My Afghanis

Baghee, panni, Baghee, roti!
A simple request for bread and water. My Afghan kids are at the gate and if I don’t come out soon they’ll ring the bell, alerting the whole neighborhood to their noisy presence.
Eayk minute! I reached for a nearby scarf to throw over my head, Pak. style but not really. A woman isn’t fully dressed here unless she has her dupatta slung around her body in some fashion when she goes out of the house. As usual, I’m evolving my own style. This morning, my jalabiyya was so comfortable I didn’t change or go to the grocery to get something for their breakfast... Anyways, they eat whatever I give them: apples, biscuits, a little porridge left from my lavish breakfast. I added milk and honey, so I don’t think it was too bad. They ate it. They’ve also sampled peanut butter and jelly lately and liked that, too.
After eating, it’s time to play. Lailmina, Zargilleh, Zarmina and Shazia have brought clay with them, soft, red clay, dug up from the riverbank near a local construction site. Lailmina sets about making a whole kitchen set complete with a pot of chicken curry simmering in a pot. The younger girls each make a pot or two. We have a tea party complete with clay biscuits and fancy tea cups, a miniature pot and milk from the gayn (water buffalo) that Shazia has made. She is a real pip. Must be about four to five years old and wants to prove she’s better and tougher than anyone, boy or girl who tries to mess with her. But today she was at her creative and imaginative best, hosting a tea party for us.
Pakistan is a tough place to live, but you can easily fall in love here. Lailmina is about seven but she is tall, like a nine year old. She’s thin and lanky, but strong, and she has beautiful, brown understanding eyes. Arnagul is a little older, about 12 maybe, with the deepest, most glittering eyes of all. There is a whole group of them, including Heer Bibi, who wants to wash every chance she gets, especially her hair. There is no clean running water in the ramshackle huts they call home. They sleep three, four or more to a bed, a simple charpay meant for one. They dream of having a double bed when they get married. After the bed comes the swaddled baby lying on the bed Arnagul fashions from clay this morning. Not to be outdone, little Shazia makes a whole man and they all chuckle at her creation.
I noticed these Pathan, or Afghan, children, as soon I began living here in Chatta, about two weeks after I arrived in Pakistan. They were on the highway, cutting dry grass, and in the bazaars helping parents who had stalls there. But I didn’t start really seeing these children until I saw Lailmina.
Walking to and from the school where I help with English twice a week, I would observe groups of five to seven children with large burlap and plastic rice bags on their backs, picking up trash. Then one day I saw a group of them clustered around something on the other side of the high curb that separates the street from the muddy creek that the water buffalo wallow in. One of them called out happily and excitedly to her friends, Sayp, sayp! I went over to see what it was they were so delighted about. I looked down into a mess of rotten apples that had fallen from a tree.
I know they love apples, because they’ll eat as many as I have, along with cookies and any other treat I can find them. One day it was ice cream that made them happy. Another it was Pepsi and they were practically delirious with glee, even though each one only got a quarter glass full. These are things they love, just like all kids.
But what they really come here for is food. The fun comes second. They need the pot of rice I cook for them and serve with whatever is left over from our dinner the night before. Or I make daal, (lentils) which are quick, cheap and filling. They need the clean water that comes out of my tap to drink or to wash with. Sometimes they just need to use the bathroom and want to play with the flush toilet, a novelty in their lives.
These are my Afghan girls. There are also three boys. Ali is the oldest, tall and lanky. A younger boy is short and chubby. He likes chasing the girls and climbing the columns that flank the sides of our home. The third boy is quiet and dignified. He usually likes to stay out of trouble.
Ali recently found a broken MP 3 player somewhere in his ramblings and was trying to get it to work. But when he saw my camera batteries had died, he took the batteries out of that MP 3 and put them in my camera. It still didn’t work, so he tried some other batteries he had in his pocket. No luck. He collects all kinds of scrap metal, which fetches more money than plastic bottles and discarded cardboard boxes. So does the broken glass I’ve seen them stuff into their bags.
They eat lunch, and then play their games. They love the space of the courtyard for tag, climbing the columns and high jump games. They are highly imaginative and spontaneous. They’ve never been to school. One can’t even imagine their boundless energy being contained in a classroom. That doesn’t mean they shouldn’t have the opportunity of going to school. For now, the world is their classroom, with all the harsh and complex reality that is Pakistan today.
I’ll never forget the day Saima, Arnagul, and Marina, the older crowd, saved my life on the highway. I had gotten a taxi to go to the Daewoo bus station for my four hour trip to Lahore After I got in the taxi, the driver started asking me how to get there! As is our usual plan, if a driver doesn’t seem to know where to go, I call my husband, Asad, and he talks to the driver. It usually works fine. But this time, after yelling at the driver, Asad talks to me and tells me, Get out of that taxi and get another one. This guy doesn’t know where he is going. Okay………
I gestured for the driver to stop. It was less than a quarter mile from where we started out. I hop out and he has the nerve to ask me asks for money! Asad, still on the phone, tells me to just walk away, as I had already started doing. Suddenly, who should I see materialize by the roadside as if out of thin air? There were my girls, walking back to Chatta from Chak Shazad, a bigger town where they had gone to collect plastic bottles and other recyclable trash. There they were, walking in a graceful line, carrying bundles on dry grass on their heads and trash bags on their hips, the way mothers carry babies sometimes, looking for all the world like the beautiful young women they are soon to be.
We were delighted to see each other. They took one look at the cab driver, and then glanced quizzically at me. In my very poor Urdu, I explained the situation and they started yelling at the driver, all of them together until he drove away! I’d never been so happy to see anyone in my life! They stayed and chatted with me and then waved good bye as I waved to them from the new cab’s rear window. When I got back from Lahore this afternoon, they were already in the courtyard, making me more tea sets.
By the way, those bags they carry are not all that heavy. One kilo of plastic is needed to make 15 rupees, the price of three rotis at the local tandoor (bread bakery). Plastic is very light, so it takes a lot more than one bag to earn their bread.

They are all our children.
For more pictures, please see http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/emailAlbum?uname=sommieh&aid=5537432693344912721&continue=http%3A%2F%2Fpicasaweb.google.com%2Fsommieh%2FAFC%23
11/9/10
Sommieh Stephanie Flower
Chatta Baktawer, Pakistan

Up on the Roof

Up on the Roof

Last night, not being able to sleep, I went to the roof to do some prayers and zikr under the starlit sky. That was beautiful. There is rarely a time when I do not find the roof a beautiful place to be, except maybe in the heat of the mid-day sun. That’s the time to retrieve the laundry, when everything is dry but the sun is not yet fading the colors. It’s fall here now, though the leaves don’t change color and I’m told winter will be here very soon.

