by Minal Khan
“That’s pretty hilarious.”
“So I finally came back to Pakistan—vacation over, and spoke to Alia over the phone. I told her the Italian food I ate was amazing; that she better try the bruschetta and the bacon. And she stopped me right there. And told me I’d been eating pig the whole summer. I don’t know what it was. It was psychological. I felt like I’d literally eaten devil’s meat. I mean, I was ten, this was the scariest thing I’d been told my whole life! So I threw up, right there, while I was on the phone with Alia. All over my mom’s cream-colored carpet. It was a bad day. Since then, I feel squeamish every time I looked at pepperoni. Alia thought it was hilarious. So she began calling me ‘piggy.’ Gripping story, right?” I smiled, and Shahaan laughed. It was a deep laugh, one that resounded all over his body. His shoulders shook a little and his long hair flopped over his face. I looked at him for a second and thought to myself how great it was to see him smile and laugh like this after so long. After weeks of not talking. And being scared. Everything felt calm. And just right.
But that calm was momentary. Because the next second, and before we had even touched our waiting coffee, a waiter—a dark-skinned, heavy man—burst out of the kitchen, yelling, his eyes red and popping from his skull. “Benazir Bhutto killed! Benazir Bhutto killed!”
The TV screen in the café then flickered. The channel, which had panned to Pakistani cricket captain Inzamam-ul-Haq’s sweat-soaked, gleaming face, talking about Netherland’s defeat against Pakistan and how Pakistan was gearing up for the next cricket match, suddenly went blank.
Everyone in the café stopped talking. The waiter was on his knees now, pulling at his hair and wailing in short, sudden gasps.
The blank TV suddenly started blinking. Uncontrollably. We all stared.
BENAZIR BHUTTO, PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE, ASSASSINATED IN RAWALPINDI DURING ELECTION RALLY.
A newscaster’s face appeared, red, troubled. BOMB BLAST EXPLOSION. AL-QAEDA SUICIDE BOMBER RESPONSIBLE. ASSASSINATION PLANNED BY MUSTAFA AL-YAZID.
Names were now flashing on the newscast. Bits of information at racing speed, as if being flung in the viewer’s face mockingly. As if to say, This has happened. This is real. You deal with this now.
I momentarily wondered how many of the world’s tragedies—natural calamities, politician’s assassinations, homicides, and deaths—had begun with broadcasts like this—with sudden blank TV screens in front of viewers. And then flickers. Interruptions of people watching the local news, or sitting with their children to see Nickelodeon specials on Sunday. One second you were lounging on the couch thinking about what kind of waffles to eat with your breakfast, or who would win the cricket world cup, and the next you were confronted with news that there was a tsunami in East Asia. You then panic with the realization that this is isn’t just about you—there is a world outside this living room and your friends and the things you call possessions, and your false sense of safety in your living room shrinks.
And then I wondered what it was like for the news reporters actually conveying this news. Coming to work expectantly and sitting in their makeup chairs and being told in an industrious voice by a TV producer, Change of plans from that thing you were going to report about the community village fair—the Prime Minister has just died—you’re up on the air to talk about it in five. Let’s do a makeup change first. This is serious business. Just remember—solemn voice!
I looked at the news reporter on this screen. He was sweating. His black-rimmed glasses slid down his nose as he bleated out the Al-Qaeda commander’s seething words. “Al-Qaeda has claimed responsibility for the attack. Al-Yazid, the mastermind behind the attack, has stated, We terminated the most precious American asset which vowed to defeat the mujahedeen—our freedom fighters.”
I looked around me. A girl on the table next to us was holding her hair, crying. The boy in the denim jeans and jacket—Rehan—who a second earlier had taken off his denim jacket and swung it around his head in joy,—was out of his seat, wide-eyed, gaping. He walked up to Shahaan and said, “Brother. We have to get out of here now. Riots are going to begin. This city is going to be in flames.”
In flames. What did that mean? I looked at Shahaan but he was already somewhere else, his eyes blank.
