Another year has gone, and another is on it’s way. Many of us reflect, make resolutions and plans to achieve certain goals. Some of us have high goals, and some have simpler, easy to manage ambitions. When 2018 started, I was really stressed out because I didn’t have a job, and I really wanted to work.  A year later, I have achieved a peace that things will happen on their time, and whenever God wills them to. We can strive, struggle, and do our best for our situations to move along in a better direction. However, we have our plans, and God has His. For me, this past year was filled with disappointments, but many good things happened too. I met so many wonderful people, and had unique experiences in a new country. I learned that everyone has their own stressors and issues to deal with, mine aren’t so special.

We moved from one area of town to another. We lived in a big house outside central Doha, but few months ago, we moved to West Bay. Our new apartment is located five minutes walk from City Center, and only fifteen minutes walk from Corniche. I walk almost every morning to the sea, and surprisingly it has been a great stress reliever for me. I love looking at the ocean, the fish inside the water, and crabs of various colors and sizes. Also, West Bay is where most of the big beautiful buildings in Doha are located, it’s almost like the center of the city. My move was the best thing that happened to me because I feel that the outside exposure has done wonders for me. Even my walk to the ocean is filled with watching people hurrying to their various activities. I observe everyone from construction workers to well-dressed office workers, and it’s a lot of fun.  I no longer feel sad all the time, though gainful employment would be pretty sweet.

My resolutions for 2019 are fairly simple.  I’d love to concentrate on working towards gaining employment, and just improving certain abilities. For example, I’d like to learn spoken Arabic and improve my French. Finally, I’d love to knit a full sweater for my six-year old. I learned to knit when I was expecting my youngest child, but I have yet to finish a knitting project. I have many  knitting projects that are incomplete, but none that have crossed the finish line. Also, I’d like to rememorize the 29th and the 30th juz from the Quran, (for the 4th time).  Again, these goals aren’t complicated and achievable, and that’s the way goals should be.


                                     TO MOVE BACK OR NOT TO MOVE  BACK,                                   RANDOM ACTS OF KINDNESS IN AMERICA

For the last five years, we have been living in the Middle East, and frequently travelling to Pakistan, where I was born and raised until I was fourteen. I  enjoyed the Middle East and appreciated Pakistan, but with so much happening, the big question in our home has been whether to move back or not to move back to the United States.  I had moved to the United States with my family in the late 80’s. It was a pretty relaxing time, and modern day woes were nowhere to be found. I was a non-hijab wearing teenager in highschool, and it was easy to enjoy the U.S. People were kind, and culturally very different than Pakistan.  Allthroughout high school and college, I was a semi-practicing Muslim. I practiced certain things but avoided others.  I started covering my head in 1997 and, it felt pretty good. Finally, I felt that I had a connection with something deep. Rootlessness can sneak in if you don’t have ties anywhere.  I felt like a loose leaf blowing everywhere, but nowhere in particular. After I started wearing the hijab, I felt like I had a direction. I was still pretty liberal in my politics, but more conservative in my practices. I look back, but do not remember a harsh look or  a specific experience  that targeted my faith. However, things were changing ever so slowly even at that time. My hijab would get odd looks occasionally, and praying in a public place  would definitely get a person noticed.  Everything changed rapidly with September 11, 2001, and the world as everyone knew it, underwent phenomenal changes. Airports became scary places, and in just about every public place in America,  in numerous ways, Muslims felt the backlash of that September day. It was very tragic that many more incidents followed  9/11.  America waged war on multiple fronts, inside and outside the country. In those days, even turning on the television or reading a paper was stressful for me, and I am sure for millions of others living in Western societies. I had horns honked at me, stares directed at me while in security lines at the airport and other public places.  There were some wonderful experiences too, such as my husband’s colleagues who offered their unconditional assistance in case a need arose. The post office in Columbia, Missouri where everyone was incredibly sweet.  I hung onto my faith at that time, my scarf and kindness of my fellow Americans. It’s  a spectacularly good feeling when a stranger will be nice to you for no apparent reason.


