Before displacement and before the Israeli unlawful occupation, people had the freedom of choice! The reader feels displaced in time, place, and theme through a narrative that describes Palestine as it used to be; Palestine that we see in old albums, not the one we see in the news! Palestine’s history is based on memory. Let us not forget then! Yazan Abu- Hijleh has no intention of forgetting his past, as he re-narrates his grandfather’s story.

Yazan Najeh Abu Hijleh is Carnegie Mellon sophomore in Information Systems, and is pursuing a minor in History.

“Pfffffffffffft, this one is too far from home” My sister walks in, slamming the door to the house behind her. She has just come back from an interview for a job she had been interested in. She throws her designer purse on the table in front of me and Grandfather, and sits down opposite to him. We have been talking about how things were in Jordan, as he was only visiting us for a couple of weeks. He says, “Wi’am, you shouldn’t be picky if you are looking for a job. You’ve turned down offers for good jobs that others would gladly take, given the current economic situation. You should know how people used to work when I was your age.”

You need to know why you are working, Wi’am. When I took my first job, I was the son of a wealthy landlord in Dayr Istia. I had just married at the time but I still could’ve had lived off of my father’s land. I could have been the stereotypical wealthy son that squanders his father’s money, because Abu Hijleh’s olive field stretched as far as the eye can see. However, I decided to work for the roof over my head and food on my table, and started to look for a job. I wanted to be an independent man, but more importantly, I wanted to benefit the world around me. When I started working, it was 1944, and the world had just come out of a major war. I thought that with my extensive and costly education, I would get my chance to give back to the world.

http://www.hejleh.com/tree/album.html

Even though I had the intention and education to work in Nablus, it was impossible to find proper transport and living arrangements. Nablus was the nearest city to Dayr Istia, and it is twenty five kilometers away if you take the main roads of today. We lived in an agricultural village and had not felt the aftermath of the Second World War as those in the cities have. Outside Nablus, the railways had been bombed and imports ceased. I could not find transportation from home to the cities, even though my education meant I would get an important job. I couldn’t even work in my hometown. Although I had the skills to work many jobs, Dayr Istia was so small that I could only be a teacher and they were fully staffed. So I accepted what I could find and worked in nearby villages, such as Azun, Qalqilya, which were on main roads to the east. If I could not work there, I would work in Dayr Balut, which is south of Dayr Istia.

Working was more than teaching the students at school, because walking to work almost became a job itself. Since motorized transport was not as available as it is today, I had to rely on busses and hitchhiking to get to work or home, and walking when I couldn’t find a faster way to go where I need to. If I was lucky, a farmer with a donkey cart would pick me up and drop me off at home. Otherwise, the walking took as much as five hours, although I admit I enjoyed the beautiful scenery on my way. The several kilometer treks to work felt like a stroll in Eden. In the Springs I spent there, I often took detours to walk through fields of lemon and orange trees, the colorful fruit adding much needed variety to my boring walks. The olive trees stood out the most, their evergreen species outlasting the others in the winter, and bringing a heavy return if the rain was plentiful. Even though my little excursions brightened up my days, I often had to stay at a village for several days at time due to unreliable transportation or bad weather. As such, I could only see my family for a weekend at most before going back to work.

My frequent travel also meant I had more exposure to the world than the typical wealthy heir at the time, if there was such a thing. I often asked for directions and visited new places, either by losing my way or as part of my detours. At first, it seemed strange to see many women working on farmland. Since I was sheltered, it was not obvious to me that in a typical family, everyone must do their share of the work. My father only hired men to tend his lands because he thought they were stronger, but farming families had no such choices. All of this was very new to me, someone who hadn’t felt the consequences of life, and I became interested in people who lived very different lives than I had. I began to see that in the villages, although I only stayed briefly, everyone had found a way to fit in, and nothing was left to waste. The harvest of the year’s olive trees would be ground up in a juicer, its oil used for food and medicine and the remaining paste used in making soaps. Likewise, milk from goats and cows was made into cheese, their hides into clothes and their meat into food. On the roads, I met many others who work in-between villages. I even met people transporting fruits such as figs and pomegranates into markets in the cities, and they told me about where they come from in Palestine. I learnt what I know about different parts of Palestine not from books or television, but from people who lived there. I felt more with my country than ever before. Ironically, I had learned what a home truly means by leaving my hometown and family.

Today, you young ones might have many choices for a job, and end up getting picky about small things, such as the job being 5 minutes further than the other one or having a somewhat lower salary than you expect. I did not have the choices I wanted, but I accepted what was offered. You do not have worry about not seeing your family for days at a time because you have a car. But what I went through is not the point. You should take the job because of its meaning to you, not because of minor differences in location or salary, because having a job and taking responsibility of your life teach you many things.

My sister says, “You had to walk all that, just to get to work?” My Grandfather is pointing on an old, yellowed map of Palestine that has the names of towns in Arabic calligraphy. He is tracing out his travels on it as he speaks about whose farms he had passed and information about those people. My sister picks up her purse and stands up. On her way out of the room, she says over her shoulder, “Pfffffffffffft! What a waste! You could have lived your life anyway you wanted”.

At the beginning of the 2004 school year, students in public schools in France who refused to remove their hijab, turbans or yarmulkes were to be expelled. The illegitimate law was added to the French Code of Education on the 15^th of March 2004, as an extension to France’s existing constitutional concept of “laïcité”, the separation of state and religion. [1] Students had to be faced by the diatomic choice between the freedom to express a religious affiliation and education. Ever since 1905, France has stood secular, dealing with its affairs in a manner away from any religious influence, specifically the previously influential Catholic Church. The law to ban religious symbols in public schools was a new addition to its adopted secular stance towards any conflicting issue in the nation. The French government argues that there are many conditions it has considered before passing such a law, the main one being the further encouragement of religious freedom in public schools. Even after looking into the reasons behind imposing such a law and its consequences, it still remains to me an illegitimate act from the French government. France’s extension of secularism into public schools, framed in such a law, has encouraged the oppression of religion rather than its freedom, which in turn will further encourage religious intolerance within the nation. 

In 1905, France passed a law to declare itself secular, dividing the affairs of the state from the church. Before the law was passed, the Catholic Church not only played a large role in the affairs of the people of France, but even influenced the decisions of the government. Historically, France has always been divided socially due to religion. The French revolution is an example of how social upheavals took place because of conflicting opinions about the influence of the Catholic church. Consequently, after the Revolution of 1789, the new republic sought to control the Catholic Church and began to structure the new secular government. [2]  After 1905, religion was to be seen as a personal matter rather than a state matter. As a result, civil workers were expected to deviate from generating religious manifestations and conduct their duties in a neutral manner.  Such neutrality was to be expanded into the walls of public schools, where teachers were expected to not provoke religious topics and point of views to the students. The announcement of a secular France was made in an attempt to blend social differences in schools specifically, thus allowing students to flourish and learn in an environment free from any tensions that could be generated due to religious topics.  

Because violence in public schools had increased across the nation, the French national assembly and the presidential commission had agreed that imposing the concept of “laïcité” in such schools was the solution to cut down on such violence. To the French government, a solution to its fragmented nation was to further impose a secular attitude even on student’s personal choices in clothing. Patrick Weil, a member of the presidential commission put together to pass the law, argues the ban is necessary for it “ensures the protection of children from fundamentalist pressure yet does not enforce a break in religious ties.”[3] In an article he publishes in opendemocracy.net, he frames the argument of the commission in a manner that legitimizes the law for the sole purpose of freeing Muslim girls from outside pressure to wear the hijab, either from other Muslim students at school or family members. He does, however, acknowledge the unfortunate that girls who wear the hijab out of personal choice will face. But there still remains an opportunity for such girls to express their religion during their education – in private schools rather than public schools. Weil argues that it is crucial to ensure the safety of the students by banning any religious symbols for “Principals and teachers have tried their best to bring back some order in an impossible situation where pressure, insults or violence sets pupils against one another,” but there will be “no question of forbidding religious display in universities or elsewhere in the adult world.”[4] Therefore it is clear that the motive behind the law was to create a uniformity within the walls of public schools, and provide a space for students to be educated away from any religious pressure from family or friends.

Though the reasons mentioned by Weil support a need for action by officials to ensure the safety of the community, religious oppression proves to be the consequence rather than religious freedom. The motive behind the law of banning religious symbols from public schools cannot be questioned, for the general wellbeing of the community is the inspiration. But the law proves incompatible with the intention of the law. Weil states that the ban will not “enforce a break in religious ties,” a statement which I find hypocritical. The notion of a ban encourages attitudes to break away from such religious symbols, for their schools discourage them. Students who choose to wear such religious symbols out of personal choice will feel resentful and oppressed as they attend a school that does not allow them to express themselves fully, especially since they aren’t causing any harm through such expression. Those who are relieved from the pressure to wear such religious symbols because of family or friends will no doubt feel oppressed as well, for they will dwell with an identity confused in two worlds, one representing their schools and the other representing their culture and religion.  Because France has established itself as a secular nation, it is vital to build curriculums that encourage religious tolerance, rather than pretend that such diversity does not exist. France has one of the largest populations of Muslims, Buddhists and Jews in Europe. Therefore, it is crucial that students be exposed to the different ways religions shape a person’s physical appearance. It is necessary to foster an atmosphere where students can become acquainted with different religions, for after school, religious affiliations will be seen in college or the workforce. The ban represents a superficial solution to the matter, for the reason behind the violence has not been solved, rather covered up. This law enforces uniformity, which does not allow students to be exposed to religions, which causes differences to be oppressed rather than embraced. Therefore it is obvious to me that the presidential commission failed to realize the implications of such a ban on its diverse nation, for religious oppression is what is being encouraged, rather than religious freedom.

