Grieving, yet not giving up

Like many of you, my heart is wrestling with Israeli atrocities in Gaza, the deaths of innocents including children there and elsewhere, the continuing and growing colonization of Palestinian land, the horrible unchecked suffering and deaths in Syria, the struggles of IDPs from Waziristan, the still unrecovered girls in Nigeria, now the completely insane shooting down of the Malaysian Airlines plane, and I could keep going.

Nowadays, I check social media in the morning, and then I shut it off for the entire day. Everyday, I hope that there will be better news, that the deaths will stop, there will be ceasefires, there will be some integrity, the US government will take ethical stands, and everyday, I find worse news. I know I have the luxury to compartmentalize and that this is probably irresponsible of me. I’m slipping into depression, grief, frustration, and even anger. So when my friend R.R. (she prefers anonymity) posted this status, it spoke to my heart. I want to share it with those of you who are also struggling with the sadness that is running through these days. I was raised in a pretty conservative Sunni Muslim family. I don’t know as much as I should about Shia Muslim practice but I have a deep respect and attraction to it and I find in it a spiritual wisdom that many of us can be enriched by.

R.R. says:

“I think perhaps it is time for me to share with you something I shared with the women at the Muslim-Jewish retreat this past June. It is about what I appreciate most about my religious tradition, about being Shia: having different spaces for feeling and processing grief, and understanding your place in the world as a result.
The first kind of grief is the lamentation. This is the kind of grief where you feel abandoned, in a confused whirl, in great pain; you need to know that there is something out there beyond all this, that there is some kind of hope to be found. I’ve always found these feelings beautifully encapsulated in the turning point of Dua Kumayl, one of the most important duas in my tradition. It begins with affirming the greatness of God but soon segues into a search for understanding, trying to figure out what went wrong, and then into a lamentation, asking, is it possible to be made to suffer, to call upon God’s mercy and not receive it? Is it possible to be abandoned by God? Is that actually possible?
And the answer, the turning point, is a long and beautiful HAYHĀT – “Far be it!” The rest of the dua affirms this – this is not what we know of God, this is not how we know God, other than as Mercy. Thus, we cry out:
“O Light of those who are lonely in the darkness!”
يَا نُورَ الْمُسْتَوْحِشِينَ فِي الظُّلَمِ
This is the grief with space for hope when there appears to be no reason for hope. This is personal grief, and personal hope.
The second kind of grief is the grief of unimaginable injustice, of things that should never happen but do. This is the heavy grief of Ashura.
This tragedy is of such enormity that it goes beyond understanding: people who called themselves Muslims tortured and killed the Prophet’s own grandson and members of his family. What is there to say? How could this ever happen? There is no sense to be made of it, no boundaries to be drawn around it, no containment. It is done. All you can do is cry, and wail, and beat your chest, and sit with your grief.
And yet: kul yawm Āshūrāʾ wa kul arḍ Karbalāʾ; every day is Ashura, and every land is Kerbala. This story, this unimaginable injustice, is not over; it repeats itself in every time, in every land. You are not grieving only for the Prophet’s grandson and his family; you are grieving for the world. The injustice in our world needs to be acknowledged, and we must grieve for it. It must be made known through our tears, our witness, our memory. This grief is communal, and it must be communal.
There is more to the story of Ashura, beyond the death and destruction. There is the story of Husayn’s sister Zaynab, the survivor to whom we owe knowledge of what happened at Kerbala, and who continued his heroic acts of speaking truth to power. She is just as much a part of the story of Ashura as is Husayn, but her role would not exist without her grief, which is now our grief, and the grief of the world.
And so, when we feel overwhelmed with injustice, when we cannot even process its enormity, when there is nothing else we can do…we grieve. Our tears say, we know this happened to you and we will not forget or let others forget. Your lives are worth remembering. There will come a time for a different role but that will come later. For now, we sit with our grief.”

So, I sit with my grief for now, and wait. I know I share my grief with many of you, and that helps. But I wait, wait, and I do what I can to overcome the hate, pain, and suffering before which I so often feel so extremely helpless.

The Ramadan moon confusion

This year too there was much confusion over the first day of Ramadan.
PicMonkey-Collage-EidOn Friday, my family went to Turkey Run State Park in Indiana, and on our return, tired, sweaty, and hot, stumbled into the internet where Muslims and Muslim orgs were announcing the beginning of Ramadan on Saturday and Sunday. The moonsighters insisted that there would be no visibility Friday night, so Ramadan fasting would begin on Sunday. The astronomical calculations folks, including Fiqh Council of North America (and ISNA) say that the new moon was THERE, whether you could see it or not, and also, it’s Ramadan in Makkah, so it’s Ramadan NOW.