However, when I compare the post 9/11 America to a pre-Trump America, I find the later to be a  much more divisive and scary place.  Even before Donald Trump came along, the climate of hate and  racial/cultural intolerance was making waves. I feel many elements exploited a variety of resentments within the public sphere to create an environment of  disharmony. In this America, it was a starightforward decision to move to Saudi Arabia in 2013. My kids were almost teenagers, and we felt that they would benefit from a worry-free atmosphere. Surpisingly, I missed America just as much as I missed Pakistan. I missed roads, people and many other small things, but again it is scary to read about incidents, events that are happening far away from you. Then you are grateful to be away from that particular situation.  Also, the political climate started looking stranger and stranger.


Till the election in 2016, I considered myself pretty American despite everything, and had no trouble connecting with friends  and places there. Actually, before this year’s trip, our last trip to the United States was in the Summer of 2016. Almost all magazine covers veered on the jocular and the ridiculous at the thought of a Trump presidency. Hillary Clinton was a done deal.  Then the election happened, and my sense of incredulity and sadness cannot be quantified on the morning after the elction.  The wide swath of  Repupublican red coloring America seemed to be mocking minorities, women, lgbt activists, and everyone who stood for a disadvantaged group. The sense of dread plaguing all the above mentioned groups only increased after a spectacularly dystopian picture of a country well on it’s way to ruins painted by a President Trump in his inaugural address. Hate crimes, snide victory speeches, and opinion polls pointed to a rapidly changed America.  I am an avid reader of  The Washington Post and Mother Jones. Both are fairly liberal papers with MJ being on the extreme left. Soon it became apparent that the election had freed hatred, racism, and  many elements of society felt they had permission to air their dislikes of groups unlike them. Some  groups and individuals felt  that they could act upon those negative perceptions. However, that said, I also read about large marches, sit-ins and protests held all across the United States for the rights of minorities, and it was heart warming. Still, I was afraid to go back, but we ended up visiting the States this year. This was my first trip after the election. To say I was stressed would be an understatement. When you are far away and far removed from a situation, you don’t have any idea how things  are on the ground. All you have are little snippets of information from a variety of sources, and everyone and every entity is biased in some way. People and  various news outlets all present their information according to their agenda, not precisely as it is.  So I had all this information, and I had an idea that Trump’s America would be different than the America two Summers ago.


I didn’t know  how I would feel walking the malls, stores in a Trumpian land, in a country that I grew up in and considered mine. I had read about rising hate crimes, and the fact that hijab wearing Muslim women are easy targets because of their head coverings. My fifteen-year-old daughter and I both cover our heads. Through out the years I had dealt with occasional slurs, horns and instances where people would make their feelings about Islam known to me. However, the positives always outweighed the negatives. There was the postal  worker in Columbia, MO who knew me, and always greeted me with a  huge smile. There were the drivers who would give right of way, even though they didn’t have to.  Then were the clerks, cashiers and other service workers who would always greet with a smile, and do their their best to provide assistance. I always felt that Americans have mastered the art of providing kindness to random strangers, and this kindness can materialize anywhere in any situation. It can be a person giving you space in a security line at the airport, in a check out line at the grocery store, or it can be a person stopping to give you car assistance in pouring rain. I have been at the receiving end of many of these random acts of kindnesses over the years, and it is one of the reasons I fell in love with America. My first experience was as a seventeen year old.  It was raining cats and dogs, my car broke down on the way to school, and a woman named Robin stopped by to provide me with help.  She helped a total stranger without asking questions, and was on her way. I never saw her agin, but I have an unending litany of stories similar to the one I shared above. Then there was my college English teacher, Timoth Allan Peeples, who was undoubtedly one of the kindest souls I knew. He was always available for tutoring, and for encouraging a nineteen-year-old freshman. I don’t remember Tim ever saying no to my endless requests for help.  I have so many more stories to share, but not enough space.


