Thanks, Jazakullah, Shukrya, Shukran....

Thinking of the past so I can figure out the future. Came across a batch of nice, wonderful memories...

As I watch my friends around me have children I'm amazed with how much work and energy it requires. I am amazed that my parents oceans apart from their own parents raised us all by themselves. No advice from the "older and wiser" they had to do what they had to as brand new parents and in a new culture that they were learning along with us. Good parents are an amazing and special breed... Last week one of our friends came over for a party. Their son ran up to me smiling "salaam alaikum auntie aisha". It was so sweet and it reminded me of my own parents and how all they had to do was look at me, much like his mom did, and I knew I had to do. As my parents very well know, I can easily list a string of all my gripes, but they've heard those enough... and really all the gripes I have resulted from their love, and worrying as they faced a culture they perhaps didn't understand... I can't say with certainty that I wouldn't have done the same things.... So I wanted to say thanks....

Thank you for teaching me urdu and punjabi, and pretending you couldn't understand us when we tested you by talking in English. By the way, I really did think you couldn't understand us...surely it would have been easier to give in and speak English all the time. But you didn't and thereby gave us a precious gift of bilinguilism... Thank you for not letting me watch cartoons in my formative years but letting me watch all the Sesame Street and Reading Rainbow I could stand and letting me read all the books I could find, and for reading to me every night before I went to sleep... I read so many of those stories to my students... and I used creative lisence like you did too... Thanks for never ending supplies of crayons, scissors, and glue. For making me feel that I truly was the most special girl you ever came across...elementary school was the hardest time of my life emotionally speaking... but having a warm home where I knew I was loved and was special is what saved me....For humoring me by wrapping up the cardboard boxes so I could play imagination. For sitting patiently as I serenaded you with songs I came up with, and watched skits we performed, and letting us help with chores even if we broke more dishes than we washed... For starting Islamic School in the back porch... and for making Eid so special by decorating the house with lights, for exchanging gifts, and making us never feel as though we were missing out on anything. There's a song called Butterfly Kisses where the parent says "Oh with all that I've done I must have done something right to deserve her love every morning and butterfly kisses at night." For all the times I've slammed my door growing up and we've argued and fought... for all that you did wrong, you did much much more right. I hope when the day comes, I will be able to follow in your formidable footsteps.

The final account of Turkey

Heading to Kusadasi.
Heading to Kusadasi. Bus ride was ok. I took Dramamine- or Dopeamine as Kashif calls it. It’s supposed to make you mildly drowsy…But I should have questioned that when it said“warning do not operate heavy machinery while using this”…. I felt very drugged… Halfway in the trip I realize the boat is heading full speed for the sea of Marmara….me and Kashif look around frantically as we head for the waters…but everyone else is sleeping, listening to music, or reading a magazine…. then it glides onto a boat and now we’re seaborne……very weird.

Then we get to Kusadasi- no hotel booked and we DO NOT have a clue. Taxi-man takes us to the sea-shore. “I have good hotel -very cheap.” Wait… Wait….. No… we don’t want to get ripped off again… admist our half uttered no’s…. a man takes our luggage inside to Liman ‘Otel. Maybe all taxi cab drivers aren’t out to get you …. Hotel Liman is owned by Hasan, also known as Mr. Happy. How much is a double bed room with a balcony overlooking a fort, the Aegean sea, Ataturk monument and a panoramic view of the city? 25$ yes. Cheaper than our taxes for the hotel in Puerto Rico.

I love Kusadasi. And of Kusadasi I love its people. Mr. Happy, (who sometimes says, no I’m more like Mr. Stressed or Mr. Grumpy) is hilarious and hospitable. His brother Omar who is more conservative but equally hospitable, were not being nice to generate business, they were truly nice. It was more like being with good friends than being a tenant for a night.

