Tuesday, June 28, 2016
Six Years Later
Six Years Later!
Hard to believe I'm saying that. Have six years gone by since I last wrote on this blog? The whole world has changed since then. In the past six years I've traveled more than I ever would have thought. Back and forth from the U.S. to Pakistan with side trips to the U.A.E. , Istanbul and Konya and a year long stint as an English instructor in Saudi Arabia
My overseas adventures are mentioned in my book, The Eye of the Heart. It's a spiritual memoir of my journey to Islam and what happened in my life after that. I'm publishing it through Niyah Press and it will be out in late 2016, Inshallah (God-Willing). The writing itself has been quite a journey, one I started long ago, with my very first journal, first article, first poem. Alhamdulilah, I'm so glad to see it all come to fruition.
I'm going to use this blog for some sneak previews and for the photos that go with each chapter. First a word on the title. Hazrat Ali, the fourth caliph of Islam and nephew of the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) said,
“The vision of the eye is limited; the vision of the heart transcends all barriers of time and space.”
As a child of the sixties and seventies, I was schooled to "think with my head, not my heart." This never made sense to me. When I came closer to God, I realized I didn't have to choose between the two. "The heart is the seat of intellect". Hence my title, The Eye of the Heart. Stay tuned for more to come!
Thursday, November 11, 2010
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
Monday, October 25, 2010
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.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
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.
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?
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?
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