All of a sudden, the lights in the café went out. The waiters now were yelling to the customers in the darkness. “Please leave, we are now closed! Go home! Leave!” We left our plates and coffee and ran outside the building. I heard yelling, howling. There were people lined up on the road now, people wailing, loudly. People running in groups, trying to get quickly into cars. A bus pulled up in front of us, teeming with people. I saw a group of men throw themselves on the side of the bus, climbing up to the top and yelling for the bus to move, to drive away.
“Come with me, now,” Shahaan said to me, moving me in the direction of his car. “You, too, Rehan. We have to stick together.”
“Wait, I need to find my car. My driver is there. I don’t know if he’s still here. I can’t just leave with you.” I looked to the spot where my car had stood, and found it was still standing there. But my chauffeur was nowhere to be seen.
“Your driver has probably run away, panicked,” Shahaan hissed. “Come with me now, we need to go somewhere safe.” With that, he pulled my hand and we moved quickly toward his car. And we walked in the dark, the rain pushing against us violently.
The road in front of me was black with rain and despair. It was glaring dark; not even a street light was on. Restaurants that were open and playing loud music had now closed and shops had firmly locked their shutters. Fireflies and mosquitoes hovered around the headlights of the remaining cars. Wailings, rising in the cold, raining wind, went unhindered.
As we got into the car, strangers struggled to get in with us. They pressed their wet palms against our window shield and clawed on the hood of the car. The inside of the car was rumbling with the noise of this impact. Shahaan hurriedly started the ignition and muttered, “Bloody hell, it’s going to be impossible to get out of here.”
“What is going on? Why is everyone rushing to leave like this?” I asked him, looking at crying children holding on to their mothers as they walked around stricken and desperate.
“Because it’s going to get violent. Benazir Bhutto’s political party had many campaign supporters. Regular, working class people. They are angry. And aggrieved. And they sure as hell hate her political rival, our President—Musharraff. These people want revenge and they don’t give a shit if people get hurt.” Shahaan honked loudly at the car in front of him. “They are going to come to the streets. Probably armed. We need to get out of this traffic jam. We have to.”
I started sobbing now. Tears fell easily from my eyes. My family had always been pro-Musharraff. We had voted for the President—Bhutto’s opponent—and supported him for years now. At the same time, my family and I always looked up to Benazir Bhutto. She was politically liberal and had led our country in the nineties, a time when the country had sore relations with India and needed strong leadership. She had now returned to Pakistan after years of self-imposed exile to lead the country to a better future—to a future with a chance of democracy. My family supported her ideals—even if we didn’t necessarily support her party. But Bhutto couldn’t even make it past elections. Not in this country. Not in a country where a simple election couldn’t go unhindered without mob violence.
In the dark I saw men with heavy wooden clubs and flashlights slowly infiltrating the streets. As the lights flickered on their faces, I saw they had long beards. They heard us honk. One of the men—a tall man, soaking wet and gripping his black beard feverishly, pointed at our car and said something non-distinct to the group of men. Within seconds, five of them descended on our car. Their expressions were cold, empty.
“They’re coming towards us, Shahaan.” I held my breath, my heart sinking. But surprisingly, the mob came toward us and then passed our car, aiming for the car next to us. I turned left and saw a blue Honda with a mi
ddle-aged man on the driver’s seat. His mouth was open in fear. He honked loudly, but there was no point. One of the men in the mob, a tall wiry man with a black beard, unblinkingly took a jack and speared it through the driver’s window. Glass shattered noisily. “Jeay Bhutto!” He heaved. Long live Bhutto. The woman in the passenger’s seat was crying loudly and pressing a bundle—a baby to her chest. More glass shattered. I shut my eyes and felt heavy tears in my lids.
“Please don’t hurt us. For the sake of God, please don’t hurt us.” The man was wailing next to us.
The men didn’t care. They were chanting loudly now. “Jeeeay Shaheed Bhutto!” “Long live the martyr!” Thumping their fists and clubs against the car doors. I couldn’t make myself look anymore.
