They have no father / mother, yet their supplications to Allah is so sincere and appreciative; I am taken back and a reality check sets it. After their duas and a quick cup of tea we go to bed. I have to say it is with a heavy heart, as I cannot stop comparing my life to theirs. YY starts waking us up around 8 am, by that time the boys are already up and done with breakfast; we get ready for our day.

The first stop is a new housing project for the poor a few kilometers away. We hop in a car and but AR is having trouble getting it started. Some guys start pushing it; the clutch pops and we are on our way. Each house is barely the size of my bedroom at home; it includes a bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, and an open-air living room. Some of the homes are already populated with families of up to six people. One family invites us for a tour; it is humbling to see how they live. I snap some pictures of the kitchen and WhatsApp them to my wife who is dreaming of a new kitchen (ain’t happening). The little that makes these families so happy makes me feel privileged; spoiled even. YY and AR push the contractor to finish as fast as possible. We get in the car (which needs another pop) and head back to the main campus. The kids are enjoying a game of cricket and AR joins in, much to the glee of the attention starved children.

We visit the school and hospital that are on the same campus as the orphanage. CAI has helped renovate and add several classrooms to the school, which now has over 1,400 students. The school is in great shape and boasts a computer lab, chemistry, physics, biology labs and a library. The school has been awarded the Best District School honor.

Across from the school is the hospital, one of a few in the area. While I cannot compare it to US standards, it is heartening to see a few patients who have completed cataract surgery and are resting in the ward.

We head back to our room to get freshened up for dinner at Sakeena Girls Home, a CAI undertaking, where we are guests of honor. I am really looking forward to this part of the trip, since I have daughters aged 7 and 4. Meeting these girls will help me relate to my girls, since I miss them dearly.

When we arrive, I notice WELCOME written in chalk in the alleyway. The girls are standing in a circle, holding hands when we enter. They recite salawaat a few times and are clearly very excited to see us, but AR in particular. Seated around us, they show off recently learned sooras from the Holy Quran, Imam’s names and even the names of the Imam’s mothers! Each time they finish a recital, AR rewards them 100 rupees; AR’s wallet is empty in no time. He really has a talent that makes the girls feel special; I pray I can make such an impact on humanity someday. AR visits these children frequently and takes time and effort to be here.  These girls are almost like an extension to his family.

I am right, meeting the girls make me remember my own girls and it is heartbreaking; they are all so beautiful and innocent, craving attention, just like my girls do from me. I ponder about the importance of a father in young girl. What have these girls done to deserve separation from their parents and how will they develop without a father? The building is very cozy, more so than the boy’s orphanage.

Dinner is served; the elder girls wait until the little ones are done eating. There is amazing sense of unity amongst them; they really look after each other. We tour the rest of the building, including the bunk beds on the upper floor. We then head back after goodbyes; tomorrow is visiting more CAI projects.

I start feeling anxious and guilty about leaving, though my family and work are waiting for me. I feel as though the children are happy when AR and YY are here. I wonder how they would feel after we leave. Next day, we see the boys before they leave for school; they look sharp and confident in their uniforms as they blend with their peers from school. We meet the principal of the school and say our final goodbyes to our wonderful hosts.

We stop at another project in Phandheri; an all girls’ school and another girl’s orphanage. It seems like there is so much work to be done in India. YY has a lot more traveling to do in India before coming home, including Mumbai and Kargil; CAI has projects all over the country.

YY is right about this trip being life-changing. I see poor children everywhere in India and feel for them. But when one gets to see the amazing projects CAI donors have funded, one finds a way to give back. I have uploaded photos and videos of my trip here.

I pray to the Almighty that he bless YY, AR and all the people that bring meaning to the lives of these children. It is so easy to forget about them a world away. We are so busy with our lives / families / work; get attached to things that are meaningless in the grand scheme of things. I really applaud the CAI team for the work they do. I tell YY that the donors in America have it easy; they just have to cut a check. The hard part is being on the ground in these countries, where the work needs to get done. I realize why Allah puts so much emphasis on the care of orphans and widows after my brief experience with them. These children would be lost without Allah’s guidance and the hard work of CAI and others in the region.