Everyone is so nice here. I feel I'm in a city filled with my closest friends and family. I read that in the summer months it can rival Las Vegas for nightlife. But no one is here yet. It is -quiet- peaceful-. “Tea on the house,” “Good luck mittens for your lady friend”… I’m happy to be here, I feel relaxed… .We saw a musjid in this deceivingly European city. It looks out of place amid the bars and nightclubs that surround it. But it too is beautiful.

Explored a fort and saw the sunset as we sat atop this sprawling fort. Pigeons, hens, roosters, turkeys and rabbits were all cohabiting in surprising numbers at the peak of the fort. (Trivia question: what do you call a turkey in Turkey? Hindi….Hindi? go figure..)… As with all the other animals in Turkey, they are not afraid of humans, instead, they seem to look at you saying “Do you mind?”

Ephesus, Turkey
Ephesus is haunting and beautiful. It's one of the seven wonders the ancient world.... hard to imagine that it’s all real because there is so much there. It was once a thriving city of the Romans. We can still see the library that is still surprisingly well preserved… their homes, their markets and coliseums are so intact you can close your eyes and picture what it was like back then. It is a humbling experience to be among such history. To walk upon the stones that great thinkers and ordinary people just like me walked before. It’s very humbling to see how time is not that long. Ephesus is not 200 years old, its over 2,000 years old.

Back In Istanbul
I am slightly…. No STRONGLY… repulsed by the opulence of the sultans….. and their actions.
I learned they would lock their brothers in small apartment confines, referred to as cages, where they would be confined to for decades. The sultans did this because they were paranoid. Paranoid that a brother may kill them and take the throne. So to make sure it didn’t happen, they drove them to death or insanity locked up for decades in cages. Some were sent to Prince’s Island. The beautiful Islands we could see from the rooftop…. You locked them up in anterooms? Brother? You locked your brothers to placate your paranoia’s… did you forget the pot of gold at the end of this rainbow we live in?

I am sitting on the rooftop looking at the blue mosque on one side,the Bosphorous on the other. It creates a nice breeze. I see a seagull building a nest across my hotel. Every so often she brings a new discovery for her home. In a second- she flies off again. She’s got work to do.. I’m on vacation.

Final Cab Drive to Airport
Our last taxi cab Brother defintely knew how to do a grand finale. As we went to the airport (from his driving pattern he must surely have been recently released from a home for the criminally insane). As he drove, he nearly ran over an elderly lady with her son. The man must have mouthed something rude towadrs him. What does our “Clockwork Orange” patient do? On the highway going 70 MPH…. He SLAMS. And when I say Slams, I mean SLAMS them. We and our luggage lunge forward. Then…. At NINETY miles per hour (okay maybe 80)… he reverses back to the two people. Need I remind you a son with his ELDERELY mother, who was maybe 85? He GETS OUT OF THE CAR. Runs up screaming and cursing. Hops back in and gets us to the airport…..We gave him all he asked for at the end of the journey. We will miss the taxi-men most of all…

The Flight Home…..
I’m going back home now. I felt a sense of emptiness last night knowing it was our last day. I almost cried last night as we prayed for the last time at the Blue Mosque. I sat there in the quietness. Then I listened to the Imam with his beautiful recitation. I will miss walking to a musjid such as this to pray. I will miss hearing the Adhan five times a day. I will miss the M-word being a good thing, a positive thing. I know- I’m on vacation- but I never felt so home in any place I visited as I did in Istanbul. I know it’s time to go back, but I will miss Turkey.

It didn't work out...

They posted the name of the moot court candidates. Not me. It happens. I'm sad. Rejection hurts. I worked hard and it didn't work out. Will I succeed. Was I meant to be a lawyer..... law school is a struggle.. i'm passionate about reading, writing, teaching.. times like these i wonder why i'm in lawschool to begin with... to help people.. but.. could do that in so many other ways too..... is this telling me something? Oh well.

A medley of sorts....

This is an assortment of excerpts from my journal of Turkey. It's very lengthy... but covers an assortment of experiences from the trip.. for those thinking "enough already", sorry.. for those who find it interesting, thanks..

