“What if this marriage is God’s will?” I asked.
“It is not,” Reshma said with authority. Then I spoke with a higher authority.
“Reshma, you should attend your sister’s wedding. Ammi would expect it. And you are obligated to obey the mother of this family.”
“You mean I should obey you!”
“I demand it!”
There was silence on the line for several seconds before Reshma replied.
“As a Sikh, Abbu had no authority to designate you as the family’s mother. I have simply accepted it to avoid creating discord. But I cannot accept Meena’s marriage to this man. And I will never obey you.”
“Nor will I permit it,” Mohammad said, his voice trembling. “This is the problem with inferior religions. Islam is more than a wedding ceremony; it is the supreme way of life. Look at Turkey and Jordan. Secularists like you are exterminating Islam as a basic creed and replacing it with half-baked Western ideas.”
“Me? Exterminate Islam?” I said, flabbergasted. “Reshma, please?”
“Islam is under assault,” Reshma said. “It is not you, really, but modern forces as well as old inside forces, such as the Ahmadis—the Christians and the Zionists, too. This is why Mohammad and I have joined the vanguard that will resurrect the caliphate and take Islam to the entire world again.”
Now Reshma sounded like a fanatic—just as Faisah had warned. Suddenly, I became very calm.
“I understand better now. But I am still the mother of this family. And Meena will have her wedding to Zeshan. If you feel you can’t attend, I deeply regret that.”
“As the eldest male Muslim in the family I forbid this marriage,” said Mohammad.
“Forbid it?”
“Think clearly, Ujala,” Reshma said, pacing her words. “It is a matter of honor.”
On the evening before the full moon—the first night of the four-day wedding celebration—the two families dined at their separate homes, Meena in Nankana Sahib with us, and Zeshan in Lahore with his parents. Amir and Abbu strung twinkling white lights around the exterior of the house and the courtyard, in the trees and shrubbery. They rented a generator in case the power system fizzled.
The family ate our last meal with Meena as a single woman, and I insisted on preparing it. I wanted to give her the dishes of our childhood—creamed lentils, mattar paneer, spiced chapati and milk tea. The entire family dressed in yellow, bright and fresh under the lights in the neem tree. Abbu wore his saffron turban and sat next to Meena at the bamboo table. Amir and Faisah piled carpets and pillows in the courtyard so that we could rest for the evening in the open air.
“I wish Ammi were here,” said Meena.
“Oh, but she is here,” said Abbu.
On the second night of celebration, during mendhi, the henna painting, Faisah, Amir, and I delivered Zeshan’s wedding clothes. We stayed to decorate his hands and feet with henna. Faisah brought bags of the triple-sifted powder, bottles of eucalyptus, clove, and lemon oil, and several tipped cones. She mixed the paste with a spatula and applied it thickly.
“These designs are good luck and will last a long time—as will the luck,” Faisah said to Zeshan.
Soon Amir was painting intricate geometric patterns on Zeshan’s hands, from his fingertips to his forearm just above his wrist. When they finished, they sprayed his hands with latex and worked on his feet. Abida fed her son sweetmeats while Faisah and Ujala designed the patterns.
“Animal, vegetable, or mineral?” Faisah asked.
“Animal,” Zeshan said suggestively, and Faisah traced matching lions on his feet.
“I had an interesting guest in my class this week,” said Abida, who taught sociology at Lahore University.
“Faisah looks like she is painting with her nose,” I said, trying to keep the conversation moving. “And who was it that spoke to your class?”
“Kazzaz,” she said, “Jabril Kazzaz, the one they call the Gandhi of Lahore. I believe he can become the role model for Muslims in the next century. He talks of humanitarian jihad—struggle with the modern world, engagement, not opposition to it.
“Kazzaz . . . of course, we know his work, but I never heard him speak,” said Faisah.
“Let me assure you that he is as brilliant as he is kind,” said Abida. “His is the largest welfare organization in Pakistan, funded entirely by private donations. He has shown what people can achieve through perseverance.”
Faisah stopped painting, interested now in what Abida was saying.
“It is as if the man has no ego. On principle he will not use his male privilege, he says, because it creates such misunderstandings between men and women—and you know,” Abida said, jabbing her elbow into my upper arm, “he is single.”
I blushed. Abida was blind to the discomfort she was causing.
“I mean he’s almost as old as your father, but he is quite attractive. And now that we are relatives, I could arrange an introduction. Perhaps at our home? Perhaps next week?”
I had always wanted to meet the famous Jabril Kazzaz. Why not? I thought.
“Perhaps both Faisah and I could come?” I winked at Faisah, who rolled her eyes.
“As you wish,” said Abida. “I’ll call Jabril tomorrow.”
When Abida wasn’t looking, Faisah wagged her tongue at me.