M. Khalfan - NY

Mixed Fruity Jjaam

Destination Kargil

It has and is my priority to channel CAI funds to the most needy areas of the world; have blogged about these countries extensively, Afghanistan in particular, of course. Recently, I had the good fortune to visit Indian Kargil and Srinagar, where CAI recently built a school for a very poor community in Kargil and is aiding the construction of a girl’s orphanage in Srinagar. I also met the thirty-seven orphan girls at the home CAI built in Kargil several years ago. My, my, my babies have grown! I could hardly recognize any of them, except a couple.

The trip was harsh indeed; I was trapped in a snow avalanche for hours, a normal five-hour drive through spectacular and breathtaking but traitorous mountains passes took fourteen, slept in a ‘five star’ hotel that rendered my body with bloody bedbug rashes that I scratched like a rabid monkey and a groin muscle-pull from jogging that had me in tears, literally.  All worth it of course, I am not complaining, just giving you a penned picture. Better still; click here for some wonderful photos of the adventure; worth several thousand words.

Mixed Fruity Jjaam

Aamir (name altered) is a middle-aged waiter at Ramee Guestline Hotel at Juhu, my place of regular repose while in Mumbai. He greets me profusely as soon as I walk in for breakfast, flicks a soiled rag to clear invisible dust from a table and waves me to a chair and makes me comfortable.

Saheb, he says genially, welcome back. Kaise ho? He begins to fuss around, arranging immaculately placed cutlery around, pours me a steaming cup of tea and wants to know what I will have this morning. Undde?  Masaala omelet? Bhaaji poori? Oopma? Or masaala doosa? I order the usual two fried eggs sunny-side-up and Aamir goes scurrying off to the kitchen; I get sullen looks for this preferential treatment from others still waiting to be served.

Aamir hails from Muzzafarnagar, a poorer area of UP, India. He came to Mumbai when he was about twelve and has worked his way up from picking food from garbage dumps to washing dishes in shabby restaurants to now being a waiter at this hotel. His is one of millions that have gone the same route, escaping grinding poverty in rural India, so why is Aamir worth a mention? Well, he instantly reminds me of the waiter character with rabbit-like frontal teeth in the Bollywood movie Cheeni Kum (watch it if you haven’t already; well worth it). With me, he pronounces Mixed Fruit Jam as Mixed Fruity Jjaam, with the same tone as the waiter in the movie pronounces Hyderabaadi Zafaraani Biryaani to Amitabh Bachaan. I always laugh when I hear him say it.

Aamir gives me the preferential treatment because I am the only one who has taken the time to talk to him on a personal level and have taken an interest in him and his wellbeing? Perhaps?

I eat the eggs with Aamir hovering around like a moth on a mission, replacing my paper napkins every time I wipe my lips. It is useless stopping the waste; he waves away my protests and grabs the napkin away from my hands every time I touch my lips with it, so I try to minimize my etiquette. I finish the eggs and Aamir is there with a fresh cup of steaming masala tea with two slices of karaak brown bread liberally spread with butter; just the way I like it. He splits open a mini package of jam and raises bushy eyebrows.

Mixed Fruity Jjaam, Saheb?

I smile broadly and nod my head.

Gulaab, The Pampered Goat

Just outside Chaar Nal in Dongri, Mumbai, I notice a mini horse, except it is a giant goat, about four feet tall. The animal belongs to the owner of a medical store, who bought this Rajasthani animal when it was a few months old and named it Gulaab (rose). Feeding it with lots of love, oats, badaam and quality vegetables, the goat shot up both horizontally and vertically, and is now subject of much curiosity and amusement to whoever comes across it the first time. And so it is for me as well. Curious, I make inquiries and am introduced to the owner, a hefty Miyabhai with a handsome flowing all-white beard who views me with much suspicion when I introduce myself and ask about his animal.

Why do you want to know? Asks Miyabhai, looking me up and down, then anxiously peering outside the store at the tethered Gulaab, making sure I had done it no harm. You are not Indian, are you? You want to buy him, don’t you? Miyabhai’s eyes take on a cunning look. He is not cheap, he has cost me an arm and a leg. I feed him the best foods everyday...

