The dog was not my Great Aunt Shima's only pet. She had her own bandar-nee, or monkey (bandar is urdu for monkey and nee at the end of a word denotes that it is a female). Amazingly, the monkey was kept, not at the village house, but in her upscale city house in Lahore (in the neighborhood known as Model Town, considered very exclusive by Lahori standards).
The monkey was given to her by some friends/clients who perhaps bred them (or somehow had an extra monkey on hand). Mahboob, her adopted-son, who told me about the monkey, never got to see it for himself, but heard about it when he accompanied Shima Khala to Model Town (she was then in the process of moving from the city to the village house, which she had just built).
One more way in which my Great Aunt Shima was a rather amazing woman!
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Saturday, November 12, 2005
Shima Khala and Mr. Dawg
I learned recently that my great aunt Shima had a dog at her village house (same site as the recently closed school). Oddly, she had the dog the entire time I was visiting there, but for some reason I didn't realize it (although I may have heard the dog barking); and since I was busy running around to various government offices for my husband Asif's immigration papers, or helping him with his English, when I was not teaching in Shima Khala's school, I didn't take the time to find out whose dog it was.
The dog was by all accounts, a very good dog, and very loyal. Mahboob and Shima Khala evidently used to bathe the dog regularly (give him ghusal as Mahboob jokingly says), and although he was kept outside, he was part of the family. Other family members, as well as visitors like Asif and I, also slept outside in the courtyard on charpoys customarily.
Shima Khala habitually went to bed early and rose early. But the night of my youngest uncle Laulak's wedding in Lahore, Shima Khala stayed up much of the night talking and enjoying the company of her guests--my grandmother Mahmudah, my other great aunt Nazrat, and my great uncle Razi and others who were in town for the wedding.
The next morning, Shima Khala did not get up bright and early as she usually did. The dog seemed to sense something was amiss. With his teeth, he pulled a sheet over the sleeping Shima Khala as if he thought she might be sick or dead. Then the dog took her hand gently in his mouth and shook it lightly. She awoke and asked sleepily "Which of you silly people woke me up, I'm tired!" (or words to that effect). Great aunt Nazrat told her, "It wasn't me; it was the dog!"
The dog eventually passed away, and Shima Khala was sad. She never got another dog.
The dog was by all accounts, a very good dog, and very loyal. Mahboob and Shima Khala evidently used to bathe the dog regularly (give him ghusal as Mahboob jokingly says), and although he was kept outside, he was part of the family. Other family members, as well as visitors like Asif and I, also slept outside in the courtyard on charpoys customarily.
Shima Khala habitually went to bed early and rose early. But the night of my youngest uncle Laulak's wedding in Lahore, Shima Khala stayed up much of the night talking and enjoying the company of her guests--my grandmother Mahmudah, my other great aunt Nazrat, and my great uncle Razi and others who were in town for the wedding.
The next morning, Shima Khala did not get up bright and early as she usually did. The dog seemed to sense something was amiss. With his teeth, he pulled a sheet over the sleeping Shima Khala as if he thought she might be sick or dead. Then the dog took her hand gently in his mouth and shook it lightly. She awoke and asked sleepily "Which of you silly people woke me up, I'm tired!" (or words to that effect). Great aunt Nazrat told her, "It wasn't me; it was the dog!"
The dog eventually passed away, and Shima Khala was sad. She never got another dog.
Friday, November 11, 2005
Who is the Real Chand Khala?
On the anniversary of my great aunt's death, I have some very special memories of her I wished to share.
I spent parts of my eighteenth, nineteenth, and twentieth year in Marake, the tiny village on the outskirts of Lahore, where my great aunt Shima lived. She was extraordinarily generous in her hospitality to me, although she heartily disliked Asif (my husband at the time), who was accompanying me on the later visits. I was in Pakistan to research the effects of war on the Afghan women and children in the refugee camps, about which I was writing at the time.
To my face, Shima Khala (aunt; also used for great aunt, as in this case), ever the Pakistani nationalist, told me I was a fool, and that I ought learn my own history first. At the time, I was indignant, only later realizing the truth of her words. We Pakistani expats (and descendents of expats) drain intellectual and material wealth away from Pakistan, and return nothing but curses to the land of our heritage. We are, indeed, the mentally colonized, in our ignorance of the importance of the ideal of Pakistan, and Pakistan's rich history.
My presence in the refugee camps and in the tribal area did not go unnoticed by the ever-vigilant Pakistani authorities. I was eventually picked up by Pakistani police in Parachinar, who wondered why an eighteen year-old English speaking girl in delicate cotton shalwar kameez, army boots, and thick eyeglasses should be wandering around a dangerous Pakistani border town. I was detained for three weeks while they investigated my presence there.
Since I, not surprisingly, looked Pakistani, they could not charge me with being in the border area illegally, a stipulation that applied only to non-Pakistanis. They looked unsuccessfully for another charge to pin on me to elicit the requisite bribe.
After that I was transferred to the thana in Peshawar. I stayed there for another two weeks, held without charge and disallowed from making phone calls. The Pakistani lady police-wallas felt sorry for me, and treated me well, bringing me fantas to drink.
One day, without warning, the DSP (Deputy Superintendent of Police) informed me that I had a visitor. As I entered his office, I was astonished to see Shima Khala standing there.
This was one of the few occasions on which Shima Khala missed a day at her school. She disliked road travel, but today she had made the long hot drive from Lahore to Peshawar, after handing over the reigns of the village school to a trusted teacher, so that she could bail me out. I felt a twinge of shame at all the trouble I'd caused, but was relieved that at
last I could leave the stifling, roach-infested Peshawar jail. She spared me the well-deserved "I told you so," paid the substantial jurmana and dragged me home by the ear.
I put my writing on hold, and spent the remainder of the summer with her, before returning to university in the States. Once, while I was staying with her, I mistakenly referred to her as Chand Khala, or "Moon-Like Aunt." (It implies an aunt who is very rare, special and priceless.) Chand Khala was a title reserved for my other great aunt, Nazrat. Shima Khala gently corrected me, "No, bay-tay, I am only plain Khala."
During my second visit to the village, I tutored Mahboob and Ali Usman, two of the village children at Shima Khala's request. Mahboob and Ali Usman were both eight years old, with the archetypical, bright eyes and gaunt build of village children. Mahboob was particularly sharp, and one had to continually struggle to come up with new lessons to teach him.
After a long and tiring visit which involved staying almost entirely in refugee camps when not in the village, with no AC in the summer months and no heating in the winter (nor modern facilities in the former case), I returned to the States.
A few years later, I heard that Shima Khala, perhaps seeing the same potential in young Mahboob that I'd seen, had unofficially adopted the young man. They were inseparable. She would not eat dinner without him, nor he without her. When he started going to college a distance away, he would return home late in the day after classes, and become upset to find that Shima Khala had not eaten because she was waiting for him. And when Shima Khala made up her mind, she could not be swayed. She refused to eat without Mahboob.
The first year I was there, Shima Khala's school, which was set up in the side wing of her house, was in its incipient stages, with a relatively small number of children. But the need for the school was so great, attendance grew spontaneously to nearly 400 pupils. Shima Khala, with Mahboob's input, named it Madina-tul 'Ilm (the City of Knowledge). The co-ed school was the sole source of literacy for the indigent village kids, and operated on a sliding scale: free for poor kids, and a nominal charge for the relatively well off. Shima Khala would get up at the crack of dawn each day, and prepare for the school day, no matter how exhausted and drained she might be from Lahore's extreme heat, or how bad she felt, with the high blood pressure and diabetes ravaging her.
During my stay in the village, I taught in the school off and on, and enjoyed the exuberance of the children, so poor in wealth yet rich in life--and blessed with a woman who believed in them. I am sure it was some of this exuberance that kept Shima Khala going on her particularly bad days.
The school was Shima Khala's pride and joy, and an expression of everything she believed in.
For his part, Mahboob clearly loved Shima Khala like a mother, and went to excruciating lengths to take care of her. He was a constant companion to her, eating most of his meals with her (except when he was away at school), listening to her when she was in pain from the diabetes, massaging her, and helping her with all her personal hygiene. He was the primary care giver, as Shima Khala's relatives rarely visited, especially in her final years. Even when they visited, some of them elected to stay in a hotel, although clearly Shima Khala craved visitors and was an impeccable hostess.
At one point, Mahboob even offered to marry me, although he knew I was much older than him, and divorced--something not well looked well upon by conservative Pakistani society--so that I might come there and assist in Shima Khala's care, since he was initially rather embarrassed at the level of personal care he had to provide for her, in the absence of a daughter. Shima Khala had no children of her own and her other female relatives were largely absent.
One night, Shima Khala took a bad fall. She called for help, but there was nobody around to assist. The spacious layout of the house would have made it difficult for the village women, who helped Shima Khala with home chores, to hear her entreaty, even if they had been around. Mahboob became so worried that it might happen again that he started sleeping on the floor at the foot of Shima Khala's bed.
Almost as soon as Shima Khala died, our relatives, who were living in Europe and elsewhere descended upon the estate. They determined to extricate Mahboob from the house he had lived in with Shima Khala for nearly 13 years, and close Madina-tul 'Ilm. This would facilitate the sale of Shima Khala's school, and transfer of the proceeds to (literally) Swiss bank accounts. Eventually Mahboob was thrown out, and the Deaf, Dumb, and Blind ones were successful in whittling down the school.
As I watched all this, I realized that Shima Khala was actually the real Chand Khala, for she had a heart of gold, so rare amongst any in a world filled with greed and materialism. The attitudes of our relatives sickened me to no end. Are any of us, living in the West, really so needy as to necessitate our auctioning off a school like Madina-tul 'Ilm--with all that it symbolizes--to the highest bidder? To me, the actions of my expat Paki relatives resounded of the depravity and ignorance of the looters of the Baghad museum, who could not see the real value of something which was priceless.
I dare to believe the status quo can be challenged. The poor--like Mahboob--will not remain dispossessed indefinitely. And the rich--like my avaricious relatives--will not always remain rich. Inshallah.
I spent parts of my eighteenth, nineteenth, and twentieth year in Marake, the tiny village on the outskirts of Lahore, where my great aunt Shima lived. She was extraordinarily generous in her hospitality to me, although she heartily disliked Asif (my husband at the time), who was accompanying me on the later visits. I was in Pakistan to research the effects of war on the Afghan women and children in the refugee camps, about which I was writing at the time.
To my face, Shima Khala (aunt; also used for great aunt, as in this case), ever the Pakistani nationalist, told me I was a fool, and that I ought learn my own history first. At the time, I was indignant, only later realizing the truth of her words. We Pakistani expats (and descendents of expats) drain intellectual and material wealth away from Pakistan, and return nothing but curses to the land of our heritage. We are, indeed, the mentally colonized, in our ignorance of the importance of the ideal of Pakistan, and Pakistan's rich history.
My presence in the refugee camps and in the tribal area did not go unnoticed by the ever-vigilant Pakistani authorities. I was eventually picked up by Pakistani police in Parachinar, who wondered why an eighteen year-old English speaking girl in delicate cotton shalwar kameez, army boots, and thick eyeglasses should be wandering around a dangerous Pakistani border town. I was detained for three weeks while they investigated my presence there.