The Truth About Cats and Dogs

Turkish Cats and Dogs are so…. Chill. They wander E-v-e-r-y W-h-e-r-e. As a person terrified of dogs.... Dogs- they aren’t scary at all. When I first arrived I felt so terrified to see dogs everywhere. In America stray dogs look as though they could go either way- bite you or lick you. Turkish dogs are interested in neither. They lay around and relax. Play with their children in the park. There is almost a mutual respect. People and animals. Same with cats. They abound everywhere. They seem content. I would have felt sorry for them with my american notions that they belong in homes. Who’s to say? They are not people, why is it an open and shut case they belong in homes? They too had families and friends so surprisingly easy to distinguish. There is one cat. A beautiful gray and white cat with long lashy green eyes. She sits right by the door of the blue mosque. I never saw her go in . Curled up right by the entrance. I’ve never seen her elsewhere. Subhanallah. I think these animals look happy.

Musjid Boy:

We ran into a boy. Continuously. Pale in complexion and small in height. He stalks the blue musjid. Each day he is there. Armed with postcards and Istanbul books. He appears the head of a “sales gang” of even younger boys who spend their lives here. Since we have come he approaches us daily, begging us to purchase just one book. Finally Kashif, as a joke, gave him a penny, he grew more eager, “no… no penny… book…buy my book…” Message not taken. Plan misfired. Guilt acquired. Next day, same thing. Blank- did not remember us.... We talked to him.

Ismael. 15. Parents in Anatolia. We watched him as he tried to find sales. I feel so sad looking at him. I feel sad when I see the lady in hijab, age clearly upon her face, dragging heavy bags with her wares she sat selling since dawn on the street. Every so often she rests her load. Then picks them off and struggles onward. He will be like her one day…. Where are their retirement plans? Work will never end.

We didn’t want to buy a book…. aware they are selling for higher authorities. How much do they keep? We gave him a dollar. Buy some icecream we told him… He seemed to not know what to do with himself. By a tiny, minute act of kindness. He was so visibly touched that it left us both feeling desolate. These kids job is to harass us, tourists….. and usually they are ignored or cursed. A smile and a simple gesture to buy an ice cream cone brought him to tears..

How does it feel to be cast aside every day? And return because you have no choice? Day after Day.

Little One

At McDonald’s one evening a boy. No more than 8 or 9 years old saunters in. Maroon sweater with holes. Blue pants and black shoes. “Dressed for Success” if he was a student at my school. He is small, but has the gait of one trying to be older. He leans on the counter, one hand holding red roses, the other some liras. He slides them across the table. He collects his fries. Walks to a side table. Puts a napkin, spreads it on the table, places another on his lap. Gingerly he spreads his fries on the table, smoothing the napkin out.

The staff cares for him. I see them glance at him. Slip him food. He sits by himself.

What is wrong in this world that you, young child must eat fries by yourself at 10:30pm. Where are your parents? Where do you go? Why aren’t you in school? Its all relative isn’t it? Where ever you go there is someone worse off than you. A need to pause and be grateful... Appreciate your life.

That same evening I saw another boy, about 17. Ran straight up to me. As though he expressly wished to share his joy with me. He held a kitten the size of a cotton ball in his arms. Exuding joy as he showed her to me. Through the roof- he must have just found her. He will probably raise her and it will bring him joy. He chooses to be happy.

CARPET MAN

Ahhhh carpet sellers! Carpets and Kilims. Where to begin on a profession that requires volumes to do it justice. They abound- e-v-e-r-y-w-h-e-r-e- literally. You think I jest. The salesmen.. they are big, small, tall, short, light, dark, happy, grim, carefree, desperate… but I don’t know if I trust a single one of them.