A customer walks in but Miyabhai is in no mood to serve him; he yells at his assistant to attend; I seem be a better monetary prospect.

This animal is prized, continues Miyabhai, I tell you. He is gentle and loving, Why, I bring him for a nap every afternoon and he rests his head on my very own lap! Miyabhai slaps his ample lap for emphasis. But I’ll sell it to you for a modest Rupees 200,000 (about US$3,400); it’s a bargain...

I take a startled step back. No, no, I say, I don’t want to purchase him, I just was curious because of his size, I have never seen a goat this size before…

Miyabhai’s face darkens in ire. He grabs a tuft of abundant beard and pulls at it in agitation. Aree Mister, then why did you come and disturb me? Bah, let me know if you are interested in purchasing Gulaab, else be on your way! He turns to his assistant and grumbles. Fokaat ka aadmi, wasting my time with silly questions. Bah! The assistant grins toothily and eagerly wags his head in blissful ignorance.

I am still curious what Miyabhai will eventually do with Gulaab, except slaughter and eat it. But I fear for my safety, so make a rapid retreat.

A Promise Kept

Here is a write-up from Abbas who accompanied me to Afghanistan recently. Please read and enjoy the accompanying photos here.

I will add that these girls are from extremely poor families. When they first came to SGH, it was Herculean challenge for us to rehabilitate them into a ‘normal civilized family’. The transformation in three years is nothing short of a miracle. These children are now very well mannered, they are confident, they help each other, they desire to be educated and make it big in life and speak reasonably good English. It is an honor and a blessing CAI was able to be a small part of this transformation.

Ali Yusufali

Just as I am recovering from an exhausting CAI fundraiser for the Sakina Girls Home (SGH) and School project, I am flying to Kabul again, eight months after we made a pledge to these girls that CAI will find a way to raise the funds for a modern orphanage and school. I can't wait to deliver the letters of hope to them from our children in the Tri-State area, who wrote to them as a class project at the fundraising event. The captain announces Kabul ahead; I recall my visit last year and my emotions flutter at the thought of giving the good news to the girls. We arrive in Kabul and are picked up by Abdul Wasi and Bashir, our CAI Afghan team and our hosts for the next week.

Our UN chartered flight to Nili is delayed next day so we must skip an audit visit to one of the clinics; we skip Dareyoos and head to Oozmuk. We also want to see land for a new clinic building there. The current Oozmuk clinic is old, expensive to heat and cannot handle the 70 patient load a day. CAI plans to build a new facility modeled after the modern, fuel efficient one in Sachek to facilitate the growth. After the audit and inspecting land donated by three villagers, we return to Nili for rest.

A benevolent dictator

Ali Yusufali, CAI CEO, is a dictator, albeit a benevolent one. I suppose one has to be karrak to survive in such circumstances. He is up and ordering us awake at 2:30AM next morning; we are in the van and have departed Nili by 3:02, a two-minute delay that causes the dictator much distress. I can see this zeal in every CAI projects he touches; a quest for perfection. Right or wrong, works or not, the drive to exactness stays. The grueling 16-hour drive is through some of the most remote parts of Afghanistan, and perhaps the toughest terrain known to mankind. We arrive Khajraan and immediately jump into ceremonies that officially open the school. Yusufali goes over details on improvements he insists with the contractor and we then spend the night in a mud-house at a nearby village. We are requested, the next morning, to visit a poor, impoverished, remote area where girls study under the sky. Due to a flooded river that make vehicle crossing impossible, we abandon the van and trek through farmland, including crossing a rickety wood bridge; I feel I am in an Indiana Jones movie! We approach the area and my heart sinks. I think I have seen it all, but these poor girls studying under the sun, trying to read and write is something else; CAI approves construction of a school on the spot. Yusufali makes a point that CAI's mission is to reach out to such needy children and empower them in education. We now begin our grueling 16-hour ride back to Nili, through very muddy roads due to the heavy rains; the vehicle slips and slides, sometimes by the edge of a mountain cliff. There is, at times, pin drop silence in the vehicle on these occasions. We finally make it to Nili at night, safe but utterly drained.

