Rooftops

Behind me is a window to the world. Rather, to a 700 year old portion of Lahore's old city. Lower-middle class Pakistani's live here, doing lower-middle class Pakistani things. I watch the rooftops sometimes, when there isn't much to do at work. Rooftops of different heights, different shapes, widths, colours and even some with tiles. Roofs with water tanks, with stairs and chicken coops. Rooftops with charpai (the traditional Pakistani bed/cot) or acting as cricket courts and as kite-flying platforms. Although I can only see the tops and the outsides of these homes, I feel that I still get a somewhat secret glance into this world.

During Lahore's normally dusty winter days, I can only see a few, those closest, and the community mosque. But on days like today, I can see far, to the horizon, where this neighborhood blends with the next and the next, all Pakistan, all Lahore. A new neighborhood begins with each Mosque Minaret, the inhabitants of which probably know each other in passing or even quite well, as the families who live in these homes, have often lived there, generation to generation, for hundreds of years. This area houses some of the City's 9 million inhabitants, that is, those who are lucky enough to have a roof overhead.

These people do not have the servants, A/Cs and the multiple cars that the upper classes have, but they do have enough food on their tables, enough money to send their children to school and small businesses to sustain themselves. They respect their homes, and keep them clean to the best of their abilities. The homes are usually lived in by extended family units, creating an atmosphere of dependence, comfort and often joy, as children's voices ring out in courtyards or on these very rooftops. Already I see children flying small plastic kites, although the kite flying festival, or Basant, doesn't officially begin until March. The wind is starting to pick up, and these kids want practice before the big event.

The children who live in these homes often have dreams about becoming doctors or engineers. Their dreams are often squashed when they grow old enough to understand Pakistan's rigid socio-economic structure, which most often binds people to the rung into which they were born, limiting upwards social mobility, limiting the dreams of studying medicine or engineering due to the cost and the time involved. The schools they go to are not those that feed into the best universities or even give them the scholarships they would need to go abroad, rendering them largely uncompetitive even if they do pursue these dreams.

The older generations living in these homes, especially the women, may be illiterate, while the younger are learning basic English in schools, and can write both Urdu Script, and Roman English. The schools these youngsters go to still face a lack of trained teachers, up-to-date or quality materials, and will not provide students with comfort in the 8 Degree Celcius winters or the +50 Degree summers.

Children in these communities are are raised to respect and fear the wrath of Allah and to live by strict Islamic principles. A mixture of fundamentalism from older generations and the media's portrayal of a more lax western youth create an interesting paradoxical influence in the lives of these children. Most of the boys grow up to own both shalwar kameez and jeans, worn side by side on alternative days, the girls however, as they portray the family's honour and face life-long humiliation if not properly married off, remain in their traditional dress, often choosing to use a hijab, chador or full covering in later years.

The people living in these homes often exhibit an awkward combination of religious zeal and western cravings, as I assume is the case in most cities braced on the brink of modernity.

Lovely People.

I think its important to share with you my support network in Pakistan. Give recognition where it is due, and show you the people who have mattered the most:

Fatima, bringing me laughs around the clock.


Again, Fatima.

My beautiful Stefi...without whom I would surely SURELY die.

Safder, the person who showed me the true Pakistan!

Talha, my most important reason for staying...


Daria, my roommate, this woman knows everything!


These people have helped me, guided me and made me happier then they will ever know, and for that, I thank them!

The night I slept at a madrassa.

As the western perception of Pakistan (and islam in general) goes, the word “madrassa” often brings with it thoughts of brain washed students, waiting to join forces with an ever growing Taliban or Al Queda movement. It brings with it thoughts of eager young men training for jihad, excitedly looking forward to the 72 virgins awaiting them in heaven. (Side note: 72 virgins is a popular myth in Pakistan, as of yet, the persons I have spoken to have not been able to find any mention of this number in the Qua-ran. It is however stated that a hoor is promised to those who obtain martyrdom through Jihad- a virgin whose beauty is incomparable.)

In reality, the large majority of madrassas are places of learning. Places where students come to reading and writing, while filling their minds with with the Prophet Muhammad's (Peace Be Upon Him) messages of peace for the Muslim community. It gives students a place to come together, and provides a healthy environment of disciplined learning.

In many cases madrassas provide students with 3 meals, a roof overhead, and a religiously based education, alleviating some of the financial strain of low income families (and providing education where there is often none available). Madrasses come in all shapes and sizes, from boarding-school ideas where children live within the institute's safe walls, to once a week meetings in which children recite the Qua-ran.