In the morning of the third day, Meena’s wedding dress arrived. A gift from Zeshan, it was carmine silk patterned with gold thread and seed pearls. When the dupatta fell around her face and over her shoulders, its metallic lining caused the flecks in Meena’s eyes to sparkle like topaz. We dressed Meena like a doll. We wrapped six strands of pearls around her neck, creating a high collar. Between the necklace and the neckline, we hung two more strands of gold and pearls. We threaded the hole in her left nostril with a thin golden hoop and strung pearls across her cheek on a filament, fastening one end to the hoop and the other into her hair. Clipped to the center part in Meena’s hair was a ruby the size and shape of a fig. It was the mahr, the groom’s gift to the bride that would be the beginning of her separate resources as his wife. Then we took every ring that had belonged to Ammi and placed all of them on Meena’s fingers.
The house became our shrine to Meena. The scent of gardenias and spices filled the garden. Amir served a fruit punch imported from Ceylon. Abbu greeted a few dozen guests and then retreated to play the harmonium as background music. Zeshan and Meena exchanged wedding vows in the courtyard and signed official papers. Meena stood with Zeshan’s family while the imam held the Holy Q’ran over their heads.
On the fourth and final day, the two families dined at Zeshan and Meena’s home, where they hosted their first dinner party. When we finally had to say good-bye to her, Meena was aglow in happiness and tears.
Back in Nankana Sahib, as I readied for bed that night, I recalled Mohammad’s attitude in our telephone conversation. I remembered how Reshma had said that it was a matter of honor. Their absence had not ruined the wedding, and nothing bad had occurred. I removed the pistol from under my shalwar kameez, where I had carried it throughout the previous four days. I laid it on the handkerchief marked “Nafeesa.” I sighed, thinking of Ammi.
“At last one of my tasks as a mother is accomplished,” I told her. “Now Meena is in your hands.”
5
Adaila Prison, 1996
I heard your letter on the radio yesterday,” Rahima Mai said. “How did you ever get it past the censor?”
“What letter?”
“The one your sister read.”
Rahima Mai’s voice was friendly, but Ujala would not risk telling her that Yusuf had smuggled her letter out of Adaila. Telling Rahima Mai about her past was one thing, but she would not implicate anyone else.
“Perhaps someone wrote a letter and said it was from me.”
“It was that Yusuf Salman, wasn’t it?” Ujala stood still. “I let him interview some of the girls.”
“Hmm,” said Ujala, eager to change the subject. “What did
you think of the program?” She had not heard a radio since entering Adaila.
“Well, the program was favorable—at least about conditions in the Women’s Section. I liked that. And one has to admire these girls for forming their own radio station. That is quite an accomplishment in a man’s world.”
“It really is,” Ujala said, plugging in the electric teakettle and unwrapping the box of Lipton’s. “Call it a U.S.–Pakistani Friendship Project.”
“A women’s radio station!” repeated Rahima Mai. “Tell me how they pulled it off. I’ll bet you know.”
* * *
It began with an American journalist I met in the Northwest Frontier Province. Lia Chee. It was her idea to develop a women’s radio station in Pakistan. I remember listening to Lia and Faisah hatch their plan over hamburgers at the McDonald’s across from the Lahore High Court.
“Maybe a few thousand readers see a story I write,” Lia said, “So few people are literate here, but everyone can listen to the radio. It would be a great way to reach women, to educate—to—”
“To resist,” said Faisah, completing Lia’s thought. I could tell Faisah liked Lia’s fast-talking ways. Lia pursed her lips.
“Resistance,” Lia said, hissing in a friendly way. “Now that’s a word you never hear in Pakistan.” She bit into her Big Mac. Faisah was defensive.
“Oh, you are wrong. We have quite a history of resistance in this country.” Faisah hissed. “Long before the women’s movement.” She emphasized the T. “Tuh.”
We laughed.
Faisah told Lia about organizations that had defended political prisoners during General Zia’s regime. “Zia promised that his Islamist policies would stop the harassment of women, but just the opposite occurred,” she continued. “Then one day a woman was sentenced to death by stoning for adultery, when her partner was given one hundred lashes. Protests erupted all over the country.”
Faisah turned to me.
“Remember? Ammi told us about the protest marches she and her friends were part of in Karachi—the bar associations, political activists, poets? She said everyone went.”
I nodded.
“No more handouts. No more patronizing, that’s what she told us were their slogans,” I recalled. “The liberation of women was no longer simply a matter of charity; it became a matter of justice.”
We gave Lia Pakistani resistance in nutshell, and she was impressed.
“Good Lord, you girls are tough,” she said. But she kept coming back to the idea of a radio program. She had a lot of time on her hands now that her magazine editor was showing less and less interest in her stream of articles about women’s lives in Pakistan.
