‘This is roast chicken, this is minced lamb, this is a beef stew,’ Aisha explained to me. We were sitting in an outdoor restaurant in the outskirts of Lahore, overlooking a pretty, green park. It was mid-summer and the monsoon season was on. It was extremely humid and hot. We needed fans even when sitting outside on the balcony.
‘But, Aisha, I am vegetarian,’ I said in disbelief as looked through the menu and all the items there seemed to be meat dishes. I had arrived in Pakistan the night before and this was my first time in this country. Aisha worked for the local charity that I was going to do some consulting work for. She had wanted to take me out on my first proper evening in Lahore in order to have a good start for my placement in Lahore.
Aisha laughed a little. ‘You’ve come to the wrong country then. We Pakistanis love out meat!’
I stared at the menu.’ So, I can only eat rice and bread?’
‘Oh no, don’t worry. We can order you some vegetable dishes. We have a lot of them too, but people tend to treat them as side dishes to the main dish, which is usually meat.’
The waiter approached us and Aisha ordered a list of items. She was talking fast and so my rusty Urdu was not enough to understand everything she was saying. The waiter looked at Aisha in amazement and the glanced a quick look at me. He wrote down all the items, poured us more water and retreated to the kitchen.
Aisha felt the need to explain their interchange. ‘Here in Pakistan most people still have the mentality that you need to eat meat in order to eat properly. They don’t really understand vegetarians. We don’t eat pork, because it is haram and so to say a dirty meat to eat. But other than that, we believe that God created animals for this earth and we can eat them as long as we respect them, slaughter them rightfully in the name of God and are grateful to God for the food that we are given.’
‘I see. Many people in the west also think in such a way. I am used to having to explain my reasons for being a vegetarian to people,’ I explained. ‘I understand that there is a biological reason and a more fundamental creative reason for why it is fine to eat meat. For me, it is just that I don’t want to eat animals. I like them too much to eat them. And there are reasons for it to having a bad effect on the climate and environment plus health reasons too. I am not judgmental at all to people who do eat meat, but I just personally don’t want to do that.’
‘I understand,’ Aisha said. ‘But many people here don’t. They are so used to eating meat that to them it is an alien concept. I’m just telling you so that you get used to having to explain yourself. I am sure many people will ask you for reasons for being a vegetarian and will try to give you meat.’
We looked at the scenery in silence for a while and then started talking about work related issues while waiting for our food.
The waiter came with a trolly and started lifting all the foods in our table. It all smelled and looked delicious. Aisha started explaining to me what each dish contained and which ones I could eat.
‘And this is a very typical food from Lahore,’ she pointed at a brown dish. ‘It is made with this special mixture of spices that gives it its unique taste. It also has vegetables and rice in it, and chicken.’
‘Oh but I don’t eat chicken,’ I exclaimed. ‘I told you that I am vegetarian.’
Aisha looked at me with wide eyes. ‘You don’t eat chicken either?’
‘No, I don’t eat an meat, including chicken meat.’
‘Oh I thought that vegetarians can eat chicken meat!’
‘No, no meat at all. Only vegetable and plant based things. Some eat seafood. I can eat a little bit of it.’
‘Well, then you better get used to even more questions since people really won’t understand it if you don’t even eat chicken!’
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More reading on Pakistani eating habits:
I walked down to the kitchen of the orphanage in the morning. It was only six o’clock. Here is Nepal people followed the sun and went to bed when the sun went down and got up when the sun came out. They were much more attuned to the nature around them than we westerners were.
I waved at Maya as I entered the kitchen. She was making tea for us. Tea, rice and lentils - that was the typical breakfast, the typical lunch and the typical dinner that the Nepali had. There were many rice fields in Nepal. The climate was suitable for growing rice. The vegetables that were eaten in Nepal varied throughout the year. At the moment, apples and pears were in season, as well as cabbage.
Diego walked into the kitchen. ‘Oh lovely... more rice!’ He gave me a funny face.
The previous night Petra, Diego and I had talked about being fed up with eating rice all the time. We were used to a more varied diet and not eating the same thing three times a day.
Petra came in and sat opposite us on the long table. She was yawning.
‘Too early to eat rice. I’m just not getting used to it,’ she said as she sipped her tea. ‘I do like this tea though. It is sweat but different from what we get in Europe.’
Diego shrugged. ‘This is part of the experience, as they say...’
Maya walked to us, with a bowl of rice, willing to put more on our plates.
‘No, no thank you,’ we all said in unison.
At the same time, the manager of the orphanage, Azim, walked in. ‘Good morning.’
He sat down next to us and Maya brought him tea.
‘Can you tell us something,’ Petra asked. ‘Why is it that you always eat rice? Why not potatoes sometimes, or something else, like noodles?’
‘When you look back in history, rice was the only grain that was grown in Nepal. Back in the day, there were no imports and exports and the climate was too humid and hot for growing potatoes. They can be grown further up the mountains. Wheat can also be grown there. But down here in the valley, traditionally it’s been rice. People got used to this habit of just eating rice. They don’t even really consider other alternatives, though nowadays there are more options. Many people are very poor and simply don’t want to spend money on buying other foods, so they settle into eating their home grown rice.’