This time, one story that stands out is when I stayed in Horsham, Pennsylvania. I went to the local Walmart to buy things to bring back to Doha. We shop as if we are shopping for a starving third world country. After pushing my stuff laden cart to the check-out counter, I realized I had forgotten something, and told the cashier that I would go grab it quickly.  When I returned, a stranger named Tara had bagged all my groceries carefully, and there were atleast twenty bags. I was simply overcome with joy, partly because of what she had done, but also because the stock of American kindness was as full as ever. Another incident that I’ll share with my readers is when I stayed in Centerville, Ohio. I was staying with long time friends, Chanda and Naveed-ul-Haq. Chanda, despite having had surgery on her wrist, was hosting about 10-15 guests in her house.  Chanda introduced us to Bill’s Donuts that are the last word in donuts, the holy grail of donuts, the  champions of all the donuts. Everything they had was so heavenly that I wouldn’t have minded moving to Centerville to work at Bill’s Donuts. One day when we went to pick up the donuts, I voiced out loud my desire to eat a fresh donut. As we were walking out, we passed by the kitchen, and we told the young man working there. He smiled and handed us three, huge, fresh donuts that tasted more amazing than they looked.

Towards the end of my trip, I realized that America was as unique as it has always been, and nothing will change it. Kind people, selfless people, ready to put a bit of joy in a stranger’s life, willing to provide assistance where needed will always be there. They are the guardians of the American greatness, the gatekeepers of the values that make the poor, the unwanted, the persecuted populations from all across the world risk  everything, even their lives to want to make a life in this special America. I would be perfectly okay with moving back because I feel that for better or for worse, it is my country.





I Really Hate Myself, But I Cannot Help Myself


I haven’t written anything in a long, long time. However with Ramadaan gone, I really wanted to reboot and re-energize my blog once more. When Ramadaan came this year, it made me think about many things, but one event really stood out. As many people know that my mom suffered a stroke around mid- February, and is totally bed ridden, unable to talk or even move  her fingers. My two sisters and their families are caring for her, and are doing a very good job. I visit her every few months and every time I go, I make a new resolve before going. I promise myself that this time I will massage her hands, read Quran to her, you know the little things. The problem is, with every trip, it takes me a about a day to muster up my courage to go inside her room. I cannot reconcile the stranger on the bed making inhuman sounds that I see with the larger than life person that I knew. What I remember is a very strong personality, one that could wither a person with a single look. I remember her fasting during winter months for years,  for two-three days a week.  I remember her reading newspapers and magazines, and I remember her as thoroughly enjoying the company of others. I remember that she liked to cook, and was extremely picky about her clothes. She had such an odd personality full of contradictions, likes/dislikes and strengths. She was born and raised  in India, and had a very interesting  and idyllic childhood. She used to share some pretty spectacular memories of growing up in the pink city of Jaipur. There’s so much to remember and not enough space to write everything that I recollect.


I am so ashamed for not being able to go inside her room, so ashamed for not being able to fulfill the purpose of my visit, so ashamed to be scared of the barely alive person on the bed.  Instead I go outside to do shopping, sit outside the room, do really insignificant chores inside my sister’s house, and take care  of really mundane things that can be left undone. To put it bluntly, I do everything I can to avoid going inside the room to face her, a life that’s really just hanging in there by nothing more than a single breath. I don’t even know if she can be called a life. I know with certainty that she would have hated this existence. I am so bewildered and grieved by her condition. Maybe I am afraid that one day I will be like her, maybe worse than her. She has very dedicated family memebrs taking good care of her, but I feel that nobody will be there for me. I have an existence without a country or a people, and  I fear that in the end I may be in that same kind of room with a thread of my existence  and no one to even check if that thread is intact or not.


Finally, I had a conversation with my seventeen year old son about the kind of death I’d like to have. He only offered one perspective, and it was that he didn’t want to die of old age. However, which death is better? The gradual death from age or sickness or a sudden death from an unforeseen accident. I am very scared of dying in an airplane crash, but my mom makes me think that dying in an instant in a ball of fire and explosion might not be so bad after all.