The morning, right after prayers is also prime time on the roof. The sky will still be dark when you get there, but the sun is about to come up. Some of the small bats are chirping but will soon go to sleep.

The first birds start singing at fajr, along with the roosters. I prefer waking up to them, like I did in Michigan than to the loud wailing of the mullahs all over town who intone, Prayer is better than sleep. Are they sure about that? Now they’ll start to fly. There are some large birds, akin to vultures but much more graceful. They’ve got a large wing span that makes it easy for them to flap their wings a few times and then glide, soaring and dipping at will. They head to a field not too distant from my house where they hold their morning conference. Sometimes I can see them flying with long pieces of straw or sticks, perhaps to take back to their nests.

Crows and smaller birds prefer to confer on the telephone wires. They perch there or congregate in the trees. Some of these trees brush the rooftop of our one story abode. It’s marvelous to watch them squawk at each other, like quarreling spouses. The crows here are larger than in the States. Their bodies are a dusty black and their faces a grayish white. These smaller birds land on our lawn as soon as I’ve scattered any leftover bread, proudly carrying the bigger pieces off to the nearby trees. Their shrill squawking implies that they do not share the booty they’ve made off with.

On one occasion I saw two hood-hoods. That’s the Arabic name for a brown and white bird with a fringe of feathers on its head, somewhat like a Mohawk haircut. They are small and need to flap their short wings quite often as they fly, as do the crows and sparrows.

On top of the neighbor’s chicken coop, just below my back wall, I found Diana, our adopted cat. She was curled up in a ball, fast, asleep after her evening adventures. I caught a shot of her sleeping with my camera. When I went for the second shot, she suddenly opened her green, green eyes and stared straight up at me. I got a great shot and then told her to go back to sleep.

The sun is rising in the eastern sky. Slowly but surely, its spherical redness rises in the sky. Today it is quite distinct and self contained, its ruddy reds, pinks and oranges are not bleeding into the sky, which is turning from its dawn grayness to a bluer than blue beauty.

A Walk Down the Road

Sept. 29

Today Tahera and I took a walk out to the main road. This is not the first time we’ve done that. Once we are out the gate, we have two choices. We can go through the bazaar, a motley collection of stalls, small shops and the occasional goat, sheep or chicken. Or we can go down Greens Ave., the more part of town with new houses, imposing gates and manicured lawns. We tend to take the former during the day and the latter in later afternoon early evening.

Once you get out of Chatta, you turn either left or right on Park Road and just walk to see what you can see. Park Road is a four lane paved highway with a grass divider in the middle. When you walk here you see many types of vehicles, from brand new four wheel drive SUV’s carrying army officers to wooden donkey carts carrying timber or grass! There are also bicycles, motorcycles and plenty of pedestrians. The most interesting vehicles on the road are the heavily decorated large trucks and small public vans. There have been whole books written about these trucks and taxis. In fact, my husband and a photographer friend of his are putting such a book together right now.

Roadside, one can see plenty of farmland. Narrow dirt lanes lead down to crumbling brick and mortar homes of two or three rooms. A dirty curtain might function as the only door. There are usually goats and maybe some sheep, definitely chickens and roosters. Occasionally we see a herd of water buffalo. In the heat of the day, these large creatures, the cattle of Pakistan, love to wallow in a mud hole to keep cool.

There are also some corporate type office buildings, schools with signboards and drug rehabilitation centers. Those are very big in Pakistan right now due to a large percentage of heroin addiction. People also smoke hashish, but that’s not considered a harmful drug here. And of course, just like in any other destitute country, every other man you see smokes or chews tobacco.

There are some very large and elegant estates in this area as well. One of them was one of the estates of ex-president Musharraf. It is reputed that he never even visited this particular home of his. It has since been sold to some wealthy buyer. These mansions are set well back from the highway, down long paved roads with their own guard houses and sentries at the gate. Believe or not, they are also called “farms”! This is supposedly to be inconspicuous, but everyone knows who owns these homes: higher ups in the government and military.

We stood on a small bridge overlooking a river and saw a herd of sheep grazing. A man was praying by his taxi near the riverbank. Tahera thought he was there to wash the car.
On the way home there was a particular poignant scene. There were some Pathan children cutting the tall grasses at the side of the road. They had small sickles in their hands, but the oldest couldn’t have been more than ten. He was the one with the bicycle. The children were trying to pile the grass on top of the bike, but it was a difficult task. They themselves were as dusty and ragged as the hay. There was one girl in a dirty brown dress and pants. She looked at me with a mixture of shyness and confusion. These children had the look of hunger and thirst in their eyes. The grass is either for sale or for their cattle. May God grant them some benefit for their efforts. Government statistics place Pakistan literacy rate at 40%-60%, but those in the know say it’s more like 6%. When I see children like this at the roadside in the midday heat, I’m more inclined to believe the last figure.

Dinner is Served!

Sept 27th Dinner is Served!

Note: this entry was written by an American friend of mine who does not have a blog of her own, but wanted to reach an English speaking audience. Please give her your feedback and I’ll pass it on.

To spice or not to spice: That is the question. If you are serving Pakistanis, heavy spices and lots of oil are de riguer. But to my American palate certain foods should be eaten as they were meant to be: salt, pepper, garlic and onion, maybe some paprika or basil. I’ve already made concessions by adding a hunk of fresh ginger to my vegetable soup! Very good, by the way. The answer to the dilemma of muliticultural palates lies in making accommodations, or setting aside my own separate mashed potatoes, and soup sans masala, (Indian spice mix). Then I let Zaynab, our house keeper, tamper with the rest of my creations to suit everyone else’s palate.

This vegetable soup is a story in itself. I have been trying to think of ways to be thrifty in the kitchen by making something out of whatever I might find, like kitchen sink eggs. Hence, the mashed potatoes, which were the main course two night’s back.

All Ramadan, I’d been fasting and thinking of food, certainly not the objective of fasting, but it happens. Around here, I have to be careful about what I ask for. When I first arrived, I made fruit salad with yogurt and mentioned we liked to eat it at home during Ramadan. Now, every day, without fail, Zaynab presents me with a big bowl of it and we end up having to eat it until it turns too brown to be palatable!

Back to the veggie soup. On Saturday, I woke up and asked my husband if he had any money. He said,” zero.” I said, “Oh, I’m asking because I want to make vegetable soup and a meat bone and some veggies in small quantities would be nice.” Since the means were not readily available, I looked in the kitchen and found tomatoes, onions, garlic, and two old carrots. Thrifty homemaker that I am, I had saved the water from the boiled potatoes the day before. Full of minerals and flavor, its a good base for vegetable soup.