In conclusion, the ban on religious symbols in public schools in France represents a superficial solution that encourages the oppression of religion, rather than its freedom. Instead of embracing diversity, the French government has infringed the freedom of expression by disallowing students to have the choice to announce their religious affiliation through their clothing. Since the majority of the student population attends public schools, the ban has robbed them from the chance to embrace religious differences and learn how to tolerate them. Instead of investigating the reason motivating students to engage in violent religious acts, the government further widens the gap between religious groups by enforcing them to give up their affiliations while at school. Though secularism has proven to be an effective approach for the French nation, the ban of religious symbols is incompatible with the tolerance such stance encourages. The ban of religious symbols in French schools fosters attitudes of religious oppression rather than religious freedom. 

Endnotes:

[1] “Religion in France.” Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia. 10 Dec 2009, 00:18 UTC. 10 Dec 2009 <http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Religion_in_France&oldid=330763767>.

2 “French Revolution.” Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia. 8 Dec 2009, 11:16 UTC. 10 Dec 2009 <http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=French_Revolution&oldid=330439042>.

3 “A nation in diversity: France, Muslims and the headscarf.” Opendemocracy. 24 March 2004. 1 Dec 2009   <http://www.opendemocracy.net/faith-europe_islam/article_1811.jsp>.

4  “A nation in diversity: France, Muslims and the headscarf.” Opendemocracy. 24 March 2004. 1 Dec 2009   <http://www.opendemocracy.net/faith-europe_islam/article_1811.jsp>.

* Hind Al-Khulaifi is a Junior in Carnegie Mellon University. She is majoring in Business Administration and minoring in English.

 “This is their first step towards erasing our identity..” and “where is our Islamic loyalty? How could we allow such things to be built in Qatar?” are some reactions to Qatar’s decision of building the first church-form building in the country for Christians to perform their religious customs in 2006. However, Qatar did build its first Church despite the disapproval of many. In 2009, Swiss government held a referendum on the issue of building mosques with minarets in Switzerland. The people of Switzerland voted to ban minarets. In an online article about the issue in The Sunday Times[1], Swiss online users expressed their rejection by saying, “tomorrow belongs to us (Europeans). It is time to take Europe back” and that “it is destroying symbols of national heritage and basically annihilating local culture.”

29 November 2009, the Swiss government introduced article 72, paragraph three into the Swiss constitution, banning the construction of new mosques with minarets. On the same day, all news channels covered the gathering of thousands of people carrying candles in the streets of Bern, protesting against Switzerland’s decision. The construction of those minarets has been a political controversy in Switzerland since the building of the first minaret on top of an Islamic community center in Solothurn in 2005. The people of Switzerland have mixed feelings about this particular issue; the Swiss People’s Party, the Federal Democratic Union and “radical feminists” supported the ban; however, Swiss Federal Council, the Federal Assembly and many religious organizations opposed the ban. Should we support those who have deep concerns about Islam weakening their national culture and identity or should we support those who believe that it speaks against the freedom of religion?

 The “No minarets” campaign leaders and supporters believe that the spread of minarets is leading to an erosion of the Swiss and western identity. They view mosque minarets as a political symbol rather than a religious symbol where, Islam becomes a form of identity that is enforced on the country. They argue that accepting the construction of such symbols means following Islamic law and losing control over their own beliefs. Ulrich Schuler, Swiss MP and a leader of anti-minaret campaign says “Soon they will want the introduction of Sharia law.”[2] There are fears that by the acknowledgment of such Islamic symbols, the country will be under the influence of Islam and loose its Swiss and western individuality. The party also spread the thought of how increases in Muslim immigration would lead to an erosion of Swiss values.

Islamic culture is an important part of the European Western identity and cannot be separated. Like New York Times reporters Nick Cumming-Bruce and Steven Erlanger[3], I fail to understand how people believe and support the argument of Islam threatening the Western identity. As the two reporters wrote, supporters of the ban made Islam sound like it is taking over the country even though Switzerland is not at all being overloaded with Muslim extremist or mosques. In fact, there are only 400,000 Muslims out of a population of 7.5 million (less than 4%) and only four mosques with minarets! Yet, 57.5 of Swiss voters supported the ban. Similarly, Aljazeera English reporter Anas Altikriti argues that separating Islamic influence from Swiss culture will only lead to poorer and less meaningful Swiss and Western values.[4] Islam became part of their communities. How can Switzerland even argue whether Islamic structures define its national identity and culture when Swiss Muslims see that their identity as Western and Swiss is inseparable from their faith? Islam is a significant part of the European identity as there are about 30 million European Muslims. Islam contributed in shaping Europe’s modern culture, arts, politics, law, theology, science, and medicine. “By singling them out as suspects and potential enemies within, European societies are creating wide-spread instability and future uncertainty for everyone on the social, economic and political levels.” Altikriti explains.

Not only are minarets viewed as political symbols, but also radical feminists argue that they represent “male power symbols” and stands for “Islam’s oppression of women.” As this claim might sound ridiculous to some people, yet others believe it’s true. To support the ban, groups of radical feminists started a campaign and warned the public about the threats of Islam on woman’s rights. The target of their campaign was to win as much woman’s votes as possible. Their campaign was very successful as the British Times reported, one poll showed that 39% of women were in favor of the ban, but only 31% of men. Julia Werner, a housewife, says: “If we give them a minaret, they’ll have us all wearing burqas. Before you know it, we’ll have Sharia law and women being stoned to death in our streets. We won’t be Swiss any more.”[5]

Removing minarets because they symbolize “male oppression” is based on a misconception about Islam being oppressive to women. How can the building of minarets be symbols of gender discrimination? It’s hard to support the women’s right justification when minarets are built on mosques to issue a call to prayer for both men and women who choose to attend and pray. What’s truly discriminating is the banning of building those minarets. Alex Dibranco[6], Editor of change.com, is confused of how this controversy has turned into a debate about symbols of male power. “Excuse me if I doubt that the 4% of Switzerland’s population who practice Islam would be able to force the women of this secular and three-quarters Christian population” he explains. Yes, there might be individual cases in some Islamic countries at which Muslim women are not given their freedom, but there are also thousands of cases where catholic priests were guilty of molesting young boys. So, if minarets were symbols of gender discrimination, shouldn’t Catholic Churches be symbols of child abuse? Unless the Swiss government would ban all religious symbols, this argument doesn’t hold.

Supporters of the ban believe that it is their right to ban minarets in Switzerland as freedom of speech just like how some Islamic countries are free to refuse to build churches. Rupert Brown, a ban supporter says, “I am all in favor of minarets… when we see churches in Ryadh!!” Saudi Arabia does not allow religious freedom and Christian worship is forbidden. As they argue, Christians in GCC countries are viewed as visitors rather than residents, so they cannot ask for their religious rights. Why give Muslims their rights in a Christian country when they don’t give Christians their right in a Muslim country?

There are a couple of Islamic countries that reject any religious practices other than its own; however, the majority of Islamic countries built a lot of churches and include a lot of Christians as its citizens.  Iran and Saudi Arabia are extreme cases of Islamic countries where the freedom of practicing other religions is not acceptable. Therefore, referring to those two countries as a reason to ban minarets in Switzerland is irrelevant because they overlooked the rest of the Islamic world. In Lebanon and Turkey for example, there are large numbers of Church’s and mosques where people of both beliefs practice their religious customs and rituals. Unlike the supporters of the ban’s claim, Christians are not viewed as visitors in GCC countries. How can they be viewed as visitors when foreign labor constitutes the majority of those countries populations? There have been Christian churches and Christian community centers in Kuwait, Bahrain, Qatar, the UAE and Oman since the nineties and even long before that.

In conclusion, supporters of the ban argue that minarets threaten their Identity, imposes Islamic law, promote gender discrimination and that it is a matter of freedom of speech whether to accept the ban or not. All arguments do not hold because they are based on misconceptions about Islam. Minarets are not political symbols to enforce Islamic law or male domination symbols; they are simply harmless religious structures to call Muslim men and women of all nationalities for prayer. The entire decision to hold a referendum is unacceptable because voting whether to keep minarets or remove them is just like voting whether to believe in religious freedom or refuse it. Therefore, with the banning of the minarets goes Switzerland’s religious tolerance.

Endnotes:

[1]http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/world/europe/article6936267.ece

2http://english.aljazeera.net/focus/2009/11/2009112962232246955.html

3http://www.nytimes.com/2009/11/30/world/europe/30swiss.html?_r=1

4http://english.aljazeera.net/focus/2009/12/200912281637353840.html

5http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/world/europe/article6936267.ece

6http://womensrights.change.org/blog/view/swiss_ban_minarets_is_this_about_womens_rights_or_wronging_religion

*Amna Khalid Al-Hetmi is an Information Systems junior at Carnegie Mellon University in Qatar.

“Amna with your right hand” my mom whispers while I hand my grandfather a small cup of Arabic coffee. He takes it and starts sipping slowly while staring at my wrist with great focus. He is unusually silent. “Do you like my watch Ybaa- father? It’s one of my mom’s very old jewelry, but pearls are very fashionable these days” I joke. He finishes his coffee and shakes the cup twice indicating that he doesn’t want anymore. His black sparkling eyes follow my hand as I take the cup. His eyebrows cross and his eyes tighten like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle. Suddenly, he says “Gmasha!” I laugh and reply “Ybaa I’m Amna not Gmasha!” everyone in the room laughs at my comment except my grandfather.