We all nodded as we listen to Azim.
‘What about here at the orphanage,’ Diego asked. ‘Do you get the rice from someone who has their own rice fields, or how come these kids always seem to be eating rice?’
‘We get rice from the local people who grow it. People are generous here although they don’t have much themselves. You know, as an orphanage and as a charity, we need to be careful about money.’
‘Yes, we all understand that,’ Petra said. ‘But also it is important for the children to have a balanced diet. This is why it would be good to give them something else to eat once in a while.’
Azim agreed. ‘We do get other foods from people as well and give them to the children when we have them. I know you westerners are used to balanced diets and all that. We try our best and do what we can do. We give them lentils every day and some vegetables Whatever we can get. This gives them enough nutrients, we feel. Then it is a nice surprise for them when they get something different. They are so used to eating rice that they miss it when they don’t have it at least once a day. Besides, we are lucky. At least we have as much rice as we want to eat. Many people are so poor in Nepal that they need to regulate the amount of rice that they eat. ‘
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If you are interested in reading more about the eating habits of the Nepali, take a look at this link:
http://nepal.saarctourism.org/nepal-food.html
‘I’ve worn all of these’, Farah said and looked miserable. ‘I can’t wear the same clothes all the time.’
‘Oh come on’, Said said. ‘You have tons of clothes. If you wear something more than once doesn’t mean that you are wearing it all the time!’ Said looked at me. ‘Pakistani women!’
I was looking at the piles of clothes that were lying on Farah’s bed. Back in London, I had less than a quarter of all her clothes.
‘I don’t even have enough of a variety of colours in the clothes that I Have.’ Farah looked gloomy.
I laughed a little.‘I can see all the colours on this earth on the piles of clothes lying on your bed. Blue, red, pink, purple, brown, black, white, yellow... All of it! What else do you need?’
Said let out a sigh. ‘See, this is why Pakistani men can’t save money. As soon as you are married, you have to sponsor your wife’s wardrobe!’
Farah gave him an angry look. ‘Come on, Tiija. Let’s go to the bazaar. I will buy some silver colour clothes with my own money, not my husband’s.’ Farah grabbed my hand and we walked to the car.’We want to go to the nearest bazaar’, she said in Urdu to the driver.
As we sat on the back seat of the car and watched the dark evening go by, Farah started to talk in a quiet voice.
‘In Pakistan, there is so much pressure on women to look good, to look a certain way. If you don’t have fair skin, you are not beautiful. If you are not thin yet not too skinny, you are not beautiful. If your hair is not thick and long enough, you are not beautiful. This is why women run to the beauty salons, why we need to buy new clothes and jewellery. Just to compensate for our flaws. We need to prove somehow that we are worth our husbands; that we are worth something. This is why Pakistani women talk about shopping and fashion and looking good all the time.’
‘It is much the same in the west’, I reassured her. ‘Although perhaps not to the same extent. But even over there, women face pressure about looking good and needing to justify themselves somehow by the way they look. There is a lot of comparison and competition between women as well.’
Farah shook her head. ‘I can imagine, but I don’t think it’s on the same scale as here in Pakistan. There is so much pressure. When men come to your house to see if they want to marry you, they only look at your appearance. They don’t care about anything else. Nor do their mothers when they pay the initial visits. It’s all about your physical beauty.’
The driver stopped by the bazaar. Farah and I got off the car. The stalls on the bazaar were all so colourful. I walked behind Farah as she started to rummage through the clothes stands. I was still amazed at how she could think of finding a new colour to add to her clothes collection.
Soon enough Farah emerged with a silver-colour outfit. ‘This is perfect. Silver is in fashion now. If I go and teach in this colour next week, everyone will think I look stunning.’
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Tips on bazaars in Lahore:
http://www.travelblog.org/Asia/Pakistan/Punjab/Lahore/blog-41526.html
‘We need to wash the windows. You can’t even see the outside through these dusty windows.’ Petra, my Israeli colleague said in a firm voice. ‘Who knows when was the last time these windows were touched with water.’
I was standing outside an orphanage in the outskirts of Kathmandu. Petra and my Spanish colleague Diego were standing next to me. We were all looking at the windows of the orphanage. In a Western country, very few people would have let their windows to reach the state that the windows of the orphanage were in. They were grey, nearly black.
The oldest of the girls living in the orphanage were jumping around us, speaking in Nepali. They kept on looking at us, as if they were wondering what we were talking about.
‘But we need to be careful about what we do here’, I said. ‘We already cleaned the whole orphanage, changed their bedding, brought in new lights... We shouldn’t offend them. We are on the border of doing that. ‘
Petra looked at me anxiously. ‘I know, but I also feel that we need to do as much as we can while we are here. When we leave, no one is going to do anything. Only then when they get some volunteers or other people working here.’
‘Ok, let’s do it,’ Diego said. ‘We need to leave our mark here.’
