In memory of Imran Saithna, rockstar extraordinare: Bleed the pen, burn the paper, dry those tears of eternal sorrow

Courtyard of Lions, originally uploaded by Imran Saithna.

And we meet...
to depart,
And then depart -
Just to meet again. *

The problem with - and the beautiful gift of - the internet is that I always fall a little bit in love with everyone I interact with. I refer mainly to blogistan and flickr, since those are the two spaces I spend most of my time online and where I come across other bloggers, (b)lurkers, and photographers. Through weblog posts, flickr uploads, weblog comments, personal emails, simple flickr comments that somehow transform into lengthy, off-topic threads, and sometimes even "stalkerish" (I joke) and baffling facebook friend requests as a result of these two spaces, I marvel that we all become connected through such tenuous, fragile networks.

But, we do - we become connected through comments and story-telling and emails and instant messenger and photographs, and everyone becomes my friend, regardless of whether or not I know them offline. This is how I walk the world - the world which, for me, just as much includes these wires that connect us all together, as it does the "real-life" friends with whom I regularly coordinate hanging-out sessions in person.

Which is why it felt like a sucker-punch to the gut yesterday morning, when, in the midst of replying to emails and slurping down my breakfast cereal, I clicked over to my friend Zana's photostream and found one of her recent uploads dedicated In Loving Memory of Imran Saithna. I struggled to take a breath, eyes glued to the computer screen as I tried to take in the information. People who are 28 years old are not supposed to die. People who have just returned only a few short weeks ago from performing Hajj - the holy pilgrimage to Mecca, Saudi Arabia - are not supposed to die. People whom you've been meaning to email back within the next few days are not supposed to die before you reply to their messages.

Many thanks to Maliha, whose email I was in the midst of responding to when I clicked over to Zana's photo, for her lovely note back, and to the beautiful Shaheen, who provided me some comfort as I raged, "It's just so sucky when all the good people die. Why can't God just take the fuck-ups instead?"

I met Imran Saithna through flickr, when he added me as a contact back in late 2005 and I reciprocated. He posted stunningly beautiful photos, and sometimes commented on mine - unfortunately, more often than I commented on his, in retrospect. You all know how good I am at these (b)lurking habits of mine.

When I posted my small photoset of Zaytuna Institute to flickr last spring, I was surprised by the number of people who took the time to comment on and appreciate the series of photos I had snapped on a whim one afternoon while waiting for my sister. Imran was one of those who commented, and our exchange made me realize how much we Muslims in the San Francisco Bay Area take for granted our proximity to Zaytuna and the spiritual goodness available there. I promised him I would post some more Zaytuna photos; he particularly requested shots of the grounds. In turn, I admired his photos of Spain, a place I have always wanted to visit.

In these last couple of days after hearing of Imran's death, I've learned more about what he did than I ever knew when he was alive. As Project Manager of Muslimyouth.net, he was a passionate advocate for Britain’s first online support and guidance forum for Muslim youth. The website provides an open space for young Muslims to discuss issues which are relevant and important to them, without fear of censure or condemnation, and is part of the umbrella organization Muslim Youth Helpline, a confidential telephone and e-mail counseling service for young people. MYH understands well the effect of "the climate of fear, fury and media sensationalising" on the mental health of Muslim youth in Britain. The tribute to Imran on Muslimyouth.net lists in moving detail the various projects to which he had dedicated himself.

Under Imran’s creative and dedicated guidance muslimyouth.net flourished from a fledgling project into a thriving online community for Muslims across the UK and beyond. Much of this is a testament to Imran’s innovative and unique energy, drive and commitment to the cause.

A typical example of Imran’s maverick approach was exemplified in some of the campaigns that he ran on muslimyouth.net. Few will ever forget (especially the participants involved!) the Homelessness Campaign that ran on the site in April 2005. Imran and a group of volunteers spent a weekend on the streets of London with a budget of £3 to survive on. Crazy, unheard of and unorthodox –maybe. Pure Imran –absolutely! Behind the stunt however lay a desire to raise awareness amongst the Muslim community about issues that often get swept under the carpet. He led through example and took great care to ensure the safety and comfort of the volunteers who joined him on this experience.