He points to my watch and says “those pearls are called Gmash. They are medium sized and very valuable. Danah… Hessah… Hasbah… Yakkah… Mozah… Badlam… Jmanah… Fraidah are also names of pearls we used to find,” he tells me and sighs with no traces of a smile. “Why the sadness in your tone Ybaa?” I ask confused. “No my dear  … I’m not sad but the pearls took me back to the days” he closes his eyes and inhales heavily “The Days of Enaad”.

“I was only eleven years old when my uncle Rashid bin Khalifa bin Hetmi, the Nokhitha (the captain and often the owner of the ship) of Enaad decided to take me on my first pearling trip. Back then; Enaad was one of the biggest and fastest Sinbooks (traditional Gulf wooden ship) in the whole Gulf region. Youm Rkabah (trip day) was the happiest day of my life. I was swollen by pride. All my friends and cousins were jealous because, I was about to leave on a two to four-month pearling trip on the great Enaad. I was about to sail with the men, while they stay on shore with the kids and women. On that morning, we all walked to the shore, women children and elders. The sun was rising from elmatla’a (East) while the sailors continued loading Enaad with cargo. The wind was blowing from elyaah (North) bringing with it a slight smell of fish and seawater on the perfect summer day for our trip. And there…” my grandfather points to the front, “was Enaad. The most beautiful and glorious Sinbook I ever saw. Everyone sailed on it came back a hero.”

“Ybaa you were only eleven! What were you thinking going onto that trip?” I interrupt.

“Ya ybaa it was a great honor. I was uncle Rashid’s tabaab (young boys, often related to one of the crewmembers); I used to help in getting the sailors water when they got thirsty, drying their clothes whenever it got wet, cleaning their dishes after they ate and even sweeping the ship sometimes. There were about 80 sailors onboard. There was the Nokhitha, uncle Rashid. Everyone feared him, but at the same time they all respected him. He was very tough with the sailors. Each and every order he gave had to be obeyed without any discussions. He was very precise and punctual. Everything had to go according to plan. The person with the most power after the Nokhitha was the Mejdemi (captain’s assistant), and he was the chief of the sailors. Not only was he responsible for the sailors on the ship, but he was also responsible for supplying the ship with food, water and diving supplies before it sailed. And of course there were the Ghaiss (divers)…”

I interrupt excitedly: “They are the ones that jump off the ship collecting oysters from the bottom of the sea, right?”

“Yes, they are, my dear. Those divers have the most difficult and dangerous job on the sinbook. When the Nokhitha decides that we have reached the perfect Hair (pearling location), he asks them to dive in and start collecting. Once in the water, the divers clip their noses with the Ftaam (a nose peg made of turtle shell). Some of them used to put some wax inside their ears to protect their hearing as well. The divers used to hold on to two ropes hung from the ship. One used to loop around one of their ankles with very heavy stones attached to it, to help them sink quickly to the seabed. The other one had the Dyeen (net basket attached). The divers used to hold it while they sunk down to the seabed. Once they reach the bottom, they would hang the Dyeen around their necks and swim along collecting as many oysters as they could and placing them into the basket. Back on the ship, there were the Saib (pullers), strong men with strong powerful shoulders. They were responsible for pulling the oyster basket as well the divers back to the surface.”

“What if they don’t pull them back? How can the divers trust them? I wouldn’t!” I ask my grandfather.

My grandfather laughs and continues “they had to… they had to trust them. Saibs were usually older men with more experience because a diver’s life depended on them, you know! Whenever the diver thought that he couldn’t hold his breath any longer, he would release his ankle from the weight attached and then he would pull the Dyeen rope as signal that he wants to be pulled back up. In the summer, they could stay for five to eight minutes under the water, but in the winter they could not stay for more than three minutes.”  My grandfather points to my watch and says “and most of the sailors participate in opening the oysters to find the pearls. It was the most joyful activity onboard. They would pile up the oysters on deck and sit down each with a Mflaga (knife) to open them. It’s amazing how much joy and pride this little round thing brought to us. Some types of pearls might be attached to their shells. Not anyone could take them out; he had to be an expert. They used to call him the Fallag (expert in opening the oysters and getting out the pearls). Around the pile used to stand four Natoors (guards) watching…”

“Why were they watching? Did anyone ever steel?” I interrupt again.

My grandfather laughs: “Actually some of them did try to steel. If you found a Dana worth 30 thousand Rubyas (currency) wouldn’t you be tempted to take it? I remember one time; one of the Natoors came to the Nokhitha and told him that one of the Fallags hid a pearl. The Nokhitha went to the Fallag and asked him to tell the truth and confess. The Fallag didn’t and he kept lying. The Nokhitha took one of the ships halyards, which was attached to its uppermost point (the head), and tied it around the Fallag’s ankle. He then ordered the sailors to pull the rope, raising the Fallag and hanging him upside down in the air. All the sailors laughed and made fun of him. The Nokhitha asked him again to confess, but he didn’t. He asked the sailors to pull the rope again, raising him higher. Although everyone else was laughing at him, this was not a joke to the Nokhitha. He wanted to teach him and the other sailors a lesson. He wanted to show the sailors that nobody gets away with stealing and that whatever treasures we found should be shared fairly according to effort. The Nokhitha asked one of the sailors to look for the pearl in the Fallag’s stuff and he found it, the stolen pearl. The Fallag immediately confessed and apologized but the Nokhitha decided that he was not qualified for this job anymore as he lost the crew’s trust.”

My grandfather pauses and points to the Arabic coffee pot on the table. I realize that he wants more: “oh! Inshallah” (If God wills). I pour some coffee into his small cup and hand it to him. He blows into his cup once and takes two fast sips. He closes his eyes and moves his body slowly left and right with the cup in his right hand and sings “Hollow YaAllah.. Hollow YaAllah Alhaadi.. Aah Tahdeena..” He opens his eyes and says: “we used to sing a lot onboard with the Naham (professional singer).” I laugh and say: “He was the lead singer of the band?” My grandfather replies: “Yes his main job onboard was to sing and lift the sailors’ spirits. He used drums, clay pots and even seashells as musical instruments. Aaaa Yabaa! He used to sing the most beautiful mwaweel (hymning poetry showing the singer’s vocal skills) and songs. The crew used to sing after him, clap their hands and even tap their feet on the wooden deck. We had a song for every action and event. It was amazing how those songs kept us going and motivated everyone on the ship to keep working under the heat and in the middle of the sea…”

My grandfather talks, while I think to my self: “Was singing their interpretation of having fun? How was that fun? They could just stay onshore and sing… Was the risk worth it?” My grandfather stops talking and looks at me. He starts: “Amna I know what you’re thinking?” I look at him with confusion and smile without saying anything. He continues: “Yes it was tiring, hard and very … very risky. The sea was dangerous. We didn’t have accurate weather forecast like today. We depended on our own predictions and guesses, so we didn’t know if it would be stormy or windy the next day. However, it was all worth it back then. We became men. Real men. We never thought about how much money we made. We just wanted to provide our families with the best lives we could offer. It was all for our mothers, fathers, wives and children. We were never defined by how much money we had in our pockets, rather by how loyal, trusted, devoted, and hardworking we were.” He stops and looks at my watch. He smiles, says: “Now if they knew the pearls would end up on a kid’s wrist, I’m sure they would’ve thought of something else to do” and laughs hysterically along with everyone in the room.

The notion of change can bring about numerous kinds of feelings. Whether excitement or fear, change is inevitable in our daily lives. Only when we allow ourselves to change from within, do we realize we have improved not only ourselves but our surroundings. With these words, Hind Al-Khulaifi sums up the experience she discloses in her self-portrait. It is the anticipated change that a girl goes through by becoming a woman; it is the change that comes with entering marriage and beginning a family of her own; it is a transition that all females go through, but is still different to each. A lovely narrative of a young woman who takes us through the facts as well as the emotions behind them, making it unique to her yet echoes the experiences of other young women.

Hind Al-Khulaifi is a Junior in Carnegie Mellon University. She is majoring in Business Administration and minoring in English. She enjoys visiting family and traveling.

It has been about 3 months since my new life has started. Being a wife is an inspiring role. It is a title of responsibility and confidence, where my opinions now serve to complete the thoughts of my companion. Everyday I am faced with new choices to make on my own, as I work towards maintaining my house and college obligations. I have become a women faster than I anticipated, almost stripping myself from the assurance and attachment associated with being a daughter under the shadow of her mother. But my state of mind has not always been this strong and confident. It was only recently that I’ve realized the strength I had to make decisions for myself.

Before I got married, my life has revolved around the satisfaction and safety I felt from the presence of my parents and siblings in my daily life. Ever since I was born, my father’s title as an ambassador made us move to numerous countries, but never did I feel unsettled. It did not matter if my father would leave an embassy this year or the next. As long as we traveled as a group and settled in a new place as a group, the destination was merely an adventurous new stop for me.

After finally settling in Doha at the age of 12, I realized how strong my attachment was to my mother. Instead of taking advantage of the chances I had to make choices for myself, I constantly rushed to seek the decision from my mother. Unintentionally, my mother became my second consciousness because I had allowed her to take control of how I thought and acted. Even in my teenage years, after entering a store, I would stick to her side and grab whatever caught her attention to try on and in most cases buy. I wanted to be the same daughter she was to her parents and the same sister she was to her siblings. For these reasons, her approval and insight became mandatory for every new step I was to take, for only then did I feel confident and assured that I was doing what seemed to be right.  