We walked into the dark kitchen of the orphanage. The girls followed right behind us. Diego started to fill a pan with water. The care taker, Maya, looked at us with questioning eyes. She didn’t speak any English.
‘Can you please explain her that we are going to clean the windows,’ I asked the oldest of the girls with clear English. ‘Tell her that it will be nicer for you to get more light into the house’
Suntali, the oldest girl, faced Maya and started to speak quickly in Nepali. Maya looked amazed. She opened her mouth and then closed it again.
‘She says that that’s fine,’ Suntali said. ‘I think she is as amazed as us about how much you care and try to help us. Also, she’s never heard about anyone washing windows, so she is curious to see how you do it.’
Diego let out a small laugh. ‘Well, this will be a lesson for her then.’
We took the bowel of water to the kitchen windows and Petra found some old cloth for us to use to clean the window. Diego and I stood on the table and started to wipe the windows. Petra was holding the bowel of water.
Soon all the children of the orphanage and Maya were standing in line right behind us, watching in silence. There was no other sound in the kitchen except that of the cloths against the window and the water.
‘I feel like a celebrity’, Diego said. We all laughed.
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Here is a video on elephants being washed in Nepal, for your entertainment:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_OgmRrTc4EY
Another class over, I thought as I walked along the dusty alleyway that led from the main school building to the small library and computer centre that was recently built in the headmaster’s front room. It was challenging and demanding to teach children who didn’t speak much English and who were used to the traditional ways of teaching, meaning that they didn’t do much else in the class than read straight from their books. Yet, it was a very rewarding volunteering placement that I had undertaken for a couple of weeks.
I walked past the sheds and tents that were the homes for several hundred people in the village. There were real houses around too, but these were inhabited by people who could afford them and were considered more middle-class by their fellow villagers. The whole village was squeezed into a hundred square metres. There was one building right next to the other, with any blank spaces filled with tents and sheds. There were children running everywhere; mothers cooking by the roadside on natural fire. One could hear the men of the village out in the fields, chopping crops and watering their harvest.
I looked at the roadside. I could see a dwell deep down, in between large bushes of white flowers and a wooden fence. The sound of falling water filled my ears. I looked down even deeper into the dwell and could see that there was a young lady pouring water all over herself. She noticed me looking and smiled.
‘You need water?’ She said in Punjabi.
‘No, no. I was just looking,’ I replied in my broken Urdu.
‘Oh, I am just washing myself before the prayers’, she now said in English.’We need to be clean from top to toe before we praise our Allah’.
‘I see’, I said.’ Sorry to disturb you. I just heard the sound of the water and was curious to see what was going on.’
‘Don’t worry. You know, cleanliness is very important to Muslims. Our Prophet Muhammad used to take a full bath every time he was about to say his prayers. We follow his example. We can also just wash our feet, hands, face and neck. But it is better if you can wash your whole body so I do that.’ The lady smiled a wide bright smile.
I carried on walking towards the library. I could see that even the sheds and the tents were clean. There were brooms next to the front and all the things that one could see were neatly put in their place. Any of the houses that one entered were spotless clean. One housewife had told me the other day that she cleaned the house from top to bottom every day. If she didn’t have the time or the energy, then she would ask a servant to do it for her.
I heard the adhan-prayer call from the nearby mosque. I could see the working men leave the field and to head over towards the mosque. Before entering the mosque, the men stopped at the small dwell right next to the mosque. They took of their shoes and thoroughly washed their hands, feet and faces. They even poured water over their heads in order to wash their hair.
I entered the library. The head master was sitting on his computer.
‘Salaam’, he said as I walked in. ‘Time for chai!’
We sat down on the table in the corner of the room. A servant walked to us with a pitcher of water and a plastic bowl. She poured water over my hands so that I could wash them properly before we had out tea.
The head master looked at me. ‘I bet you are getting used to how clean we Muslims are. There are great benefits when you work in villages and slums. At least you know that people are as clean as they just can be with their facilities. ‘
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More about the washing and cleaning habits of Muslims can be found here:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wudu
‘Look at that!’
My Spanish colleague points at the banks of the River Bagmati that cuts across Kathmandu. We are in a tiny car heading from a small town called Lilipur to a western side of Kathmandu. The journey has been pleasant. Today is a beautiful day with lots of sunshine, though from experience, I predict monsoon rain at about midday for a couple of hours.
We all peak out of the car windows. The banks of the Holy Hindu river are filled with rubbish. We cannot see any grass, sand or anything living - the banks are covered in paper, plastic, household waste... We can even see car tires and old lamps. It seems as if the rubbish is taking over the river. One does not even look at the river itself or reflect on the fact that it serves great importance for Hindus who do everything in its Holy Water; be it washing oneself or throwing the ashes of the deceased into it.
We are all quite. How can the Nepali treat their Holy River this way? Didn’t they want to respect it and not chuck all kinds of waste into it?
The driver looks at us through the car mirror.
‘You know, in Nepal, there is no waste management. No place to take your rubbish to. The river and the forest are the only places. This is why there is so much rubbish there.’
We are all stunned on the back seat. I face Diego, my Spanish colleague.