Everything I had went into the pot, skin and all for color and flavor. I added a big hunk of ginger and some large garlic cloves for flavor, salt, pepper, bay leaf and some zeera seeds I found with the bay leaf. They ended up adding a nice flavor. I boiled the whole thing and then left it to simmer for some hours, about 4-5. The end result was some sharply flavored consommé. My plan was to add the vegetables when I got them, hopefully next day.

Saturday proceeded uneventfully until my dear husband informed me we’d be having guests in about 15 minutes! I wasn’t even dressed and was worried about what to serve them. I prayed asr and hid out in my room till Zaynab ironed my clothes. Thank God for small favors!

The friend who came brought his wife and their five month old baby, a very cute, alert little girl who kept us entertained for hours. Her mom, a young woman, had lived in the States with her mother and brother while going to high school. We had quite a good conversation in English. Always a plus for me. I served her some crackers and the ever present fruit salad, using the same to break my fast.

Meanwhile, my dear husband walks in with a big bag of fresh fish. This had been bought exclusively for me. He and Zaynab both have a strong aversion to it, but he knows I like it and it is relatively cheap here. I also recalled that the man who was visiting also liked fish and fortunately his wife did too. She even gave Zaynab and I a tip on how to spice it with ready-made fish masala. Zaynab trotted off dutifully to the market to get some. Still no veggies, mind you.

I washed and cleaned the fish. Hubby translated the masala package directions which called for ½ hour marinating. No time for that. Zaynab came bustling back from a second trip to the market and I graciously let her take over, opting to hold the baby instead. Then my husband came in to ask what we’d eat with the fish and how about the soup! I gave him a doleful look and told him it wasn’t fit for company. He said, “We can’t just have fish” and told Z. to go back to the market for two plates of ready-made curry. What a night for her!

Dinner was served. The male guest and I ate the bony fish with zest. Some lemon cut the spice of the masala for me. His wife picked delicately at her plate and Zaynab and my husband ate curry. The baby gummed tiny bits of bread with delight. Everyone was happy and relatively well fed.

This morning, before I got up, Zaynab was sent to Abpara Market for vegetables! She came home with quite a variety of squash, peas, beans, potatoes and other stuff for future meals. I was happy and proud of her. The way the market works here, is seller chooses and packs the bag, so he wants to give you a large quantity and always seems to throw in some stuff of poor quality along with the rest. If you try to choose the produce yourself, he’ll get annoyed.

So, I happily cut and chopped, boiled and simmered the veggies and then added the consommé, which had improved in flavor overnight. Since I was fasting, I had to wait to taste the results. I was very pleased. A perfect American vegetable soup using no meat at all, even for flavor. The fresh veggies, ginger, onions and coriander had melded into a beautiful mixture of flavors. Trouble is, American vegetable soup is not popular in Pakistan, unless you developed a liking for it at British boarding school, as my husband seems to have done.

So, I’ve greedily set aside at least two days worth of soup for myself and the rest will be spiced and served to our guests tonight, who happen to be all male. In fact, as I write this, the chauffeur of one of these men is in the our kitchen, cooking up a chicken! Will wonders never cease?

Islamabad nights

Sept. 26

If someone asked me what we do for fun here in Pakistan, what would I say? The pace of life is entirely different than back home.

Evenings, we sit on the roof and watch the rain. We watch the storm clouds gather in the sky, observe the lightning, wait for the thunder and try to determine how far way the storm is. Our rooftop seats are piled up bricks, four bricks to a seat, just the right height for tea and conversation.

We watch the moon is all its phases of brightness, shining in its glory as it waxes, beaming its holy rays in our direction. We marvel at its halo when masked by the clouds.

An hour before sunset, we bring the charpoy, small table and chair outside to the veranda to enjoy the cooling air. We catch a breeze or two and watch the kites launch from neighboring rooftops, enjoying their dips and rises.

If a storm develops, we move the furniture closer to the house, or back inside, and watch the rain soak the new grass we are struggling to grow. We watch the water flow from the drainpipes and cascade as a waterfall down the steps that lead to the roof.

In the morning, just after fajr, it’s the birds’ playtime. We watch them swoop down on our grass, picking up whatever scraps they might find. We witness their morning conferences on the telephone wires just above our gate. We admire the bird who chooses to stay behind when others fly away. He’s the one who serenades us back to sleep.

We also watch Diana, our adopted street cat. I named her after the Roman goddess who loved to hunt, and hunt she does! She chases and catches frogs and large bugs, then lets them go in a wonderful game of cat and mouse. She amuses us as she holds a creature and bats it with her claws, grasping and releasing it to run for its life, only to be caught and toyed with again. She will only put it in her mouth if challenged by a larger cat, or if she is actually hungry after the milk and scraps we’ve already fed her.

The pace of life is different here in Pakistan. Somehow there is time to unwind, reflect and observe, time to experience the open book of Allah’s universe and offer a prayer of acknowledgement and appreciation.

Of Music and Movies

Sept. 20, 2010

It’s hard to believe I’ve been here a month and two days already. I was able to fast the six days of Shawwal after Ramadan and continue in the same elevated spirits as during Ramadan. Now there is the resolve to fast on Mondays and/or Thursdays and/or on the 13/14/15th of the month, as the Prophet(pbuh) did. Inshallah!

The nights have gotten much cooler. Soon it will be time for blankets and quilts. I’m already wishing I’d brought my winter pajamas! But we do have hot water and that is a blessing. When I return in January, I will know what to bring: CEREAL, herb tea, something to make coffee in, potholders, my warm cashmere shawl (chador), among other things. And dvd’s, lots of them, especially movies from the 80’s and 90’s. Tahera loves them and Asad and I have been enjoying them with her. So far, we’ve watched Thelma and Louise and Dances with Wolves. She loved them both. The first was great because she has never seen women in roles like that (i.e. bank robbers and killers on the run). She thoroughly enjoyed the chase scenes and the scenes where men are shown as fools and the women are the heroes. Asad did a lot of explaining for Dances with Wolves but I know she enjoyed the story line, scenery and Native American lifestyle. We also watched Avatar, but Asad and I were both very surprised to find out she had already seen it on cable four or five times! In Pakistan! That was a surprise.

We are doing some cultural exchange. Tahera has already asked someone to get a bunch of Bollywood dvds to show me. I’m also acquiring a taste for Indian music. Asad likes the classic ghazals recorded in the 50’s and 60’s. There are modern remakes of the same. Ghazals are a genre of poetry. They are love songs that can be appreciated on more than one level. The singer is usually yearning for his lost love, or beloved. The Beloved can be a woman or man, or it can be a yearning for Allah (SWT). The lyrics are heart-rendingly beautiful and sad. I’ll include a sample at the end of this entry.