Since I, not surprisingly, looked Pakistani, they could not charge me with being in the border area illegally, a stipulation that applied only to non-Pakistanis. They looked unsuccessfully for another charge to pin on me to elicit the requisite bribe.
After that I was transferred to the thana in Peshawar. I stayed there for another two weeks, held without charge and disallowed from making phone calls. The Pakistani lady police-wallas felt sorry for me, and treated me well, bringing me fantas to drink.
One day, without warning, the DSP (Deputy Superintendent of Police) informed me that I had a visitor. As I entered his office, I was astonished to see Shima Khala standing there.
This was one of the few occasions on which Shima Khala missed a day at her school. She disliked road travel, but today she had made the long hot drive from Lahore to Peshawar, after handing over the reigns of the village school to a trusted teacher, so that she could bail me out. I felt a twinge of shame at all the trouble I'd caused, but was relieved that at
last I could leave the stifling, roach-infested Peshawar jail. She spared me the well-deserved "I told you so," paid the substantial jurmana and dragged me home by the ear.
I put my writing on hold, and spent the remainder of the summer with her, before returning to university in the States. Once, while I was staying with her, I mistakenly referred to her as Chand Khala, or "Moon-Like Aunt." (It implies an aunt who is very rare, special and priceless.) Chand Khala was a title reserved for my other great aunt, Nazrat. Shima Khala gently corrected me, "No, bay-tay, I am only plain Khala."
During my second visit to the village, I tutored Mahboob and Ali Usman, two of the village children at Shima Khala's request. Mahboob and Ali Usman were both eight years old, with the archetypical, bright eyes and gaunt build of village children. Mahboob was particularly sharp, and one had to continually struggle to come up with new lessons to teach him.
After a long and tiring visit which involved staying almost entirely in refugee camps when not in the village, with no AC in the summer months and no heating in the winter (nor modern facilities in the former case), I returned to the States.
A few years later, I heard that Shima Khala, perhaps seeing the same potential in young Mahboob that I'd seen, had unofficially adopted the young man. They were inseparable. She would not eat dinner without him, nor he without her. When he started going to college a distance away, he would return home late in the day after classes, and become upset to find that Shima Khala had not eaten because she was waiting for him. And when Shima Khala made up her mind, she could not be swayed. She refused to eat without Mahboob.
The first year I was there, Shima Khala's school, which was set up in the side wing of her house, was in its incipient stages, with a relatively small number of children. But the need for the school was so great, attendance grew spontaneously to nearly 400 pupils. Shima Khala, with Mahboob's input, named it Madina-tul 'Ilm (the City of Knowledge). The co-ed school was the sole source of literacy for the indigent village kids, and operated on a sliding scale: free for poor kids, and a nominal charge for the relatively well off. Shima Khala would get up at the crack of dawn each day, and prepare for the school day, no matter how exhausted and drained she might be from Lahore's extreme heat, or how bad she felt, with the high blood pressure and diabetes ravaging her.
During my stay in the village, I taught in the school off and on, and enjoyed the exuberance of the children, so poor in wealth yet rich in life--and blessed with a woman who believed in them. I am sure it was some of this exuberance that kept Shima Khala going on her particularly bad days.
The school was Shima Khala's pride and joy, and an expression of everything she believed in.
For his part, Mahboob clearly loved Shima Khala like a mother, and went to excruciating lengths to take care of her. He was a constant companion to her, eating most of his meals with her (except when he was away at school), listening to her when she was in pain from the diabetes, massaging her, and helping her with all her personal hygiene. He was the primary care giver, as Shima Khala's relatives rarely visited, especially in her final years. Even when they visited, some of them elected to stay in a hotel, although clearly Shima Khala craved visitors and was an impeccable hostess.
At one point, Mahboob even offered to marry me, although he knew I was much older than him, and divorced--something not well looked well upon by conservative Pakistani society--so that I might come there and assist in Shima Khala's care, since he was initially rather embarrassed at the level of personal care he had to provide for her, in the absence of a daughter. Shima Khala had no children of her own and her other female relatives were largely absent.
One night, Shima Khala took a bad fall. She called for help, but there was nobody around to assist. The spacious layout of the house would have made it difficult for the village women, who helped Shima Khala with home chores, to hear her entreaty, even if they had been around. Mahboob became so worried that it might happen again that he started sleeping on the floor at the foot of Shima Khala's bed.
Almost as soon as Shima Khala died, our relatives, who were living in Europe and elsewhere descended upon the estate. They determined to extricate Mahboob from the house he had lived in with Shima Khala for nearly 13 years, and close Madina-tul 'Ilm. This would facilitate the sale of Shima Khala's school, and transfer of the proceeds to (literally) Swiss bank accounts. Eventually Mahboob was thrown out, and the Deaf, Dumb, and Blind ones were successful in whittling down the school.
As I watched all this, I realized that Shima Khala was actually the real Chand Khala, for she had a heart of gold, so rare amongst any in a world filled with greed and materialism. The attitudes of our relatives sickened me to no end. Are any of us, living in the West, really so needy as to necessitate our auctioning off a school like Madina-tul 'Ilm--with all that it symbolizes--to the highest bidder? To me, the actions of my expat Paki relatives resounded of the depravity and ignorance of the looters of the Baghad museum, who could not see the real value of something which was priceless.
I dare to believe the status quo can be challenged. The poor--like Mahboob--will not remain dispossessed indefinitely. And the rich--like my avaricious relatives--will not always remain rich. Inshallah.
Monday, October 24, 2005
The People Speak: Millions More Movement
The scene is almost surreal: Pan-African flag fluttering against the backdrop of the Capitol Rotunda, as if it is the Flag; reggae great Wyclef Jean singing “Bismillah ar-rahman ir-raheem” in his softly accented voice; the Capitol lawn full of Black people with fists raised saying “Black Power!” Is this a beautiful dream shortly to be interrupted by the sahoor alarm clock?
The National Capitol Police fumbling through my backpack remind me that it is not a dream. I am at the Millions More Event, in Washington, DC. The organizers of the Millions More Movement have, perhaps for dramatic effect, set up their stage immediately at the foot of the U.S. Capitol Building, and anyone wishing to enter the area is searched.
I am here to extend solidarity from the Pakistani people to Black people in their fight for justice. One of the ten points in the Millions More agenda was enough to draw me here: the reparations issue. Millions of black people died on board slave ships en route to the Americas; many more suffered and continue to suffer as a result of slavery and its aftereffects. As a Muslim, I know that there cannot be peace without justice. And justice demands that reparations be paid to the descendants of Black slaves.
When I finally get through security, I thrill to see Damu Smith, a longtime DC –based community activist at the mic. Damu personifies internationalism, and years ago lent a helping hand to Jamaat al-Muslimeen, when we organized a forum in Washington, DC, drawing parallels between the Native American, Kurdish, and Palestinian struggles. He is the founder of Black Voices for Peace, which was very vocal against the Iraq war from its inception. His voice emanates strength, as he names Bush a war criminal, and I almost forget that he is recovering from cancer.
The agenda of the Millions More Movement includes the issue of political prisoners as one of its ten points.
I am pleased to see Jamil El-Amin’s supporters everywhere, with pants drawn up to their ankles “wahabi-style,” and shirts which say “mujahideen” and “Free H. Rap.” Just feet away from the Capitol, they are energetically hawking the imam’s Revolution by the Book and Die Nigger Die. The books are going fast.
Representatives of Malachi York, Mumia Abu Jamal, and other political prisoners are present. A young woman from the Jericho Movement--which calls attention to the hundreds of Black political prisoners who remain in U.S. prisons after decades of imprisonment—hands me a flier with Assata’s picture, condemning the bounty placed on the sister’s head.
NOI women in hijab are everywhere. A young man in a turban sells roses. A man in a dazzling golden West African outfit strides by. Indeed, many of the event participants proudly sport colorful Afrocentric or African garb. The attire seems to signify pride in Africa and a deliberate departure from the mass culture of racist fashion designers.
In a tone reminiscent of the sixties, nearly all the speakers call for Black power. Red/Black/Green Flags—more than I’ve seen in one place--flutter in the breeze.
Numerous international representatives extend solidarity to the Millions More Movement: a representative of the Cuban government; Jamaican Prime Minister P.J. Patterson; and Native American leader-turned-Hollywood actor, Russell Means, who says, “I want to be a part of Farrakhan’s community.”
Women are among the most powerful speakers of the day:
Viola Plummer, of the African Support Organization, entreats the audience to compel “the lying, blood-sucking government of this country to remove the sanctions against Zimbabwe.” The sanctions, she says, are in place because Robert Mugabe took the land back. She ends with the stirring Pan-Africanist cry: “Free the land!”
Marlene Bastille, of the Haiti Action Network, beseeches the audience: “Haiti needs you. The people of Haiti are suffering. I am asking you to ask Haiti to free all prisoners of conscience. Haitians are the only ones [who are non-political prisoners--ed] held in this land indefinitely without trial.”
Eryka Badu comes to the mic. At first, she refuses to sing, speaking in such a sombre manner that the crowd falls silent—for the first time in several hours--taking in her stirring words.
“I am not my hair. I am not my skin. I am not my clothes. We forget we have the power of thoughts and words. “
“I’m not going to stand here and ask for reparations. I’ll be standing here another four hundred years.”
“I want you and me to stand in direct opposition to oppression, negativity. It’s time to realize you are the one with the power to change this world.”
“We have no more time. There will be no more leaders...The earth is tired. It’s ignorance to continue to hate each other. The revolution begins with you,” she tells the people.
A Black elder, who noticed me with pad and pen in hand, tells me he drove up for the day from Richmond, VA. Playing devil’s advocate, I ask him whether Farrakhan’s association with the event discouraged him from participating. “I’m not a Muslim,” he says. “But Farrakhan is the theological leader for all religions.”
Many of the orators blast the government’s criminal neglect in New Orleans. Ron Daniels, of the Center for Constitutional Rights, says, “We must make sure the Afrikan city of New Orleans is returned to the Afrikan people.”
Renowned rappers Chuck D (Public Enemy), Professor Griff, and Dead Prez are in attendance. Unlike the commercialized rappers, they have sacrificed big contracts and remain steadfast to the original message of rap, opposing racism and oppression.
Perhaps the most masterful delivery of the day is that of Attorney Malik Zulu Shabazz. He begins with the slogan: “Free all political prisoners!”
“Free Mumia! Is Mumia the real criminal, or is George Bush?”
“Free Jamil El-Amin! Is Jamil El-Amin guilty, or is it the criminals who allowed our people to drown in New Orleans?”
“How can you have a war on terror when George Bush hasn’t been arrested?” he continues, to thunderous applause and laughter.
Then the fiery young attorney brilliantly launches the delivery of a mock verdict: “How do you find George Bush on the issue of racism?”
“Guilty!” roars the crowd.
“How do you find George Bush on the issue of human rights?”
“Guilty!” is the unanimous cry.
“How do you find George Bush on handling New Orleans?“
“Guilty!” roars the crowd.
You can almost hear the gavel slamming down, as Malik thunders “Impeach George Bush!”
By this time, the fast is catching up with me, and I decide to take a rest, carefully collecting the folds of my sari, and join the brothers and sisters sitting on the grass to finish watching the event on a giant video screen a few blocks away from the stage.
