"I wanted to go to Paradise"

A cyclist on an old D.G.Khan street

Umar Fidai is 14 years old. He has two sisters and a mother, his father is dead. He hasn't been to school. He is being interviewed by a reporter while strapped to a hospital bed with severe injuries from a recent bomb blast.
No he is not a victim. He was supposed to be one of the suicide bombers to attack a Sufi shrine in D.G. Khan area of south Punjab. Somehow he was not able to detonate the bomb he had on his person, and was caught by the police although injured in the blast. Around 50 people have died.
The reporter asks: "Why did you do this? Why did you kill people?"
"They said kill the non muslims. They are wrong." Umar replies staring dazedly at the camera.
"Who? Who said kill the people?"
"The Taliban."
"Where is your family, your mother?"
Umar starts speaking in another language. Realizing people don't understand him, he switches back to broken Urdu. "Torkham, I'm from Torkham. The Taliban told me to do this."

A few feet away, a family of 6 or 7 people huddle together, the women wailing and mourning. They have lost an 8 year old child. The grandmother cries it was her fault, she sent the child to fetch some sacred water from the shrine. If only she hadn't. The mother of the girl looks up at the camera, but her eyes are vacant. She says nothing. Two little sad-faced boys stand beside her, uncomfortable with the camera and the hospital environment. The mother draws both her sons in her arms. The grandmother hides her face in her shawl.

"Aren't you sad? So many people have died... they were innocent. Aren't you ashamed, Umar?" the reporter asks the terrorist again.
"I wanted to go to Paradise", is all Umar says.





*An Update from Umar*
http://www.gulf-times.com/site/topics/article.asp?cu_no=2&item_no=427409&version=1&template_id=41&parent_id=23

Should doctors forget their oath?

It is day number 37 of the Doctor's (Young Doctor's Association) strike in Punjab province. They demand higher pay from the Government, and more benefits, and have refused to provide any OPD (out patient dept.) or Emergency services in Hospitals through out the province.

Almost 40-50 cases of death due to lack of medical help have been reported so far, (with actual figures much higher especially in rural areas). Other hospital staff, such as nurses and ward-boys have taken over this crucial role without having the skills and education needed. 

Today, I saw a man being interviewed on TV talking about the Doctor's strike. With tears in his eyes he explained how he had come from a far-away village to the Emergency dept. of a city hospital, only to be told there was no doctor on duty to help his 2 year old son. After 3 days of desperately asking for some medical care, he had to watch his child die. There are other similar stories. 

It seems all the doctors care about are their own demands. But what about their oath, their duty, to help humanity? Or is becoming a doctor only for financial/social respectability reasons? A doctor isn't just another person with a family, he is first and foremost the healer and the helper for those who are sick and needy. Have these doctors forgotten their oath?

I looked around on Google to find the famous Hippocratic Oath, and I found myself looking at another "debate" about whether it should be included in "ceremonies" or not, whether it offends somebody's religious beliefs, whether it is outdated, whether it's this or that or politically incorrect. This makes my heart sink. The essence of the medical profession, and the essence of this Oath, have been lost in this 'modern' socio-political jargon. 

So, today, the loss of human life from neglect is worth the financial gain of the striking doctors, just as the loss of the 'helping humanity spirit' is worth the political correctness and social relevance of a document. Such shame!

Here's a version of the Hippocratic Oath that I managed to find online. Maybe these doctors need to re-read what it says:

I swear to fulfill, to the best of my ability and judgment, this covenant:

-I will respect the hard-won scientific gains of those physicians in whose steps I walk, and gladly share such knowledge as is mine with those who are to follow.

-I will apply, for the benefit of the sick, all measures [that] are required, avoiding those twin traps of overtreatment and therapeutic nihilism.

-I will remember that there is art to medicine as well as science, and that warmth, sympathy, and understanding may outweigh the surgeon's knife or the chemist's drug.

-I will not be ashamed to say "I know not," nor will I fail to call in my colleagues when the skills of another are needed for a patient's recovery.

-I will respect the privacy of my patients, for their problems are not disclosed to me that the world may know. Most especially must I tread with care in matters of life and death. If it is given me to save a life, all thanks. But it may also be within my power to take a life; this awesome responsibility must be faced with great humbleness and awareness of my own frailty. Above all, I must not play at God.