My madrassa experience fell in between both of those mentioned above. A place for children to go on sunday mornings after Fajr prayer (early morning prayer, just after sunrise) and after school. It acts as a safe0house for students of low income families, providing children with an after school snack and a means to stay out of trouble. Students recite the Qua-ran in its original Arabic, but also learn the translated version. This guarantees that students actually receive the message of the Holy Prophet (P.B.U.H.) in a language they understand. They practice reading the qua-ran and must write verses both in Arabic and Urdu. Every bit of practice is beneficial to children who come from areas where public school systems are unreliable.

Sunday morning in Farooq Abad, the small village in Pakistan's Punjab Province in which this particular madrassa is located. The village is awoken by the (approximately) 530 am Fajr or call to prayer. In the past nine months I have learned to largely ignore this call, and usually continue sleeping. This particular morning, I did the same. It was not until a few minutes later, that I heard the voices of many children, reciting the Qua-ran. As the congregation was just outside of my allotted bedroom door, I was able to hear clearly the recitation, and the children's strict attempts to keep up with 'the beat'.

To be honest, as I was not aware of this home's part-time status as a madrassa, the sounds were at first quite eerie. The children's voices, so perfectly in tune, reciting, almost chanting. But as I listened, waving between wake and sleep, the sounds had an element of beauty, of peace and of brotherhood. Just as it should.

Having recently done research on education in Pakistan, I learned of the stark inefficiencies in the educational system, caused by a number of factors. These include corruption and a lack of transparency, a lack of properly trained educators, and volatile political situation in which an outright civil war is being fought in some areas of Pakistan. These also include a weak belief in the necessities of basic education (especially in rural or remote areas), the unavailability of education (and educational facilities) in many areas of Pakistan, and the inability for low income families to pay for their children to go to school (or even to lose out on the extra income generated by their children while they would be in school). In many cases, the madrassa that operates in dangerous areas and provides students with three meals a day, a roof overhead and more than a basic education based upon strict Islamic principles is a parent's only option. These types of incentives leave parents with little choice between giving their children poverty or giving their children a future.

The problems lie, of course, in the few madrassas that do cater to the dangerous, using a students' poverty and lack of education to brain wash. Monitoring mechanisms must be put in place to safeguard the sanctity of the madrassa as a place of learning peace, and not violence. Again, Pakistan's organizational inabilities and real pressure from hardline Islamic militants discourage this type of monitoring, creating the religiously insensitive and gender biased militants of tomorrow.

Unfortunately, I was not allowed to photograph children during their recitations.

Future...?

That’s the way with stories, you tell them as you will. My reality is different from yours, as your reality is different from mine. Experiences, nature, and nurture shape who we are. Perceiving similar situations in different ways is human nature, neither wrong nor right, just different. The information I write in this blog is MY perception, not yours, not that of the people who live here, the people who visit here, or anyone else’s. It is unfair, to claim that another’s perceptions are wrong, or to ask for many specific examples during a general discussion- examples are limitless, as they are added to others and transformed in our mind, feelings are added, taken away, mixed in... Having said this, I hope those of you who take the time to read this blog are enjoying it, and maybe even learning something. But always remember, that what one sees or what one hears, what one feels or how one reacts is an individual process, and no one has the right to negate this or your perceptions regarding.

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I am leaving Pakistan in a month and a half.

This is terrifying.

First, I have become very accustomed to the ‘Pakistani way of life’ where the words ‘responsibility’ and ‘competition’, among others hold completely different meanings. Interestingly, I was told yesterday that the difference between our (us gori’s) mentality and the Pakistani mentality is that when we want things, we do them ourselves. We alone take responsibility for ourselves, our wishes, but also for our actions. This is of course a huge assumption, but I will further discuss it because the actual idea was submitted to me from a Pakistani. If you think about it, this makes a huge difference in the course of one’s life, or in the way one lives. Even about the way one thinks about goals or challenges or the pride one feels during times of self prosperity.

This Pakistani mentality might be easy to explain ( …that is, if I am correct in my assumptions). Many, and probably most, live in extended family units. There is always someone there for you, someone to help you, someone to rely on. Individuality, especially for women, is often delegated to a familial status or role. Even as a child, where Westerners have babysitters for nights out, Pakistanis have aunts, cousins or mothers. If you are one of the unlucky ones and aren’t sent to school early on, you could live to be 5 or even 7 years old with very little contact to non-family members. This, in my opinion, makes a startling difference.

The thing I fear most is that I have in some way given in to this Pakistani way of thought. I notice myself depending more and more on those around me, on the family we have become, or those Pakistanis who have helped me in the past, instead of depending solely on myself. I want to make a side note here- of course, since I broke my foot, I needed extra help with everything, and therefore depended on those around me a great deal more than normally. But when I am referring to dependence in this post, I mean that I have become dependent in other ways, regardless of the foot situation. Europe will be a rude awakening. I guess one would call this ‘reverse culture shock’ something I have often experienced when returning to the United States, a country where I may have grown up, but whose ideals, normative culture and mentality differ so much from mine. Europe has always been my safe haven, a place where I feel comfortable, where I feel at home.

