This post is an ongoing series posts by Zosha & Her husband Angrez. They are currently traveling through Pakistan.
Day three of “mourning.” We have such cabin fever! But my Sindhi and Urdu both improve by leaps and bounds with each day. I’m now speaking to Auntie in Sindhi and am working on reading a book by Zulfikar Ali Bhutto’s prison superintendent in Urdu with Angrez at night. We’re making the best of not getting out much. Auntie refers to my Sindhi “coming out” as “khush khabri”—she’s clearly pleased with my progress…I have to admit I’m a little surprised myself to be recovering so much so quickly.
There are so few women on the streets—I really think women get the worst of all of this. They’re not responsible for the drama, they aren’t burning cars or beating on thier heads for the cameras, and yet they end up stuck at home for days as a result… I’m pretty sure I could adjust to just about everything except that about Pakistan. Angrez and I talk frequently about a brain-drain reversing move, maybe to Islamabad, as we both grow increasingly frustrated with the U.S.‘s hyperpower insanity. I’m reading a fantastic book about the role of multiculturalism and tolerance in empire and fall of empire by Amy Chau. I think it’s true that the U.S. had an unprecedented opportunity to redefine the role of world leadership after the Cold War and has instead chosen the tried and true path of empire expansion.
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This post is an ongoing series posts by Zosha & Her husband Angrez. They are currently traveling through Pakistan.
“We managed to arrive and have one day of seeing Karachi—we’d just had dinner with my Auntie and cousin that second night when my mum called from the States telling us to turn on the television. We’re now on the second of two days of enforced mourning for Benazir Bhutto, who is being called “shaheed,” or martyr, by the television media here. I say enforced because the common wisdom is that unless shopkeepers shut down and workplaces stay closed, PPP thugs will come around with guns.
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Author’s note: This is the second installment on a series of posts. Read: Part 1. Part 2. Part 3.
By the next morning the trauma of having a razor scrape against my head (and the abnormally hot skin that came along with it) had subsided, but the brown tan-stripe remained. Having parted my long silky locks down the middle for so long, a tan-line ran the full length of my head. If you’ve just joined us on this multi-part account of my trip to Mecca, let me fill you in. The night before, I had topped off my ‘umra rituals, by shaving my head. It wasn’t as pointy-shaped at I thought it would be. Praise be to God.
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Note: This is the second installment on a series of posts. Read: Part 1. Part 2. Part 3.
I woke up around 11:00 o’clock in the morning, after falling asleep while listening to the whir of the air conditioner. Ahmed had woken up prior, and was brushing his chest-length beard. Upon waking, Ahmed produced a whole roasted duck from his suitcase. He mentioned that his mother made it for him, and insisted that I eat part of it. I remember smiling to myself, and picturing the last time I thought about eating a duck. It was while watching a chef, Ming Tsai, on the Food Network separating a duck’s skin from it’s flesh. I ate the duck slowly avoiding the fat.
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Author’s note: This is the second installment on a series of posts. Read: Part 1. Part 2. Part 3.
I had been trying to get an ‘umra (or lesser pilgrimage) visa during the last few months of my stay in Cairo, but nothing materialized. My alternative plan was to see Jerusalem, if I wasn’t able to get to Mecca. Fortunately, my roommate at the time made a contact in the Saudi embassy in Cairo. He asked me to get a certificate from al-Azhar Mosque saying that I was a Muslim and a photocopy of my passport.
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Written At The Age Of 16
The sun is nowhere to be seen, yet there is plenty of light here from the massive artificial lamps. It’s three o’clock in the morning in the Masjid Al-Haram in Mecca, Saudi Arabia. I’m barefoot, walking on the hundred acres of marble flooring. It’s hard, as marble should be, but bearable. A stadium-like atmosphere surrounds me. Birds are swooping down from all directions. The Kaaba, the massive cube-shaped building, is always to the left of me as I walk around it. I am stuck in a sea of people circumambulating. We are like the species of penguins that constantly move in a circle to keep warm. The one difference; we are at Mecca praising God.
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