‘This explains why we saw so much rubbish in the forest the other day when we were walking on the mountains.... This is why all the villagers throw their rubbish in the nature. No where else to out it.’
Diego looks at me and shakes his head.
‘Yes, but this is crazy. They are ruining their beautiful and rich nature. They don’t understand what an asset and richness it it. They will only see it when it is no longer there... Fucking Nepali Government! They don’t see what they are doing by not having a waste management system.’
Petra, my Israeli colleague, looks at us. She has a worried expression on her face.
‘I heard about a UN project that assists people in waste management, educates them and tried to increase the level of hygiene here. I can see that there really is a need for it....’
Diego laughs. ‘Certainly there is a need for it. The other day when we were walking on the mountains, we had some chocolate and then had the wrappers for them. I kept on asking Tiija what to do with them; I just couldn’t throw them on the precious Himalayas. But in the end, that was the only option. Even if I took it back to the house, the family would have throw the rubbish out the window; this is what they did when I gave them some cookies. They just threw the rubbish out the window and it landed in their own garden!’
Petra looks out the window with a dreamy look in her eyes.
‘When I stayed with the host family, they seemed to have no concept of hygiene. They would sleep in the same clothes as they wore during the day, they would bath out on the street every four days, they wouldn’t wash their hands after going to the toilet... Oh, and the toilet had not been cleaned for long time.’
Diego nodded.
‘Yes, we had the same issues. And the house was so dusty. It had not been cleaned properly in years.’
I looked at both of them.
‘But people are happy. And healthy. They just have different concepts of what it means to be clean and for the need to be clean. Sometimes we are too clean in the west and our bodies don’t get used to any harsh treatment.’
We all look at the river for the last time.
‘But there is definitely a need for some sort of waste management and hygiene, no matter where you are....’ I summarize our thoughts.
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UN and other international NGOs have started up a waste management and hygiene project in Nepal. For more information, see this link:
http://www.un.org/esa/sustdev/csd/csd13/casestudies/case_studies_sanitation.htm
‘Juliet, Naked’ is a funny novel written in the characteristic style of Nick Hornby. The plot is an entertaining story of a former pop legend and his fans who have created their own mental images of their legend. The lives of the fans and the former pop star cross, affecting the lives of everyone involved.
Nick Hornby has yet again come up with a unique story line that unfolds effortlessly an leaves the reader wanting more of the same. A definite read for anyone looking for a unique novel that entertains and makes you reflect on life.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2009/aug/30/nick-hornby-juliet-naked-review
The red stone under my feet is burning hot. I had to tiptoe quickly across it, as otherwise my feet would really burn badly. It is July and the weather has been extremely hot ever since I got to Pakistan. As I run across the entrance into the Badshahi Mosque, I adjust the yellow scarf over my head. I don’t want to offend anyone or show disrespect.
The Mosque is impressive. It is the biggest mosque in Pakistan. It has been build with red stone and beautiful glass paintings can be found on all the windows. The Friday prayers have just finished. The last group of people are just about the leave the main Mosque area. Everyone is dressed in long white clothes and have their heads covered with hats or scarves.
I sit down by the main mandir. The ceiling has been painted with blue and green. There are verses from the Quran written on it and the name of Allah is painted in gold several times. It is stunningly beautiful. No wonder this is one of the main attractions in Lahore.
My friend Halima sits down next to me. We sit in silence observing the beauty of the Mosque and feeling peaceful. After a while, Halima tells me about the basic ideology behind the five compulsory prayers that practicing Muslims are expected to perform every day unless they are travelling or ill.
‘It is all about connecting with God, with our innate nature and serving God as well as our fellow humans. This is what God says - we should show love and compassion for others. We should worship God but also serve other human beings. God created all of us and we should acknowledge us. There is no difference between us, no matter where we re from or what we believe. We should not differentiate between people.The religion is about respect, peace and love. t is about positive aspects of human life, the after life and our innate nature. It is not about bad things, like the media and the West are turning it round to be.’ Halima looks sad. ‘I wish every could understand that our religion is about peace.’
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Faisal mosque rises in front of me. It is much more modern than other mosques that I have been to. Its white modern adhan prayer call towers rise high above; the modern stair cases look like they belong to a museum rather than a mosque. I walked up the stairs. There are many people. It is a Sunday and families have come here on their day off from work and school.
My host from the local UNICEF branch, Rohima, points out some details of the mosque.’This is a modern mosque and the main one in Islamabad nowadays. It was built about ten years ago. The Red mosque used to be the main one... but there was an attack a few years back. Some militants kept children and teachers hostage at the mosque and many people were killed. Ever since then, it’s been closed, as a sign of respect to the victims.’
I remember that attack very well. I was in Pakistan at the time, planning to travel to Islamabad from Lahore when it took place. I had to postpone my trip as a result. The whole country was paralized for some days. No one knew who these militants were and what they were trying to achieve through the attack. There was a school attached to the mosque and this was the main target of the militant attack. Hundreds of innocent children and teachers had died in the attack.