As my attachment to my mother grew stronger as I grew older, I started to realize how afraid I was of change. My fear reached its climax when my father was asked to become the ambassador of Qatar in Japan. This new job posting would mean that my mother was bound to leave with my father and younger siblings to Japan. I had just started my second year of college and transferring to a university in Japan was not an option my mother allowed me to consider. I was devastated and in denial of the major life change that was about to take place for my family. Even if it was planned for me to stay in Doha with my younger sister and older brother, I felt alone and scared of how I was to lead my life with my mother oceans away. Anger, frustration, fear and confusion took over my mind. When communicating my fears to my mother, she constantly repeated that “everything happens at a certain time for a certain reason.” At the time I did not appreciate her response but rather despised the person I allowed myself to become. I started to feel resentful towards my mother for allowing me to get too attached to her. Why couldn’t I just take the new life change smoothly like my other siblings who were to stay behind as well?  For many related reasons, my father refused the offer and decided it was not the right time to leave Doha.

I had thought that nothing can threaten me with change as much as this incident did. But I was wrong when I was introduced to the notion of getting married. Even after realizing that my husband was the best match for me, fears of becoming independent controlled my thoughts and made me feel insecure. How was I to leave my house and start a new life without my mother? Was I ready to make decisions on my own or with my husband without constantly referring to my mother for approval? Such thoughts made getting married almost impossible to me even up to the last month before the wedding. 

As the preparations of the wedding occupied my time, my mother started deliberately to insist that I make my own choices. She also began to refer to me for insight, either if it was about my father or the constant troubles of the household. “Your father asked for my opinion about him investing in the Pearl, do you think I should encourage him?” and other kinds of questions I had to respond to. At first I was confused and rarely gathered enough confidence to speak what I thought was the right choice.  And because my mom thought that it was the right time to encourage me to stand up to what I thought was right, I slowly allowed myself to detach from her influence. As the wedding day got closer and my new life was about to begin, I realized I was making choices I never thought I was to take by myself.  

My father has recently accepted to become the new ambassador of Qatar in Germany and my family will leave in a month. Looking back, I realized that I got married at this certain time for this certain reason. My parents will leave Doha feeling assured that they have left behind a confident daughter who is not confined to their shadow anymore. Instead of being fearful of them being oceans away, I am excited about my new life. I aim to be the same mother my mother was to her children not because I can be, but because I want to be. And when that certain time for that certain reason will come, Inshallah I will.  

Stories of occupation and resistance should be told by people who witnessed it. Arab countries have been subjected to centuries of colonialism and are living through a phase of new-colonialism. “Freedom” is an abstract concept that doesn’t mean anything anymore. In defying Eurocentric histories, there is a need to record our own history, and thus reclaim our past, pride, and identity. Douaa does exactly this in her historical story. Its title is a lesson that has been transmitted from her grandfather’s generation to ours, and which we need to pass to the next generations. Her grandfather’s wisdom should be a message that we carry, or otherwise it means that we are people who never learn from history!

Douaa Dalle is an Information System major, with a minor in Business Administration. She’ll graduate from Carnegie Mellon University in Qatar in 2011. She is a visual writer, as she is able to capture the complexity of scenes and encapsulate them in words.  She is a Lebanese, which may explain it, being exposed to nature and different landscapes and climates. 

Sheba'a Village, taken by Douaa Dalle

Sheba'a Village, taken by Douaa Dalle

In 1996, in Sheba’a village, donkeys brayed and cocks crowed during the early mornings’ hours. Sheba’a is the very last village in the south of Lebanon, far away from everything and seems to be at the end of the world. My grandfather was sitting on the balcony of our house in Sheba’a drinking his morning Turkish coffee. His eyes scanned the view. The tops of “jabal el sheik” – el sheik mountain- vividly appeared to the eye. The mountain was covered with layers of green and its top was bold like my grandfather head.  Vogue formed around the tops of the mountain like an old man’s beard. I put on my sweeter and sat with my grandfather on the balcony. I asked him “Jedo why do we go under so much regulation when we enter Sheba’s? Why do we have to leave the car and walk for a while and keep waiting until the car comes back and take us? Why do we give our passports to those men holding the klashenkof?  This whole thing is scary. If I didn’t like it here, I would’ve never come and went through all this”.

It was just one day before that morning when we came to Sheba’a. We used to pay Sheba’a a visit every summer. As a kid I really liked it here. For me it was the place where adventures began. I used to play in the stream and splash my cousins. We used to go to the fields wearing farming boots, harvest blackberries, eat them and paint our faces with its juice. After covering our faces with the red juice we used to go to our parents, screaming “Blood! Bloooooooood!” However, as much as I had beautiful dreams about Sheba’a I had nightmares. Entering Sheba’a was a nightmare for me. Before the year 2000 Sheba’a was under the Israeli occupation. The journey from Beirut to Sheba’a was both tiring and terrifying. We couldn’t go with any car as the car and the driver must be licensed and registered with the Israeli authorities in Sheba’a borders. That is why we used to end up with rather an old and uncomfortable vehicle, in which, God only knows, how many people squeezed.  The road to Sheba’a was curvy and bumpy crossing mountains and valleys. As soon as we arrive to the borders, my mother would explain the list of don’ts. The one that really stood out is when she said: “when we’re waiting in the line, don’t throw anything on the ground even a tissue”.  And when I asked her about the reason, she responded: “you will irritate these men with guns. They will think you threw something dangerous.” we used to leave the car so it can be searched extensively and head to a building where we waited in a queue. The scene of men carrying weapons, wearing mirror sunglasses and moving around the place never left my memory.   The queue used to be long and extend outside the building. After having our passports checked, we used to sit in a place outside waiting for the car. The seats were made of rusty copper which absorbed the heat of the summer. There was a rusty sunshade that trembled and squeaked as the wind blew.

Why do we have to suffer to enter our own land? This question never left my mind.  To answer my questions, my grandfather gazed at el Sheik Mountain and said “well my dear, because our land hasn’t been ours for a long time.” He paused and by looking at me, he spotted the bewilderment into my eyes.   He said “see now it is the Israelis; before them was the French and before them the Turks.” I didn’t really get what he was saying but I knew there will be a story to hear. My grandfather continued “my dear kid never be fooled like your grandfather. When the French came in 1922, they told us they were saving us from the Turks and protecting us. Many people believed that including me. They built hospitals and schools, offered jobs and distributed some home supplies. We Arabs are really simple people or at least I know we were. We seek peace of mind and do not want any problems. We worked to support our families and as long as our families were safe and happy then we were as well. Most of us were pleased with what the French had offered us. I, for example, had enrolled myself in 1941 in the French army. For me, it was a good position. I got good incentives and money, plus it was in the radiotelephone unit. The radiotelephone unit was only for internal security, basically just like policemen, which didn’t include all the serious fighting in the battle fields. Year after year under the rule of the French, numbers of rebels were increasing. People started recognizing that the French were here as occupiers not protectors. I, on the other hand, was satisfied with my position in the French army and didn’t want any problems.” My grandfather shook his head with downcast eyes in embarrassment and said “how foolish of me.”

My grandfather lowered his head for a while, gazing at the floor. Then he took a deep breath, rose up his head and continued: “once in 1946, there was a protest that the French government allowed, because most probably they thought that this way the rebels can release their anger in a safe manner. My unit was responsible of keeping the protesters away from critical governmental areas. There were too many protesters at that day that we couldn’t restrain them. When our officer saw that the protesters were going out of control, he shouted at the top of his voice “tuez les, shoot them! Shoot them now!” I was terrified, ya jedo (grandpa), I didn’t sign up for this. Killing one of my people wasn’t an option for me, neither allowing my colleagues to do so. I started screaming in Arabic to my Arab colleagues “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! They are Arabs just like you”. The French officer in command suddenly said to me in a broken accent “sme’atak ya Dalle…… I heard you”.  The slavish officer understood what I said. He sent me to my barrack and issued a rule of disobeying direct orders against me. I was sent to jail for a month. I’m proud of those thirty days more than anything.  After I was released, the French army offered me my job back; they also offered me a French passport. This incident and spending time in jail with men of honor opened my eyes to the ugly truth. Without hesitation, I rejected both their offers and joined the resistance army. Unfortunately I was a little bit late because I only spent 2 years fighting until we got our independence from the French. I regret the years that I didn’t spend with the men in the resistance army. My dear daughter what they gave us were lies. They were an occupation with all the ugly meanings that this word holds.  They took our land, they stole our blessings, and worst of all they tried to occupy our minds.”

My grandfather’s last statements left a questioning looks on my face, therefore he continued “when the French came, people has been suffering from the corruption of the Turkish rule. Turks in their last days had banned the use of Arabic, and had started gathering high taxes from people or in other words they robbed us. Turks soldiers sometimes would get into our houses against our well and steal the moneh-stored food – like the bags of wheat and rice. I believed France was coming in our rescue,” my grandfather laughed in bitterness.  “But the school they opened was an attempt to detach us from our roots. They gradually attempted to erase everything that signified who we are. They also banned Arabic in schools and fought our heritage and religion. See my kid they were smart and we should give them credit for that. My dear daughter if they erase our language and heritage they’ll erase our past. With no past, our present disappears and we become like clay with no shape or definition. Then they’ll be able to shape us and define us, and there is no worse form of occupation than the occupation of a human’s soul.”  My grandfather paused and looked straight into my eyes, he leaned so that his face met mine and placed his palms on my shoulders and said “now my dear child this will happen over and over again, so don’t be fooled”

Fifteen years later, in the same balcony in Sheba’a I stand facing el-sheik Mountain. Half of Sheba’a is now free; we no longer have to suffer to enter our house. However, Sheba’a’s farms are still under Israeli occupation. In fact I can see, the Israeli military base standing on the bold top of the mountain. It is the only thing spoiling its beauty. As I breathe the air, look at the blackberry trees, and gaze at the military base wishing that it never existed, I hear a voice coming from the T.V saying “we are here to liberate the people of Iraq” and I remember my grandfather saying “Don’t be fooled!”.