“We’re not a feminist magazine,” the editor had e-mailed her. “The work is good, but not really suitable for us—we’re more environmental, travel, cultural—not political.” Lia knew that the editor was right. She began to research the idea of women’s radio in Pakistan and to look for foundation funding. She wanted to sell Faisah on the idea.
“Radio is low-tech and cheap,” said Lia.
“And where would poor women get radios?” Faisah questioned in Faisah fashion.
“I don’t know. Maybe we buy them cheap and hand them out. Let me work on that one,” said Lia. She was so full of energy and optimism. Then Faisah’s opposition turned.
“Well,” she said, “We would need our own station. Or maybe the Pak pop station would give us a slot on its schedule.”
“Hell, let’s just buy a radio station!” said Lia. “It may not be as difficult as you think.”
“Maybe it’s time to meet with Jabril Kazzaz,” Faisah said to me. “Lia’s research sounds promising, but this is Pakistan, after all. We need connections.”
“I interviewed Kazzaz once,” Lia said. “I swear he knows everyone in Pakistan. I am sure he would know about media funding. Or if he doesn’t, he will know who does know.”
“Maybe Abida could arrange a meeting for us,” said Faisah. “Remember when she offered to do that? Huh, Baji?” She winked at me.
“Actually, I agree,” I said, sidestepping the innuendo. “He might be a great source of information for us. I’ll call Abida.”
Kazzaz was to Lahore what Mother Teresa was to Calcutta. They say that as a young man he drove through the city and picked up corpses from the streets to bury them. Later, as people began to recognize his truck, they turned to him for medical transportation. Soon volunteers and donations piled up on his doorstep. After five years, his organization operated medical clinics throughout Punjab. After ten years, he had fifty clinics and blood banks, maternity centers, orphanages, and emergency services—an entire network of institutions to serve the poor.
Kazzaz’s spiritual devotion was personal, and he was something of a mystery. No one knew exactly where he came from. He spoke and behaved like a Punjabi, but his name was Arabic—Iraqi—and he claimed no particular town as his home. And—most unusual—he remained unmarried. They said he spent Fridays in the orphanages, bathing and feeding the children, or taking them out for picnics. A living saint.
When we arrived at the Kazzaz Foundation, children were launching kites in the courtyard entrance, where a man was sweeping with a stick broom.
“Would you direct us to Mr. Kazzaz’s office, please?” Faisah asked the sweeper. He pointed up the staircase and followed us to the door.
“This is it, Madam,” he said, opening the door. Seeing that the room was empty, Lia turned back to the janitor.
“I know you,” she said, smiling and pointing to him, and he laughed out loud.
“Please forgive me, my friends. I am Jabril Kazzaz. How can I help you?”
I liked him right away—both for sweeping the floor and for playing a trick on us. Kazzaz was not a handsome man, but he was attractive in his simple cotton robe. His eyes were narrow—one was slightly bloodshot. He had a trimmed moustache and beard, dark gray hair, thinning on top, and his skin was the color of pecans.
We entered an office with adjoining rooms visible through glass windows on both walls. A row of corpses lay on the floor in one room. Some were wrapped in white cloths with ropes, and others were being washed and wrapped by workers. There was a strong odor of camphor and a pervading silence. On the other side of his office was a small kitchen. Kazzaz gestured toward a screened portion of the central room where several chairs circled a brass table. On the other side of the screen I could see his sleeping and dressing area, a rolled up prayer rug and a large desk.
A barefoot young man handed a plastic tray to Kazzaz, who carried cups and saucers to us himself. He spoke as he poured the tea.
“I am fascinated by your idea of a women’s radio station. How wonderful! So likely to encourage self-sufficiency.”
“We are uncompromising in our position that ending violence against women is our purpose, not charity,” Faisah said—too directly, too quickly. It was her way of stating for the record that she did not want the project to be watered down into mere social work. To her this radio project was about educating people to bring about fundamental social and political change.
“Good. Then you have a clear focus,” Kazzaz said. “Strong vision is so important to success.” Lia jumped into the conversation.
“We agree. And we hoped that with your experience and contacts, you would point us in the right direction.”
“And give us some idea of pitfalls to avoid,” said Faisah.
“There are so many wonderful women’s organizations doing important work already—like Pakfem, and the Women’s Legal Aid, and WASP. You don’t need my advice.”
“You know WASP?” asked Faisah. “Our mother was one of the founders.” She looked at me. “And Ujala has worked for the organization for many years.”
“So you follow in your mother’s footsteps by establishing this radio station?”
“Something like that,” Faisah said.
Kazzaz put his teacup aside, sat back in his chair and reached for a file folder of papers.
&nb
sp; “I did a little research to prepare for our meeting. I’ve collected some documents. The names of people who may be able to help you.” He handed Faisah a sheet of paper with a short list. “I know of several South Asians interested in media projects, and they might like to fund something innovative that would have staying power—an institution like a radio station, for example.”
My Sisters Made of Light Page 12