A van, my feet, few horses and a donkey

Our day begins early next day, as we need to catch another UN flight to Yawkawlang. My body is still recovering from two of the most grueling days I can remember, but knowing that we have touched and were able to make a difference in these children's lives gives me the pep to press on. We are greeted on the landing strip by our generous erstwhile host Jumsheed and the security detail, of course. We head directly to the next site where a very remote and poor village is tucked in between the mountains, and vehicles have no access. So how do we get up there, I wonder? On horses or a donkey, so say the mountains! I feel I have gone back in time. It is a challenge to stay balanced on the temperamental animal I get. The climb up is hair-raising, through steep paths of mud; my heart lurches to my mouth at some passes. The path is a foot wide, with a sheer drop of thousands of feet to one side and solid mountain on another, but the horses are adept.  As we approach, I see the UNICEF tents and my heart sinks again. I remember my last trip when we were called to another village and saw the children in this same situation; CAI immediately approved the school which is today under construction. The CAI team discusses the feasibility details with village elders; a final decision is pending. We head back on horseback for another hour’s ride back to grab a quick bite; it is good to be on solid ground again. Yusufali remarks his reproductive system is shot, which initiates raucous mirth from our team but the maulana accompanying us turns scarlet; such talk is unheard of in this deeply conservative society.

Water, water, water

We have 2 more projects to inspect before we return to Kabul tomorrow but one must be axed, as the time does not cut us any lax; Yusufali decides not to go to Sacheck medical clinic. Wise decision, as heavy rains later in the day closes all roads to and from Sacheck; we would have missed our return chartered flight to Kabul. We head to the water project underway instead and work our way up to the mountains. Due to heavy rains, even our 4 x 4 struggle going up. The water project is well under way; the piping from the deep water-well to the reservoir is complete. This project will supply potable water to about 2,300 families for the next 25 years minimum, even with an annual population growth rate of 10%. Completely out of time and energy, we settle into Jamsheed’s warm, comfortable and hospitable house where we feast and retire. We get moving early next day to catch our UN flight, which lands at the strip 10 minutes ahead of time. The takeoff is both menacing and breathtaking as the last time, with the 6-seat Kodiak single propelled aircraft seemingly barely clearing the snowy, ragged mountaintop that seem within touching reach; we land in Kabul 40 minutes later.

I think back at our harsh journey and the lives we touched, how, in few short days, I will be back in my comfortable home with my family, who have all the comforts in life; it feels good to be humbled in this trip. As we approach Kabul airport, I feel a sense of return to civilization. Kabul is on high alert; soldiers and cops everywhere, especially due to recent elections, but a much more improved Kabul, with bustling streets and construction everywhere. We get to Wasi’s house, freshen up and head to CAI office. As a registered American NGO, CAI is obligated to set up an office for operations, especially with the kind of infrastructure that CAI has in place in Afghanistan. 

A promise kept

We meet the orphan girls of SGH the next morning. It has been my mission, since last August, when I first met the girls and Yusufali told me the need for a safer and more modern home for them, to raise the funds to make this project possible. As a father, I want the best for my daughter, especially her safety and wellbeing; there is no higher priority. Meeting these wonderful children of God then, I got the same protective feeling. It’s been a challenge all right, but the wonderful CAI fundraising team in NY did wonders and made the impossible, possible. I hold back tears of joy watching their presentation for us, our daughters at SGH. As I listen and watch, I think back at the past few months; the long drives to various centers in the Tri-State area where we presented CAI and the fundraising event, our efforts to sell tickets, the sheer exhaustion and of sleepless nights, not knowing if everything will really come together. With the grace of almighty Allah and overwhelmingly generous CAI donors, we exceeded our fundraising goal. I would do it a 1,000 times over, just to be able to experience this overwhelming feeling of sheer joy; how very blessed I feel for being part of the CAI team and this project in particular. We gather the girls and head to the site to lay the founding bricks. As each CAI team member puts them in place, I thank my creator for His favor on the promise I keep to our daughters at SGH.