Mohammed Alhamadi is a Standards Engineer working in the Quality Assurance Department in Qatar Petroleum, and an art student in Virginia Commonwealth University in Qatar. Although he has already graduated with a BS in Chemical Engineering from the University of Tulsa in Tulsa, Oklahoma, his love for art has led him to seek a BFA in Painting and Printmaking. He did some commission work as a painter and owned an art gallery/studio in Souq Waqif in Doha, Qatar. 

In “A day in Albaraha”,  Al-Hamadi conjures up a day from the distant past, in the life of a Qatari girl who lived during the late 1940s- before Oil, before AC, and before other aspects of modernity. Our history was complicated yet simple, hard but still beautiful– and most importantly, as the historical narrative suggests, wasn’t for or by men only.

I woke up one Friday morning so happy that it was Friday. It meant that we only have one session at the Kittab (¹⁾. It also meant that the class would start after Fajer prayer so I did not have to do any house duties in the morning. Friday was my favorite day of the week. It was a cold winter that year and the rain did not stop for three days. When I woke up I felt the cold breeze hitting my face. It was still dark out side, and the call of the Morning Prayer at Almana mosque was heard clearly from my room. I wore my Bokhnag (²⁾ which my mom and I washed among other clothes yesterday evening by the Sail (³⁾ water. Then I took a Fanar (⁴⁾ and a Haseera (⁵⁾ from the store room next to mine and crossed the Housh (⁶⁾ of the house to the stairs that lead to my father’s room. My father was a tall, skinny guy with dark skin which resulted from working with Bin Mane’ as a Nokhetha (⁷⁾ and going in the sea for months for pearl diving. Now and due to the collapse of the pearl industry, he opened his gold shop in the souq (^{8 )}, and still traveled in the sea but this time to Bahrain and Abu Dhabi to buy the gold. I woke him up for the Morning Prayer, and then ran to the roof of our house which was shared with six other houses. I went to the house next to ours to meet Hissa my friend and cousin to go together to the Kittab. By the time Hissa and I were outside the house, we met with other boys and girls from the neighborhood and each kid was holding his Fanar and Haseera. Abdelrahman Hassan the owner of shop opposite to our house was up already. He was supervising his shopkeeper Hassoon while the other was cleaning up the front of the shop and setting up the Jdoor and the Mwa’een (⁹⁾ that his shop was famous for. Abaid the shepherd was coming toward our house with some goats and sheep, and was holding one goat with a little bag around its neck. This bag was to be filled with his lunch by my mom after picking up our goats to take them to the Misrah (¹⁰⁾. Hissa, and I with the rest of the kids walked from a sikka (¹¹⁾ to another holding our fanarat (¹²⁾ and Haseer(¹³⁾ going through the little shops on the left and right leaving Albaraha neighborhood, and going toward Eljasra neighborhood where the house of Amna Bint Mahmood was. It was a long walk, yet we were so happy that we would not have to do the same walk twice that day. Her house was a small house made of mud and stones looking like the other houses in the neighborhood. It had a big Housh in the middle with a Sa’af (¹⁴⁾ cover on the side of the Housh where the morning classes are held.  We met with other students coming from different neighborhoods out side of her house. We divided into two groups. One group went to Mutawa’a Amna’s (¹⁵⁾ class and the other group went to her sister Fatima’s class. I was attending the first. We all put our Fanarat off, and laid down our Haseer on the sandy floor .Each kid sat on his Haseera facing our Mutawa’a who sat on a wooden chair, and had her famous long stick next to her. The boys were on the left side and the girls on the right side. We rehearsed the verses of the Qur’an after the teacher. She read one verse and we repeated it after her. After a while, she got a little bag full of candy and gave it to me, and I started selling it to the students. Each piece of candy was for Antain (¹⁶⁾. There were some new kinds of candy this time. Probably she bought more candy with her Khamisia (¹⁷⁾ that she got from each student yesterday. It was four Anat (¹⁸⁾ to be taken from each student. There was also another payment called the Nafla (¹⁹⁾ which was the same amount and was given on Tuesdays. We ended our session just before the first call of the Friday Prayer. After the session was over the teacher told us that we were going to finish the Qur’an next week. This meant that next week we were going to have a celebration. My mother would make her famous Harees (²⁰⁾ and distribute it to the whole neighborhood, to the Badow (²¹⁾ who were staying by the grave yard selling their products, and to the poor. We would also walk from a house to another singing the Ameen (²²⁾ to announce to the whole neighborhood that we had finished studying the Qur’an. We would get money from each house. This money would go to the teacher. The song would say,

Elhamdulilah Alathe Hadana, Ameen

 Thanks to God who guided us to the right path, Amen 

Subhanaho min Khaliqin Subhana, Ameen

Almighty the creator, Almighty, Amen 

Befadlihi Allamana AlQur’ana, Ameen

Because of his blessing we learned the Qur’an, Amen 

Enni ta’alamto ELkitaba Alakbar, Ameen

 I have learned the big book, Amen 

Mu’alimi Mo’alimon Ma Qassar, Ameen

My teacher did his best, Amen

 On the way back to the house most of the shops were either closed or closing up and people were walking toward the mosque. When my mom heard me entering the house she yelled at me to help her work in preparing lunch for our guests. We always had guests in our house. This time, it was a bdeweia (²³⁾ lady with her five children. They came from the desert to sell some of there products such as the camel milk and the yogurt. They had come to our house last year also. I worked with my mother on preparing the Machboos, the Regag bread, and the Sago(²⁴⁾ . Then, I cleaned the Housh. I had to finish that in order to go out and play with the kids from the neighborhood.

When the sun came down, we heard the door knocking, so I ran to open the door. It was Abaid, the shepherd. He was holding one goat with the small bag, but this time to fill it up with his dinner. He had a sad face at the time. I asked him if anything was the matter, and he said that he had lost one of the goats. I told my father, and he announced it to everyone in the neighborhood by the evening prayer. After the prayer, everybody from the neighborhood gathered in front of our house holding their Fanarat, and we all walked through the sikeek from a neighborhood to another, singing a song that conveyed the purpose and that is the search for the lost goat and called for returning it if anyone has it by mistake. It took us a long time, and it was a long walk, but by the end we did find it. A man came to us, and asked about the goat and how it looked like. When he got the description he took us to his house and gave us the goat back. Mix ups between goats were common due to the darkness in the Sikeek (²⁵⁾ at night. After he gave us the goat back, my father invited him to come over to our house for dinner. He came back with us, and he turned out to be an old friend of my father. They sat and talked for a long time, while I was sitting with them and listening to their stories about the old days of the sea, and the long trips they took.

Its never boring in our neighborhood especially that everyday has its own flavor and activities. Weather it is a search for a lost goat, to finish the Qur’an with the Mutawa’a, or even to cook some Harees, one would hear children singing, and all the people in the neighborhood acted like one big family.

Glossary:

1. 1. The place where children studies Qur’an, reading and writing
2. 2. The traditional dress for girls
3. 3. Rain water gathering in small spots
4. 4. Oil lamp
5. 5. Floor mat
6. 6. The yard
7. 7. Captain
8. 8. Market
9. 9.  Pans, dishes, and other kitchenware
10. 10. The place where the shepherd takes the goats and sheep to eat and drink water
11. 11. A small alley between the shops and houses
12. 12. Plural form of Fanar
13. 13. Plural form of Haseera
14. 14. Palm trees leaves
15. 15. The teacher that teaches in the Kittab
16. 16. Two Anahs, the currency at the time which came from India
17. 17. The payment given to the Mutawa’a in Thursdays
18. 18. Plural form of Anah
19. 19. Used as a reference for the middle of the week or the month
20. 20. A traditional dish
21. 21. People of the desert, nomads
22. 22. Amen
23. 23. Lady from the desert
24. 24. More traditional dishes
25. 25. Plural form of Sikah

In a biographical manner, Amna Khalid Al-Hetmi sheds the light on the life of Nadira, the manicurist. Nadira is a simple working woman, whose greatness stems from her simplicity. Amna is an Information Systems junior at Carnegie Mellon University in Qatar.

“Rounda or square madam?” she asked, soaking my fingers into a bowl of warm water. “Little round, little square” I replied, “and I’m not the madam, she’s the madam”, I joked pointing to my mom who was having her nails done next to me. They both laughed. As usual, my mom brought up the topic of how we “girls” are different from our mothers and grandmothers. I rolled my eyes and smiled, and then looked at Nadira, the manicurist expecting her to be doing the same thing. But found her listening passionately to my mom’s criticisms. She kept nodding at what my mom said and she was responding to her in broken Arabic. My mom was jumping from topic to another and Nadira had something to say about each and every topic whether it is social or political, showing how knowledgeable she is. They talked about a lot of things from raising children to the Bush shoe incident.

Unlike other manicurists in the beauty saloon, Nadira was different. While, they were all young, she looked very old. All the ladies that were working there were walking around and talking to each other, but she just stayed quiet at her corner. She looked out of place. The deep wrinkles covering her face looked like a roadmap. Her reading glasses gave the impression that she couldn’t see clearly and made her look even older. Nadira had dark brown skin and noticeable Indian features. She was wearing a worn out, long sleeved floral shirt with a long brown skirt. Her white Hijab made her stand out, because none of the other ladies working there were wearing any since it’s a women’s only saloon.