We decided, for about an hour, that we would be going with the moonsighters. Tradition! What is more rational than going with the moon? Also, why follow the Makkah Ramadan?! Crescentwatch, Chicago Hilal, and the Toronto Hilal folks all agreed with us. ISNA, FCNA, and our local Islamic Center, however, said, no, Ramadan was now, because the moonphases thingummy showed a new moon right now.

Reluctantly, though, I raised the question to Svend: are we going with the moonsighters because we believe they are right, or because we’re being lazy? Islamic law gurus say that it is okay to go with any valid opinion among the diverse opinions, but opportunistic hopping around is not cool. Since Svend and I normally go with the local community, and believe strongly in doing so, it would be opportunistic on our part to switch loyalties just in order to possibly skip one of the fasting days, or to delay the beginning of fasting, as tempting as it seemed.

I prayed two cycles of istikhara prayer, and asked for guidance. I also realized, as I was praying the istikhara, that I wanted God to tell me Sunday, not Saturday. So I asked protection from such weakness, and requested the strength to do the right thing, whatever it was.

I recalled, also, the words of Tehzeeb Auntie, who is my Sufi guide in many matters, and who says, “I make my decision and I ask God to bless it.”

Personally, I am extremely disinclined to take responsibility for my religious actions. (My shaikh even chuckled about this, and told me to just do a single istikhara prayer about ALL my twenty questions). I would really like someone to just tell me what to do at every step. A bright light could shine over the correct outfit to buy; the right baby name could appear in a dream — and so on. This is my preference, because I am chronically indecisive.

But this, as you know, doesn’t happen. At least not for me. My shaikh told me: “We guide people upwards with their eyes closed.” In other words, the tasty treats of visions, dreams, reassuring miracles, blinding signs, etc. are not handed out. We must abstain from the gluttony of such spiritual treats and move on upward simply because.

So, after the istikhara prayer, I was still feverishly checking my friends’ Facebook posts and a variety of organizational websites, and wishing someone would tell me what to do. I still kept coming up against the confusing barrage of a diversity of viewpoints. Why, why, why, I asked, why is our community so disorganized and so chaotic?

Ultimately, Svend and I made the (ethical?) decision to stick with our usual practice and to avoid what seemed to us to be sneaky opportunism, in our circumstances. It’s not what I’d tell anyone else to do, but it made sense to us.

As I was going to bed, setting my alarm (for freaking 3:12am), I realized that this several-times-a-year chaos of Muslims running around asking “What do we do? What will YOU do? What shall I do?” is actually a positive thing.

Despite my reluctance to do so, and despite the diversity of community opinions on this Issue, I eventually made my own private decision, in prayer and reflection, in consultation with God.

We don’t laugh at the same jokes anymore

On my first day in Lahore, I was excited to share this video “S*it Punjabi Mothers Say” with my family. Svend and I have watched this video, along with many others by Lily Singh, an extremely talented Canadian-Indian comedienne, with our 8-year old. We have watched it many, many times, and we never tire of it. Our 8-year old daughter has adopted some of the phrases in it (“sick people hondey!”)

But when I showed it to my family, I was amazed that no one cracked a smile. What’s funny about a strict Punjabi mother? That’s just the way all mothers are. My tastes and my sense of humor are profoundly diasporic. The Punjabi mother stereotype is hilarious in the contrast it represents to the low-key White suburban mom who addresses her children with courtesy and “discusses” s*it with them. The Punjabi mother calls her daughter “gaindi jaiee” (fat rhino) and cusses her out with abandon. These “s*it ___ mothers/fathers say” are funny precisely because of their place within the spectrum of mother/father types of various racial/ethnic/cultural groups. As many anthropologists say, human nature is not really the same everywhere, nor does “funny” mean the same everywhere.

I’ll bet this has profound implications for cultural understanding and conflict.

Power outages in Pakistan

electricity-protest1-640x480After less than 24 hours in Lahore, the power outages felt routine. Nowadays, no one in Pakistan even bothers to mention them anymore. For a traveler from the US, there is no point obsessively checking the forecast here. What’s the weather right now? Hot. What’s the weather going to be like tomorrow morning? Hot. What’s the weather going to be in 10 days? Hot. No surprises. It’s hot, and the power will go out. In the very nice Ramada – which was not 2.5 stars in Pakistan – the power outages continued but the only impact was felt when there was a 3 second gap as the generator kicked in. My hotel room also had a central electrical system, a bank of buttons on the nightstand whence you turned off and on the TV and 10 different lights in the room. Of course, when the power went out and then on in the middle of the night, all the lights turned on and woke me right up. Apparently my room lacked the battery unit that should prevent this from happening, though why such a central electrical control should be used in a country with frequent outages, I do not know.