‘You know, it says in the Quran that when an innocent person dies, the whole of humanity is affected. Why can’t all these people understand the real message of our Holy Book?’ Rohima shakes her head. ‘All we want is peace and love. Why is this so hard for other to understand? Power makes people so sick and all the innocent souls suffer.’
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Here are links for the most well-known mosques in Pakistan:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mosques_of_Lahore
I woke up to the sound of the temple bells. It was 5am and time for the devotees to go to the temple for their prayers. I sat up on my bed and peaked out of the window. The sun was starting to rise and I could see a stream of people in bright-coloured clothes walking through the corn fields towards the temple. They were chanting sacred chants. The sound of their chanting and the sun rising behind the green mountain created a rather mystical atmosphere.
Later on that day, the teenage girls from the orphanage that I was working at wanted to take me to the temple. They had a small festival for the Goddess of Women that day. It was all about celebrating the female Hindu Goddesses and we were all supposed to dress in red.
‘Come, we will help you!’ The oldest girl Shaheena told me. I sat down on the floor next to her. Within half a minute, I had five girls around me - one doing my hair with hair clips, one painting my nails with red nail polish, one highlighting my eyes with black eye-liner, one putting a red scarf around my shoulders and one putting red sandals in my feet. They were all laughing and speaking in Nepali.
‘Come, let’s go!’ Shaheena said once the girls were finished with decorating me. We all hooked out hands to one another and started walking towards the temple.
As we approach the temple, the sounds of bells and chanting intensified. We climbed the last stretch of the mountain and entered the courtyard of the temple. There were four tiny buildings that had been built with white stone. Each building had one side open, which had been turned into an altar. The altars had small statues of Gods and Goddess on them, surrounded by flowers and incense sticks that were burning slowly and releasing lovely aromas.
Shaheena took my hand and guided me into the biggest building. As we stepped in, I could see a group of people sitting down and listening to the main preacher who was leading a song with a harp. Shaheena guided me to the back of the room where we sat down. Within a minute, all the people stood up and joined the preacher in singing the song. They started dancing around the room. All of them seemed to be in sort of a trance.
Shaheena and the other girls joined in the dance and singing. I watched them, mesmerized and amazed at how they could lose themselves in the spiritual worship in such a short period of time. They were on another planet, so to say. They seemed to be very attuned to their emotional state of being and to their spiritual side. This was something that was very hard to find in the West where we were so used to being rational thinkers and using our minds rather than losing ourselves in anything.
After two hours, Shaheena took my hand again and we started out walk towards the orphanage. We had apples and bananas, which the preacher had given us before we left. They were filled with blessing and spiritual karma. Once we ate them, we would transfer the karma into our selves, if we just did this mindfully and while thinking about God.
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I looked up. I could just about the see the head of the giant Buddha Statue. It was painted with yellow-shades and surrounded by bells. Prayer flags were flying high above the bells. It took me at least five minutes to walk around the whole statue. It was the biggest statue of the Buddha in the whole of Nepal.
There were a number of people kneeling down, praying and offering their refugees to the Buddha at the base of the statue. They were performing their daily act of worship to their Guru and Life Essence.
I sat down by the statue for quite a while.The feeling I got out just sitting there is difficult to describe. I felt at peace, yet I felt that I was close to a powerful entity. I could feel energy oozing out of the statue and transforming the immediate surroundings. I felt a calming stillness that reached my inner depths.
Later on, I visited one of the spiritual bookshops in the centre of Kathmandu. There were a couple of Buddhist monks there browsing books. They wore dark red gowns with yellow linings. They had their heads shaved. One of them looked Tibetan or Mongolian, the other looked Western. The Western one had tatoos in his arms and scars on his arteries. I imagined that he had found Buddhism and a peace of mind later on in life. There were many Westerners similar to him in Nepal - individuals who had found their spiritual side and had had their spiritual beginnings away from the materialistic western culture.
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Here is a link to famous Buddhist and Hindu temples in Nepal:
‘My Name is Khan’ is a well-written story about a Muslim man called Khan who has Asperger’s Syndrome. The story starts with an incident at an airport where this man is detained after he recites the Quran when waiting on the queue for security check.
The story unravels as Khan sets out to meet the president of the United States in order to tell him that his name is Khan and he is not a terrorist. The life of Khan is followed from when he was born will post 9/11. It discusses and highlights the tragic changes in Khan’s life resulting from marrying a Hindu lady, from 9/11 and the anti-terror war, from losing his step son in a racial attack and from making it to the BBC news as a false terror suspect.
The film is well-made and brings in focus incidents that have significantly shaped the world history and ways in which the world has changed over the past ten years. In essence, the film is about the equality of himan-beings and it illustrates in a rather romantic way how we all seek the same things in life, whether we are American Christians or Indian Muslims.
Here is the link:
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1188996/
The military tanks rolled over the lawn. The grass underneath got destroyed, but the men in the tanks didn’t care. All they cared about was to hit their target. All they cared about was to attack the enemy.