Nadira comes to the saloon everyday from nine to five. She holds peoples’ hands everyday and listens to their complaints everyday. Every once in a while someone would ask her “How are you Nadira?” and she would just say “Alhamdulelah.” She’s just the old lady who does the nails, nothing more, nothing less. She was invisible to most people, even to her co-workers. She’s not much of a talker, but she would listen to people for hours without showing any signs of boredom or annoyance. What most people don’t know is that there is more to Nadira than what meets the eyes.

“I don’t understand why he won’t give me an A after all this hard work to push my average from an 81 to an 89…I’m just tired of studying!… How about we take a semester off?” I joked to my friend on the phone while Nadira was working on my pedicure. After I ended the call, Nadira said “Mashallah habibti, you go American university no? My son go American university North Carolina. I show you?” I said “okay” uninterestedly. She took out her brown leather wallet from her white saloon robe, opened it and handed me some pictures. A young man in a blue surgeon uniform was in one of the pictures. An Indian girl, a white western man with two kids was in another picture. A girl and a boy holding a cricket bat were in another one. They all looked related. Yes, they were all her children, the surgeon in the US, the married girl studying dentistry in Australia, the girl and boy both studying law in Canada.

Nadira is a wife and a mother of two sons, two daughters, and a grandmother to two grandkids. She gave a lot for her children to provide them with the life she never had. Although she was a bright student when she was in school, her father never allowed her to complete her studies. Instead, because her mother passed away at an early age, her father forced her to stay at home and raise her brothers and sisters and help with the housework. Getting into college was always a dream for Nadira. But she put her dream aside when she got married and had her children. Taking care of her husband and kids became her number one priority. Her kids were everything to her. Despite all the changes in her life, she never lost the passion for learning. She educated herself through reading newspapers and watching TV.

After her husband got a job offer in Qatar, they all moved with him. In Qatar, she got her kids into schools and decided to help her husband by working as well. She spent the last twenty years of her life here in Doha. Her youngest two were born here. Today, her four children are studying in universities abroad. Nadira saves every Riyal she and her husband make to help her kids pursue their dreams. When she wasn’t working in the saloon, she would go to houses and try to make as much money as she can to send to her children. Each and every one of her kids is working while studying.

Nadira told me her lifestory with no signs of regret. She sounded satisfied and proud of the person she is today. “Nadira, are you thinking of getting into college one day for a degree?” I asked hoping for a “yes” although expecting an “I’m too old for college” but she replied proudly “my children bring me four degrees Inshallah!” Nadira showed me that there is no degree and no job in the world more important than parenting. Instead of being a doctor or a lawyer, she made two doctors and two lawyers. Nadira didn’t find a cure to cancer, she didn’t find peace in the Middle East, she didn’t get a Nobel Prize, but she is making a difference in her own way. She’s not just the manicurist; she’s much more than that. She’s a great mother and a great person.

On one of the cold December mornings of 1971, a tragic incident occurred that shook the entire Qatari society and left a spiteful and painful mark in the history of this nation. It took place in the middle of the Iranian waters between Bandar Abbas and Abu Shahar. It is commonly referred to as sinat al taba’a: the year in which the massive passenger ship sunk. Old people recall the day they received the news with a lot of grief and sorrow. They remember the friends they lost, the people who ended up losing fathers, brothers, and relatives and families that were left without a breadwinner.

It was tragic for a small tight knit society to lose around eighty of its natives in one night. The catastrophe had massive implications on people’s morals and the following months were the bleakest in the history of this cohesive society. The damage inflicted on the country’s demography was severe as most of the fatalities were young men. They left behind young widows and children. We were never to know the details of that disastrous day if it wasn’t for the two survivors who lived to tell the story with all its misery and awe.

Al Rayyan, the ship that sank, was an old obsolete white passenger ship built in Kuwait decades ago. In an attempt to modernize it and get it up-to-date, they installed two powerful motor engines in place of the old pair.  The passengers were excited with this innovation and were dreaming of reaching the shores of Iran in half the time it usually takes. The optimism was sky high and no one and nothing could take that dream away from them.

The voyage commenced according to plan without any delays, to avoid the anticipated colder and more difficult weather conditions. The ship sailed marvelously through the sparkling blue waters of the Gulf. The travelers were amazed at the surprisingly calm weather and at the fast pace of their renovated ship, with only one of the two engines in use.

 They enjoyed their regular on board activities, cards and the traditional board game of kairam occupying the majority of their time. The tranquility of their journey was disturbed a few kilometers off the shores of the Iranian city of Bandar Abbas. In the early hours of the morning, the weather began to change. The waves escalated and crashed against the ship causing it to sway in all directions. Darkness prevailed causing the conditions on board to become even worse as the dark winter clouds concealed the sun, which caused the temperature to fall even further.

Ghaffan, one of the senior passengers came up with a suggestion. He asked the captain to put the second engine in use to speed up the pace of the ship in order to arrive before dark. The suggestion went well; within a few minutes the second engine was in full blast. However, to everyone’s surprise, the wind got stronger and the waves rose to unprecedented levels after switching the second engine on, which on the contrary to what was expected, impeded their progress. 

 The conditions got increasingly worse; a young boy came rushing from the lower levels of the ship announcing that the ship is sinking! Everyone rushed to see what was going on, they soon realized that both the engines came off and they pulled the ship down. Everyone started panicking; most of the passengers did not know how to swim and those who did could not survive in the cold water.

Aman, who was one of the two lucky survivors, told his son years after the accident that his initial reaction was to set the birds of prey, which were on board, free. It took him a while to cut the ropes that tied the birds up; some of them drowned before he could get to them but the majority was set free. The dogs on board tried to resist the bashing of the waves but they were unable to resist them for long. They died in front of Aman’s observing eyes. When he was no longer able to stay on the sinking ship he hung onto a bed, which was floating in the water. He saw a man attached to a floating gas cylinder, when he released it, Aman clinched onto it fiercely with all his strength. He viewed his friends floating helplessly in the water, unable to progress towards a shelter.

 He swam alongside a friend of his until the late afternoon. He felt the weather getting progressively colder, the water was freezing and the wind was mesmerizing. His friend’s fingers were frozen on the gas cylinder he was hanging onto. “Aman, farewell” he said in a low shaky voice. “Don’t go,” “Wait, please try to swim just for a few more minutes” pleaded Aman “we’re nearly there!” His friend did not respond. Aman saw him let go of the cylinder with great pain and drown.

This scene haunted Aman for so long as he admitted to his son. He was almost going to give up but he refused to surrender to the unsympathetic weather and knew that with determination he will get there. As he swam through the whipping water there were moments of hope and desperation. When the waves flattened before him he was able to see the shore, which cheered him up and gave him hope of survival. Alternatively, when the waves got higher the pessimism kicked in alongside the agonizing feeling of not knowing where he was.

He arrived safely at the shore after sunset in complete devastation. He rubbed his stomach against the sand to stop the waves of hunger; he was shivering and shaking on the cold shores of Persia. He immediately prayed to God and thanked him for his survival. He had no choice but to eat the sour fruits of the first tree he saw in front of him. 

If it were not for Aman’s will power it would have taken people much longer to know about the occurrence of the accident. He tried with his remaining minimal strength to get to the police station. He arrived there by the Fajir prayer, to reveal details about the disastrous incident.  The officers welcomed him warmly, they recognized him since he visits them, with the rest of his friends, every year and offer them food, clothing, and all sorts of other items at the end of their annual trip. He informed them that the ship had sunk and that he believes everyone on it died.

The officers contacted officials in Doha and delivered the bad news. Later, when the sun came out, they accompanied Aman back to the shore to inspect the place. Dead bodies of friends, who were once his companions on the same ship, crowded the shore. He broke down, when he saw the dead faces of his friends lying there. He then noticed a hole dug in the distance, which looked almost like a grave. Upon close inspection he saw the other survivor, falah, lying in the hole. He had dug that hole to get warmth from the sand.

The dead bodies were promptly buried and the other survivor along with Aman was taken to Hospital. Their families were flown in to stay by their side and to try and elevate their morals and reduce their psychological stress. Yet, Aman was never able to erase neither that incident nor the memories of the people who lost their lives from his mind.  This is perhaps why we have such a vivid and detailed encounter of the catastrophe because he spoke about it frequently and to many different people before his death at the turn of the millennium.

The effect of this catastrophe on society was striking. People across the country mourned for months, the loss was not felt in the city of Doha only as the deceased passengers came from different areas of the country. The grief was felt in the eyes of schoolchildren who lost relatives and re-enrolled in school after weeks of mourning. The psychological damage inflicted on the two survivors and the parents and spouses of the deceased was unrecoverable. Those who lost loved ones almost died as a result of their overwhelming grief. Nightmares haunted Aman and Falah for the duration of their lives.  

Here, she narrates a part of her ancestors’ history. The Pakistani civil war in 1971 ended in declaring East Pakistan as an independent nation- Bangladesh. Myriam recalls the political upheaval of that specific era as narrated by her grandmother who gives history a touch of human suffering, standing on what had been lost as a Pakistani.  An exceptional story about an exceptional woman- Alya Naqi Ahmed Chandna- may God rest her soul. 