And then, there are the ever popular qawwalis of Nusrat. Last night we listened to a fascinating fusion of sixties rock sounds and jazz played on classical Indian instruments and electric guitars. These were absolutely wonderful, intricate masterpieces of music. I thoroughly enjoyed sitting on our charpoy, outside in our courtyard, drinking tea, eating nuts and dates and listening to this magical music.

Now that Ramadan and the heat are over, we take walks in the village. Tahera and I go to the corner grocery, the phone card store and the fruit and vegetable stalls to get daily essentials like milk, bread, eggs and cell phone cards. Chatta Backtawer is essentially a village with just a few stores and stalls along one or two streets in town. The rest of the area are houses. I have noticed one school so far, two masjids and one shrine. In the early evening there is often a means’ volleyball game going on at one end of town, or a cricket game

When you walk the dirt paths or streets, it’s not uncommon to run into chicken and goats. Yesterday Tahera and I discovered a herd of water buffalo at one end of town. They were grazing behind one of the old homes and a boy was herding them. Asad tells me these buffalo are considered cattle here and are the main source of milk and other dairy products. Behind the homes on that end of town is a vast area of land with rock formations and a river. We have identified it as a potential place to walk one day, as it is very scenic.

I have been treated to some surprise evening excursions lately. These were Tahera’s ideas to entertain me. She is a sweetheart. She usually has to talk Asad into joining us, as he’d often rather stay home than take public transportation and taxis are expensive. But lately he’s been persuaded and we went to two prime places: Margalla National Park and Lake View Park. In both places, Asad was pleasantly surprised to see how much these areas had changed in the last 30 years, when he’d last visited them as a young man. Back then, they were places of natural beauty and relative solitude. Now they are public vacation spots with carnival rides, food stalls and picnic areas. Still beautiful, but commercially developed. With no admission fees, they are popular recreational places for families in Islamabad and Rawalpindi. There is a sprinkling of tourists, but just a few.

Margalla National Park is up in the hills and we took a taxi there. We went in the early evening after maghrib. This park offers wonderful panoramic views of Islamabad. The city fans out to the east and west from a central sector called the Blue Area. Since it was dark, all the lights were twinkling and it was a pretty sight. No less pretty was the sight of the nine days moon as seen through the pine trees that abound through the park. We walked some paved and dirt areas and told ourselves we’d come back during the day.

There were many attractions in the park as well. Near the parking area, we saw a trained monkey. As his owner told a story of visiting the in-laws, the monkey acted it out, complete with gestures and facial expressions. As one point, he monkey sat on a small chairs, crossed his legs, clasped his hands on his knees, and swung one foot back and forth, just like a proper son in law. It was fun to watch, especially since the monkey himself looked healthy and well taken care of.

An older man sat playing the rabab, a classical Indian string instrument. We stopped to listen and gave him a few coins. There was also a man sketching portraits. The most interesting display to me was a man selling paan. He had set up a stand consisting of a large chest, or pan box, with all its accoutrements. He himself was dressed in green with a special hat. He had dolls on exhibit dressed in native costume, doing common activities, like spinning wool, riding horses and reading Quran. The funny thing was these were American dolls, both Barbies and baby dolls, dressed as classic Pakistani characters. I really liked the spirit of enterprise this guy showed. It looked like he was doing a pretty good business, too, as people were lined up to buy his product, a cone of pan filled with various ingredients. Tahera and Asad enjoyed these but I have never developed a taste for paan, a combination of a leaf, covered with a paste and filled with various herbs.

Lake View Park is another example of a scenic place that has recently been developed into a major recreation area. When Asad last went there, about 35 years ago, it was just a lake, named Rawal Lake and a dam which had been built to supply clean water to Rawalpindi, the twin city of Islamabad. That is a story in itself, as the dam was built without machinery, using only donkeys and manpower. A wealthy contractor from the tribal areas commissioned the project and actually built a village to house the laborers and their families. It is sort of like what Henry Ford did in Dearborn.

When we got to the site, we found it had been re-named Lake View Park. There is a wonderful stone boardwalk and promenade leading down to the lake. It is lined on either side with restaurants, snack stands, carnival rides, an aviary and an ATV race track, of all things. There are beautiful trees, shrubs and flowers lining the walkways. Down by the lake, there is a well-designed rotunda with plenty of seating areas and trash cans, a rare sight in Pakistan. There are gazebos and other structures looking out over the lake as well. It was evening, with a bright moon shining in the sky and reflecting in the water and music playing in the background, quite a lovely evening.

Here is the translation of a ghazal sung by Makesh and translated for me by Asad:

I gave my heart for you to keep.
You set it on fire.
Fate gave me love
And you put my heart in agony.

The beetle, who loves the rose
And hovers over it,
Cries all the time.
The rose is always smiling.

The pain the world is so afraid of,
The heartache they so fear
You, with your first glance,
You buried it all in my heart.

So I kept you in my heart
And lit the lamp of hope
One blow of fate
Extinguished it.


I think that serves as a good example of the romantic soul of Pakistan. One may hear the athan blaring from a hundred microphones five times a day, but the soul of the people has been captured by ishq. And what will convey the true meaning of ishq? Ask your own heart and then let me know!

Sept. 10th, Pakistan

Sept. 10, 2010


After many days of trying cell phone connections, our local i.t. guy has got us a PTCL USB to borrow. Sometimes it actually works, but not too often. For 1200 rs a month I can get 50 hours worth of user time. I need to be outside to get a connection. When you get disconnected, you must start a new hour to reconnect My best bet for reaching home is still the phone. At one rupee a minute (less than one cent) that’s a pretty good deal. I had wanted to keep updating anyone who wanted to know about me through my blog, but it may be harder than I thought. Getting anything done online takes hours or even days to accomplish. But a word on the young man we rely on to help us old folk in these matters. Amjadjan Khan is 23 years old and owns his own cell phone business in Gharibabad. He supplies cell phone and internet service to that entire sector of the city. He’s also a frequent contributor to YouTube, so check him out!

In a few hours, my friends and family back home will be celebrating Eid. Eid Mubarak you guys! I certainly miss you. Eid here will not be till Saturday, Sept 11th. It is my first Eid in a Muslim country but it doesn’t seem exciting yet.

On the 27th I went to Faisal Mosque, the largest and most beautiful masjid in Islamabad. On the eve of the 27th, it reminds one of Canton Mosque: People, food , clothes and prayers, not necessarily in that order. Of course, it is much larger than a masjid in the U.S. Faisal Masjid is actually a beautiful complex of buildings. There is the masjid itself and then inner and outer courtyards, with fountains, plazas and service areas for wudu, book stores and gift shops. The interior and exterior designs are sleek, sophisticated and modern with white beams, grids, latticework that let in the light and create reflected patterns on the walls. The grids and latticework create a feeling of lightness and space.