As of yet, I have very little idea of what I will do once I return ‘home’, or even where I will go…? Berlin, Vienna, Amsterdam, London…? The options are in some ways limitless, thanks to the glory of ‘fortress Europe’ and the almost grail-like Schengan passport that I hold in such high regard. I do however think that I will remain in Europe for some time. Africa and South East Asia may be calling my name, but they aren’t calling that loudly yet. Give it a year, or three, or five...

The ‘where’ also greatly depends on the ‘what’. What will I do? Actually, what do I WANT to do? The confusion and panic is spreading so rapidly around my soul that I have made multiple layers of ‘back- up plans’. Go back to school? Study what? Do yet another internship, but where? Find a proper job, but how, and am I even really ready?...

Currently I am looking for any interesting opportunities (this is a hint to any of you out there reading this….). Having written many applications, and received very few responses, I can only hope that once my current internship at Punjab’s UNDP shows up on my CV, the course will run more smoothly…

At the moment I am in immersed in the application and lobbying process of the European Commission’s in-service training programme. This would be best case scenario, and I hope that everyone crosses fingers, toes, eyes (thanks Em.) and any other appendage imaginable…in hopes that I am selected. Some of the roles and goals of the Commission’s Directorate Generals’ make me drool. Especially those regarding Immigration and Gender, these two fields being the ones I have spent the most time working with.

While thinking about the longer term future, I am also thinking about the shorter term future. Stefi and I are planning to take the land rout back to Europe. There is train leaving from Quetta in Baluchistan to Iran on the 1st and 15th of each month. We intend to catch this train, probably on Feb 1. We will travel through Iran, stopping in the likes of Ishafan, and Tehran (and probably others) per bus and train only…no cheating. The only cheaters exception may be a flight from Tehran to Demascus or Beirut…as traveling through Iraq is absolutely not an option (see BBC’s article on Wednesday’s bombing in Baghdad…). From Syria, on to Lebanon (or vice versa), and then through Turkey…this trip will be amazing. A last adventure before immanent return. We expect to take at least a month (or probably 1-1.5 weeks in each country).

Exhaustion and yet also refreshment will greet us upon arrival in Europe, and so will the probable realization that we still don’t know what to do or where to go…

I hate to make this the longest post in history, but there is one more thing I must mention. The most important thing. The thing that has kept me here for so long, and pulled for my return:

The people I have met in Pakistan will create the biggest hole in my heart. The realization that I may never see these people again breaks me...Pakistan has taught me love and even hate, it has taught me never to trust, but yet to find trust in unusual places. The country has introduced me to a level of kindness I have never before seen, opposing, it has also introduced me to hate, the likes of which I have never experienced, based on prejudice, propaganda and often upon religion. These combinations have created a colourful, and often exciting swirl of experiences to place in my cache, ones which I can draw back upon and learn from at any time.

In one and a half months, the journey begins…I will keep updating until then, and hope to make future posts a bit less boring, a bit more ‘future-positive’...

Eid Mubarak

On Eid we were welcomed into the home of a Pashtun family living in Lahore. The house, though modest, is clean, comfortable and well kempt with its concrete walls, many balconies and old city mentality. After many 'Salams' and 'Eid Mubaraks' (or Eid greetings) we were led (I hopped, grunted and was finally carried) up the narrow steps to the balcony where the slaughtering was to occur. The open air, with sunshine filtering through Lahore's ever-dusty winter sky, made for an almost romantic and rather settling experience. Each member of the family (usually male) who earns money and can afford it is obliged to buy, and slaughter an animal. Although it is becoming more common to hire a slaughterer as it is not necessary to slaughter the animal yourself. The types of male animals that fall under the catagory of Halal, and are suitable to sacrifice include the Goat, the Sheep, the Cow and the Camel. The cow and the camel are usually reserved for extended families as the cow can be divided into seven parts, and the camel into eleven, while the goat and the sheep are divided into three each.

The six animals whose lives were to end that morning to commemorate prophet Abraham's willingness to sacrifice his son in the name of Allah were calm as ever, enjoying their last meals, and entertaining the children. Even as the first animal was laid down, prayed over and finally slaughtered, I was surprised to notice that the demeanor of the remaining animals had not changed in the least. One by one, the blood flowed from their severed necks, following the strict Islamic rules concerning halal meat, the animals were skinned, the meat was seperated and finally sent down to the women whose responsibility it was to divide the edible into three equal shares. These shares are distributed among family members, friends and the poor. It was interesting to note that very soon after the slaughtering had begun, doorbells throughout Pakistan began to ring in unison, beggers and the poor expected their rightful share.