-I will remember that I do not treat a fever chart, a cancerous growth, but a sick human being, whose illness may affect the person's family and economic stability. My responsibility includes these related problems, if I am to care adequately for the sick.

-I will prevent disease whenever I can, for prevention is preferable to cure.

-I will remember that I remain a member of society, with special obligations to all my fellow human beings, those sound of mind and body as well as the infirm.

-If I do not violate this oath, may I enjoy life and art, respected while I live and remembered with affection thereafter. May I always act so as to preserve the finest traditions of my calling and may I long experience the joy of healing those who seek my help.

Written in 1964 by Louis Lasagna, Academic Dean of the School of Medicine at Tufts University.

A poet for a moment or two

On Sahir Ludhianvi's Birthday, I would like to share my most favourite of his poem (rendered beautifully by Mukesh for the film "Kabhie Kabhie"). Sahir Ludhianvi is undoubtedly one of the greatest Urdu poets of the 20th Century, and sadly most people are not aware about the man who penned some of the best Hindi/Urdu film songs.

Here are the English translations of his lyrics:

I am a poet of a moment or two,

My story is a moment or two,

My existence is a moment or two,

My life is just a moment or two... 

So many have been before me,

Poets that came and went,

some left with a few sighs,

others left with melodies…

they too, were a story of a moment,

I too, shall be a passing tale,

I may not be here tomorrow,

But I am a part of your today.

I am a poet of a moment or two…

Tomorrow, there will be more

Who bloom with numerous songs

Better poets than me

Better listeners than you

Tomorrow, if someone thinks of me

Why would they think of me?

The busy world, for my sake,

Why would it bother?

I am but a poet, for a moment or two…

my life is just a moment or two...

(Main pal do pal ka shayar hoon- by Sahir, translation by: Hareem)

One day...

I’m so tired of life right now...I wish there was some happiness- any random kind. And my mind won’t shut up. I feel as if I’ve lost who I was. So I thought, why not think happy thoughts and type all I want to do in life here, maybe I’d sleep better:

-One day I will see the Northern Lights. And my life would be complete, I’d die with satisfaction.

-One day I’ll have enough money to buy myself a telescope, and then I could spend hours watching the night sky, all those beautiful stars out there, and imagine what it is like outside this Earth.

-One day, I’ll have enough money to buy a red Mini cooper. It’s simply too cute not to have.

-One day, I’ll write a book that would make people happy and sad and lonely and warm and appreciative of what they’ve got in their lives. It would make them rethink themselves at the end.

-One day, I’ll understand all the troubles and questions out there that I don’t understand, like where we come from and where we’re all going. It’d make sense.

-One day, I’ll visit New Zealand and Turkey. I’ll go to the islands where they shot Lord of the rings, I’ll experience the southern hemisphere weather switch, I’ll look at that impossible beauty that breaks my heart sometimes, and I’ll sigh and let it all sink in. I’ll go to Turkey and see the Hagia Sophia, and the little markets, and the pretty mosques, and see the bridge between east and west. I’ll sit and have qahva somewhere nice, and watch the Mediterranean waves swishing about casually. It would be sunny and warm, with many tourists around, yet I’ll still feel a connection with the locals. I'll visit their University where they teach Urdu, and I’d be really happy.

-One day, Ammi and Abbu and I will have a great day outdoors just like before. There will be tea and biscuits and a cool breeze and Abbu and Ammi will talk about old times and people which I have never met. It will be peaceful and the world will be alright.

-One day, my Lala and I would spill everything that happened with me here in Canada and all that happened with her in Karachi while we were apart. We’d sit in a Lehaf and pry open chilgoza and peanuts and munch on them and condemn half the people we’ve met. I’d tell her about all the people I hate and the mental problems they suffer from. She’d laugh and tell me stories from her own University days.

-One day, I’ll find myself working in a lab where I can be practically helping humanity in some way. Where colleagues would be nice and supportive and friendly, and work not so stressful, but exciting.

-One day, I’ll complete my doctorate as I wanted to. Maybe I’d be a better student then.

-One day, I’ll have enough poems to compile and publish into a book and people will like them, and quote from them when I’m gone.

-One day, my blog will have many regular visitors. And I’d be happy!