After walking through the outer courtyards, the inner masjid is reached by a series of staircases. Inside, one immediately notices a large mural by Sadiqain, a famous artist and calligrapher. It says, All men are brothers. The lower level of the masjid is the men’s area. There are two balconies for the women. Alhamdulilah, both were well ventilated with air conditioners and fans.

Faisal Masjid is in the best section of Islamabad. Most of those who come here are from the more well off sectors of society. They were well dressed but not too gaudy, since they were here for Tarawih prayers. The two young women sitting next to me were very fashionable in red and silver silwar chameeses. Their makeup was discreet. Besides the local families, there were tourists and other visitors.


Faisal Mosque has its name from King Faisal of Saudi Arabia who gifted the masjid to the people of Pakistan at the World Islamic Summit held in Pakistan in 1979.

The 27th-29th nights are marathon prayer nights there, with each rakat (prayer cycle) lasting a half hour and a new reciter for each two rakats. I could only do two at that pace The rest of the time I listened, people watched and wandered in the outer courtyards where people prayed picnicked and watched their kids run around. Asad and I shared some kheer bought from a vendor and then took the shuttle bus provided back to the main street to get a taxi to go home.

This year is the first time in Pakistan’s history that Peshawar will be celebrating Eid with the rest of the country. They are usually a day or two ahead in the Northwestern provinces. They are with everyone else this year because they want to celebrate it on 9/11. So Ramadan has been a full 30 days this year. May Allah (SWT) accept our fasting, our prayers and our deeds. Ameen.

Life in Pakistan

September 3, 2010

I’ve been trying to do itikaf (seclusion) for the last ten days of Ramadan. It’s a modified version. Basically I stay inside during the day and read Quran, make extra salat, etc. At night I go to the verandah or the roof to catch a breeze or two. It is exceedingly hot here. People warned me, but you don’t know until you experience it yourself. I am learning the real meaning of fasting this year by experiencing the heat and other limitations.

Asad has rented a beautiful home here. It has seven rooms, a verandah and a flat roof, which comes in very handy in this kind of weather. There is an abundance of marble in Pakistan, so all the floors and even the kitchen countertop are made of marble. So is the verandah, which has a nice pattern of tiles. Our kitchen came with a six burner gas stove. We purchased a used refrigerator and that allowed us to move out the military cantonment and into our home. There are ceiling fans in every room. We have not purchased an air conditioner due to the expense. With the doors open for circulation, the fans do a decent job, especially if you don’t move much! Of course, one can count on at least two power outages for load shifting and any number of other ones during the day or night. That’s when you really feel the heat. I expect I’m losing several pounds due to sweat. I put salt in my water at suhoor time to help prevent dehydration. I am much more interested in water than in food when I break my fast. We have fruit chat (salad) and pakoras most of the time. We may or may not eat dinner later. Sometimes we just save that for suhoor, which comes at about 3:15 AM. Prayer is at 4:15, so we are fasting from 4:15 to about 6:45, fourteen hours a day.

I’ve met a few people, Asad’s close friends and associates. Tahera is one of his nieces. She’s about 28 years old. She lives with us and is doing her itikaf here also. However, her itikaf is ten times more serious and structured than mine. She is basically sequestered in the room for ten days, reading Quran, doing her prayers and tasbih, dua, darud,(various types of devotion). She will finish the Quran several times this way. We leave her food at the door for iftar and suhoor. She will see or talk to nobody during this time, except Allah (SWT).

Tahera has been a God-send to me. She is the only other woman around, for one thing, and she has tried to make things easy for me. She purchased cloth to make me two silwar chamises,(Pakistani clothing) took my samples to the tailor and had the whole thing, including my Eid clothes done in a few days. She also provided bed sheets and bought a quilt when we didn’t have one.

Asad is Tahera’s guardian. Her father, a well known imam, passed away a few years ago. They had been very close and she was grief stricken. She had been married twice but both marriages ended badly, and she lost her only child and her sister as well. She has two brothers who are busy with lives of their own and have no room in their households
She had been working as a maid and living with her employer, but now she lives with us and takes care of the cooking, cleaning and laundry. Asad is trying to help her get an I.D. card, something essential in Pakistan to having any rights at all. However, many people, especially the poor, don’t have these cards. During Ramadan, the agency that prints the cards has been on strike because the government hasn’t paid them, so the cards of thousands of people are on hold. Once Tahera gets her card, she will probably get a job at the airport as a cleaner or a porter. That would be a big step up for her.

God was so kind to have blessed me with a fourth daughter here in Pakistan, same name and age as my Tahera back home!

This is a new home in an established village called Chatta Baktower. But the name is being changed to Park View town, probably to attract a certain crowd. It is a very nice location because it is not in the city, neither Rawalpindi, nor Islamabad, but is a suburb of both. There is a wonderful farm house behind us, where an extended family lives. Their buildings are painted a cheerful red and white checkerboard design. They have a beautiful green lawn and many thriving plants, including grove of orange trees. The other houses around are not as nice, kind of ramshackle. However, real estate developers are buying the land in this area and building wonderful homes for those who can afford them. Just one block over, on Greens Avenue, all the homes are new and elegant. They are owned by doctors and professors, as stated on the name plates. Many of these people have new cars as well.

One thing I like very much about these homes, and the one we are renting as well, is the gated entrances. Each home has a large gate that opens on to the driveway and a smaller one to walk through. These gates are made of metal and are beautifully designed with grillwork, flowers and other motifs. The gates and walls in front of the homes allow for privacy when sitting outside in the evenings. We do that almost every night, eating our meals, drinking tea and entertaining guests.

The flat roof is also a very nice feature. In August and early September, that was the coolest spot to be in the evening. It also affords a nice view of the village and the surrounding towns. On the horizon are the Margalla Hills. They enclose Islamabad to the northeast. The stars and moon, sitare and chand in Urdu are also more beautiful from the roof.

Life can be very comfortable in Pakistan for those with money. There is a great divide between rich and poor, with a slowly growing tiny middle class. Unemployment is very high and most people live hand to mouth, not knowing where their next meal is coming from. It takes 500 rupees to buy a few days’ food for one person, about $4.00.

August 27, 2010
West Ridge Cantonment, Rawalpindi, Pakistan

Asalamu alaykum and Ramadan Kareem to all. I hope things are well with you and your families. I am having a wonderful experience here in Pakistan. Every day brings something new. Since I arrived last week, my husband and I having been trying to figure out the best way to distribute the zakat monies all of you have donated for flood relief. Alhamdulilah, I am happy to inform you that the bulk of the money was distributed today directly to eight needy families, seven in Rawalpindi and one in Haripur.

I’ve learned that many areas of the country were affected by the flood and the usual August monsoons as well. For example, in a very poor section of Rawalpindi called Lai, the water and sewer system is basically an open drain. Every seven years or so, it overflows, completely polluting the city water supply. This year, the water came up as high as the first floor shops and homes. People were ordered to evacuate their homes, but were given no assistance in finding shelter.