Minister Donna Farrakhan takes the stage. Although I’d heard Farrakhan himself speak on many prior occasions, I’d never heard any of his family members. Her style of delivery resembles that of her father. A fiery speaker in her own right, her eyes sparkle as she rouses the crowd to welcome her father.
Farrakhan appears on the video screen, majestically making his way across a landing with his entourage of FOI. That he has preempted others to speak at this juncture in the program, and that he looks rather frail, walking with some difficulty, concerns me. But when he reaches the stage area and takes the mic, all sign of weakness are gone.
“I believe that we can charge the federal government with criminal neglect of the people of MS, LA, and TX,” he declares. “We can’t sue the federal government, but we can sue the Department of Homeland Security. I strongly believe that if the people on those rooftops had blond hair and blue eyes, they would not have waited five days.”
“We charge the government with criminal neglect,” he repeats.
“Now they are saying they won’t re-build the ninth ward,” he says, referring to the impoverished New Orleans district. “The government will never do for the poor and oppressed of this nation, unless and until we organize to make them to do it.”
“Are you sure you want a movement?” he asks. “Are you sure? If you are sure, then be ready for opposition. We are going to be tested by opposition.”
In a style that is uniquely his, he throws out ideas to the people, soliciting feedback—and gets it. He suggests the need for peoples’ ministries: a Ministry of Health and Human Service, a Ministry of Agriculture, a Ministry of Education, a Ministry of Defense, a Ministry of the Economy, a Ministry of Justice, and a Ministry of Information. The brothers and sisters around me are enraptured--clapping, cheering, and shouting encouragement. Farrakhan is clearly speaking to their needs. It is an engaged audience reminiscent of Malcolm’s.
The Ministry of Agriculture is needed, Farrakhan says, in order to provide for the people, as “the merchants of death, the pharmaceuticals and fast food industry, are not going to do it.”
The Ministry of Defense is needed, he says, because “Our people are natural born warriors, but they are fighting the wrong war.”
The Ministry of Justice is needed to counter the prison-industrial complex, and the Ministry of Information is needed to counter the propaganda of the likes of UPI and Reuters, he continues.
The people are thirsting for change. The suggestions for Ministries of Justice and Education draw the loudest cheers. The people do not view the government as theirs. No editorializing here.
Then, Farrakhan refers to the Democrats as the House Negroes. He seems to be proposing action independent of the two-party system.
Farrakhan ends his speech with comments about the international scene. He notes the hypocrisy of Blair, in offering to forgive some of Africa’s debt, when Britain has robbed Africa for decades. He calls on Caribbean nations to unite against foreign exploitation. He draws a powerful analogy between the Iraq war, and a contest between a quadriplegic who has been thrown in the ring to compete with the heavyweight champion. It is no big achievement if the heavyweight champion wins against the quadriplegic, he proclaims.
My final impressions: 1) The Millions More Movement went to great lengths to be as inclusive as possible, specifically inviting all races and genders to the event; Farrakhan spoke as an internationalist, invoking unity among black, brown, yellow, and poor people throughout the world, and emphasizing the issue of workers rights; 2) the event drew numbers far in excess of a million people, signifying a need among the people to take action, after New Orleans; 3) “Sunni” Muslims, Indo-Pakistani and Arab communities (my people) were still largely absent, demonstrating their lack of grasp of both U.S. history, natural allies, and the need to build bridges with the oppressed communities of the U.S.
The National Capitol Police fumbling through my backpack remind me that it is not a dream. I am at the Millions More Event, in Washington, DC. The organizers of the Millions More Movement have, perhaps for dramatic effect, set up their stage immediately at the foot of the U.S. Capitol Building, and anyone wishing to enter the area is searched.
I am here to extend solidarity from the Pakistani people to Black people in their fight for justice. One of the ten points in the Millions More agenda was enough to draw me here: the reparations issue. Millions of black people died on board slave ships en route to the Americas; many more suffered and continue to suffer as a result of slavery and its aftereffects. As a Muslim, I know that there cannot be peace without justice. And justice demands that reparations be paid to the descendants of Black slaves.
When I finally get through security, I thrill to see Damu Smith, a longtime DC –based community activist at the mic. Damu personifies internationalism, and years ago lent a helping hand to Jamaat al-Muslimeen, when we organized a forum in Washington, DC, drawing parallels between the Native American, Kurdish, and Palestinian struggles. He is the founder of Black Voices for Peace, which was very vocal against the Iraq war from its inception. His voice emanates strength, as he names Bush a war criminal, and I almost forget that he is recovering from cancer.
The agenda of the Millions More Movement includes the issue of political prisoners as one of its ten points.
I am pleased to see Jamil El-Amin’s supporters everywhere, with pants drawn up to their ankles “wahabi-style,” and shirts which say “mujahideen” and “Free H. Rap.” Just feet away from the Capitol, they are energetically hawking the imam’s Revolution by the Book and Die Nigger Die. The books are going fast.
Representatives of Malachi York, Mumia Abu Jamal, and other political prisoners are present. A young woman from the Jericho Movement--which calls attention to the hundreds of Black political prisoners who remain in U.S. prisons after decades of imprisonment—hands me a flier with Assata’s picture, condemning the bounty placed on the sister’s head.
NOI women in hijab are everywhere. A young man in a turban sells roses. A man in a dazzling golden West African outfit strides by. Indeed, many of the event participants proudly sport colorful Afrocentric or African garb. The attire seems to signify pride in Africa and a deliberate departure from the mass culture of racist fashion designers.
In a tone reminiscent of the sixties, nearly all the speakers call for Black power. Red/Black/Green Flags—more than I’ve seen in one place--flutter in the breeze.
Numerous international representatives extend solidarity to the Millions More Movement: a representative of the Cuban government; Jamaican Prime Minister P.J. Patterson; and Native American leader-turned-Hollywood actor, Russell Means, who says, “I want to be a part of Farrakhan’s community.”
Women are among the most powerful speakers of the day:
Viola Plummer, of the African Support Organization, entreats the audience to compel “the lying, blood-sucking government of this country to remove the sanctions against Zimbabwe.” The sanctions, she says, are in place because Robert Mugabe took the land back. She ends with the stirring Pan-Africanist cry: “Free the land!”
Marlene Bastille, of the Haiti Action Network, beseeches the audience: “Haiti needs you. The people of Haiti are suffering. I am asking you to ask Haiti to free all prisoners of conscience. Haitians are the only ones [who are non-political prisoners--ed] held in this land indefinitely without trial.”
Eryka Badu comes to the mic. At first, she refuses to sing, speaking in such a sombre manner that the crowd falls silent—for the first time in several hours--taking in her stirring words.
“I am not my hair. I am not my skin. I am not my clothes. We forget we have the power of thoughts and words. “
“I’m not going to stand here and ask for reparations. I’ll be standing here another four hundred years.”
“I want you and me to stand in direct opposition to oppression, negativity. It’s time to realize you are the one with the power to change this world.”
“We have no more time. There will be no more leaders...The earth is tired. It’s ignorance to continue to hate each other. The revolution begins with you,” she tells the people.
A Black elder, who noticed me with pad and pen in hand, tells me he drove up for the day from Richmond, VA. Playing devil’s advocate, I ask him whether Farrakhan’s association with the event discouraged him from participating. “I’m not a Muslim,” he says. “But Farrakhan is the theological leader for all religions.”
Many of the orators blast the government’s criminal neglect in New Orleans. Ron Daniels, of the Center for Constitutional Rights, says, “We must make sure the Afrikan city of New Orleans is returned to the Afrikan people.”
Renowned rappers Chuck D (Public Enemy), Professor Griff, and Dead Prez are in attendance. Unlike the commercialized rappers, they have sacrificed big contracts and remain steadfast to the original message of rap, opposing racism and oppression.
Perhaps the most masterful delivery of the day is that of Attorney Malik Zulu Shabazz. He begins with the slogan: “Free all political prisoners!”
“Free Mumia! Is Mumia the real criminal, or is George Bush?”
“Free Jamil El-Amin! Is Jamil El-Amin guilty, or is it the criminals who allowed our people to drown in New Orleans?”
“How can you have a war on terror when George Bush hasn’t been arrested?” he continues, to thunderous applause and laughter.
Then the fiery young attorney brilliantly launches the delivery of a mock verdict: “How do you find George Bush on the issue of racism?”
“Guilty!” roars the crowd.
“How do you find George Bush on the issue of human rights?”
“Guilty!” is the unanimous cry.
“How do you find George Bush on handling New Orleans?“
“Guilty!” roars the crowd.
You can almost hear the gavel slamming down, as Malik thunders “Impeach George Bush!”
By this time, the fast is catching up with me, and I decide to take a rest, carefully collecting the folds of my sari, and join the brothers and sisters sitting on the grass to finish watching the event on a giant video screen a few blocks away from the stage.
Minister Donna Farrakhan takes the stage. Although I’d heard Farrakhan himself speak on many prior occasions, I’d never heard any of his family members. Her style of delivery resembles that of her father. A fiery speaker in her own right, her eyes sparkle as she rouses the crowd to welcome her father.
Farrakhan appears on the video screen, majestically making his way across a landing with his entourage of FOI. That he has preempted others to speak at this juncture in the program, and that he looks rather frail, walking with some difficulty, concerns me. But when he reaches the stage area and takes the mic, all sign of weakness are gone.
“I believe that we can charge the federal government with criminal neglect of the people of MS, LA, and TX,” he declares. “We can’t sue the federal government, but we can sue the Department of Homeland Security. I strongly believe that if the people on those rooftops had blond hair and blue eyes, they would not have waited five days.”
“We charge the government with criminal neglect,” he repeats.
“Now they are saying they won’t re-build the ninth ward,” he says, referring to the impoverished New Orleans district. “The government will never do for the poor and oppressed of this nation, unless and until we organize to make them to do it.”
“Are you sure you want a movement?” he asks. “Are you sure? If you are sure, then be ready for opposition. We are going to be tested by opposition.”
In a style that is uniquely his, he throws out ideas to the people, soliciting feedback—and gets it. He suggests the need for peoples’ ministries: a Ministry of Health and Human Service, a Ministry of Agriculture, a Ministry of Education, a Ministry of Defense, a Ministry of the Economy, a Ministry of Justice, and a Ministry of Information. The brothers and sisters around me are enraptured--clapping, cheering, and shouting encouragement. Farrakhan is clearly speaking to their needs. It is an engaged audience reminiscent of Malcolm’s.
The Ministry of Agriculture is needed, Farrakhan says, in order to provide for the people, as “the merchants of death, the pharmaceuticals and fast food industry, are not going to do it.”
The Ministry of Defense is needed, he says, because “Our people are natural born warriors, but they are fighting the wrong war.”
The Ministry of Justice is needed to counter the prison-industrial complex, and the Ministry of Information is needed to counter the propaganda of the likes of UPI and Reuters, he continues.
The people are thirsting for change. The suggestions for Ministries of Justice and Education draw the loudest cheers. The people do not view the government as theirs. No editorializing here.
Then, Farrakhan refers to the Democrats as the House Negroes. He seems to be proposing action independent of the two-party system.
Farrakhan ends his speech with comments about the international scene. He notes the hypocrisy of Blair, in offering to forgive some of Africa’s debt, when Britain has robbed Africa for decades. He calls on Caribbean nations to unite against foreign exploitation. He draws a powerful analogy between the Iraq war, and a contest between a quadriplegic who has been thrown in the ring to compete with the heavyweight champion. It is no big achievement if the heavyweight champion wins against the quadriplegic, he proclaims.