This is my favorite comment-story about Imran, because the image in the first part made me laugh so much:

my best memory of Imran is the british 10K marathon in 2005. He ran the whole thing smoking marlboro reds and still beat me.

Imran touched the heart of almost every muslim youth in london.

There are many posts and comments about Imran all over the internet these days, it seems. I found one of the most poignant tributes on deenport, written by Yoshi Misdaq:

Then, a month or so ago, I went to a poetry event. I wasn't scheduled to perform there, but I did. Imran was scheduled to perform, although I didn't know it beforehand. And so, he did. I remember thinking that his poem went on a very long time. I thought it was a bit too much. But then, when I had that thought, I was caught up in the world. And when you're caught up in the world, feeling worldly (not that you're aware of it at the time) you forget about the bigger picture. Death is the only thing that could make me look back at events in this way. And so I did. I asked my friend (who was filming that night) to lend me the tapes earlier today. I watched Imran's poem (the second, the last performance) again. And it was a miracle. Later that night, when I had told him how nervous I was to perform my poetry for the first time, and how calm he seemed, he corrected me, saying that he was doing all he could do stop from shaking. And so, this performance meant everything to him. That's why it went on for so long that night. It was as if he were putting every single significant disappointment and feeling into that extended piece of rhyme. He was rinsing out this water-pain from his soul, taking it from every single angle, from every perspective. He felt it that night. And I felt it when I saw it again. After he had left Earth. Every other line of poetry was about death, the next world, the pains of this world. I could quote it at length. I just typed the whole thing up. I won't do that though. To see his face again was a blessing. Some peoples eyes light up when they smile. Other people are always lit up, subtly.

[...] As I've said, Imran didn't fit perfectly here. Others closer to him would no doubt have seen more worldly sides to him. For me though, he is now in the place he was so clearly destined to be in. The spirit-world. And I can't help but fear for myself and those I love who do not have that odd way about us. Those of us who sometimes seem all too eager to get comfortable here in this filling-station called Earth. Selfishly, I feel fearful, because, in a way, God seems to have taken him so perfectly, after having just returned from Hajj. What more mercy could there be for him? And yet, what ambiguity and uncertainty there is for the rest of us. In the poetry event before he left, through his poems, he was purging himself. And, I will always believe the on the pilgrimage that followed, he discovered himself, nourished himself, filled in the holes and gaps. What he was meant to be, where he was meant to go. Within a few moments of hearing that news, and thinking about my encounters with this wonderful human, I knew it was meant to be. It was right. It was a story that God so clearly wrote.

While I spent winter of 2005 writing and writing and writing about the aftermath of the South Asian earthquake, Imran was one of those amazing people who jumped on a plane and went to help with earthquake relief efforts. He posted to flickr the photos from his time in Pakistan, and wrote about his relief-work experiences on his weblog; the BBC interviewed him, too, in a November 2005 story.

I went searching through my GMail account yesterday afternoon. As I expected, my last email exchange with Imran is marked with the all-important "must reply soon" yellow star and a red "Draft" note next to it. When I had neglected to upload photos to my flickr account for nearly two months, Imran emailed me in mid-December of last year to check in. He ended his email with "Fi amanillah [(Go) in God's protection]," which made me smile. In my reply, I explained that I'm not much of a multi-tasker when it comes to writing and photography, so if I'm active on flickr, I tend to neglect the weblog, and if I write more often, then I stop uploading pictures consistently. I also wrote:

Just replied to your comment on my weblog post. Thank you for taking the time to stop by; it's always nice to see the flickr folks over at the weblog, too. There isn't much overlap; the flickr folks check out my photos and the blogistan folks check out my writing, but only a couple of people stop by both, as far as I know.

At the end of my email, I added, "I'm a big fan of other people who also say 'fi amanillah.' HIGHFIVE!"

He replied that he did indeed check out both the weblog and the flickr, a sentiment that was repeated again just recently, when he commented on my "Bethany" post that made us all laugh so much.