So it was hot. On my first day, I accidentally spilled a 1-liter bottle of water on my mattress. The mattress was entirely drenched. But no problem! Put it outside for an hour and it’s dry as a bone. The heat in Pakistan doesn’t radiate warmth. Its tentacles penetrate deep inside everything and pulsate powerfully there. It envelops you in a bubble of extreme heat and renders you tired, hot, and slightly ill. When you return from an allegedly enjoyable expedition to Monal Restaurant at Daman-e-Koh up in the hills, you feel like you’ve been through boot-camp. It’s no big surprise we’ve got issues.

Afternoon siestas are not naps in Pakistan. You just basically pass out for a while in the middle of the baking hot day, and then you can resume getting through the rest of the afternoon and the long evening (Pakistanis do not go to bed early. Dinner is around 9 or 10pm, for instance. If you’re hoping to get something done around 8 or 9am, dream on.)
The pattern of such sietas is thus: you fall asleep with the air conditioner running freezing cold, and you wake up with palpitations, with your mouth completely dry, to find the room hot and stuffy when the power’s been out for just half an hour. Of course the above applies to my parents’ home, mainly, and not to the university settings where I’d been delivering lectures and engaging in discussions with faculty, students, intellectuals, and observers of the political scene. Most such settings were equipped with electrical generators.

Bashiran, my mother’s part-time maid, said a power surge in her neighborhood destroyed a number of appliances in the homes of poor laborers and domestic workers. I cannot stop thinking of a little girl Bashiran mentioned, about 4 years or so, whose family’s pedestal fan quit working. The girl wept ceaselessly for hours until her eyes were swollen and red. Yeah, well, in a day or so, I would be on a plane to the land where, at the height of summer, the power flows nonstop. We run the a.c. until we are cold and have to grab a sweater.

Returned from the motherland

cropped-cropped-iphone-2011-11-12-050.jpgAfter a two-week visit in Pakistan, I’m back in Champaign. I’m a little dizzy with joy from being back with Svend and our daughter, and I am also constantly wrestling the demons of grief and loss from having to say goodbye yet again to my aging parents. Last night, I went to bed grateful that I was able to sleep through the night without being awoken every alternate hour by power outages and the suffocating heat that builds up quickly in the bedroom. But I also grieved that I would not be awoken by my mother’s loving touch upon my ankles as she asked me if I wanted some mint tea and toast.

The next morning we went to the bank, thinking of all the days in Pakistan when I wondered if burglars would strike our home (they had done so 3 times before), and the fact that I had zero such feelings after arriving in the US. As I stood in line and awaited my turn behind an Indian gentleman with a tilak on his forehead (who eyed me with familiar interest, probably wondering if I was a member of the tribe), I was overwhelmed by the surroundings. How clean the floors were, how orderly and updated the furniture. How the fluorescent lights did not buzz. How dust-free every surface was. How friendly and yet casual the staff were. How equitable our interaction was despite the fact that the service was excellent and efficient. How economical and yet how pleasant the social exchange was. How we ended on jokes and pleasantries with the staff that left no marks upon us, no promise for future connection.

I emerged profoundly grateful for the lightness, the warm brightness of the air, thinking I would like to hug you, Ms. Bank Teller, for your amazing personality and kindness and efficiency. And I was simultaneously smashed in the face by the sense of contrast with the homeland. I had struggled these two weeks, again, with the constant awareness of social class; the simmering resentment, envy, desire, and need; the chaos; the very organic order that emerges from connection which is for the same reason so fragile.

And yes, I was now relieved to be back in the first world – not just the first world but America which is the lap of luxury despite my many financial and professional issues. But I was also reminded of how this shiny, bright, perfect place is a bubble, a big glistening bubble that is separated from the world, that is different from most of the world. And I am in it. I am in this bubble. I am in this Matrix. How can a person choose to live in the Matrix, Morpheus? I have chosen to live here, chosen to love this place. I am even called upon to serve as a cultural ambassador of sorts, in my own cultural origin. Is this legal? Is this appropriate? Is this sustainable?

Of course this – this global distribution of resources is deeply, shockingly inappropriate, wrong, and unsustainable. But what of my place in all of this? Is it okay for me to smugly pull my feet off the dirty floor and curl up on the cushion like a cat, and to throw my lot in with this bubble? When I travel back, a living representative of AMERICA in my standard of living, in the Luna bars, Nutella-and-go packs, easy-macs that I leave in my wake, and in my complaints of the heat, the power outages, and the disorder, do I possibly do more harm than good? Am I sharing expertise gained in the first world or am I simply scattering more acutely felt inequality?