After a bit of research, we found out it would be both risky and nearly impossible to go directly to an area like Nowshera, which had gotten a lot of media coverage. Other areas of the country much closer to where I’m now staying have been equally affected by natural disaster and the general plight of the poor. Unemployment rates are sky high and the prices of everything from food to furniture are high when you consider the average person’s living. One lady we met was a widow raising three children on her salary of 7,000 rupees (rs) a month, which is about $83.00. The cost of basic sustenance food per person per day is about 130 rs and that is plain vegetable curry with no meat or even an egg and about 4 rotis.

We had some local friends direct us to some of the families hardest hit when the sewer overflowed into their neighborhood a month ago. We found several families living in tents on top of the mud and rubble of the city. One group of three sisters and their mom had about 20 children between them, most of them girls. Their husbands work as porters in the local market which was also flooded of course. The youngest sister had been set to get married, but most of her dowry was washed away by the flood. We gave 75,000 rs to this group.

Among their neighbors four widows, one with school age children and none with livable homes. They were given 55,000, 45,000 and 35,000 rs, depending on their immediate needs.

The balance of the donation monies is being given to two other destitute families in Haripur and Gharibabad district in Rawalpindi who will get 35,000 and 45,000 repectively. One of man is a widower with three children and the other supports and extended family and is the only wage earner for them. He is going to open business as a denter (someone who removes dents from car fenders, etc.) with the money he received.

If the amounts given seem large to you, please keep the exchange rate in mind. It fluctuates daily but seems to stay between 85.20 and 84.05 rs per dollar. The total amount distributed was 374,000 rs, or $4,400.

update

Okay, its one month later and soooo much has happened! I'm on my way to Pakistan tomorrow for three months! Will try to write from there, a sort of journal perhaps. Book has been on hold b/c of moving house, etc. Check back later.

book

Not sure of a title yet. Maybe QF's Journey or The Heart's Trajectory. Have decided it must be in the first person. Am trying to write it all down and then edit out what caan't be made public, or is possibly too boring. Have gotten up to my children's births. Organization is a challenge. Do you just go chronological or in terms of topic or some other pattern? Any suggestions? I'd love to hear from some of you! Here's part of a chapter:

THE IRANIANS

The ‘78-79 school year began with me at NYU. I was due to graduate in June but would end up needing another half year. I worked part time in a 57th Street gallery and attended classes downtown. I lived with a roomate on 24th St, midway between my two main locations and could walk or take the train. I’d walk if the weather was good and I had enough tiome. It beat the sweat and smells of the subway!

Besides, my walks had a higher purpose lately. They showed me God’s beautiful sky, painted with a different palette each morning. They afforded me time to memorize some of the Arabic prayers I wanted to learn, and their meanings in English. I knew now that God existed and it was only a matter of time before I committed myself to Him.

A few months earlier, a group of students in Iran had taken over the American embassy and held its residents hostage. This was an earth shattering event. No one had ever dared touch an American on any soil. We were the richest, most powerful, most democratic nation on earth.

How dare anyone mess with us? I thought, along with all my countrymen and women. I agreed when presidential candidate Ronald Reagan called the Iranian people barbarians.

The student club fair was held in booths outside the buildings on West 4th Street. I knew there was a Muslim Students’ Association on campus and wanted to find their booth. When I did, I realized all the people there were foreign and asked which countries they came from. There were a few guys from the gulf states, but the majority of them (there were no women present that she knew of) were from Iran. Iran! That traitor state who were holding our people hostage and blindfolded! Anger was rising in her throat but I swallowed it and said, I think your politics stink. But tell me about your religion. A few of the guys chuckled softly to themselves but one of them smiled warmly and said, What would you like to know?

I had many questions, and got the opportunity to ask them over the next few weeks. The Muslim brothers, as they called themselves, invited me to dinner in the school cafeteria and to political rallies uptown at Columbia University. I quickly learned all about the Iranian revolution, Khomeini and his call for an Islamic revival. I met their wives and sisters; strong, fearless girls who believed wholeheartedly in their cause and supported it even from inside enemy territory.

One of the women took a motherly interest in me. Farzaneh came to know that I lived in my own apartment with a roommate and went out on the weekends to parties and other gatherings where there were drugs, alcohol and the whole range of what was available to twenty somethings on the NY social scene. She was concerned and began asking me to come to her apartment in Queens for the weekend. I was curious about how this Muslim woman lived, so I went.

Farzaneh’s Queens apartment was clean, neat and organized. Her furnishings were simple and functional. The overall impression was of a very clean place. Shoes were left at the door and sandals were worn in the bathroom but nowhere else. Meals were eaten on a white tablecloth spread upon the floor. Friends from school often gathered there. After eating, Farzaneh was careful to pick up every crumb that might have strayed to the carpet and then to vacuum as well. She lived alone and seemed happy about that. When I walked into her place, I felt that holiness I’d felt long ago in the temple..ah that elusive feeling was back! I made a mental note to herself about finding and keeping that kind of peace in my life.

Complicated Story

Complicated Story


Today you were a deer in my yard.
A young deer, a faun,
with beautiful, deep brown eyes,
The shining eyes of a horse
With the mischievous glint of a hunter
Promising quite a great ride

I drew him in
And encouraged
With sweet, coaxing words
To let him know how handsome I thought he was
How lovely and how loving!
I praised his absolute beauty and burgeoning power
I told him
You’ll be a horse very soon.


We became friends
I even crossed the neighbor’s yard to reach him
But willed him, foolishly, to turn into You
I wanted so badly for him to come near
that I cried and he ran off.

That’s when I realized
He was you!

Just think of that beautiful riding!
You’d spent all your anger
And earned my repentance.
Then we both got our reward
A wonderful shower of love

To express

The absolute power of love.

7/2/10

revision 1

Revised version:
Grab for God!
Reach out and try to grasp Him in your filthy fingers!
Look how He takes His distance from you
with eagle eyed agility!

He who made the birds hop and fly
Can draw you near or push you away
With the warmest hug
Or the coldest fear.
Don’t you know, you do it to yourself
And make Him take the blame
Or you blame shaytan
Even worse!


Who has more ease than a rabbit
Feeding on spilled seeds left by a gluttonous squirrel?
His table is all set!

All creatures eagerly cherish his traces,
Whether they are hunters, prey or both.
We humans like to bury our noses in the fragrance of dewy wildflowers
Perhaps a young fawn can just walk into their midst and laugh with those delicate ladies
So lucky he is!