The most interesting part is the characters, and their different approaches. There was Irfan and Fahad the two brothers on the corner by the Blue Mosque. Each wore pinstriped suits and accessorizing smiles. There was Zia on the other corner, who at the end told Kashif understandingly “I understand why you didn’t buy a rug- your wife didn’t let you”…. And then there was White Store man with the big belly and the good prices. And of course Creepy Guy who paced the darkened store for three hours waiting for us to return.

The initial approach is always the same. They invite you in with a big smile. They are “your friend” and you drink Turkish tea. Then they vary. But you know, every single one of them gave us their BEST price! So low they barely make a profit actually. “For you my friend- I make a good price.” “I could make double on it, but it is a gift for you.”

You are never in control. The Sales Man is always right.... The best… is when they quote you a price. Minutes later, realizing you like it, they hike it up and act like you’re the one whose crazy.... They turn their stores over for you. Each one bringing out twenty to thirty rugs AT MINIMUM, their henchman huffing and puffing as they lay them out, and continue the stream.

Space goes upwards in Turkey so most stores are two to four stories high but very small on each floor. This really bothered me at carpet stores, and if I had to do it over again, I wouldn’t do it again. They lead you upstairs through narrow winding stairs to show you more and more rug. Each floor you ascend they begin to pressure you more. On one occasion we both became anxious at the demeanor of our salesmen who looked a bit maniacal in their desire to sell us something…anything…

Safety

I didn’t want to go. The media and news had scared me half to death about going abroad. Maybe there is validity in it. But I never felt safer in my life. In America I’m always scared. In the back of my mind I am thinking of the millions of things that can happen. But Istanbul, at least Old Istanbul… was peaceful. Even its ghettos did not inspire fear. No one hated Americans. They all said the same thing “We dislike the American government’s policies, not its people.”

Shopping

If ever an emotional roller coaster existed, it was on my experiences shopping in Turkey. I started off completely psyched to do the bargain hunting in Istanbul but got frightened by the carpet sellers. But by the end I rebounded and loved every minute of my shoppers high at the grand bazaar.

Oh the bazaars. The Spice Bazaar and the Grand Bazaar. The Grand Bazaar is a labyrinth of 1,000’s of stores, stands and cafes. The first mall in the world. They try to lure you in their stores. If you so much as accidentally glance at one of them, its over. Even if you don’t…its over.

And they love Pakistan. We thought it was a gimmick but they really do. They have bumper stickers on their doors saying I love Pakistan. Pakistan Zindabad. Once you tell them you are from Pakistan…. They smile warmly, “you are our brother country, you know our ways.” Some even know Urdu. One eagerly pulled out his birth certificate, indicating he was born in Pakistan.

Best response when asked if a rug seller was lying to us: “I cannot swear that I am being honest…. It’s not my business practice.”

In short...
Its indescribable to not feel different. To not feel so much like a minority. No one can know the burden a minority carries unless they've experienced it. I can't describe what it feels like to not feel so "different". You feel just like any other in this stream of people who may not look like you, but are a part of you somehow. No worries of inadvertent stereotypes, no burden to represent everyone of your faith.... it was a release... I don’t know if I can put this feeling into words to belong somewhere that Muslim is not a dirty word, but a source of pride. It's feeling understood.

Turkey- Day one...

I almost lost my turkish mittons at last night's party. It's a pair of red mittons that hang on my front door from Turkey. I keep them there because the restaurant owner who presented them to us smiled and said "they are for your good luck" never have I ever felt so at home and at peace as I did in Turkey.... The mittons hung on my door almost forgotten but Saturday evening as I saw them absent I felt a sense of loss, over a silly pair of mittens... the truth is, Turkey was the beginning of a change in the way I saw life. Lately I feel myself growing and changing spiritually and emotionally. Seeing things with new eyes as though for the first time. The evolution most markedly began from my trip to Turkey. Remembering the mittens and how much they mean to me... I began reflecting on my trip, trying to understand exactly what it was that moved me so deeply from that trip. As I browsed my old entries from a journal I kept on our trip, I found myself nostalgic for that magical city that touches two continents, and thought I'd share my entries... This is day one:

Turkey here we come! We got off the airport. Got our luggage and took a cab. Let’s rewind. We 1st get approached by a man saying he’ll take us to via their airport shuttle. How much? Mind you, he didn’t blink an eye-30 euros. Is he crazy or does he presume we are? I knew he was lying without shame and attempting to use us. Yet, at this point I found it amusing. Particularly when the price fell every ten steps we took away from him.