Once the tanks stopped, Adnan waved his hands in front of them. ‘OK, guys! Well done and that’s enough practice for today. You are doing great. Now go home and relax. Tomorrow is another tough day ahead of us if we want to catch the militants in time before they take over the whole of Pakistan.’
Adnan walked to the main office of the army headquarters on the other side of the field. he would need to get back home to his wife Mariam and their young daughter Fateha. He wanted to see both before they went to bed and were taken over by deep sleep.
As he took his stuff and walked to his car that was decorated with a military stamp, Adnan would not help but think about the vastness of the Pakistani army. Millions and millions of rupees went into maintaining it on a weekly basis. Most of his friends worked for the army and a significant young men considered army as the most reliable place for future employment. Army was the only work place that seemed to offer long-term prospects and stability.
Adnan drove through the quite roads of Islamabad towards Rawalpindi. The roads were much quieter ever since the militants started their suicide attacks in many areas of Pakistan. People were afraid to leave their house, afraid to drive on crowded roads, afraid to go and do their shopping in the markets. The atmosphere was tense, to say the least. People lived under uncertainty, fear and anxiety.
Adnan drove past the Meriot Hotel, which had been badly damaged a few years back. A militant had blown himself up with a car bomb and killed a number of people on the side. Security has increased everywhere considerably since then. There were road blocks and check points everywhere. Driving from one place to another took extra time, because you got stopped at least twice within a fifteen minute drive. Adnan was lucky to have the army stamp on his car: this meant that he was stopped only once in fifteen minutes.
Adnan drove past the Raw lake and into his neighbourhood. He wondered if his mother, who lived upstairs from them, had made his some special dinner again. They had servants doing the cooking and cleaning, but his mother insisted on helping them out.Unlike Mariam’s mother who was very proud of the fact that they could afford servants and that there was no need for them to do any housework themselves.
As Adnan parked his car, he could see that the lights were still on. Mariam and Fateha were still up.
‘Hello, I’m home,’ he shouted and walked into the front room. The two ladies were curled up on the floor by the heater. The area had had bad power and gas cuts of late. They were lucky to have heating at least once in a while.
‘Hello, salaam. How was your day?, Mariam asked as she got up from the floor.
‘It was fine. I maybe sent to the mountains in a few months. Will you be ok with Fateha and my mother when I am gone? Adnan sat down on the sofa and turned on the TV. He flicked to a news channel.
Mariam looked worried. ‘I’ll be fine. You know that. But I don’t know if you’ll be fine. The mountain area is not the safest place... Remember, we have a daughter to think about now. She wants to have fond memories of her dad.’
‘I know’, Adnan said patiently. ‘But this is how it is working for the army. They send you where they think they need you. You know that. It will only be for a couple of months’
The TV screen was showing scenes of yet another attack. A militant had struck in Karachi.
‘See, we need to protect our country and our people’, Adnan said as he faced Mariam. ‘If I protect the country, Fateha will have very fond memories of her dad.’
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For more on the army business in Pakistan, see:
http://www.defencejournal.com/jul99/history-pak-army.htm
Nirmal checked the time on his watch. Half past mid-day. Why did time seem to go so slowly today? He leaned against the front desk of his small hotel. The reception area was small but cozy. It was pleasant when customers came to sit downstairs and wanted to have a chat with him. Otherwise time just seemed to go so slowly.
Nimal looked at the photo of his farther, which was hanging on the wall behind the front desk. His father had bought the building in the centre of Kathmandu and started up a hotel many years ago. He had thoroughly enjoyed running the hotel. In fact, he had been there 18 hours a day for the last 30 years of his life. Evert single day. In the end, he had even died in the hotel, of a heart attack.
Nirmal decided to ask Carlos to look after the desk while he went next door to the coffee shop to get some tea. He needed something refreshing to drink, otherwise he would fall asleep.
‘Hey Carlos, can you please keep an eye on the desk while I pop desk door for a few minutes?’ He asked as he popped his head in the room next door where Carlos was clearing out the remainders of the breakfast that a tourist group had had their an hour ago.
‘Sure. Bring back some tea for me as well’, Carlos shouted back cheerfully.
Nirmal walked out into the heat. His good friend Bim ran the coffee shop next door.
‘Namaste’, Nirmal said as he stepped in. ‘What’s going on today?’
Bim was sitting on a stool and watching the last bit of a cricket match on TV. ‘Bangladesh is winning! Yay, beat India, beat India!’
Nirmal smiled. Almost everyone in Nepal was against India and Indians. The magnificent country next door was always a threat and Nepali people felt their presence. Their own tiny and poor country was nothing in comparison to their grand neighbour.
‘Can I have to milky teas to go, some sugar cake and today’s newspaper, please? Bill it to the hotel.’
Bim stood up reluctantly and started putting the order together. ‘Any news about Ms Joshi?’ Bim gave Nirmal a sly smile.
Nirmal blushed a little. ‘No, nothing really. I have been talking to her and we have seen each other, but it is hard... there is all this gossip as soon as we are seen out in the public together. You know? That puts pressure on the whole thing. Plus the fact that I come from a poor area in rural Chitwan, where as she is from a city family close to Kathmandu. None of our families would approve. They want to fix out marriages within our local communities.’