All creation is showered with
Presents from Him,
They themselves being both rain
And tears
Forms of rahma enjoyed in all the spheres
Or at least the ones I’ve been in

Your experiences may be different
For each sirat is custom made
A work in progress
As we travel this journey

the indefinable All,
Universally Merciful
and
Singularly compassionate.

Everything,
Unity,
HU.

New poetry. Writing is one of the few activities that can keep me sane on a day when there's a lot to figure out


Grab for God
Reach out and try to grasp Him in your filthy fingers!
Look how He takes His distance from you
With such agility!
He who made the bird hop and fly
can draw you near or push you away
As easily as a rabbit feeds
on spilled seeds left by a gluttonous squirrel
His table is all set!
All creatures trail traces, like the smell of delicate flowers wet with dew
Or sharper scents.
Presents from Him,undefinable All,
Everything, Unity, HU

Ch ch ch Changes!

The book and my life, are undergoing some changes. In fact, there may be more than one book happening at the same time. Not sure yet, completely of the direction but would love your feedback. There is an adventure story, part fantasy, developing right in the middle of the fictionalized autobiography. I'm going back and forth between the two and am in a highly creative period right now, Alhamdulilah. I'll put an excerpt on here soon.

The Hard Stuff

Writing or talking about the hard stuff is...well it's hard. That's the stuff that dredges up old feelings, many of them not pleasant. I have a dear friend who says looking at the stuff that was your past, even the ugly parts of it, is good. Those experiences are what you had to go through to be the you you are today. In a logical sense, of course this is true. And, if I think about it, I have no regrets about things I've done..mostly no regrets. Its the feelings and emotions that go along with the telling. The tears that pour down and seem never to want to stop. Those outpourings are exhausting, leaving me robbed of sleep , with aching eyes that tell the world I've been crying, or tell the least observant that something's wrong, even if they don't know what it is.

Some parts of the book make me feel this way. They are the parts I've been putting off writing about. Yet they will probably become the heart of the book, the parts that touch readers most and make them empathize with someone they may have thought they had nothing in common with. If I were to sum it up, I'd have to say that the hard stuff is the human side!

Back in the Saddle Again

Ok, inspired by several sources, including a new follower, I've decided to try harder to keep up with this. What follows is another excerpt from the book; the one I'm supposed to be writing for publication by some means (self-publishing or other) within the next year or so. This is a condensed version of several chapters. I actually presented this at an interfaith presentation at the Ann Arbor public library. The topic was "American Daughters of Islam." It was a panel discussion that featured five American Muslim women, three converts and two born into the faith.It was very well received by the 100 people in the audience. Here's what I said:

PATH TO ISLAM: 10 MIN OR LESS

My parents and most family members were secular Jews. That means they viewed being Jewish as more of an ethnic and cultural identity than a religious one. This was common among NY Jews of Eastern European descent. The only person in my family who was sure she believed in God was my grandma. I also had a neighborhood best friend who was a Baptist and wanted to save my soul from hellfire when we were both about 12.

I went to Hebrew school and Sunday school b/c I wanted a bas mitzvah, a big party when you turned 13. In the Reform temple it was becoming popular for girls though not as big a deal as it was for boys, especially in liberal Long Island, NY, just a stone’s throw from Manhattan. If you remember the liberal 70’s, it was all about breaking the rules, if there were any, and my parents never explicitly set any, thinking my brother and I somehow had enough common sense to know the limits. He did, maybe. I didn’t.

From the time I was 11 or 12, I was searching for more meaning in life. I kept asking, Is this all there is? Getting good grades, trying to be like the popular kids, dressing well, striving for a Barbie doll figure. Is this all there is to life? I once asked my mother this question and added, because if this is it, I don’t think I want to live. She asked me if I was serious, or just trying to get a reaction. I told her I was just kidding, but that was a lie.

I went to live in Israel for 9 months after high school. I came back and tried to rediscover my roots. But I found even conservative Judaism to be more about the Jewish people than about God. I needed to know Him. Did he exist? Did I have a relationship with Him? I tired TM meditation, much to my parents dismay, and found peace in that for moments at a time, but not enough to sustain a preaceful and happy life.

I attended NYU and hung out in Washington Square Park. One day, while listening to an impromptu concert there, an African American man handed me a joint and asked, Do you believe in God? I looked into his deep brown eyes and answered truthfully, I don’t know. Nobody has asked me that question for a long time. I’ll have to think about it.

The question planted a seed and I did think. The man’s name was Abdullah and he hung out in that park, so I started asking him questions, like How do you know there is a God. He had good answers, and when he ran out of those he told me to go to the masjid and get a Quran. One day, I asked God to prove His existence to me, and He started to do just that. The universe became an open book of His signs. The perfect petals of a flower and the newly photographed rings around Saturn became proof of a Designer’s existence. Allah tells us in the Quran that He will show us signs in the universe and within ourselves until we believe.

I had started to believe, but I needed more. So I asked Mike about loneliness and being alone. There’s a lot of that in NYC apartments, and in life, even if you do have a roommate and a family, right? There is a void in the heart that only Allah (God) could fill. Mike described it as a hotline number 33,33, 34. Glory to God, All Praise is to God and God is Great. I called on that number several times a day and realized God was with me.

There are many teachers on one’s spiritual path. My next mentors were Muslim students at NYU. It was 1979 and Americans had been taken hostage by Iranian students at the American embassy in Tehran. I, like most Americans, were flabbergasted and outraged that such a thing could have happened. So when I walked by the Muslim Students Assoc. table during student activities day, I stopped and said,. How dare you take our people hostage. Who do you think you are. Your politics stink, but tell me about your religion. The guy at the table smiled graciously and said, What would you like to know.

I had many questions and over the next few weeks my new friends did their best to answer them. They impressed me in many ways. One of the most significant was the way they treated me, an attractive, stylish, single American girl. They did not flirt or come on to me in any way. They were respectful in a way American men were not. I found this strange, but refreshing and non-threatening. They introduced me to some female Muslim students and I began to learn about hijab and hayaa. Covering and modesty.

Most of you view the hijab as a sign of oppression, but in reality it is a sign of liberation, of freedom. Hijab frees you from being appraised for the shape of your body and the color and style of your hair. Hijab demands that someone look at your face and listen to your words instead of running their eyes up and down your body as you speak. Hijab protects women and society from the exploitation of physical beauty.

I began to consider committing myself to God as a Muslim. The word means one who submits to God’s will above his/her own. I started to pray, I put on hijab. I took my shahadah and began my journey toward Allah (SWT) It is a lifelong journey . As Allah SWT says in the Quran, Chapter 81, v. 19 You shall journey on from stage to stage. And in another chapter, regarding the soul’s journey: he is successful who purifies it, and he fails who corrupts it.

So Hard to Keep up with it all!