My final impressions: 1) The Millions More Movement went to great lengths to be as inclusive as possible, specifically inviting all races and genders to the event; Farrakhan spoke as an internationalist, invoking unity among black, brown, yellow, and poor people throughout the world, and emphasizing the issue of workers rights; 2) the event drew numbers far in excess of a million people, signifying a need among the people to take action, after New Orleans; 3) “Sunni” Muslims, Indo-Pakistani and Arab communities (my people) were still largely absent, demonstrating their lack of grasp of both U.S. history, natural allies, and the need to build bridges with the oppressed communities of the U.S.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Behind the Scenes on September 24
Having spent years as an activist in the Washington, DC area, I’ve been fortunate enough to participate in dozens of protests in my time. I decided it was time to experience the protest from a new angle. And so, I volunteered to help out for 12 hours at the anti-war demonstration in Washington, DC, on September 24.
I was one of the lazy ones. Other volunteers had been up for 72 hours straight, setting up for the protest. Some volunteers had traveled from as far away as Alaska; others came from little known towns with bizarre-sounding names I’d never encountered.
I arrived for my volunteer duties at what seemed to me, a hideously early hour. At Freedom Plaza, buses were unloading protestors from many cities. The Plaza was already teaming with people. From here, the White House and the Washington Monument grounds—the focal points of the protest--were only a stone’s throw away.
As I walked from Freedom Plaza to the Ellipse, I was pleased to see the creative side of the anti-war movement in full swing: four activists were dressed in orange prison jumpsuits with Bush, Cheney, Rice, and Rumsfeld masks donned; two more activists posed as “Billionaires for Bush” (a man wearing a tuxedo and a woman wearing an evening gown and carrying a Saks-Jandel shopping bag); several people wearing Halliburton uniforms, and carrying a sign saying “Enough war, little man,” (no theatrics here, I think they actually worked for Halliburton, but were fed up with the lies); and a wise guy carrying a graphic placard juxtaposing “Good Bush/Bad Bush” (use your imagination).
Finally, I was at the volunteer booth for the ANSWER Coalition (one of two major coalitions organizing the march). There I was outfitted with a yellow security jacket, a badge identifying me as an official march volunteer, and a bright red bucket to carry through the crowd, collecting funds to defray the costs of the march.
I traversed the crowd, red bucket in tow, making mental notes to myself. The place was packed; the march was clearly a success. A young black sister, wearing head wrap, her fist in the air, responding to a speaker. A tall black brother, moving closer to the stage to hear Lynne Stewart when she spoke. A contingent of brothers dressed in striking African garb, walking proudly as a contingent toward the stage. A small group of young men in kaffiyas, having themselves photographed near the stage, while chanting “Allah hu-Akhbar” just quietly enough not to disturb the speaker on the stage. Americans wearing tee-shirts that said “We are all Palestinian;” one of ANSWER’s young black woman leaders on stage sporting another unique tee (my favorite): “Palestine will be free” (in English and Spanish).
All this in a sea of middle class white Americans.
As a person of color, I could not help but be struck by how few Black people and how few Muslims were at the march.
Cindy Sheehan was one of the first speakers to address the rally. She spoke in a voice permanently marked with longing for a son who would never return home to her. But, she seemed very relaxed, perhaps sensing the support of the people. She even made a few jokes.
Cindy’s immense sacrifice and courage had made their mark, and at least some of the turnout at the protest might be attributed to her. Cindy had single-handedly made it okay for the average, middle class white American to be anti-war. The tide had turned against Bush. But was this another anti-war movement disturbed only when it was American boys coming home in body bags, I thought to myself. Where were they when the Lancet reported that 100,000 Iraqi civilians had been killed in the war? Or when the horrors of Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo surfaced? Or when an entire Iraqi town, Falluja, was destroyed?
Eldridge Cleaver did not lie when he said “Racism is as American as apple pie.” An anti-war movement which doesn’t work hard to disassociate itself from racism, will inevitably be afflicted with it. (The same may be said of many Muslim communities and organizations in the U.S./U.K.) That racism is present in the anti-war movement was evident in the negotiations between ANSWER and United for Peace and Justice--the two major coalitions organizing the September 24 protest.
http://internationalanswer.org/
http://unitedforpeace.org/
ANSWER—which stands for “Act Now to Stop War and End Racism”--views the issues of war and racism as inextricably linked. In the days leading up to the protest, ANSWER had to fight to keep the issue of racism as one of the major demands of the demonstration.
ANSWER’S Brian Becker speaks softly but firmly. He does not back down from an issue he views as just. The war, he said, is a racist war in the following ways: 1) It is racist against the Arabs; 2) It is racist in terms of how Iraqis are presented; and 3) It is racist in terms of who is fighting. ANSWER was very consistent in its stance against racism, whether in New Orleans or in Iraq.
United for Peace and Justice (UFPJ) wanted to focus strictly on the war itself, and wanted to eliminate “racism” from the march agenda altogether. Becker and ANSWER, to their credit, stood firm in their demand that racism be included in the agenda, and eventually UFPJ capitulated.
I walked by rows of crosses, symbolizing graves of fallen servicemen, and realized that I had stumbled upon Camp Casey. It had been transplanted from Texas to the Washington Monument grounds. A group of women were busily preparing a long line of picket signs they would carry, each bearing the black-and-white photograph of a young fallen soldier.
There was an element of race, even in the success of Camp Casey. What if a black woman had been camped out in close proximity to Bush’s ranch? How long would she have been allowed to stay there before being tasered into submission? Or shot outright, like Sr. Assata? Because that is the treatment reserved for Afrikans in this country.
My thoughts were interrupted by the thunderous voice of British MP George Galloway. With his delightful accent, he blasted Bush’s illegal war. Exhibiting none of the preoccupations of American politicians, Galloway openly expressed support for the Palestinians.
Galloway was followed by former U.S. Attorney General Ramsey Clark. In his characteristic incisive and yet non-rhetorical manner, Ramsey Clark reminded the audience about the Iraqi dead, and the war crimes of the Bush administration. He repeated his call for impeachment.
Then Attorney Lynne Stewart took the dais to talk about attacks on civil liberties. She cited her own case as evidence of the clamp down on the rights of the accused, as well as on lawyers who chose to defend unpopular clients. I walked over to the stage area and met Lynne after her speech. I hugged her, marveling that she had not changed in appearance or manner, despite years of government prosecution and harassment. Always concerned about others, she mentioned not a word of her own personal suffering, instead asking me about Sami Al-Aryan’s case.
MAS Freedom Foundation’s Mahdi Bray spoke. Oddly, Bray started his speech by informing the audience that he had no interest in being invited to the White House. “How dare they speak of bringing democracy to places like Iraq while clamping down on our democratic rights here at home,” he thundered. He did not mention that his MAS Freedom Foundation had volunteered in a press conference (See NT dated July 27, 2005) to help DHS clamp down on those rights by turning in Muslim “extremists.”
Other speakers of note were Brian Becker, ANSWER’s National Coordinator; Etan Thomas, Washington Wizards Basketball player; and Jessica Lange, actress.
Then it was time to march.
ANSWER had prepared signs for march participants who hadn’t brought their own. One of the volunteers handing out the signs told me that people were vying for the “Impeach Bush.org” sign over the others on offer.
For the first time in my life, I was at a major, national protest—and not marching. My fundraising duties complete, I was instead busy taking down banners, boxing up materials, and picking up components of the security fence and covers from the outdoor audio system. In my spare moments, I distributed New Trend’s “Boycott Major Supporters of Zionism” fliers, which were well received.
http://newtrendmag.org/boycott.html
I found I had done well to stay at the ANSWER volunteer booth (instead of marching), as the streets were flooded with so many people that the march was immobilized for two and a half hours. Some people became impatient and jumped in front of other protestors who were already lined up to march. Brian Becker, said that the front of the march, where he and other ANSWER leaders were located, was left behind. The “front of the march” soon became “the middle of the march”--a first for him, he said with a smile.
The march under way, the Raging Grannies started singing, “Georgy Porgy, You’re all wrong...”
http://raginggrannies.com/
Meanwhile, I attained proficiency at hand truck operation, loading boxes, and crates of fliers and brochures onto the truck.
The march was—miraculously--permitted to pass right by the White House—something which had not been allowed since 9-11. The wrath of the protestors at the Bush regime was particularly evident as they passed this point.
The volunteers were under orders from Park Police to finish removing all the equipment by 10:00 pm. Around 8:00 pm, we were down to removing the last of the equipment from around the stage area, but everyone was starting to feel the long hours. We finished just before 9:00 pm. For me, it was an extraordinary and inspiring day, working alongside activists—many of them very young--dedicated to the cause of justice. It made me realize the enormous amount of organizing involved in bringing together 300,000 people for a mass march. But September 24 showed that it could be done.
I was one of the lazy ones. Other volunteers had been up for 72 hours straight, setting up for the protest. Some volunteers had traveled from as far away as Alaska; others came from little known towns with bizarre-sounding names I’d never encountered.
I arrived for my volunteer duties at what seemed to me, a hideously early hour. At Freedom Plaza, buses were unloading protestors from many cities. The Plaza was already teaming with people. From here, the White House and the Washington Monument grounds—the focal points of the protest--were only a stone’s throw away.
As I walked from Freedom Plaza to the Ellipse, I was pleased to see the creative side of the anti-war movement in full swing: four activists were dressed in orange prison jumpsuits with Bush, Cheney, Rice, and Rumsfeld masks donned; two more activists posed as “Billionaires for Bush” (a man wearing a tuxedo and a woman wearing an evening gown and carrying a Saks-Jandel shopping bag); several people wearing Halliburton uniforms, and carrying a sign saying “Enough war, little man,” (no theatrics here, I think they actually worked for Halliburton, but were fed up with the lies); and a wise guy carrying a graphic placard juxtaposing “Good Bush/Bad Bush” (use your imagination).
Finally, I was at the volunteer booth for the ANSWER Coalition (one of two major coalitions organizing the march). There I was outfitted with a yellow security jacket, a badge identifying me as an official march volunteer, and a bright red bucket to carry through the crowd, collecting funds to defray the costs of the march.
I traversed the crowd, red bucket in tow, making mental notes to myself. The place was packed; the march was clearly a success. A young black sister, wearing head wrap, her fist in the air, responding to a speaker. A tall black brother, moving closer to the stage to hear Lynne Stewart when she spoke. A contingent of brothers dressed in striking African garb, walking proudly as a contingent toward the stage. A small group of young men in kaffiyas, having themselves photographed near the stage, while chanting “Allah hu-Akhbar” just quietly enough not to disturb the speaker on the stage. Americans wearing tee-shirts that said “We are all Palestinian;” one of ANSWER’s young black woman leaders on stage sporting another unique tee (my favorite): “Palestine will be free” (in English and Spanish).
All this in a sea of middle class white Americans.
As a person of color, I could not help but be struck by how few Black people and how few Muslims were at the march.
Cindy Sheehan was one of the first speakers to address the rally. She spoke in a voice permanently marked with longing for a son who would never return home to her. But, she seemed very relaxed, perhaps sensing the support of the people. She even made a few jokes.