Taxi driver stops at a friend’s hotel enroute to Side hotel (pronounced Seeday otel). “Side no good!” he shakes his finger and grunts. I saw you taxi-man. Talking about us… fresh bait in your car, now you tell us where we should go. How much commission will your friend give you for redirecting us? Interesting.

Side hotel- not bad. Clean-bed-shower-toilet. Rug on the floor and even a sofa. Not so bad. Can’t complain.

Day one, I feel… Turkey is beautiful, well Old Istanbul what I have seen. But the people- not so nice. They’ll rip you off in a minute’s chance and call you their Muslim brother while they do it.

Walking through the crowded never-ending bazaars. Haggled by vendors again and again. They jump in front of you, and if you just glance at them- you’re history. They will start following you. Yelling, pleading, begging- come just look. Looking is free. I love India? Oh? I love Pakistan! I love Shah Rukh Khan! I can’t accurately describe this- you just have to be there.

Kashif is upset at the last Muslim Brother. Taxi-man who says “2 dollars” has no meter running, then demands liras.

Liras- all in the millions- makes no sense ….maybe that’s me- the dumb American.

American- “Hm” says the puzzled hotel owner. “Then why are you dark?”

Ok- Pakistani then?

Am I though? Really?

Am I neither to these people? Absolutely nothing at all?

We went into a musjid. Drab and gray with a rounded dome and heaven reaching minarets. But oh- they trick you outside. Inside- so beautiful it will take your breath away. I will never forget what it felt like to see this for the first time. Calligraphy praising the Almighty and intricate mosaic patterns, blue and white and yellow. If this was in America, it would be filled with visitors standing inside marveling in its awe. But it was empty. It was mine and Kashif’s to explore. No one else. Not a soul. We were able to reflect there in silence.

I prayed Maghrib at the Blue Mosque. The Blue Mosque stuns with its opulent grandeur. How can I describe what it is like to pray where thousands have prayed for centuries? To pray in a place that at one time was one of the most powerful kingdoms in the world.

Kashif says… based on history… It as built to rival the Haghia Sophia. Is that worthy of awe? A thing built simply to rival another. Good point. A musjid built by a man with 4 wives and a thousand concubines incase he got bored?

I agree. But you cannot deny the musjid inspires awe. You can’t- it’s a fact.

And I sit here and I see people. Scarfless women, scarved women, Muslims, Christians, etc. coming here to admire this musjid. See the former housing they had by the musjid for the poor and travelers? See the buildings that used to serve as food halls for the poor and elderly and provide medical help free of charge? Do they learn by seeing this…. That yes, Islam is not all we see in the media today. That looking at this musjid…. Islam undeniably is not without beauty?

It is the end of the day and its an interesting feeling I have. I feel at once foreign and in the quiet tranquility of the musjids so completely at home.

Random Update

T-shirts for sale at this website. Thanks Baraka for sharing this link. This site sells t-shirts and the comissions go towards earthquake relief efforts in Pakistan. The proceeds go to the Edhi foundation. From my research I have nothing but the utmost respect for him and his good words to better humanity.





My trial for Alice Adaze is ending soon. I'm trying out for Moot Court. In law school you either try for law review or moot court. Getting one or the other (or both) makes employers happy. I really wanted to do law review but my schedule ruled it out. So moot court it was. I wrote a brief and appealed before three "judges" the plight of my "client" Alice Adaze. She donated to a charity that turned out to have ties to terrorism (Am I breaching lawyer-client confidentiality if she doesnt actually exist? :/). Last week I defended her, this Saturday I must argue against her. Sorry Alice, no hard feelings.