March 3, 2010

Again, a long time has gone by. I have been caught up in the whirlwind of change that is life. Sometimes it moves at such a rapid pace we can hardly keep up. Sometimes it is more stagnant. But not lately! For one thing, I've been traveling, locally and globally both. I took my youngest daughter to see Paris, a dream come true! Actually we went with her high school. What an exciting city; so much to see and do there! It is important that I write and thank her teachers for their great job. They did an amazing job of organizing and managing 28 students and 6 adult chaperone's. Appreciating what people have done and letting them and their employers know it is an important thing to do. So often, i neglect to do so. And then i complain about how others don't appreciate my work. Do unto others...Also Allah tells us to be grateful to others if we want to show gratitude to Him. "And, if you are grateful, I will give you increase..."

I have a new laptop to work with and am looking forward to getting back to my book and posting some of it here for your feedback. So please give me some when you read. Thanks!

Mary

haven't been here in a while, but here's something new:


Mary

Mary, as a young girl
Did she ever dream
Such an infant would suckle at her breast?

Just the act of suckling is holy
Be it infant or lover.

The angel came with news
Of a miracle.
Jesus would be born!
She backed away in confusion and awe
How, she gasped, when no man has touched me?

Gabriel explained,
Kun fa ya kun
And so it was.

She was young and virgin vessel
Only the purest for such a word
from Him.

In a strange and wondrous way
All humans are virgins
Till hearts break open
Trying to contain His Love.

2/2/10

211 Secatogue Lane

I've been trying to work on a book and have been busy remembering pieces of my life and fitting them together to tell the tale of who I've been, who I am now and who I am becoming on this journey we call life. What follows is another excerpt from childhood memories. I'd love some feedback, especially from new readers! Is this boring or a necessary intro? What could be added, taken away?

The lane I lived on overarched with trees that almost met in the middle. The whole area had once been a forest and large, lovely trees lined both sides of the wide street. Houses had expansive front lawns and big backyards where plenty of the mature forest trees remained, interspersed with recent landscaping of new trees, hedges and shrubs. My house was at the end of the long lane.

Beyond my home lay Willet’s Point, where the road branched into east and west, leading eventually down to the bay on both sides. That was prime waterfront property, much of it on the bay itself. The houses were mostly smaller and more cookie cutter than those on my lane, but they had bay access and docking space for boats. The Great South Bay, with its tiny private beach and rusted lone swing became my go to place to think and be alone as I entered adolescence. I have always craved and carved out a fairly large dose of solitude in my life.

For much of my childhood I played outside, with my brother Andrew, my dog, Tiny, a runty St Bernard, and a variety of neighbors. The neighborhood grew up with us. When we first came there, a large woods abutted our property. It must have been the size of three large lots.

Of course, the woods was forbidden territory. Older kids told stories about finding broken beer bottles in there. If there were broken bottles, they reasoned, there must be drunken men, bad men who would kidnap and kill children. Mommy made sure we knew the woods were absolutely off limits.

Sometimes I played by myself in our backyard. I remember it as a huge expanse with beautiful old trees, some flowering lilacs and rhododendron bushes and wonderful green grass that took lots of mowing, first from dad and later from a yard service. That backyard was the perfect place for me to wander, from tree to bush to flower, absorbed totally in my own games and my own thoughts.

Once I could read and climb, the tree by the garage became a favorite perch. I climbed up into the lowest fork where the trunk split off into two thick branches and there I would sit with a book and read, pretty well hidden from the world in my leafy kingdom.

One day, when I was about 5 years old and out in my yard, I noticed the older neighbor boy up in a tree. He was hammering some nails into the tree and building something. I had been fascinated by this older boy, Davey Cross, and wanted to know everything about him, so I tipped my head back to look up at him, way up in the tree and asked,

Davey, what are you doing?
Building a tree house, he replied..

I was very intrigued by this so I stood there with my neck craned, watching. After a few moments I felt a little ping on the top of my head. It didn’t hurt, exactly, it was just unusual, so I reached up to touch my crown with a tentative hand. When I drew it back, my hand was full of blood! A nail head pierced the top of my head. Soon bright red blood was trickling down the sides of my face. The crown of my head began to throb dully as I ran screaming toward the house.

But only our new, Costa Rican housekeeper was there, looking after my brother and doing the laundry. She took one look at this bloody crying five year old and blanched white. Ay Dios!, she cried out and then began muttering to herself in Spanish. Her olive skin turned pale and looked so white in contrast to her dark curls. She was trying to decide what to do and decided to get a comb, of all things, to loosen my waist length pigtails and comb through my hair, perhaps to identify the source of the blood. That made it flow all the more and faster, too, so I screamed a bit more. Then she called dad’s office. Although she did not speak English at the point, she must have asked for Mr, Flowers. Between his pidgeon Spanish and her lack of English, an emergency was declared and he came rushing home.

I’ll never forget the sight of his face, white as a ghost. He scooped me up, blood and all and threw me in the car. We were in Good Sam’s emergency room in 5 minutes flat. I don’t remember much of that but I know I got one or two stitches on the top of my head and was sent home.

Another, much more minor incident in the yard included getting stung by a bee for the first time. One minute a friend and I were playing, crawling around on the grassy lawn and the next, my hand seemed to come down on something that produced a very sharp pain. I screamed and then began to cry as I once more ran toward the house for comfort. This time I think there were guests. The bee’s stinger was still visible in my hand, so mom pulled to out and told me I had been stung by a bee.

When we got Tiny, our St. Bernard puppy, we fenced in the yard. Tiny was often my best friend in those days. I would tell her my troubles and my secrets, especially when I though nobody else understood them. I would bury my hands in her thick fur, smell her comforting doggy smell and think of her as my best friend in a world where people didn’t always understand just what I was crying for or why I felt so alone.

We played less in the front yard, with its high hedges fronting the street and the shrubs lining both sides of the driveway. For years the landscapers complained because dad couldn’t back out in a straight line without veering into the shrubs on one side or the other of the driveway and damaging the foliage. There was a nice island of mature trees, large bushes and stones on the left side of the lawn. My grandmother’s wrought iron bench eventually found a home there.

new work

Greetings and salams to all. Happy New Year! I haven't posted in a while but I'm still writing, both poetry and prose. here's a sample:



Sleep,
Sleep as deeply as you must.
I will keep watch
And try to keep the demons at bay
for both of us.


There is nothing else for me to do right now but breathe
And write this poetry.

Outward breath: La ilaha
Inward: Il Allah
This will keep me sane
Or rather,
Crazily in love.

One of two choices
Are you capable of choosing?
I am not.
Your body must go about the busyness of the world
But are you able to separate it from the whole?
If so, you are stronger than i.

All i can do,

In this fearful moment

Is try to make sense

Through these words

Of what cannot really be said.

S. Flower, 1/4/10