Cindy’s immense sacrifice and courage had made their mark, and at least some of the turnout at the protest might be attributed to her. Cindy had single-handedly made it okay for the average, middle class white American to be anti-war. The tide had turned against Bush. But was this another anti-war movement disturbed only when it was American boys coming home in body bags, I thought to myself. Where were they when the Lancet reported that 100,000 Iraqi civilians had been killed in the war? Or when the horrors of Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo surfaced? Or when an entire Iraqi town, Falluja, was destroyed?
Eldridge Cleaver did not lie when he said “Racism is as American as apple pie.” An anti-war movement which doesn’t work hard to disassociate itself from racism, will inevitably be afflicted with it. (The same may be said of many Muslim communities and organizations in the U.S./U.K.) That racism is present in the anti-war movement was evident in the negotiations between ANSWER and United for Peace and Justice--the two major coalitions organizing the September 24 protest.
http://internationalanswer.org/
http://unitedforpeace.org/
ANSWER—which stands for “Act Now to Stop War and End Racism”--views the issues of war and racism as inextricably linked. In the days leading up to the protest, ANSWER had to fight to keep the issue of racism as one of the major demands of the demonstration.
ANSWER’S Brian Becker speaks softly but firmly. He does not back down from an issue he views as just. The war, he said, is a racist war in the following ways: 1) It is racist against the Arabs; 2) It is racist in terms of how Iraqis are presented; and 3) It is racist in terms of who is fighting. ANSWER was very consistent in its stance against racism, whether in New Orleans or in Iraq.
United for Peace and Justice (UFPJ) wanted to focus strictly on the war itself, and wanted to eliminate “racism” from the march agenda altogether. Becker and ANSWER, to their credit, stood firm in their demand that racism be included in the agenda, and eventually UFPJ capitulated.
I walked by rows of crosses, symbolizing graves of fallen servicemen, and realized that I had stumbled upon Camp Casey. It had been transplanted from Texas to the Washington Monument grounds. A group of women were busily preparing a long line of picket signs they would carry, each bearing the black-and-white photograph of a young fallen soldier.
There was an element of race, even in the success of Camp Casey. What if a black woman had been camped out in close proximity to Bush’s ranch? How long would she have been allowed to stay there before being tasered into submission? Or shot outright, like Sr. Assata? Because that is the treatment reserved for Afrikans in this country.
My thoughts were interrupted by the thunderous voice of British MP George Galloway. With his delightful accent, he blasted Bush’s illegal war. Exhibiting none of the preoccupations of American politicians, Galloway openly expressed support for the Palestinians.
Galloway was followed by former U.S. Attorney General Ramsey Clark. In his characteristic incisive and yet non-rhetorical manner, Ramsey Clark reminded the audience about the Iraqi dead, and the war crimes of the Bush administration. He repeated his call for impeachment.
Then Attorney Lynne Stewart took the dais to talk about attacks on civil liberties. She cited her own case as evidence of the clamp down on the rights of the accused, as well as on lawyers who chose to defend unpopular clients. I walked over to the stage area and met Lynne after her speech. I hugged her, marveling that she had not changed in appearance or manner, despite years of government prosecution and harassment. Always concerned about others, she mentioned not a word of her own personal suffering, instead asking me about Sami Al-Aryan’s case.
MAS Freedom Foundation’s Mahdi Bray spoke. Oddly, Bray started his speech by informing the audience that he had no interest in being invited to the White House. “How dare they speak of bringing democracy to places like Iraq while clamping down on our democratic rights here at home,” he thundered. He did not mention that his MAS Freedom Foundation had volunteered in a press conference (See NT dated July 27, 2005) to help DHS clamp down on those rights by turning in Muslim “extremists.”
Other speakers of note were Brian Becker, ANSWER’s National Coordinator; Etan Thomas, Washington Wizards Basketball player; and Jessica Lange, actress.
Then it was time to march.
ANSWER had prepared signs for march participants who hadn’t brought their own. One of the volunteers handing out the signs told me that people were vying for the “Impeach Bush.org” sign over the others on offer.
For the first time in my life, I was at a major, national protest—and not marching. My fundraising duties complete, I was instead busy taking down banners, boxing up materials, and picking up components of the security fence and covers from the outdoor audio system. In my spare moments, I distributed New Trend’s “Boycott Major Supporters of Zionism” fliers, which were well received.
http://newtrendmag.org/boycott.html
I found I had done well to stay at the ANSWER volunteer booth (instead of marching), as the streets were flooded with so many people that the march was immobilized for two and a half hours. Some people became impatient and jumped in front of other protestors who were already lined up to march. Brian Becker, said that the front of the march, where he and other ANSWER leaders were located, was left behind. The “front of the march” soon became “the middle of the march”--a first for him, he said with a smile.
The march under way, the Raging Grannies started singing, “Georgy Porgy, You’re all wrong...”
http://raginggrannies.com/
Meanwhile, I attained proficiency at hand truck operation, loading boxes, and crates of fliers and brochures onto the truck.
The march was—miraculously--permitted to pass right by the White House—something which had not been allowed since 9-11. The wrath of the protestors at the Bush regime was particularly evident as they passed this point.
The volunteers were under orders from Park Police to finish removing all the equipment by 10:00 pm. Around 8:00 pm, we were down to removing the last of the equipment from around the stage area, but everyone was starting to feel the long hours. We finished just before 9:00 pm. For me, it was an extraordinary and inspiring day, working alongside activists—many of them very young--dedicated to the cause of justice. It made me realize the enormous amount of organizing involved in bringing together 300,000 people for a mass march. But September 24 showed that it could be done.
Saturday, October 8, 2005
Code Pink Protest at Walter Reed Military Hospital
On September 23, I attended the Code Pink vigil outside Walter Reed Military Hospital in Northwest Washington, DC. Code Pink’s demands are: 1) an end to the Iraq occupation and withdrawal of U.S. troops; 2) proper medical care for injured troops (predominantly poor people) when they return home.
The vigil participants numbered perhaps 40-50, many of them wearing pink. Too late, I remembered I should have worn my pink shalwar kameez. Attendance was higher than usual, for the weekly vigil, with many activists in town early for the national anti-war protest the next day.
Directly across the street from the vigil was a group of counter-demonstrators, whose numbers very nearly matched those of Code Pink. These numbers were an odd contradiction of the polls, which show that an overwhelming majority of Americans now oppose the war.
Code Pink’s members are primarily Caucasian women. Many of them dress in very feminine fashion, decked out in beautiful, old-fashioned pink hats, frilly pink dresses and pink shawls. But they are very tough, for it was some of their members who lay down in the streets and refused to move, protesting the inhumanity of the war very early on.
“We wear pink,” one of them told me during a previous vigil, “because it is a peaceful and soothing color, and also to draw attention to the farce of the Code Red, Code Orange, and other alerts issued by the Bush administration post 9-11.”
I’d just walked up to the vigil when a petite, fashionably dressed brunette, with shoulder length hair, came up to me and introduced herself, “Hi, I’m Medea.”
So, this was Code Pink’s gutsy co-founder, Medea Benjamin. Earlier this year, Medea had disrupted Condoleezza Rice’s San Francisco speech. Dressed in a black hood and cloak similar to that worn by Iraqi prisoners, she’d stood up screaming, "Stop the torture. Stop the killing. U.S. out of Iraq," until she was removed from the hall by authorities. She had all my respect.
I shook her hand and thanked her for her efforts against the war. At the time, I was not aware that Medea planned to be arrested in the mass civil disobedience two days later. She exuded a tranquility that comes, perhaps, from working for justice.
The Code Pink women are very organized. Someone offered me a candle with a nice holder; someone else handed me a flier. The flier instructed me not to interact with the counter-demonstrators. Don’t talk to press members, unless they present ID, the flier said.
Don’t talk to press? That’s a little extreme, I thought.
Later, after some searching on the web, I found articles from Cybercast News Service (CNS) and other right-wing sources attacking Medea Benjamin, quoting the right wing demonstrators at length, and offering only brief quotes of questionable authenticity from Code Pink protestors. Yes, this is the same CNS which attacked Dr. Siddique at the behest of the Zionists. Now you know why not to talk to the (Zionist) media, stupid!
A few weeks ago, a young soldier had joined the Code Pink vigil. He’d returned from Iraq thoroughly disillusioned by the war. Still angry and emotional at what he’d experienced, he was provoked into a physical confrontation by the taunts of the counter-demonstrators. Police quickly broke up the incident, but the Code Pink women were determined there should be no repeat of this.
I found that young soldier and talked with him for a few minutes.
He said “Those guys across the street, look at their hair. It’s too long. They can’t have been over there. That is why they support the war. They have no idea what the U.S. is doing over there.”
A Vietnam veteran who stood with us agreed. The current administration, he said, are all cowards and draft dodgers, hiding behind their power and wealth. Most of them don’t have any military service under their belt. That is why they take war so lightly.”
I squinted to read the counter demonstrators’ signs, in an effort to understand their argument. There was none. They carried bizarre signs, such as “Code Pink Funds Terrorists,” and “America’s Armed Forces: Bringing democracy to the world, toppling one dictator at a time.” Some of them wore tee-shirts saying “Club G’itmo.”
Their main point seemed to be that Code Pink--not an illegal war--is the problem.
It was the classic propaganda tactic: when you can’t answer your opponent’s argument with facts, create as much confusion as you possibly can, with wild accusations.
A young Italian-American woman wearing camouflage pants handed me one end of a Code Pink banner. “I made this banner,” she announced proudly. It read “Money for the Wounded, Not for the War.”
A $3 billion shortfall is expected for Veterans Administration (VA) funding; many veterans hospitals (including Walter Reed) are under threat of closure. The Code Pink banner was on point, elucidating the hypocrisy of the Bush regime, in its dealings with its own fighting men and women.
While I held the banner, a conservatively dressed Code Pink woman, who appeared to be in her sixties or seventies, with entirely grey hair, darted out into traffic. As I watched in amazement, she energetically handed out fliers announcing the anti-war march the next day to passing cars as they pulled up to the Georgia Avenue traffic signal.
I chatted with two elderly woman in bright pink Stetsons. They had come from Texas for the national march the next day. One of them told me she had been in Camp Casey for several weeks, and then joined a contingent to deliver a protest letter to Laura Bush, in response to her racist comments following Hurricane Katrina.
Just as I was about to ask her if they’d been successful in delivering the letter, the entire group of Code Pink women broke out in song to the accompaniment of a banjo: “I ain’t going to study war no more,” a very creative anti-war version of “When the Saints Come Marching In”, and other well known peace songs.
(The vigil continues every Friday night at 7:00 pm – 9:00 pm outside the main entrance of Walter Reed Medical Center, in Northwest DC).
The vigil participants numbered perhaps 40-50, many of them wearing pink. Too late, I remembered I should have worn my pink shalwar kameez. Attendance was higher than usual, for the weekly vigil, with many activists in town early for the national anti-war protest the next day.
Directly across the street from the vigil was a group of counter-demonstrators, whose numbers very nearly matched those of Code Pink. These numbers were an odd contradiction of the polls, which show that an overwhelming majority of Americans now oppose the war.