Two kinds of Hell

I was too lazy to go upstairs to practise my shots on the actual table tennis table, so I was playing pseudo-ping pong with our wall outside. Our water tank (tanki)’s motor was running smoothly on the other side of the terrace. Nani Ammi (my grandmother) had just had her evening chai, and she was sitting by herself at the takht reading the newspaper. All you could hear on that humid evening was the remnants of a defeated summer day, the chug-chug-chug of the motor, and my occasional sharp hits on the wall.

I didn’t realize where that loud bang came from at first. Maybe I hit the window by mistake? No? Maybe the motor blew up? Someone fell? But whatever it was, it shook the ground beneath. I remember being so shocked that I just stood there with the racket in my hand and the ball bouncing by itself... for a slow drawn out moment. Nani Ammi had a surprised look on her face. For what felt like a couple of minutes, but was exactly 10 seconds as we later found out, we both remained fixed where we were. Then it came again. This time, I was sure it wasn’t me or the motor- which was still chugging away as indifferently as only a machine can.

This time it rang loudly in my head, and shook me so badly that I almost stumbled on a perfectly level surface. It wasn’t an earthquake. They don’t come with a bang and leave a lasting echo of a whistle in your ear. You don’t smell gunpowder in the air for miles around. Your bones shake exactly the same way though, and for a moment you don’t know what has happened.

I remember Ammi walking out onto the terrace silently, as if in a daze. We listened. No sound but the motor. Even the birds were too shocked to comment. A cat was sitting on our boundary wall, one leg outstretched in mid-air. It too was listening.

“I think, we should go inside.” We went in. 

Somebody switched on the tv. It was a miracle the power wasn’t out. A channel had breaking news: 2 suicide bomb blasts outside a Shia mosque, just 2 blocks away from our house. Some part of me, deep inside, was still shaking as if it felt the explosion replaying over and over again.

The burnt smell, the small earthquake, the shock, the painful whistle in my left ear- all explained: 2 bomb blasts 10 seconds apart. Our silence was drowned out by the swift official voice of the News anchor, and our eyes were glued to the horror displayed on screen: wailing ambulances, people screaming in silence, flashing red lights, chaos. 

Only in Karachi do you change the channel quickly after such a tragedy. You switch to a foreign channel that has nothing to do with you, or with us, or anything. Another channel, another place, where this didn’t happen. Then you get up and go about your business. It keeps coming back, of course, but you push it away.

However, as we sat down for our dinner later and finally put the news at 9 back on, we learned the tragedy wasn’t over yet. People had taken to the streets in protest. Burned cars and hit policemen trying to clear the scene. People had shaken fists at the tv cameras and shouted terrible threats to their favourite punching bags. But people had done worse. There was a KFC restaurant right beside the Shia mosque (where 5 people had died due to the blasts), and people- common people- were attacking KFC. 

We later heard that the 6 KFC workers on duty had brought down the shutters, and helped all their customers escape out the back door to safety. Then they had hoped to spend some time inside the locked store until things calmed down outside. But somebody thought it was a better idea to set the building on fire. 4 KFC employees were burnt to death that night, while 2 of their colleagues, who tried to escape the fire by running to the freezer section (and by mistake locking themselves in) froze to death. Six young, middle-class, hard-working boys. Who had mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers, wives and children. Who had tried to make an honest living, working at the local business. Killed. Not by a terrorist who blew himself up, but by people who were protesting.

People who were protesting what? Shias or Sunnis? insanity or inhumanity? Terrorists or themselves? People also torched shops. One of the shops actually housed an Art gallery, whose owner was a Shia and a friend of my dad. His most valuable possession-his paintings, went up in smoke that night. We went to visit him later, and he showed us the walls, as if they had been freshly painted in charcoal. He was a poor man, I was very sorry for him.

I remember I couldn’t sleep properly that night. I kept having nightmares of a burning hell and a freezing hell. I woke up to realize there was a third kind of hell too: the one we live in.

(this memory is from May 2005)

I am a rebel!

I found this poem online, and the words of the poet were so haunting, that I simply had to translate it and share it with all:

I am a rebel

From the customs of this time,
from these thrones and these crowns,
That are born from cruelty-
and feed on human lives,
That are built on foundations of hate,
from such products of bloodshed-

I am a rebel!
I am a rebel!
However much you punish me!