 ““I Must Survive…” – Alya Naqi Ahmed Chandna”, by Myriam Chandna

“Tip, tip, tip…”

The monsoon played a soothing tune, lightly beating against the window sill. The cool breeze wafted through the slightly ajar window, bringing in with it subtle drops of water. As the moonlight tiptoed through the window, her old wrinkled face swathed its luminous glow. I rested my head on her soft lap.

“I wish you had gotten the opportunity to see him. He would have set an excellent example for you to look up to,” She said quietly.

Not surprised at her suddenly bringing up the topic, I sat up straight, facing her.

Her dull, gray eyes were not focused on me. They were staring straight ahead, out the window, as if searching for someone who had given her a time, and not arrived.

I knew who “He” was, however, I chose to stay silent. “He” was always a part of her conversations. Sometimes, within a sentence or two. At others, he was the hero of her anecdotes. But whenever “He” came into the picture, a sense of nostalgia pervaded the air around her.

“He used to say I was the most beautiful woman in the world,” She said proudly, though in a tone full of wretchedness.

Her gray eyes were not faded anymore. They had a certain sparkle in them. Here thin lips wore a gentle smile. She looked intently into the barren plain beyond the window. The downpour intensified.

“He said it that morning as well. I remember I wore the pastel blue sari he brought me from Calcutta. He told me he bought it for me because it resembled the color of my eyes,” She explained, as she drifted off into a world unknown to me. Nevertheless, I followed her, traveling with her into passageways of the past.

1971, East Pakistan

            The birth of East Pakistan was the result of an earnest effort by Mohammed Ali Jinnah, the founder of Pakistan, as he refused to barter away the future of a large chunk of Muslim population. The partition of the subcontinent of Hindustan into two countries, India and Pakistan, in 1947 left an exceptional mark in the history of the region. While India comprised of one contiguous territory, Pakistan was a unique entity never seen before. It was one country, but divided into two parts, East Pakistan and West Pakistan. Though separated by 1000 miles of Indian territory, these two wings were joined by the common thread of religion – Islam. The following decades saw neither the sincerity, nor the purpose; neither the brilliance nor the vision of Mohammed Ali Jinnah. They composed of mere infidels, strutting out to establish a system of government where corruption, nepotism and self-interest became institutionalized, setting the stage for the destruction of one of the largest Islamic states in the world. However, this obliteration building up behind the rigid doors of bureaucratic and political chambers was unseen to naked eye of the common man, in 1971, as it was to Alya Naqi Ahmed Chandna, my now 68 year old grandmother.

             Life was glorified by its simplicity. Lack of materialism and excessive needs marked the persona of the ordinary man. People, generally, were content with what they possessed and largely undemanding. Cars and televisions were considered a luxury.

“The first time he brought the television home, he told me to switch it on,” she recalled. “It took me a while to find the correct button,” she added with a chuckle. What my grandmother, living a life of contended bliss, could not see coming was the havoc wreaked by the self-serving rulers of Pakistan, who instead of consolidating the gift of Jinnah, sowed the seeds of a further division of Pakistan into two separate countries- Pakistan and Bangladesh. The Bengalis waged a systematic and brutal campaign of terror, aided and abetted by India, and carried East Pakistan into Bangladesh. And like many other women, Alya Chandna became a victim to this strategic violence.

             Truly handsome and highly educated, as she describes him, he was a quintessential gentleman in the true mould of an Army officer. “He looked just like an Englishman I tell you,” she said with a sense of admiration. “Far ahead of his times, immensely broadminded and farsighted. His intuitive vision was hardly witnessed amongst the commoners at the time,” she continued. “When I married him, I used to cover myself in a burqa (veil) as a part of my maiden tradition. One day after the wedding, he took it off my body and threw it away. I was shocked, and about to die of shame. Allah, I had never even seen him before the day we got married. But you know something, the minute I set my eyes on him, I fell in love with him,” she continued pensively, as her eyes filled with tears. “Those were his words child: “You are my equal, not my slave. From this moment, you walk with me, not behind me. And you are beautiful, so let everyone look at you and burn their heart out. You are mine.”” Her gaze softened, as it penetrated into the barren landscape beyond her eyes.

            The years leading up to 1971 were blessed with much happiness, if not much material wealth. She nurtured five children, of them three daughters and two sons, the youngest aged 5 at the time. They resided in the scenic Hill Tracts of Chittagong, the largest port city of  East Pakistan. She claimed that 1971 showed her the most prosperous year of her 19 years of marriage. She and her family lived lavishly by existing Pakistani standards, her children were growing up and attending some of the most prestigious schools in the country.

“Our home was beautiful, it was situated in the most picture-perfect locality. The grass was lush green, and he always made sure that he watered the mint and rose he planted himself. He simply adored their heavenly aroma. Our backyard was filled with lemon, mango and coconut trees,” she reminisced, with a gentle smile passing her lips.

Dwelling in the comfort of her peaceful home and family life, at that time, she was not aware of the approaching political storm in the country that would destroy the tranquility of her world forever.

            Regardless of the picturesque beauty of her world, the adverse political forces within and outside the country were painting an ugly sketch of the future. The East Pakistanis began to feel that the ruling West Pakistani elite treated them as inferiors. To an extent, this was true, due to the fact that the economic disparity between the East and West wings of Pakistan was too great to be missed even by the most novice of political observer. However, what really ticked off the East Pakistanis was the “superior” attitude of the West Pakistanis, which over a period of time became contagious amongst the West Pakistani public. As my grandmother described, “the Bengalis were no handsome people. An average East Pakistani was shorter and darker than an average West Pakistani, thus the Bengalis were usually the subject of mockery amongst their Western counterparts. This unfair discrimination against them triggered their hatred for us even more.” Also, senior positions in government were held by administrators and bureaucrats from West Pakistan. Some disgruntled politicians, instead of bridging the gap, resorted to divisive politics.

            “I once went to purchase items from the herbal store in the neighborhood, and actually overheard two Bengalis conversing with one another. One of them said, “I wonder whether independence from the British was a good thing after all. We just exchanged one master for another.” I did not know what he was talking about, until…” She fell silent.

And thus, the fire simmered under unsuspecting, uninvolved people like my grandmother, whose entire world revolved around her beloved husband and children, and whose sole concern was what they were all going to eat when they return from school and office.

“But na, not that I was an uneducated simpleton. I did not go till 12th standard like you, but for my time, I achieved the maximum I could, 9^th standard that was. Because that was the highest class we girls were committed to. My Urdu was not discreditable like yours at your present age, girl. I used to write a weekly column on miscellaneous topics for Jam-e-Jahan Numa, the daily Urdu newspaper. Yes, English, I learned from him,” she said. She continued to explain how she would also take part in volunteer work for people affected by natural calamities, such as cyclones and floods, which visited the East wing frequently.

            On 25^th March 1971, the populist Bengali leader Shaikh Mujib-ur-Rehman was arrested on charges of inciting a rebellion against the state of Pakistan. The Army ruled the country and was predominantly West Pakistani. This incident precipitated and gave rise to the bloody Pakistani Civil War. What had been seething for the past quarter century, seeped into the lives of several innocent families, one of them being my grandmother’s. As the army onslaught gained momentum, so did the rebellion. The entire population of East Pakistan rose against the rule of West Pakistan. Being the minority, they were not able to fight a disciplined and powerful army, thus, they turned their wrath on any “non-Bengali.” “Hundreds of thousands of innocent men, women and children were butchered by the marauding mob of those wild Bengalis, who saw in anyone, a West Pakistani enemy,” my grandmother said in a bitter tone. Her white brows furrowed, and tears began to stream down her creased face.

“He was not even in the Army by that time. He had gotten an early retirement and was living a simple, civilian life, working as an Administrator in Khulna Paper Mill. But those savages did not care. He thought of them as brothers. How many times did Zakir-Ul-Amin come over and have dinner at our place? But no! Those heartless, thankless animals did not care, they did not care”, she continued.

27^th March 1971, East Pakistan

             “It was past 4 in the evening. I waited for him under the shade of the mulberry tree in our garden. The sun went down and I was expecting to wait further for his arrival in the starry night. However, the stars never appeared. The sky was concealed with heavy clouds. I was scared. Really scared. I went inside to check on the children. They were all asleep, except for your father. He sat in his bedroom, as usual, playing with his wooden toy soldiers. It took me a while to put him to sleep. Then, I continued to wait, and wait, and wait…” She took a deep sigh. The tears continued to flow from her eyes as she lived her past once again. The rainfall outside became harder and more vigorous.

             “The new day dawned on me. I had fallen asleep on the porch waiting for him. I was awakened by the frenzied voices I heard in the neighborhood. Ear piercing screams and cries of pain filled my ears. One sentence I could clearly make out was, “Pakistan Murdabad!” (The destruction of Pakistan begins.) One by one, each of my little children came up to me, asking quizzically why their father did not come to wake them up or take them to school. I was speechless as I rushed them inside the house and locked the door behind us. A stone smashed one of the glass windows. We yelled with fright. I heard artillery blasting everything and saw from the window trees uprooted and the wet earth scorched by the intensity of the firepower. A second later, two shells landed by the window and the blast shattered them.

            Dazed at the sight before me, I locked my terrified children in the tiny store room, when I heard a loud knock on the door. I began to panic. What if it was my husband? I sprinted towards the door, but as I felt the aggressive calls coming nearer, I stopped in my tracks. Was I about to open the door to sanctuary or hell? As I was about to retreat, I heard a quick, hushed voice. “Alya bibi, Alya bibi! (Sister Alya) Open the door! It’s me, Abdul Kalam. I have news for you regarding Chandna bhai! Open the door!” I rushed to the door and Abdul Kalam scurried in. What he told me next stole the ground from under my feet.” Her eyes, glistening with the tears held within them, gushed them out rapidly.