I'm hosting an iftaar Saturday. Same day of my moot court argument. Catering rocks! Let's see how much time that actually saves. My rationale was that after moot court I will have no energy to study anyways..... ***Disclaimer*** the picture of samosas looked nice and representative of iftaar, however no samosas will be served, I repeat no samosas will be served. :)

My friend humera did an externship for med school here and leaves Sunday. I've had so much fun but it sucks that she's leaving. Since college I've never had a friend nearby that I could just call up and hang out with..... forgot how nice that was. (Yes, I hang out and go shopping with my husband, but it's different when you're shopping with a fellow female!) We've known one another for ten years now and back then I may not have appreciated just how rare a good friend is, but now that I'm slightly older, and a teeny bit wiser I realize it's value. It's good because I appreciate it. It's sad because I'll miss it.


I have exams very soon. In Law School you only get one exam per class. That's it. One subjective essay and they will judge the material. I don't like it. But it is how it is. My studying will be upped considerably for the next few weeks. I plan to continue posting as blogging is a creative outlet that I need after hours of reading case books... But I hope that I can maintain the focus I need to do well. A lot rides on just a few exams. Insh'allah I'll do okay.

The Devil really does wear Prada

It's the title of a book but it's true. I speak of my ex-boss. And yes she really does wear Prada, and yes, she really is the devil, or an agent thereof. Here's a sample. Just as memory began fading, I learned of the sad new happenings at my former job....

Our PE teacher, of 12 years- quit. No two week notice. No other job. Single mother. I was stunned. I knew "Ms. Prada" frustrated her as she did everyone... but she needed that job....To make it worse, if you quit mid-year, the school board can revoke your teaching certificate, and you are blacklisted from ever teaching again in all nearby counties....

Even more tragic, last week, our custodian who half jokingly complained, "that woman is gonna give me a heart attack." Actually had a heart attack at the school and passed away.The second one to have a heart attack at this school under her watch.

She was the scary kind of evil... because you never knew when it was coming... She could come into your classroom and announce "your teacher is not teaching you correctly"... told the staff "Like God commands woman to obey man, so you shall obey your boss"... the type that would suspend a mentally challenged child because he giggled outloud on award day... interrupting her speech..... and then during the staff meeting, mocked him! Who wouldn't get the AC fixed and yelled at us for being ungrateful. And screamed at us as icestorms brewed outside and we wore layers because we had no heat...Who announce reprimands to teachers on the intercom "Ms. Brown's class was awful today and had the lowest math scores"... tell me, why would you leave ? If you watch Desperate Houswives, Lynette's boss, Nina IS my boss! She like Nina, told our PE teacher, "Your son's daycare won't cover you till 6pm tonight... so? What about the people who choose not to have kids? It's not fair, you better figure out what to do"... people may think Nina is a caricature, but I tell you today, she is no legend, she is no myth, she is very very real. And she wears Prada.

Faces in the Mirror

As the numbers continue to rise, there are moving stories of heroism as well. Two siblings 7 and 9 pulled their 7 month old sister out of the rubble and walked towards the nearest town for help because everyone in their town was dead. After walking on foot for hours they convinced some authorities to come back to rescue their sister in the rubble. Sunday, eight days after the earthquake, the authorties pulled out their sister, alive.

When the Tsunami hit... one of my colleagues was in Thailand scuba diving. He said he felt some sudden pressure but nothing more. When him and his group came to the surface the boat was gone. Miles out, they had no idea which way was shore. So they swam and swam until they reached an island. Out of 20 people they began with only 6 made it to the island. To hear about the before and after from someone who was there, made me see everything differently.