One twitch upon their lips-
One glance of their eyes-
can cause the laws to change,
and let criminals run free-
from such masters of theft and treachery,
from such "guardians" of justice-

I am a rebel!
I am a rebel!
However much you punish me!

from those who make women dance,
and sell them out on streets,
and then upon that fallen Honor,
they march out in protest-
from these tyrants and miscreants,
from these buyers at the markets-

I am a rebel!
I am a rebel!
However much you punish me!

from those who cry at the country's fate,
then steal from the nation shamelessly,
from those who dwell in palaces,
and talk about poverty,
from these tricksters and these thieves,
from these Feudal Lords and Chiefs-

I am a rebel!
I am a rebel!
However much you punish me!

from those in the 'business' of religion,
who are a major disease and affliction,
fond of labeling others as god-less infidels,
as if they are the last word on Faith-
from these liars and cheats,
from these enterprises of religion-

I am a rebel!
I am a rebel!
However much you punish me!

where breaths are severely measured,
where fortunes are eternally ruined,
where caste and race are a complicated mess,
and the noose of hatred hangs low-
from such lowly thoughts and ideas,
from such lands of Oppression-

I am a rebel!
I am a rebel!
However much you punish me!

I hold the flag of Truth,
and the threat of tyranny is upon me,
But when was I afraid of death?
I live, but for the sake of death-
when the rising sun shall shine in my blood,
then every living soul shall say-

I am a rebel!
I am a rebel!
However much you punish me!
I am a rebel!

- Unknown poet (most probably Habib Jalib or Javed Hashmi)

January happenings

My favourite month... it's like starting a fresh page in a new crisp notebook. It's brighter than last year, there's a skip to one's step (reasonably caused by the heavy snow we get in Jan), and an upbeat outlook on life . It's also my Birthday so January has been something I've always looked forward to. 

I've been reading a lot in the past few days, and watching several things on youtube and/or TV, so much so that my memory fails to register the information as visual/textual, imaginary/factual, did-you-type-it-in-Youtube/did-you-flip-channels-randomly-to-come-across-this-info/did-you-read-it-in-print? 

(Warning: a Lament on Language follows)

The book I've been reading is in Urdu, written by Quratulain Hyder, who is seriously Awesome. The story is thoroughly entertaining, and I'm beginning to improve my Urdu vocabulary as I ask my aunt for help whenever I get stuck. Which makes me sad about the fact that Urdu (real, true, beautiful Urdu) is slowly on the decline. There are so many words and terms, sweet as honey, deep as the ocean, that can never be found in another language and many among my generation do not know them. They can't even be translated, some of their glory, their sweetness is lost. Translating Urdu is like trying to sketch a perfect cube on a piece of paper in 2-D. It is nothing but a shadow on a lower plane of dimensions. Bleak shadow with a paper taste. Not the warm light, and honeyed beauty of the language - something I hold most dear. 

I also watched an Urdu TV drama called "Ankahi" (entirely on youtube) and I found how much our spoken Urdu has deteriorated in just 30 years. There are words, that we know the meaning of, and how to use, but we choose to speak an easy English every day word in their stead. Over time, those alfaaz (words) recede in our memory gathering dust. Since they are never used, we begin to forget that they ever existed. The next generation is completely oblivious of the alfaaz. Readers may wonder, why am I lamenting the loss of those words? Maybe they were unnecessary or inconvenient? 

No...in fact, choosing English terms in place of an Urdu term is again like choosing a 2-D cube sketch over an actual cube. Bleak shadow with a paper taste. What is gone with these words, is the warmth of knowledge, the light of our culture, and the sweetness of our polite and humble behaviour. That is lost. 

More and more often I feel, that this zubaan (language) is doomed. But as long as there are people who realize its importance, and as long as people love Urdu, it won't be so bad. Someone forwarded me this clip of an American who came to love Urdu, and learnt it, and speaks it wonderfully. I am ashamed to say, even I can not use such pure alfaaz in my day-to-day guftugu (talk). Here it is:

I hope you enjoy, if you understand Urdu. If not, I can translate upon request. What I already have translated from this interview, is John's recital of Allama Iqbal's poem at the end of this video: Iqbal's Message