“They captured him as he was returning from office. They told him that he was an enemy combatant, and thus would be treated like one. Abdul Kalam worked with your grandfather at the paper mill, and had witnessed this incident. Because he was a Bengali, he had managed to escape their grasp. I felt as if a lit matchstick had been set to my life, and was going to burn down with it my world forever. I begged Abdul Kalam for help. “I am a mere civil clerk bibi, I am ashamed but I am helpless. All that is in my hands is that I will inform you about your husband’s condition every now and then. I will try my best though, to bring him back to you,” he told me feebly. Abdul Kalam was my window to the world outside the safety of my home at that time, and to my husband. I waited every single day, every single moment, for him to return. However in vain. Hours turned into days, and days into months, but there was no sign of him. Abdul Kalam would secretly come and go, usually without providing any substantial information. Being inside for several days, I could always sense the chaotic atmosphere outside my home. There was a period, where Abdul Kalam totally disappeared. That alarmed me even more, as it created a barrier to my understanding of the situation. Without food, water, or electricity, and with five petrified children, I waited, waited, waited… A month had gone by, and no sign of him. Or anybody for that matter.

            We were slaves to starvation, when I finally decided to venture out of my house. I locked the children up in the store room once again, and set out to…I don’t know why I set out. Maybe because I had to. My children were starving, there was nothing to eat anymore. It took me not more than a few minutes to realize that I was in “ghost-town”. There was nobody. The streets were littered with rotting bodies and fat dogs. Blood caked the sidewalks. Flies buzzed everywhere and inhabited everything. I felt sick in the pit of my stomach. A little far down the road, I heard a faint cry. I stumbled across several dead bodies, and came upon a car on fire. Believe me, even as the flames rushed skywards, I recognized the car, in which I, my husband, and children went on drives together. It was mine. I stood there dumbstruck, unaware of three stragglers from the rebel army who were approaching me. I still remember,” she paused to reconcile her thoughts. “They were short, but well built. One of them gently touched my shoulder. They talked to me very politely, and asked me who I was. I, though incoherent with shock and grief at the moment, managed to convey to them that I was looking for my husband, who was missing for the past one month, and for some food for my children who were starved locked in a tiny room in her house. The three stragglers asked me to take them to my children, and also promised to help locate my husband. Overcome with relief, and desperately wanting to trust someone who could wake me up and end the nightmare, I hurriedly let them to my home. And that my child, was the worst mistake I could afford to make at that time.

            Once inside the house, the stragglers seized up my children. I cried resentfully to them out of dread and the shock of betrayal. My three girls were held up against the sofa chair, and the two boys were locked up in separate bathrooms. I was told that in order to free my husband and to save his life, I must collect all valuables in the house, such as gold ornaments and cash and hand them over to the stragglers. Also, my older son, your father, should go with them and enlist in the rebel army and fight against the “murderous” Pakistan army. My hands shaking, I quickly gathered all the valuables I owned and handed them over to one of the stragglers standing next to my sobbing daughters. After handing over the valuables, I pleaded them to tell me where my husband was. All they did, was laugh. Their malicious laughter filled the once peaceful air of my home. I wept and wept, they laughed and laughed. One straggler pulled out your father from one of the bathrooms, and dragging him, started marching towards the door. Another straggler gripped one of my daughters. I yelped in anger, “What are you doing? Where are you taking my children?” There was a laugh packed with malevolence. “Your son is going to be one of us. And the girl is for our commander!” came the reply. I thought I was about to faint, when the door was suddenly pushed open. Abdul Kalam and a group of rowdy looking men charged in and began to attack the stragglers. He told me to run with my daughters and he would bring my sons.  Totally disoriented with the bloody sight I saw in front of my eyes, in my own home, I ran out with my daughters, screaming to my elder son to follow with his brother. As I scampered across the empty streets, in the pitch black night, I prayed to God that my eyes would open and the nightmare would get over. But it didn’t. A few moments later, I heard Abdul Kalam shouting my name. I managed to look back, tears blurring my vision. He was running towards me with my two sons, one in his arms and one running alongside him.

            Abdul Kalam managed to sneak us into his house. And there, he walked me through my downfall. After detaining your grandfather, the rebel army forces had made him a prisoner, and kept him in a small windowless room for seven days. Every day, he was taken out for interrogation and they even held a mock trial, in which they sentenced him to death by firing squad,” she wept bitterly. Lightning struck and the mild rainfall exacerbated into a rainstorm. 

“On the 4^th of April 1971, the officers representing the rebel forced asked him to write out a confession that condemned the Pakistan Army as an army of rapists and murderers. His resistance angered them, and he was taken under armed guard to the banks of the Karnaphuli River, that ran from the hill tracks of Burma to the Bay of Bengal. He was never seen again. Abdul also told me with deep sorrow that those men captured were either shot, drowned, or locked up in custody of East Bengali rebels.

But his sorrow was nothing compared to the anguish that burned inside of me. I could not imagine my life without your grandfather. I was shattered, and my body fell numb. Abdul Kalam told if I wanted to save the lives of my children and myself, I would have to escape to West Pakistan as soon as possible. But how could I? What if he was alive? What if they let him go? What if he looked for me and my children after we had fled to the West? How could I leave him here?

             No matter how high my inclination, I was dreadfully short of time to answer my own questions. I looked at my children, huddled together in the corner of the room. I had to. I could not afford to cause them harm or lose them forever, like I lost him. Early before dawn, we set out on our journey to West Pakistan. Abdul Kalam’s wife had dressed me and my children up according to the Bengali style of dressing, so that we were able to mingle amongst the Bengalis and not get caught for being a Pakistani. Living in the area for quite some time, I and my children were quite fluent with the language. Our voyage was physically, mentally and emotionally exhausting. Every moment was a moment terror and anxiety. What if our train was captured by those people? What would I do if they took my children away? The trains were monitored strictly by the Bengalis. I kept the five of them as close to me as possible during the journey, which lasted one year. Yes, one whole year. Not like now my dear,  you book a flight, take a plane and go anywhere in the world within a few days. We had to travel through India to reach the West wing.  Despite the chaos and horror spreading across the nation we managed to reside in India for a couple of months. I understand all the hatred that has churned up between us and the Indians over the decades. Despite this, I will always be grateful to the Indians for the kindness they bestowed us with, and the shelter they gave us to protect me and my children. We did encounter some difficulties leaving India; however, our well wishers in that land were greater than the detractors. A needle constantly jabbed at my heart during all this time. Where was he? He had promised to be by my side for the rest of our lives. Why did he break his promise?

After one whole year of living in agony and feeling the angst of injustice bite at my heart, we managed to reach Pakistan. Penniless, and unable to locate any family members or friends, I found a true friend in one of the women who had traveled with me from India. She was an Islamic Studies teacher, who had traveled to India to meet her relatives who she had left behind during partition, on that side of the border. We moved in with her till we relocated our relatives.

There was a new country now. They called it Bangladesh. The land of the infidels, I would call it. The land of animals I would call it. The riots and bedlam had subsided. And so had my life. Each night I would fall asleep putting my children to sleep. But I would fall asleep praying, that when I opened my eyes, I would find my husband next to me. That I would discover that it had all been a terrible nightmare that I had my lovely home and my husband and children smiling back at me. That nothing had changed. But it was not to be. Each morning I woke up to realize, that my life itself was the same nightmare I had slept with, and was to continue. I would look at my children and weep, and when my eyes could weep no more, moan piteously for him,” She wiped her rolling tears off her cheeks, but they continued to roll down. She wiped them once again with the back of her wrinkled hands. The rainstorm receded into mild downpour, and then a gentle muzzle.

             “I knew I had to survive, for the sake of my children. So that their future is not determined by a mob of ruthless terrorists. So that they don’t encounter the ugly face of unfairness and deceit. They have to have an education, of not only their world but also that of the outer world, so they have the broader vision I did not possess. They have to be politically educated and informed as well, so that they don’t become subject to such political injustice and dirty play. Oh there was so much I wanted to do for them! And you see, if I did not build up my strength, my children would have been suffering today. Time and place may have changed, but the situation is still the same. Conditions may have improved but attitudes have not. Thousands of innocent people still pay with their lives on each side of the border, to satisfy the blood thirsty and selfish politicians. Just consider the bloodbath every now and then over the Kashmir conflict. Corrupt is our nation, and corruption is our identity. Nothing has changed child, nothing at all. Circumstances have improved neither nationally nor internationally. Bloodshed still persists. And it’s always the innocent giving up their families their happiness, and their lives. However due to the prospects and resources available today, we have a choice. At least the new generation is able to decide their own fate through their knowledge and the will to make a difference.

Your grandfather and I always had a dream. We wanted our children to be so educated, and firm on their own two feet that they would know exactly what’s right and what’s wrong, and what choices to make, so that they would not face the risk of falling prey to mischievous planning or prejudice. Everything is as he wanted today. The only missing link in the chain is him- himself.

            I decided, that misery was not the path I was to take, and this was not the way my story was to end. I still had a long way to go. I must be strong. I must persevere. I must survive. I must survive; I must survive. I would say the words over and over to myself. As day turned to night and the moon began to woo the lonely snow-covered peak of the Everest, I always thought to myself, some day, some day, I would tell my story,” she ended with a deep sigh, drawing in her breath and exhaling it strongly.

As we both stared out the window, the sun rose slowly above the horizon, illuminating the sky and the barren ground with its powerful rays.