As I was given my first morsal of the recently sacrificed goat, I learned an important life lesson: I don't really like goat.

Eid is a three day celebration, and although most animals are slaughtered on the first morning of eid, the smell of death hung heavy in the air throughput Lahore for the remaining days. Even now, I can conjure up this smell from memory. Maybe it will never leave me.

Between the three of us goras we took aroung 150 photos of this morning. I will spare you, your stomachs, and the hole these may burn into your memories and will only post the most "tasteful" of the bunch.

A special thanks goes to Safder and his wonderful family for inviting us into such a personal and special celebration. I know we will never forget this experience.

The little ones, watching.

Sheep. Much happier than I would be at that point...

Did you want some Chai with that death...?

Sheep; 5 minutes later.

These past months have been a swirl of colour and confusion. Stress and love and sadness, all wrapped into a whirlwind. I finished my internship with Pakistan's largest natural gas supplier, and decided, that after 6 months, I needed the salty taste of pork, a glass of wine from my father's cellar, and a motherly hug. As such, I found myself on the other side of the world, prepared for a whole different kind of adventure. On the North American continent we enjoyed the following flavours:

• The wedding of a fabulous friend.
• Shopping (for everything).
• An almost calamitous single engine airplane experience- piloted by my father.
• Lunch at the World's first Chicken Wings restaurant in NY State.
• Continuing on to a fantastic time spent in the Niagara Falls.
• Meeting a class comrade in Toronto for Canadian Beer and Poutine.
• One day, hardly enough, spent in Manhattan with my favorite Austrian (male).
  

In continuation, we headed to Europe. Once in the EU, the whirlwind became stronger, pulling us in deeper, as it was more and more difficult to escape its grasp, we knew we could only fight it by dousing our selves in beer, cheese, wurst, and all around happiness:

• A day in Brussels, meeting with a happy (not flying) Dutchman.
• 3 days in Amsterdam, succumbing to our hangovers, and laying around, par usual with the love of my life, M.
• What was supposed to be a 4 day trip to Berlin, ended up being a 4 + 6 day trip, as my grandfather planned his demise perfectly in accordance with my schedule...
• This left only 3 days in London. Three. Days. Is. Not. Enough.

The morning of our departure, S. and I had a slight feeling of illness...by the time we got off the Tube at Heathrow airport, we were full on ill. Trying, of course, to hide the fact from any airline official, due to what we assumed would be threats of H1N1, we got into the Pakistan International Air (PIA) que. We were determined to introduce swine flu to Pakistani's, as their love for swines left much up to the imagination. When we entered PIA's area, we were asked about eight times whether we were in fact in the right que, and if we in fact knew where Lahore is, and in which country. As terrorist activities in Pakistan had increase substantially in the past month, we were as of yet still slightly unsure of our imminent return. We decided that if we were asked a ninth time, whether we 'shouldn't be in the que for a different airline', we would run across the hall where we had already spotted a Japanese Airlines flight boarding for Tokyo.

Alas, no other inquiry was made into our proposed destination, and here we are, back in Pakistan. I have been in this country for one month now. I have left the house only twice. Now, I know what you're thinking; bomb blasts and militant fighting in front of my door, sweltering heat, mosquitoes and death at ever corner, oh the horror. (Un)Fortunately this is not the case. I broke my foot. I am going to implement the famous 'Don't Ask, Don't Tell' policy here, and just continue on with my story. Well, actually, sitting at home for a month is fairly boring, and there really isn't much to tell...

Friends have been extremely supportive, and S. has been taking care of me like my mum would. Amazing, really.

On Tuesday (The World celebrates Eid this weekend) I will go to my first day of work. I am nervous, as most are on their first day, I am also nervous, because it will be my first time leaving the comforts of my home with crutches, and with the hope that, on this particular day, the elevator at work will be functional, both in the morning and in the evening.

Wish me luck.
I will update after the weekend, as Goats, Sheep, Cows and Camels will be slaughtered for Eid throughout the Muslim world, and I reckon, this could be fairly interesting....

Harappa, Murree and the like.

Well, the power wasn't out for 17 days...I've just been a combination of hot, lazy, and busy (how embarrassing...).

For your viewing pleasure, I have posted more photos of the past months (soon, I will even write another proper blog entry....but don't hold your breath...).

What's left of the ancient civilization of Harappa.



You will notice that I am obsessed with doors, walls, and the like.



Again.



Monsoon season, obviously, has not yet begun.



Sugarcane fields.

The long-awaited proof that I actually went to Harappa...

During a wee trip to Murree (in the mountains of NWFP),
a spice and nut shop...full of love.



Cousas, Cousas, Cousas!!!


Oh yeah, I do live in Pakistan, after all...
(Boy was I surprised when I sat down...)

For some reason I am unable to add more photos to this post, as such, I will continue in the next.