Shahaan was gritting his teeth at the car in front of us. “Come on, just fucking move, just fucking move!”
I then felt a loud THUMP against the window and knew that it was our turn. I looked right, and found myself facing the man with the black club through the window. He had a large cleft on his lip, and was yelling something I couldn’t understand. Angry, meaningless words. His friends were slapping our windows now, chanting. Wailing. Cursing. The man aimed his club at us and pounded on the top of the car. The car shook momentarily, and I felt the onslaught of more. Just as he took aim again, Shahaan pressed the gas and the traffic suddenly—magically—moved, and we sped out and away from the mob. I looked behind me and saw the bearded group of men spit on the ground, enraged that we got away, and look around for more cars to vandalize, to smash and break.
We drove and drove and drove. Rehan suddenly whispered, “Oh my God,” and I turned to my right. Smoke from outside drifted into our car, and made us choke on our own coughs. On the side of the street, a slew of cars were engulfed in flames.
A canister of gasoline was thrown carelessly at the foot of one of the burning cars, evidence that the cars were torched by aggrieved, violent men. The flames danced weakly in the rain, sending cinders and smoke hurling in the air. A billboard sat high above the flaming cars. I looked at Benazir Bhutto’s face, smiling, benevolent. The slogan: “Democracy is the best revenge.”
14
Personal Statement Essay—Cornell University
Early Decision Application
Ayla Sattar
9 October 2007
“Spark”
Somewhere far off, in a barren land twenty thousand miles away, a flash of lightning sounds. Silence. A slight twitch. Two creatures meet and regard each other with hostility. One is suspicious of the other. The other doesn’t recognize the first. They eventually join hands. A spark. The first creature invites many from his tribe, just like him. The second only brings along a few others. They collide. A flicker. They bask in the water. Drip, drip. Friction. And then a mighty explosion.
A cell is born.
But why does this matter to me? I’ve never been wholly interested in molecular science. But biology is necessary. It gives whole shapes to abstract thoughts. When I sit tapping my pencil against my desk, wondering why Pakistan, the country I was born in, hasn’t embraced democracy, I don’t need to look far beyond. It is rather simple. On one side stands democracy, a grainy enzyme, and on the other stands autocracy, its target, both separated by a partial barrier. A membrane, if you will. One tries, but can’t penetrate all the way to the other side. A molecule cannot enter if it is too large. Is democracy too overwhelming, too great an ideal? Perhaps. In my country we have neither the will, nor the courage to absorb it, much as we need it. Nature has its way.
English literature is what I truly love. But it seems to do the opposite of what biology does; biology gives a context and shape for my thoughts; literature lets them scatter freely and far into the wild.
“What was the use of poets?” they say. “All poets do is dream.” My country began as a dream. The vision of a mere poet, Allama Iqbal, who dreamt of a separate homeland for our people after years of colonialism.
I don’t read the verses of Shelley and Keats for the satisfaction they give me. I see a clear message, a truth lurking under imagery of rushing waterfalls and purple skies. It just takes a little time to find out what is.
Whitman cried, “I sing the song of pleasure and pain.” Dissect it. Take it apart. Now examine under slide. What was Whitman saying? That pleasure and pain are opposing, but necessary. There is beauty in the opposites. Wasn’t I surrounded by contradiction? Extremism conflicted with moderation. Feudalism verses capitalism. Militants taking up arms against government. Bomb blast at female politician’s return home.
Poets only provide questions, never answers. And they find beauty in everything, don’t they? They see pearls of white in salty tears. Maybe they will see falling embers in the tears my country shed for their loved ones who died in the suicide bomb last week. Maybe they will describe people’s opposition to martial law in neat couplets.