Bim put his arm around Nirmal’s shoulder. ‘Man, you’ll be fine. Just believe in love. Go for it if you really think that you want and can make a life together.’
Nirmal took his order and starting walking towards the door. ‘Thanks, Bim. I’ll see what to do.’
Indeed, he would need to see what to do. There were significant cultural clashes between the values his family held and those of the family of Suntali. Nirmal has no idea if these could be over come. He had no idea what his mother would say or think if he told her that he was not moving back to Chitwan to live with her and to look after the family land. Likewise, Suntali would not in a million years move to Chitwan with him. She was too sued to being close to Kathmandu and close to her family. She had already told Nirmal that the only way forward would be if he agrees to stay in Kathmandu area.
Nirmal stopped by the hotel entrance to sink in the last bits of sun before heading in. There was a group of English tourists in the reception.
Carlos was all smiles. ‘Look we got our new group here. They are staying for two weeks.They want to go trekking and explore Nepal properly. I will take them to Nirnajali’s trekking agency to plan their tour.’
‘This is what I love about my job and Kathmandu’, Nirmal thought as he sat back at the front desk and sipped his tea. ‘I love the new family that I have built here and that consists of my friends.’
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For anyone going to Kathmandu and looking for a nice little hotel to stay in, Visit Nepal is a good choice:
http://www.visitnepal.com/hotelthamel/
‘This is the ward for the drug addicts and the alcoholics’, the manager of the biggest rehabilitation centre and psychiatric ward found in South Asia was telling me. Mahmood had invited me to come over and carry out a consultancy as to how they good improve their services by introducing music and art activities to their clients.
Mahmood gestured towards two different buildings with his hand. ‘We house about 50 adults who need help. We have separate sections for those who had psychological problems and those who have addictions.... In fact, the addiction wing is relatively new and we would really appreciate your input as to how to improve it.’
We walked through the courtyard of the building. The buildings that belonged to the psychiatric unit and the rehabilitation centre covered an entire block. The buildings were built with old maroon-coloured stone. The courtyard in the middle of the buildings had been designed to be an oasis where the clients could sit, relax and absorb the calming effect of the flowers and pushes that surrounded them.
Mahmood guided me in a smaller building at the back of the courtyard. ’We house clients from lower social class separately from clients from higher social class. This is purely because people from different social classes are used to using different types of language and this way we can ensure that everyone’s stay here is comfortable. We can talk to everyone in a way that they are used to and they can communicate with each other better.’
Our tour continued to the living quarters, which consisted of rooms filled with beds that were in line, like you would like in a hospital. There were ten beds in each room. The living quarters were located next to dining hall where the clients had all of their meals. There was no privacy for anyone.
‘How much do the clients need to pay in order to be housed here?’ I asked.
Mahmood smiled.’Oh not much. We get a lot of donations. You know, one of the five pillars of Islam says that everyone should give to the needy and contribute to charity. This is known as Zakah. People take this pillar seriously and are generous with their donations.’
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‘We tach children with all sorts of special needs. We teach autistic children, children with physical disabilities, with mental retardation, with spec and language problems... you name it, we teach them,’ Amena was telling me. She was taking me around a school catering for special needs children. She herself was a teacher for autistics children.
The school was four floors high, with at least ten classrooms on each floor. Classes we on, which is why the corridors were quiet. Two teenage boys walked towards us.
‘Oh hello Mohammad and Ali’, Amena said to the boys and then turned to me. ‘These boys are both former students here who nowadays work as assistant teachers. We do that a lot. We give former students jobs. They help us teach different things. In addition to all the academic classes, we also offer vocational classes in handicraft, woodcraft and cooking. We also give the students an opportunity to do a lot of sports. Can you believe it, we have in total 18 gold medals from Olympics under our roof!’ Amena laughed with pride.
I was impressed with the facilities, in particular, with the handicraft classrooms.
‘We sell the handicrafts at markets and you can also order them online’, Amena told me. ‘This is one way of us getting an income and paying small salaries to the staff working here. See those girls over there, they are also former students.’ Amena waved at them an they waved happily back at us. ‘The rest of the money comes through donations. People here are so generous. All the 200 pupils that we have can change their lives, because of the generosity of their country fellows.’
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The Fountain House and the Rising Sun Institute are both located in Lahore. For anyone interested in knowing more about their work, here are their links:
http://pb.rcpsych.org/cgi/content/full/25/4/158
http://www.starz.pk/biz/lahore/rising-sun-mughalpura
Our small and rather old car pulled in front of the orphanage. The narrow street leading up to it were muddy after the Monsoon rain. A green and luscious mountain was standing right before us. The sky was clear and bright blue now. The smell of rain was still lingering in the air.
I looked at the orphanage, which resembled a regular one family house. No one would have guesses that it was a home for orphaned children unless one was local and knew about it. The neighbourhood itself had a friendly and cozy feel to it. There were one family and terrace houses; you could see dogs and cats lying down on the green grass surrounding the houses and birds and butterflies sitting on the bushes planted next to the street and in between houses.