Code Pink’s members are primarily Caucasian women. Many of them dress in very feminine fashion, decked out in beautiful, old-fashioned pink hats, frilly pink dresses and pink shawls. But they are very tough, for it was some of their members who lay down in the streets and refused to move, protesting the inhumanity of the war very early on.
“We wear pink,” one of them told me during a previous vigil, “because it is a peaceful and soothing color, and also to draw attention to the farce of the Code Red, Code Orange, and other alerts issued by the Bush administration post 9-11.”
I’d just walked up to the vigil when a petite, fashionably dressed brunette, with shoulder length hair, came up to me and introduced herself, “Hi, I’m Medea.”
So, this was Code Pink’s gutsy co-founder, Medea Benjamin. Earlier this year, Medea had disrupted Condoleezza Rice’s San Francisco speech. Dressed in a black hood and cloak similar to that worn by Iraqi prisoners, she’d stood up screaming, "Stop the torture. Stop the killing. U.S. out of Iraq," until she was removed from the hall by authorities. She had all my respect.
I shook her hand and thanked her for her efforts against the war. At the time, I was not aware that Medea planned to be arrested in the mass civil disobedience two days later. She exuded a tranquility that comes, perhaps, from working for justice.
The Code Pink women are very organized. Someone offered me a candle with a nice holder; someone else handed me a flier. The flier instructed me not to interact with the counter-demonstrators. Don’t talk to press members, unless they present ID, the flier said.
Don’t talk to press? That’s a little extreme, I thought.
Later, after some searching on the web, I found articles from Cybercast News Service (CNS) and other right-wing sources attacking Medea Benjamin, quoting the right wing demonstrators at length, and offering only brief quotes of questionable authenticity from Code Pink protestors. Yes, this is the same CNS which attacked Dr. Siddique at the behest of the Zionists. Now you know why not to talk to the (Zionist) media, stupid!
A few weeks ago, a young soldier had joined the Code Pink vigil. He’d returned from Iraq thoroughly disillusioned by the war. Still angry and emotional at what he’d experienced, he was provoked into a physical confrontation by the taunts of the counter-demonstrators. Police quickly broke up the incident, but the Code Pink women were determined there should be no repeat of this.
I found that young soldier and talked with him for a few minutes.
He said “Those guys across the street, look at their hair. It’s too long. They can’t have been over there. That is why they support the war. They have no idea what the U.S. is doing over there.”
A Vietnam veteran who stood with us agreed. The current administration, he said, are all cowards and draft dodgers, hiding behind their power and wealth. Most of them don’t have any military service under their belt. That is why they take war so lightly.”
I squinted to read the counter demonstrators’ signs, in an effort to understand their argument. There was none. They carried bizarre signs, such as “Code Pink Funds Terrorists,” and “America’s Armed Forces: Bringing democracy to the world, toppling one dictator at a time.” Some of them wore tee-shirts saying “Club G’itmo.”
Their main point seemed to be that Code Pink--not an illegal war--is the problem.
It was the classic propaganda tactic: when you can’t answer your opponent’s argument with facts, create as much confusion as you possibly can, with wild accusations.
A young Italian-American woman wearing camouflage pants handed me one end of a Code Pink banner. “I made this banner,” she announced proudly. It read “Money for the Wounded, Not for the War.”
A $3 billion shortfall is expected for Veterans Administration (VA) funding; many veterans hospitals (including Walter Reed) are under threat of closure. The Code Pink banner was on point, elucidating the hypocrisy of the Bush regime, in its dealings with its own fighting men and women.
While I held the banner, a conservatively dressed Code Pink woman, who appeared to be in her sixties or seventies, with entirely grey hair, darted out into traffic. As I watched in amazement, she energetically handed out fliers announcing the anti-war march the next day to passing cars as they pulled up to the Georgia Avenue traffic signal.
I chatted with two elderly woman in bright pink Stetsons. They had come from Texas for the national march the next day. One of them told me she had been in Camp Casey for several weeks, and then joined a contingent to deliver a protest letter to Laura Bush, in response to her racist comments following Hurricane Katrina.
Just as I was about to ask her if they’d been successful in delivering the letter, the entire group of Code Pink women broke out in song to the accompaniment of a banjo: “I ain’t going to study war no more,” a very creative anti-war version of “When the Saints Come Marching In”, and other well known peace songs.
(The vigil continues every Friday night at 7:00 pm – 9:00 pm outside the main entrance of Walter Reed Medical Center, in Northwest DC).
Wednesday, October 5, 2005
Protest Calls Attention to Bush Regime's Racism in New Orleans
On September 7, a Jamaat al-Muslimeen supporter and I joined protestors at the White House decrying the racism of the authorities in dealing with the New Orleans situation. The protest was called by A.N.S.W.E.R. (Act Now to Stop War and End Racism). The small but spirited group was led in chants by Eugene Puryear, a student activist from Howard University. “From Iraq to New Orleans, Fund Peoples’ Needs, Not the War Machine,” we chanted in the direction of the Rose Garden.
The protest reminded me of the many Jamaat al-Muslimeen protests I’d attended as a teenager. But where were all the other Muslims?
Caneisha Mills, ANSWER’S youth and student coordinator, spoke at a forum following the protest. She had just returned from a fact-finding trip to New Orleans. Tall and slender with beautiful, dark skin and a proud walk, she brought to mind some of the Panther women. With no makeup, her hair simply done, she might have been a Muslim. Most striking was her seriousness.
Caneisha is in her senior year at Howard University, yet she took time off from her classes to go to New Orleans, along with filmmaker Gloria La Riva, and photographer Bill Hackwell. They took as many relief supplies as they could for the people of New Orleans.
Caneisha’s anger at the injustice in New Orleans was evident, yet she was able to speak articulately and confidently. Her main points were: 1) the military is in place in New Orleans, but only to protect property, not to help the people evacuate, nor to provide for their needs; 2) supplies and volunteers are available, but they are not being allowed to reach where they are needed; 3) supplies brought in by the government are strictly for government personnel, not for the people who are in need.
She traveled through seven police/military checkpoints before arriving in the district of Algiers, where she, La Riva, and Hackwell were to be hosted at the home of community leader, Malik Rahim.
Malik Rahim is a former member of the Black Panther Party. Some activists suggest that if the BPP with its original platform been around today, the suffering in New Orleans might have largely been averted.
Malik is an example of grassroots leadership at its best. Algiers, where he lives, sits on higher ground than the rest of New Orleans. It was not as badly damaged as other areas, and much of it would still be habitable, were it not for the lack of electricity, food and water. Malik suggested using parks, schools, and other parts of Algiers to set up camps for people displaced from other parts of New Orleans, but so far, his efforts in this arena have fallen on deaf ears.
Malik told Caneisha: “Imagine being in a city, poor, without any money and all of a sudden you are told to leave and you don’t even have a bicycle. Ninety percent of the people don’t even have cars.”
Malik, along with three of his friends, go door-to-door three times a day, taking food, water, and ice to the people. When he returns from his “rounds” he is on the phone with community organizations, religious groups, and reporters, amassing more food and supplies to deliver the next day. His street is the only one with telephones still working, and black and white neighbors alike come in periodically to use his phone.
Malik spoke of white vigilantes riding through Algiers in pickup trucks, gunning down any blacks they thought didn’t belong there. His friends and neighbors feared for his safety, and many parked their cars in front of his house to fortify its entrance.
Caneisha remarked on the extraordinary hospitality of the Rahim family, despite the long-term difficulties facing them.
She spent considerable time walking around the Superdome and interviewing people. Most stories pointed to the abject disregard of the authorities for the predicament of the people. One black woman she interviewed tearfully recalled the trauma of waiting on her roof for days with her entire family, thinking they would all die there, as they were repeatedly bypassed by helicopters. The woman and her family remained on their roof until they were finally rescued by relatives. Only later did they learn that the helicopters had orders not to take larger families.
Caneisha interviewed a group of five young black men, who had taken it upon themselves to rescue people stranded in the flooded areas. Their leader, a handsome young man with shining eyes, told her “By the grace of Allah, we were able to commandeer a boat.”
He and his friends filled the boat with twenty-five people each trip. They would ask for volunteers who had the strength, to cling to the outside of the boat, and leave the seats for the weaker ones. Thus they were able to evacuate as many people as possible each trip. Many of the people had already been stuck their attics or on their rooftops for days with very little food or water, so they tried to get to them as quickly as possible. After the young men had been at this a couple days, they finally saw some official rescue boats bringing in people, but never more than five or six people at a time. “We did not bring our own families in till last,” he said.
Such stories of the peoples’ heroism abounded; one report that particularly inspired this writer was that of prisoners who broke into stores and got food out for the elderly and weak.
Caneisha and the ANSWER delegation returned from New Orleans and immediately set to work on the September 24 anti-war protest in Washington, DC. Few thinking people can miss the connection between the racism evident in the Bush Regime’s reaction to Katrina and the racism of the illegal war on Iraq. Appropriately, the original anti-war theme of the march was modified to: “From Iraq to New Orleans, Fund peoples needs, not the war machine.”
The protest reminded me of the many Jamaat al-Muslimeen protests I’d attended as a teenager. But where were all the other Muslims?
Caneisha Mills, ANSWER’S youth and student coordinator, spoke at a forum following the protest. She had just returned from a fact-finding trip to New Orleans. Tall and slender with beautiful, dark skin and a proud walk, she brought to mind some of the Panther women. With no makeup, her hair simply done, she might have been a Muslim. Most striking was her seriousness.
Caneisha is in her senior year at Howard University, yet she took time off from her classes to go to New Orleans, along with filmmaker Gloria La Riva, and photographer Bill Hackwell. They took as many relief supplies as they could for the people of New Orleans.
Caneisha’s anger at the injustice in New Orleans was evident, yet she was able to speak articulately and confidently. Her main points were: 1) the military is in place in New Orleans, but only to protect property, not to help the people evacuate, nor to provide for their needs; 2) supplies and volunteers are available, but they are not being allowed to reach where they are needed; 3) supplies brought in by the government are strictly for government personnel, not for the people who are in need.
She traveled through seven police/military checkpoints before arriving in the district of Algiers, where she, La Riva, and Hackwell were to be hosted at the home of community leader, Malik Rahim.
Malik Rahim is a former member of the Black Panther Party. Some activists suggest that if the BPP with its original platform been around today, the suffering in New Orleans might have largely been averted.
Malik is an example of grassroots leadership at its best. Algiers, where he lives, sits on higher ground than the rest of New Orleans. It was not as badly damaged as other areas, and much of it would still be habitable, were it not for the lack of electricity, food and water. Malik suggested using parks, schools, and other parts of Algiers to set up camps for people displaced from other parts of New Orleans, but so far, his efforts in this arena have fallen on deaf ears.
Malik told Caneisha: “Imagine being in a city, poor, without any money and all of a sudden you are told to leave and you don’t even have a bicycle. Ninety percent of the people don’t even have cars.”
Malik, along with three of his friends, go door-to-door three times a day, taking food, water, and ice to the people. When he returns from his “rounds” he is on the phone with community organizations, religious groups, and reporters, amassing more food and supplies to deliver the next day. His street is the only one with telephones still working, and black and white neighbors alike come in periodically to use his phone.
Malik spoke of white vigilantes riding through Algiers in pickup trucks, gunning down any blacks they thought didn’t belong there. His friends and neighbors feared for his safety, and many parked their cars in front of his house to fortify its entrance.