Tariq and Me; Love, Loss and Grief




I wanted to write this blog on February 14th, but I chose to do it now. Six years ago, when I was expecting my third child, on February 14, my only brother passed away. If I say that the loss was crushing for me, it would be an understatement. Let me tell you a bit about him. His name was Tariq, and he was twenty years my senior. I was my parents’ late child, and he was the oldest.  Growing up, he and I were close like normal siblings with an enormous age gap, which meant distant sometimes and close at others. However, circumstances moved in a direction that we became very close. He was my friend before, but by the time he died, he was truly my other half and my companion. At the time of his death, we could finish each other’s sentences. On occasion, If I thought of an idea, it came out of his mouth. He held my hand through thick, thin and many other very turbulent times. He wiped my tears when nobody was around. 


We moved to the United States when Tariq was in his mid-thirties, but he could never gain a footing professionally. For those of you who may not know, America is all about adjustment. Adjustment in many aspects of life, and Tariq who was previously a high-ranking bank employee couldn’t adjust. When I look back, analyze and take stock, I see so many wrong decisions that he made after moving to the U.S. However, what’s done is done, but I miss him enormously. What happened was that despite being in excellent physical health, he started smoking in his late teens and early twenties. He used to smoke three packs a day, about sixty cigarettes every day. One fact I have noticed about smoking is that it is bad for health, but the damage is different for everyone. By the time he realized that smoking was wreaking havoc with his health, he was already hypertensive with high cholesterol. His health just didn’t pick up after he was diagnosed with hypertension, and gradually he became a diabetic as well.  All this poor health was combined with sporadic jobs as a computer programmer, and no marriage. That was another factor that made him very careless with his health and lifestyle.


I was in circumstances that needed support on occasion. I cannot pinpoint the exact time, but gradually we became necessary for each other. I took care of his apartment, cooked for him, and he returned the favor by babysitting and helping me with other chores. Our friends realized my urgency and would do their best to help me find him. He had so many friends, and he had us. My kids and I worshipped the ground he walked on.  I simply couldn’t dispel his feelings of having nothing and being nothing. I remember, if we went out for ice-cream, he would have a huge serving, and I would have a small child-sized serving. In my frustration, I used to scream at him loudly that he was slowly killing himself. I used to scream that he would have glaucoma, kidney failure and other health emergencies if he didn’t watch his food intake.  I would scream at him that he would be bed-ridden in a bad, sub-standard nursing home. I would scream at him that he was breaking God’s orders by indirectly killing himself.  I would scream at him at the top of my lungs for long periods of time, but the gentleman that he was, he would just listen stoically, and not give any response. Sometimes, my kids would get angry at me for screaming at him.


Overtime, he started going into congestive heart failure, and again he was not compliant with food or medicine. Shortness of breath Followed swollen feet. Painstakingly, I can talk about every stage of heart failure because I saw almost  every stage. He couldn’t  walk  to the mosque located barely five minutes from my home because he was so out of breath.  It was excruciating to see him like that. I visited him in December, and as usual, cleaned his house with some help, and cooked for him. He had another angiography scheduled in the first week of February, and I wasn’t able to go.


It was a gray day in Columbus and snowing lightly. I called him in the morning, while on my way to drop the kids at school. He didn’t pick up the first time I called him, answered the second time, and told me he was waiting for my call. We had a beautiful conversation, and my kids talked to him as well. I told him repeatedly that I loved him, and I desperately wanted him to get better. After I hung up, I called him throughout the day, but he never answered the phone. I had no panic that day because I thought he would make it another few years.  That was the only day I never raised any alarm with his friends. It turned out that he never talked to anyone after me, and to this day I have the memory of that last call.  You see, my best friend and my other half passed away right after talking to me. I never saw him in death because I wanted that last conversation to keep ringing in my ears. In those first few days, my grief could have drowned me. I couldn’t sleep or eat or drive without wanting to call him. His memory, his voice and the image of his swollen feet almost killed me.  While driving, I would dissolve in uncontrollable tears, and had to pull to the shoulder because that was when we had our calls. I knew there was no one at the other end of the line; I still called him many times in those first few months following his passing.