With this earthquake.. the tears remain so close to the surface.. I've been watching the news, the links, the videos... I got this way after 9/11, the Tsunami... I don't know why.... but I think the problem is the images. One of my friends once said that when you're driving and you see an accident, avert your eyes because you may see something that will scar into your head for the rest of your life. I think that's what's happened. I can't get the images out of my head. Anytime I have some quiet time to think, they come to me and I see them and I can feel their pain... I've been in Michigan, I've felt the cold... but not as I tried to sleep through the night... I've lost my home in a hurricane... but I didn't have to live in a tent for months or years ... and wonder if starvation would kill me.... I have a husband, brothers, parents.. the thought of losing any I feel like I'd die myself, but there are people who've lost everyone.... not just family, but entire generations...

The hardest part is there will be no closure. Tragedy is tragedy. No way to look reflectively and make "peace" and move on. Maybe I will carry this sadness for years to come, maybe all my life... But you have to handle pain productively... The important thing is to donate, ask others to donate, write about them occasionally to make sure they stay remembered, and to make my life meaningful for the sake of the people who will never have the chance.

I will write about other things, and think of other things, but they will always be with me in my heart and my thoughts, and always a part of my prayers. I will not forget them and to the extent that I can, I will do my part.

One Week Later....

For the shattered spirits....

the poor ....

the cold....

the dearly departed...
and those hanging on....

for those who weep

and those who can't fathom

I promise not to forget.
The ones in the midst are facing a test,
but we are facing a test too...
Watching their suffering and their pain
what will we do?
Look away? Watch? Do?
As the famous cliche states:
"To whom much is given, much is expected"
One week later as you drift from the media's minds eye....
as though it's all wrapping up...
not just beginning....
We will not forget.

Aunties and Uncles..... and very random thoughts...

Desis call everyone in our culture who would be "Mr." or "Ms" , uncle and auntie. The slightly older than us are bhai/baji (brother/sister). The blood auntie's and uncle's have further specific names like mamoo/mamee (maternal uncle/his wife).

Today I saw an uncle who lost his children. He had a bewildered expression. "school gayai thay... vapus nahin abhi ayain". (They went to school.. they aren't back yet).. It struck me how he was "Uncle". If I saw him a stranger on the street here in America, I would call him Uncle. When my cousins first immigrated from Pakistan we got a kick out of hearing them call Americans Uncle/Auntie/Baji. My brothers would often say "Is Summer Baji, or Tiffany baji coming over?"

when I saw Uncle it felt like something holding me up collapsed.... I think its because I understood him. His inflection, his bewilderment. If his fortune was different I might have taught his students in Sunday School and seen him at dinner parties.... To call someone auntie, or uncle is a very close term.... Why shouldn't it be? Arent they my uncle, auntie? What makes them not? They are a part of me and I am a part of them. They are my family. I am their family. We come from the same place. We believe in the same things.

It's not all about race ofcourse. The pain of the people losing loved ones in Guatemala is devestating.... entire ancient cities covered in mud.... generations wiped out. We cant see ourselves in the little compartments based on skin color and religion that we shelve ourselves into and only care if it affects "us". We are all part of one race. We are people. The only thing seperating me from "them" is the good fortune to not be where they are.

But can I say that the devestation of Pakistan haunts me particularly? The faces coming out of the rubble look eerily familar......They are my Uncles, Aunties, Baji's, Bhai's and I hate that I can't be there for them like they need me. I want to go there. I want to dig through the cement. I want to hold the motherless children. I want to pass out water and food. There is nothing more helpless than sitting a world away just watching. I don't want to watch the images on TV but then I feel I must. I owe it to them to care. So what if I cry. Maybe if I watch them I wont get desensetized. I will remember to think of them, and to pray for my uncles, aunties, baji's and bhai jaans out there.

If you made it to the bottom of this incoherent ramble, thanks for listening. I just feel low, I needed an outlet to express it.

This land is my land.... This land is your land.....From New Orleans... to the Himalayas...

19,136 dead. Tonight in Pakistan, people sleep outdoors in the rain. Others in the mountains pray only to survive tonight.When tragedy hits, the poorest are hit hardest, harder still those in poor nations.... Jane, BBCD and Baraka have donation links.... and ofcourse, please pray.