Caneisha remarked on the extraordinary hospitality of the Rahim family, despite the long-term difficulties facing them.
She spent considerable time walking around the Superdome and interviewing people. Most stories pointed to the abject disregard of the authorities for the predicament of the people. One black woman she interviewed tearfully recalled the trauma of waiting on her roof for days with her entire family, thinking they would all die there, as they were repeatedly bypassed by helicopters. The woman and her family remained on their roof until they were finally rescued by relatives. Only later did they learn that the helicopters had orders not to take larger families.
Caneisha interviewed a group of five young black men, who had taken it upon themselves to rescue people stranded in the flooded areas. Their leader, a handsome young man with shining eyes, told her “By the grace of Allah, we were able to commandeer a boat.”
He and his friends filled the boat with twenty-five people each trip. They would ask for volunteers who had the strength, to cling to the outside of the boat, and leave the seats for the weaker ones. Thus they were able to evacuate as many people as possible each trip. Many of the people had already been stuck their attics or on their rooftops for days with very little food or water, so they tried to get to them as quickly as possible. After the young men had been at this a couple days, they finally saw some official rescue boats bringing in people, but never more than five or six people at a time. “We did not bring our own families in till last,” he said.
Such stories of the peoples’ heroism abounded; one report that particularly inspired this writer was that of prisoners who broke into stores and got food out for the elderly and weak.
Caneisha and the ANSWER delegation returned from New Orleans and immediately set to work on the September 24 anti-war protest in Washington, DC. Few thinking people can miss the connection between the racism evident in the Bush Regime’s reaction to Katrina and the racism of the illegal war on Iraq. Appropriately, the original anti-war theme of the march was modified to: “From Iraq to New Orleans, Fund peoples needs, not the war machine.”
Saturday, August 6, 2005
A Christian Funeral
Attending funerals, or simply visiting the graveyard is highly recommended in Islam, to remind one of one's own mortality, and how all life is a gift from the Creator, and may be taken away at any moment. Yet, it’s been a few too many funerals for me lately. And I was not even affected directly, since I wasn't particularly close to any of the deceased. My recent flurry of funeral attendance reminded me of the imams’ admonition to: "Live each day as if it is your last"—not including drinking up the Henessey as if it's going outta style, aiight.:-). In all seriousness, a funeral is a call to that profound aphorism "Practice random acts of kindness, and senseless acts of generosity."
That said, I was a bad girl, and cut class this morning to go to the funeral of a close friend of my mother, named Lou. The funeral was at 11:00 am in Perry Hall, an hour drive from me. The summer course I am taking meets at 9:00 am, so cutting class was the only way I could attend. Arnold Schwarzennager (my physics prof) better understand.
I was glad I went. Ellen, the widow, seemed strengthened by having so many caring friends and relatives around. Nonetheless, it hurt to look in her eyes, and see the loneliness which accompanies the realization that one will never again see one's best friend and beloved companion on this earth. And Lou had, without a doubt, been just that to her.
To me, Lou and Ellen symbolize the best of the Christian faith, walking in the Path of Hazrat Isa (Jesus--AS). They were high school sweethearts who, in defiance of the statistics, married at a young age and stayed married. They played tennis competitively, cooked, danced, socialized, and participated in church and many other activities, always together.
Then Lou developed diabetes at a relatively young age—a surprise for his family, since he was not overweight, led an active lifestyle, and followed a healthy diet, consuming no red meat nor alcohol, and few sweets. The disease progressed unusually rapidly, indicating a significant genetic component.
Following mainstream medical protocols (“if it don’t work, chop it off”), he was soon amputated just below one knee, and became wheelchair bound. Months later, the other leg was taken. Because of this, he was unable to perform many of the household tasks he’d considered his responsibility as “man of the house,” a circumstance which depressed him greatly. He worried how his delicately built, very feminine wife would handle the gamut of household chores, while continuing to work outside the home.
Ellen reassured Lou that everything would be okay. She embarked on a weight training program, which enabled her to perform the tasks he’d done. She was pleasantly surprised to find she could now lift his wheelchair into the car trunk, which she'd previously struggled to do, allowing his inclusion on many outings. As Lou’s health deteriorated, Ellen’s rose to new heights, as she gained strength from lifting weights and won more tennis matches than ever. Her real estate sales soared, she bought a Lexus, and she and Lou moved into a new home. She looked beautiful, vibrant, and full of life. And she stayed with Lou—loving and caring for him till the end.
The pews of St. Joseph’s Catholic Church were two-thirds occupied, a significant turnout in this large church, and testament to the many lives Lou had touched. The service was heavy on Catholic ritual, to which I don't subscribe, but very interesting nonetheless.
My brother and I were there primarily to accompany my mother, who had been close friends with Lou and Ellen since we moved to Baltimore around 1986. My mother then worked as a real estate agent in an all-white brokerage. As a hijabi Muslim woman, she met snide remarks from co-workers, who speculated that she would never make it in real estate “with that thing on her head.” By then, Lou had risen to the position of office manager. He assured her that the nay sayers knew nothing, and that she would excel. He supported and encouraged her every step of the way. Under his tutelage, she rose to become the top selling agent in the office.
As the service continued, communion was offered, and my mother, who seemed a bit dazed and confused was about to take it, when I told her the significance of it. For a Muslim to take communion is about as appropriate as a Baptist to perform the Muslim sujood (putting one's head to the ground in prayer).
My roving eyes noticed a tall, handsome, built bald man in suit and tie sitting in the front pews. He cried openly, albeit in manly fashion, during the service. I appreciate a man who is not ashamed to cry. Later, he served as one of the pall bearers, and I learned that he was Lou's cousin.
Then, it was time to walk to the graveyard, which adjoined the church. In contrast to the emotion-filled church service, the burial was conducted in what seemed to me, a rather cold, business-like fashion. Before I knew it, it was over, and we were marched back to the church. Muslim burials--which entail ghusul, or washing of the corpse by (same sex) family members of the deceased; ritualistic throwing of handfuls of earth into the grave by male family members; and namaz-e-jinaza, or funeral prayer, conducted at the gravesite--are more elaborate and afford more physical contact/proximity with the corpse and with nature, an unmuted reminder to funeral-goers of the inevitability of death, and of the Hereafter.
The burial was followed by a banquet. My brother and I itched to leave, but stayed on a while longer to keep our mother company. As a consequence, we were introduced to Lou and Ellen's relatives and friends.
Lou and Ellen's son, Jeff, who attended the same high school (Perry Hall) as I, looked sharp in a crisp oxford shirt and tie. I'd met him on a previous occasion, and he seemed to be a well-adjusted young man. The joys of his high school graduation were dimmed by his father’s amputation a few years later. At first, the youth was rebellious at the added responsibility resulting from his father's condition, but soon came to cooperate with Ellen in the running of the household. Since the funeral was attended largely by older people, I was pleased to see Jeff surrounded by a group of young friends, offering him support. He greeted us, and said he planned to continue living at home for some while to make sure his mother was okay.
In between sampling hors d'oeuvres, I met Lou's sister, named Eleanor.
(Aside)
Lou's wife = Ellen
Ellen's best friend = another Ellen
Lou's sister = Eleanor
Ellen + Ellen + Eleanor = Mass confusion!
So, I met/greeted the Ellens/Eleanors, all of whom treated my mother as if she were family. Then it was over to the rainbow table.
Eleanor's daughter (ie, Lou's niece), named Christine, is lesbian. She was there with her partner. Both of them are very open about their sexual orientation. Since both Lou and Ellen's families are quite conservative, I wondered how Christine's announcement of her orientation was received and (later) asked my mother about this. My mother said the family did not take the news well initially, but eventually came to accept it.
My mother seemed to know everyone, from friends and relatives of Lou's, to associates of hers from real estate days. She introduced me to Bill Parisi, a multimillionaire banker friend, who used to process her loans for her. Perhaps my prejudice, but he had the character and charisma of, well, a rock.
I was re-introduced to Anne Kemp, a real estate agent friend of my mother’s and Ellen’s, whom I'd met briefly, years prior. Anne was beautiful, with blazing red hair and bright blue eyes. Her husband had passed away a few years earlier. Eleanor’s husband died a little more than a year ago. And now Ellen’s Lou had returned to the Creator. All three men had been relatively young. Undoubtedly, life and death are the dominion of the Creator. And yet, as I left the funeral, I could not help but think that at least some of this suffering and premature aging/death were linked to the Great American diet.
That said, I was a bad girl, and cut class this morning to go to the funeral of a close friend of my mother, named Lou. The funeral was at 11:00 am in Perry Hall, an hour drive from me. The summer course I am taking meets at 9:00 am, so cutting class was the only way I could attend. Arnold Schwarzennager (my physics prof) better understand.
I was glad I went. Ellen, the widow, seemed strengthened by having so many caring friends and relatives around. Nonetheless, it hurt to look in her eyes, and see the loneliness which accompanies the realization that one will never again see one's best friend and beloved companion on this earth. And Lou had, without a doubt, been just that to her.
To me, Lou and Ellen symbolize the best of the Christian faith, walking in the Path of Hazrat Isa (Jesus--AS). They were high school sweethearts who, in defiance of the statistics, married at a young age and stayed married. They played tennis competitively, cooked, danced, socialized, and participated in church and many other activities, always together.
Then Lou developed diabetes at a relatively young age—a surprise for his family, since he was not overweight, led an active lifestyle, and followed a healthy diet, consuming no red meat nor alcohol, and few sweets. The disease progressed unusually rapidly, indicating a significant genetic component.
Following mainstream medical protocols (“if it don’t work, chop it off”), he was soon amputated just below one knee, and became wheelchair bound. Months later, the other leg was taken. Because of this, he was unable to perform many of the household tasks he’d considered his responsibility as “man of the house,” a circumstance which depressed him greatly. He worried how his delicately built, very feminine wife would handle the gamut of household chores, while continuing to work outside the home.
Ellen reassured Lou that everything would be okay. She embarked on a weight training program, which enabled her to perform the tasks he’d done. She was pleasantly surprised to find she could now lift his wheelchair into the car trunk, which she'd previously struggled to do, allowing his inclusion on many outings. As Lou’s health deteriorated, Ellen’s rose to new heights, as she gained strength from lifting weights and won more tennis matches than ever. Her real estate sales soared, she bought a Lexus, and she and Lou moved into a new home. She looked beautiful, vibrant, and full of life. And she stayed with Lou—loving and caring for him till the end.
The pews of St. Joseph’s Catholic Church were two-thirds occupied, a significant turnout in this large church, and testament to the many lives Lou had touched. The service was heavy on Catholic ritual, to which I don't subscribe, but very interesting nonetheless.
My brother and I were there primarily to accompany my mother, who had been close friends with Lou and Ellen since we moved to Baltimore around 1986. My mother then worked as a real estate agent in an all-white brokerage. As a hijabi Muslim woman, she met snide remarks from co-workers, who speculated that she would never make it in real estate “with that thing on her head.” By then, Lou had risen to the position of office manager. He assured her that the nay sayers knew nothing, and that she would excel. He supported and encouraged her every step of the way. Under his tutelage, she rose to become the top selling agent in the office.
As the service continued, communion was offered, and my mother, who seemed a bit dazed and confused was about to take it, when I told her the significance of it. For a Muslim to take communion is about as appropriate as a Baptist to perform the Muslim sujood (putting one's head to the ground in prayer).