People say my combination of subjects is odd. But I can’t resist them. Combined, they give me a unique perspective of my world, a perspective that I know no one else can have. I want to bring democracy to my country, go against the diffusion gradient, against nature if I have to. I may never truly know the reason behind conflict. But there aren’t always answers. Sometimes you just need to use your imagination. After all, even the mightiest world disaster did once begin as a cell in some barren land, far, far away …
~
School was shut for five days following the attack. President Musharraf declared a three-day period of mourning. I sat in my room, distractedly studying. No word from Shahaan. No word from Alia.
The TV was on most of the day when I returned home. I saw images of the streets in Rawalpindi, where Benazir Bhutto had been killed. She had been on a campaign rally. She was shot in the neck and the chest as she stood on the sunroof vehicle to greet supporters while leaving the rally. The bomber then blew himself up, witnesses said. Blood smeared the curbs of street corners. People were yelling for ambulances. Twenty people were killed in the suicide bomb attack.
It’s just a specimen, I muttered to myself, my eyes shut.
If you want to be a surgeon, you have to stand the sight of blood. There was no other way about it.
I had looked at the breezy doctors in their lab coats at the hospitals, their names inscribed in capital letters on breast pockets, and wondered to myself, how did they manage to do that? Did they pretend that the blood was red paint, dye? You had to learn how to slice through muscle and tendon skillfully, like a craftsman, without dismembering any other part of the system. I had jokingly thought to myself that surgeons must be able to cut their meat at the table splendidly well.
And then I finally saw a surgeon at work. He was my father’s friend. He had allowed me to observe one of his bigger surgeries at the local hospital. I remember seeing many instruments: scalpel, razor blade, tweezers, hack-saw. They were gleaming and spotless, sparkling trophies assembled together.
The patient had rickets. He was a young boy, maybe even my age. He lay unconscious on the surgical table, tubes going in and out of him, everywhere. One tube to desensitize him. One to revive him. One to check that he was still there.
“You know, you must think this gruesome; pulling people apart and inserting things into them,” said the doctor. He looked at me, and I could sense him smiling underneath the surgical mask. “But this is what people—what we all—do day in and day out. We see a problem. We take it apart, dissect it. We find the weak link, the root cause of the disaster. And then we get rid of it. You might do this problem solving a lot more often than you think you do.” He chuckled.
I nodded and answered, “Yes. Except there usually isn’t blood involved.”
The surgeon raised his eyebrows and replied, “True. But name me one problem that isn’t messy.”
The surgeon then wasted no time; scalpel in hand, he dove into flesh, revealing the hidden, the parts that we were all ashamed off. I observed the epidermal layer, the pale and smooth muscle, giving way to subcutaneous fat layer
s, blood, fluid, and then finally, bone. “You have to tell yourself during the surgery,” he said, “It’s not a human, it’s a specimen.” I tried to slow down my quickening heart. I had to get used to the sight of blood. I had to concentrate. “And here is the part of the femur that we need to fix,” said the surgeon, indicating the bone. Yes, the femur. It was bent in one position. It needed to be put back in place; straightened by inserting a metal rod into the bone …
I couldn’t help it. I looked at the unconscious boy’s face. Patient X. He was lying down on his side, facing me. His eyelids were half-open, and a tear had settled in the inner corner of his eye.
He knew what was happening.
I lifted the surgical mask off my face, placed it on the side table, and walked out of the room. I wasn’t strong enough. I didn’t know if anyone had noticed me leave, but no one stopped me, and no one came after me. Maybe they expected it. They knew it was my first time. “Let her go,” the surgeon must have said to his assistants. “She’ll come back once she’s better.” But I didn’t go back. I couldn’t.
It’s not a human, it’s a specimen. It’s not a human, it’s a specimen.
Little did I know how much I had to cajole myself with that phrase during the week that would follow the suicide bomb attack.
When we finally returned to school, we were instructed to go to biology lab and undertake our first dissection.
I stared, glassy-eyed at the heart that faced me in biology class. I had forceps in my right hand and a sharp pair of tweezers in my left. It was my first, hands-on dissection. We had hung outside the labs before class, pushing each other and jeering, “You can’t take it.”