Klukked!

Yay, Baraka klukked me! (Icelandic for tagged.... think slam books if you had those in highschool, they were all the rage)... Well I've never been klukked/tagged before so I feel like I've been inducted into an honorary club... how solemn! :)

So here are five random things about me! ** click on pics to enlarge**

My first week of teaching I called my second grade teacher, Ms. Nemoynten and thanked her. It's funny because when she picked up the phone and said "hi this is me aisha ... and I was in your second grade class and wanted to thank you"... and we had a pleasant conversation but now that I've taught for a few years I wonder if one of them called me randomly 15 years later if I'd know who they were with just a first and last name. I wonder now if she had no clue who was calling.


When I was 13 I wrote a novel and was quite proud of myself. I showed it to people who threw it back at me after reading it saying "you totally knocked off the movie Ghost" The funny thing was I had never seen the movie in my life. After seeing it I felt a sense of loss that I had come up at the age of 13 a multi-million dollar idea, too late! (Same thing happened again with different idea but similarly someone else wrote up what I was going to) Goes to show its not the idea one has but how quickly one acts upon it. With the world as populous
and diverse as it is, odds are someone might have the same idea as you.


I loved reading as a child but I have one not-so-pleasant memory. My little brother Ali wanted to play with me but I was engrossed in a book. He must have been 4 or 5 years old and he was literally begging me to play with him. And I ignored him and kept reading. He walked away so sad. I still remember that. I wish I'd played with him.


On our first anniversary Kashif and I climbed Grouse Mountain a.k.a. The Peak Of Vancouver. "It is an extremely steep and mountainous trail that climbs to 1,100 meters over a distance of 2.9 kilometres". On an empty stomach. Yes, a mountain. With no food. When we went to Grouse mountain the information desk said it was a 30 minute walk up, so we figured, "why not?" ha. ha. ha.


I didn't get to say Kabul Kabul Kabul on my wedding. All my life I wanted to say that. I watched movies and dramas where the dramatic moment arrives and the bride is asked "apko kabul hain" (Do you accept). (In pakistani culture when the bride gets married the imam asks the girl three times if she will accept the man to be her husband) Well our Imam did a 180 and said "will you let your dad take care of business" (I'm paraphrasing)... uh... I nodded kind of confused.... and then I vaguely recall him asking my dad if he'll let me marry Kashif and then I was married! WHAT. oh well, alls well that ends well I guess though I wish "renewing vows" was a trend in desi culture.


The five people (and one for good luck) I hereby klukk are: Aamina, Ash, Huda, Nadia, Jane, and Eun Ha

What we may lack in birthday candles we make up for in creativity....

(Kashif's birthday cake from our trip to visit his folks)

Happy Birthday Kashif! Age- is just a state of mind. The age you feel is your age you'll find. I'm lucky to be married to someone so kind. *it's official: the paper i'm writing has fried my brain :-)*. You are as old as you feel. Smile. Enjoy your life. Remember your blessings because you are one of mine. And I look forward to many more birthdays together. Insh'allah.

As Ramadan Approaches

This grave is the grave of Marali Saab. Everyone has someone who was the first. Marali Saab is the first known Muslim on my father's side of the family. According to the family tree he converted in the late 1400's. Six hundred years later his choice endures. As a side note, I believe we all have our own personal ways to believe and worship God and that God being GOD accepts and understands each person's sincerity. This Ramadan I started thinking of Marali Saab. I don't know much about him besides his name and where he lived. I wish I could learn why he chose to convert, if he faced animosity, or if he inspired others to do the same. It began in India and then continued in Pakistan and now has reached the other side of his world. If he only knew. I wonder what he'd think. I believe in Islam from my own will... but in part... thanks to him, and the choice he made over 600 years ago, insh'allah I will be celeberating Ramadan this week . Ramadan Mubarak.