The front door of the orphanage swung open. Fifteen girls and boys aged between 3 and 18 ran out. They were all wearing bright colour clothes, laughing and talking loudly. They stopped by our car and started waving at us. ‘Come, come!’ They started canting in unison. I looked at my colleague Diego and he smiled. ‘This is going to be great!’
The manager of the orphanage, Asim, walked to us. ‘Welcome! We are very happy to have people come and help us.’ He Led us in. ‘I will show you the orphanage. This is the kitchen... This is Maya. She works here as a care taker. She cooks, cleans, helps the children and looks after them. She sleeps at the orphanage with them.’ Maya was looking at us but didn’t say a word. ‘She doesn’t speak English’, Asim explained. ‘If you want to ask her anything, ask her son Saroj to translate. He goes to a private school and his English is very good. He is the tall one with the orange t-shirt’. Asim pointed towards the children. ‘This is the living room... This is where they do their homework and this is where you can teach them. Opposite, you have the boys’ room and the girls’ room. There is the bathroom and they shower at the back, in the small garden.’
We walked through the small house that house 18 children. The kitchen was the biggest room of them all. I could see how the children could possibly do their homework in the living room, but the bedrooms were small. Trying to imagine 9 children sleeping in each room was hard.
Diego must have been thinking along the same lines as me. ‘There are not enough beds for all the children....’
‘Oh, they share. You have two children sleeping on each bed.’ Asim guided us back to the kitchen. ‘Would you like some tea?’
Maya brought us cups of tea. Aim sat down opposite us. ‘So in the afternoon when the children come back from school, you can teach them and do different activities with them.They ned help with maths and English, in particular. ’
We chatted about the children’s backgrounds. They were all here till they were 18. Then they would return to the land that their parents had owned and left behind. They all felt that the orphanage was their home till then and that the other children there were their family. Their relatives sometimes gave them clothes or came to visit, but none of them could have the children live with them due to financial reasons.
‘In the morning, at lunch time and in the evening, Maya makes dalvat. You know that that is the main stable food in a Nepali household? Rice with lentils and perhaps a little bit of vegetable. You can come down and she will give it to you. Now let me show you your room upstairs.’
Aim guided us upstairs to a flat that had two bedrooms and a bathroom. ‘This is you place. You stay here comfortably.’
As I unpacked my suitcase and gazed out of the window that faced a corn field and a small temple, my mind was occupied thinking about the different realities that children have and how different everyone’s life story in the end of the day is.
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There are a number of orphanages in Nepal. here is a link for one that has been providing a loving home for children for some years now:
http://www.cwhnepal.org/
Sheila looked at her sleeping children. Rahim was curled up in a small not and Aisha was stressed out on the sofa. They looked peaceful and beautiful. Even the traffic of Lahore did not disturb their deep sleep.
Sheila walked across the living room and entered the kitchen. One of her servants was making dinner for the whole family. ‘What are you making?’ Sheila asked her in Urdu, as she poured herself a cup of chai tea.
‘I am making a chicken curry with rice and roti.’
‘Faruq will like that’. Sheila sat down on a stool by the kitchen table. She had been married to Faruq for five years now. She had been 19 when her parents arranged a marriage between her and Faruq. Sheila had not seen Faruq before the wedding. It had been so terrifying - getting ready for your own wedding without having met the husband-to-be even once before.
The marriage has not been bad although Faruq was very conservative. Sheila had to wear a hijab headscarf whenever she was around men who were not family members. She could not socialize with any men nor could she spend a great deal of time with her female friends. She could not continue working. To Faruq, the place of the wife was at home doing work for the family.
Many of Sheila’s friends could not understand her husband. They thought that he was controlling and did not let her live her life. But what choice did Sheila have? She had to marry this man, because of her parents wish. She had to adjust to this life. And she was not going to be miserable for the rest of his life. She was going to make the most of what she had. She was going to live a happy life and bring up her children as happy human-beings. No matter what anyone else said or thought.
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Nadia turned to face herself in the mirror. The red fabric dazzled her eyes. She did not recognize her own face; it had so much make-up on it. Her hands were painted with henna and her ears glistered with diamond earrings.
‘How do I feel?’ Nadia asked herself. She felt apprehensive but also slightly excited. This was her wedding day. This was the day that she had been dreaming about for so many years. Now it had finally come.
Nadia had met her to-be-husband twice before the wedding. Once at his parent’s house. They had had tea together and asked the compulsory questions. It had seemed that they shared the same family values and wanted the same things from life. She had had a positive feeling afterwards. The second meeting had taken place at her parent’s house. They had tea again and asked more questions. The following day Faruq’s mother called Nadia’s mother and asked for Nadia’s parent’s approval for Faruq marrying Nadia. They had had a celebration dinner that evening.
The door behind Nadia opened. Her sister walked in. You ready?’ She asked. ‘You look stunning!’
Nadia smiled. ‘Thank you. I have to look the best on the day that starts the rest of my life.’
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More stories by Pakistani women can be found at:
http://eprints.soton.ac.uk/48440/