Social class slammed into my face the moment I got off the plane when I arrived. In the hungry eyes of the porters, the wonderment of the passport control officer as she flipped through my navy passport, the dust, the fabric-wrapped suitcases marked in Urdu and coming from Jeddah, Madinah, Dubai, Abu Dhabi, the lower middle class expat workers, innocent of deodorant in their synthetic shalwar kameez outfits, as they compulsively pushed and shoved and struggled against the queue. The day I brought my carry-on down to the hotel breakfast, I was surrounded by officious waiters and other staff hoping that I’d tip before leaving. I was a disappointment, after having flashed a navy passport at check-out. In part, being stingy is protection against being targeted as the local generous tipper. Going to the airport bathrooms was always stressful because there’s a female janitor stationed there, whose main purpose appears to be to ask you questions about where you’re traveling, and then offer a string of invocations calling blessings, safety, and many children upon you, like an axe she is holding over you to make you pay up. The force of expectation is crushing. I didn’t have the right Pakistani cash on me. It was agonizing to me, now, to be at the center of so much expectation and so much need – absolutely justified need and justified expectation – because I wasn’t sure what to do (whom to tip, how much, whether to tip or not, whether it sets me up for trouble or not), and because I didn’t have unlimited financial reserves even though I do have a spinning carry-on, obviously American shoes, and that accent.

Mastery of English constitutes a stick that I seemed to be using, unwittingly, to clobber people over the head all the time. When I was asked a question in English, I must answer in English, but the contrast between my speech and the halting tones and stilted grammar of some interlocutors in itself, maybe, comes across as violence. I don’t know for sure. I think there is both aversion and desire, and I burned for hyper-visibility, shame, and ambivalence at being at the center of this interplay.

Warning: scam job ads that seek to prey upon women

The internet jungle preys upon the innocent. Someone I know has been looking for a job, so I had my eyes open. I was poking around university Facebook pages when I saw a note on the Beaconhouse National University FB page that said:

“A reputable company urgently requires for HR Assistant (only Females) Fresh Graduate or Graduate students Salary Package-Rs.16000-20000 K- negotiable. Apply at nida5448@gmail.com. Subject line HR Assistant”.

It sounded off, but then I thought, maybe it’s not so strange here. I sent her the note.

She contacted them, and the ‘company’ requested a skype interview.

On skype, the man immediately started insulting and threatening her and told her she’d better do everything he said or he’d post nude pictures of her on the internet. She immediately quit skype.

Pakistani friends: please warn your students and young women not to fall into such traps and not to be intimidated by anyone.  I have found the same ad posted on a variety of job-related FB pages. It is truly criminal because they know people are desperately seeking jobs.

Visiting Pakistan

I’ve been in Pakistan for a week now.

It’s delightful to see family and friends when I visit Pakistan. Still, I can’t help always getting a little overwhelmed with having so many people in my life all the time. Much of my regular workdays in the US are spent alone – as in, not in close contact with anyone, and any contact is usually of limited duration and depth. When I am here in Pk, and am trying to arrange each daily schedule with invitations, visits, tailor-visits (not to mention work), I find myself lacking the emotional stamina and mental focus to keep it all together.

I think I sometimes come across as a little cold because I will not do multiple visits a day, and I am trying not to go out in the devastating heat almost at all. But I confess that my focus is on work and, most of all, my parents. If I end up outdoors and busy with visits too often, I will end up neglecting them, so I keep my engagement calendar busy but not too busy. Inevitably, I will offend a few people in the process. 

New Creative Section in Anthropology of Education Quarterly!

Delighted to re-post from Sally Campbell Galman’s blog on a new development in the top journal in Anthropology and Education, Anthropology & Education Quarterly, where Prof. Galman is Editor and I am Associate Editor.

 

Send us your art!olbannerleft

Call for Papers – Ethnographic Short Fiction, Poetry and Creative Non-Fiction

Anthropology and Education Quarterly

 Anthropology and Education Quarterly (AEQ) is seeking ethnographic short fiction, poetry and creative non-fiction for a new creative section of the journal focused on alternative productions and representations of anthropological work in education.
The field of anthropology is rooted in the search for multiple truths. Stories (Bell, 2003; Solinger, Fox, & Irani, 2008; Yosso, 2006) and poems (Maynard & Cahmann-Taylor, 2010) provide avenues for scholars to make sense of their findings, honor the traditions and experiences of marginalized communities, explore the tensions of researcher positionality, and trouble the authority of knowledge(s) and its representations. Furthermore, creative approaches to anthropological production can open the otherwise closed space of the academy, communicating findings in ways that provoke both thought and action among the wider public. 
Submissions should draw on rich, rigorously collected ethnographic data. Additionally, they should represent high literary quality. Short fiction and creative non-fiction should be no longer than 5000 words, and poetry should be limited to 1-3 poems. Please include biographical information in a separate cover letter so that the work itself remains blind for review. Please submit to aeq@educ.umass.edu. Submissions will be considered on a rolling basis, and will be accepted or rejected but will not receive reviewer comments.