My roving eyes noticed a tall, handsome, built bald man in suit and tie sitting in the front pews. He cried openly, albeit in manly fashion, during the service. I appreciate a man who is not ashamed to cry. Later, he served as one of the pall bearers, and I learned that he was Lou's cousin.
Then, it was time to walk to the graveyard, which adjoined the church. In contrast to the emotion-filled church service, the burial was conducted in what seemed to me, a rather cold, business-like fashion. Before I knew it, it was over, and we were marched back to the church. Muslim burials--which entail ghusul, or washing of the corpse by (same sex) family members of the deceased; ritualistic throwing of handfuls of earth into the grave by male family members; and namaz-e-jinaza, or funeral prayer, conducted at the gravesite--are more elaborate and afford more physical contact/proximity with the corpse and with nature, an unmuted reminder to funeral-goers of the inevitability of death, and of the Hereafter.
The burial was followed by a banquet. My brother and I itched to leave, but stayed on a while longer to keep our mother company. As a consequence, we were introduced to Lou and Ellen's relatives and friends.
Lou and Ellen's son, Jeff, who attended the same high school (Perry Hall) as I, looked sharp in a crisp oxford shirt and tie. I'd met him on a previous occasion, and he seemed to be a well-adjusted young man. The joys of his high school graduation were dimmed by his father’s amputation a few years later. At first, the youth was rebellious at the added responsibility resulting from his father's condition, but soon came to cooperate with Ellen in the running of the household. Since the funeral was attended largely by older people, I was pleased to see Jeff surrounded by a group of young friends, offering him support. He greeted us, and said he planned to continue living at home for some while to make sure his mother was okay.
In between sampling hors d'oeuvres, I met Lou's sister, named Eleanor.
(Aside)
Lou's wife = Ellen
Ellen's best friend = another Ellen
Lou's sister = Eleanor
Ellen + Ellen + Eleanor = Mass confusion!
So, I met/greeted the Ellens/Eleanors, all of whom treated my mother as if she were family. Then it was over to the rainbow table.
Eleanor's daughter (ie, Lou's niece), named Christine, is lesbian. She was there with her partner. Both of them are very open about their sexual orientation. Since both Lou and Ellen's families are quite conservative, I wondered how Christine's announcement of her orientation was received and (later) asked my mother about this. My mother said the family did not take the news well initially, but eventually came to accept it.
My mother seemed to know everyone, from friends and relatives of Lou's, to associates of hers from real estate days. She introduced me to Bill Parisi, a multimillionaire banker friend, who used to process her loans for her. Perhaps my prejudice, but he had the character and charisma of, well, a rock.
I was re-introduced to Anne Kemp, a real estate agent friend of my mother’s and Ellen’s, whom I'd met briefly, years prior. Anne was beautiful, with blazing red hair and bright blue eyes. Her husband had passed away a few years earlier. Eleanor’s husband died a little more than a year ago. And now Ellen’s Lou had returned to the Creator. All three men had been relatively young. Undoubtedly, life and death are the dominion of the Creator. And yet, as I left the funeral, I could not help but think that at least some of this suffering and premature aging/death were linked to the Great American diet.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Wild Beasts
I had an energizing speed walk at Down's Park today, just short of an hour. I went there with my mother, but we walked separately, at our own pace. Down's, off course, is on the Chesapeake Bay, and the number and variety of sea birds found there is always impressive, but today was extraordinary. An astounding thousand or more scaup and other wild diving ducks (which I couldn't definitively ID without binoculars, as they were at a distance from the shore) dotted the vast blue expanse. I finished the walk, my eyes relishing the majesty of the sparkling blue water with every step. It was a perfect walk--almost.
I was doing my cool down (three to five minutes, per 55 minute walk) when I heard someone screaming as if being murdered. Off to one side of the walking path, and adjacent to the Bay lies a small, sheltered pond with an observation deck. It seems a perfect refuge for waterfowl from the ravages of the ocean, particularly on days when the Chesapeake is rough. A pair of beautiful wild swans have taken up residence there; on my last visit, I observed what I believed to be a nest on the far side of the pond (fortuitously unapproachable from the observation deck).
The swans were there today. To my horror, they were being assailed by three little white girls who stood on the deck screaming at the top of their lungs, as one might at a charging grizzly bear. Their father (or whoever the in-duh-vidual was) was sitting placidly on a bench a couple feet away, watching.
"Where in hell is the park ranger, when you need one?" I thought.
I walked onto the deck and stood a few feet away from the girls, who briefly rested their lungs. They screamed again, though not as vociferously, perhaps due to my presence. Again, not a peep from the father-adult.
Since I'm not a parent, I try very hard to keep out of other peoples' child discipline issues, but this desecration of nature (noise pollution) put me on the warpath. I looked the girls in the eye and then over at their father and said sternly, "I'm a biologist, and I really wouldn't recommend screaming in such a manner around here. It's up to you, but it stresses the animals, and is not very good for them." They looked rather stunned, as though the idea was totally alien to them. I walked away slowly, and sat on some nearby rocks watching the diving ducks. Miraculously, the screaming had stopped. I wondered if these children thought it okay to carry on in similar fashion in a kindergarden class, or in their family home, let alone in the perfect tranquility of a park---clearly a sanctuary for wildlife.
Tomorrow, I think I'll get a dog.:-)
I was doing my cool down (three to five minutes, per 55 minute walk) when I heard someone screaming as if being murdered. Off to one side of the walking path, and adjacent to the Bay lies a small, sheltered pond with an observation deck. It seems a perfect refuge for waterfowl from the ravages of the ocean, particularly on days when the Chesapeake is rough. A pair of beautiful wild swans have taken up residence there; on my last visit, I observed what I believed to be a nest on the far side of the pond (fortuitously unapproachable from the observation deck).
The swans were there today. To my horror, they were being assailed by three little white girls who stood on the deck screaming at the top of their lungs, as one might at a charging grizzly bear. Their father (or whoever the in-duh-vidual was) was sitting placidly on a bench a couple feet away, watching.
"Where in hell is the park ranger, when you need one?" I thought.
I walked onto the deck and stood a few feet away from the girls, who briefly rested their lungs. They screamed again, though not as vociferously, perhaps due to my presence. Again, not a peep from the father-adult.
Since I'm not a parent, I try very hard to keep out of other peoples' child discipline issues, but this desecration of nature (noise pollution) put me on the warpath. I looked the girls in the eye and then over at their father and said sternly, "I'm a biologist, and I really wouldn't recommend screaming in such a manner around here. It's up to you, but it stresses the animals, and is not very good for them." They looked rather stunned, as though the idea was totally alien to them. I walked away slowly, and sat on some nearby rocks watching the diving ducks. Miraculously, the screaming had stopped. I wondered if these children thought it okay to carry on in similar fashion in a kindergarden class, or in their family home, let alone in the perfect tranquility of a park---clearly a sanctuary for wildlife.
Tomorrow, I think I'll get a dog.:-)
Saturday, June 25, 2005
Seattle to Join Boycott?
I arrived in Seattle late Thursday. It is a picturesque town, very hilly (somewhat as I'd envisioned San Franciso), and rife with of economic disparity. I'd heard that it also had a reputation for being anti-corporate and anti-war (recall the city was the site of major demonstrations against the WTO a few years back). Indeed, soon after arriving, I saw signs calling for the impeachment of President Bush.
In the first area I visited (off International Boulevard) there were several halal meat/grocery shops on one block, a kebab house, and an Abysinnian resturant. I bought some figs, bananas, and apples for breakfast from the halal meat store. A Somali sister worked the cash register, and several other East African looking women in hijab visited the store while I was there. I asked the Somali for directions to the mosque. It was only a few blocks away. Enroute, I saw a hijab-clad Muslim woman walking along the hilly road, carrying an umbrella to shelter herself from the sun, at home as she might be in Cairo or Karachi.
This part of town seemed quite poor, with very small houses made of siding, many of them old and ramshackle.
Just blocks away was the gargantuan Boeing Plant, responsible for the manufacture of machines used to kill Muslims in other countries, perhaps the friends or relatives of some of those living here.
The East African Muslims in this neighborhood were friendly and welcoming. I saw the mosque, but did not visit there yet. I will probably go there tomorrow and give them some NT boycott fliers.
I wound up going to juma'a prayers at the Eastside mosque. The road it's located on is discontinuous, and I spent half an hour looking for this mosque, after arriving in this upscale neighborhood. A chamelion-mosque? I had almost given up and was about to leave when I found it. The parking lot was full of benzes and BMWs.
I handed out about 100 boycott fliers, which were received without resistance. One Arab brother, after looking over the boycott flier, asked for a stack of them, and then set his son to distributing them.
It's funny that Starbucks, on which I personally squandered a goodly fraction of my income prior to the boycott, is named on the flier as one of the companies subject to boycott for their investment in Israel. And Seattle is one of the cities known for its independent coffee houses (including Seattle's Best, which even those of us stuck on the East Coast are familiar with), a dire challenge to the Starbucks monopoly. Together, Seattle and I will put Starbucks out of business:-)
Tomorrow, inshallah, I will take more boycott fliers to some of the progressive bookstores and coffeehouses in downtown Seattle.
May Allah reward the NT team which put together the materials educating people about Israeli apartheid. They have been a great help during my trip.
In the first area I visited (off International Boulevard) there were several halal meat/grocery shops on one block, a kebab house, and an Abysinnian resturant. I bought some figs, bananas, and apples for breakfast from the halal meat store. A Somali sister worked the cash register, and several other East African looking women in hijab visited the store while I was there. I asked the Somali for directions to the mosque. It was only a few blocks away. Enroute, I saw a hijab-clad Muslim woman walking along the hilly road, carrying an umbrella to shelter herself from the sun, at home as she might be in Cairo or Karachi.
This part of town seemed quite poor, with very small houses made of siding, many of them old and ramshackle.
Just blocks away was the gargantuan Boeing Plant, responsible for the manufacture of machines used to kill Muslims in other countries, perhaps the friends or relatives of some of those living here.
The East African Muslims in this neighborhood were friendly and welcoming. I saw the mosque, but did not visit there yet. I will probably go there tomorrow and give them some NT boycott fliers.
I wound up going to juma'a prayers at the Eastside mosque. The road it's located on is discontinuous, and I spent half an hour looking for this mosque, after arriving in this upscale neighborhood. A chamelion-mosque? I had almost given up and was about to leave when I found it. The parking lot was full of benzes and BMWs.
I handed out about 100 boycott fliers, which were received without resistance. One Arab brother, after looking over the boycott flier, asked for a stack of them, and then set his son to distributing them.
It's funny that Starbucks, on which I personally squandered a goodly fraction of my income prior to the boycott, is named on the flier as one of the companies subject to boycott for their investment in Israel. And Seattle is one of the cities known for its independent coffee houses (including Seattle's Best, which even those of us stuck on the East Coast are familiar with), a dire challenge to the Starbucks monopoly. Together, Seattle and I will put Starbucks out of business:-)
Tomorrow, inshallah, I will take more boycott fliers to some of the progressive bookstores and coffeehouses in downtown Seattle.
May Allah reward the NT team which put together the materials educating people about Israeli apartheid. They have been a great help during my trip.
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