And he responded to my How goes the life with you? query by ending with:

Life with me is good, just really busy doing so many mad voluntary things in the local community here, am back in London for the time being as insha'Allah I will be flying out for the Hajj on Monday. Pray that my Hajj is accepted insha'Allah, and also let me know if you want me to bring you back anything from Saudi at all, it would be a pleasure.

Fi amanillah, Yasmine, take care and keep smiling so it can rub off on us all.

I remember staring at my computer, thinking, Bring me back something from Saudi? What a beautiful, incredibly generous offer. I decided I would send him the list of duas [prayers/supplications] I'd been emailing to all my friends who were leaving for Hajj. The most I could ask of anyone was that they add some prayers for me while in the holy cities.

My reply to his last email is still sitting in my Drafts folder. It begins simply, Wa alaikum assalam, Imran -, and then there is a bunch of empty white space, and his email below. The draft was saved on December 15th; by the time I remembered I still needed to send him my dua list two days later, he had already flown out for Hajj, and I figured I'd just save the reply and send it as a congratulatory email when he returned from the pilgrimage. I never did send it, obviously, and now I can't even bring myself to click the "Discard" button.

I wish I had made time to reply to people's comments on the weblog. I wish I had sent him another email, and commented more often to let him know how much I appreciate his beautiful photos and poetry. I didn't understand at the time what he meant by "doing so many mad voluntary things," but in the last couple of days of reading people's reflections about Imran, I've come to understand what a truly generous, giving person he was - someone who, as Zana said, had all the time in the world for people less fortunate.

Last October, I had sent him a short email saying,

I randomly came across this today and thought of you, since you are such a Zaytuna fan:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/alhambrapro/

Eid mubarak! Hope you had a beautiful, blessed day inshaAllah!

At the end of his reply to me, he added:

Alhamdulillah, Eid was fantastic, probably one of the nicest, bestest and most rewarding Eids I've had in many years.

Yesterday, scrolling through Imran's weblogs, I came across the post that began with a reflection on both his 2005 Eids, spent helping with earthquake relief efforts in the mountains of Kashmir; the post culminated in a description of the October 2006 Eid he had referred to in his email to me:

This year I was again away from home on the day of Eid. I found myself in a place where one might suspect there to be little reason or cause to celebrate anything except imminent release. However, I was overwhelmed at what proved to be one of the most remarkable days of my life.

I have been working on an ad-hoc basis out of HMP Wormwood Scrubs for the last 6 months or so, and although there are some genuinely pleasurable and memorable moments, in general it is one big reality check. A reminder of my long forgotten past, a chance to give something back to society and an opportunity to remember the Blessings of our Lord that fall upon us so abundantly that we can do nothing but take them for granted.

Every year is different, every Eid Allah puts before me another opportunity to atone for my sins. Only this year however, have I realised quite how lucky I am to be blessed and tested in this way.

Close your eyes and try to picture 200+ brothers in one room, smiling like they have never smiled before, eating as though they have never eaten before, greeting you so sincerely with the greeting of peace and hugging you as though you were a long lost relative.

The beautiful chanting of the Takbirs still resonate warmly in my ears, almost every conceivable nation was represented in that hall, and often I wonder if this was a tiny vision of what paradise might be times a million.

Who needs Zaytuna, when you've found the real deal, Imran? Paradise-times-a-million must be yours by now; how could He deny you that blessed entry?

There are many, many people who knew Imran far better than I did (a simple Google search pulls up dozens, if not hundreds, of recent weblog entries, forum posts, and comments and prayers dedicated to him and the work he did, all across the internet) - there is, for example, Zana, who still can't bring herself to delete his number from her phone; there is Balal, his close friend and photography mentor, who wrote to me about his experiences knowing Imran; there is Daniel Abdal-Hayy Moore, with whom he shared his love for poetry. But even I, who knew him so briefly and barely, feel that I've lost someone whose kindness and generosity touched me enough that even I'm feeling heartbroken. When I struggled around the lump in my throat and cried hot tears for him yesterday, it was not because his life has ended, but because our own lives are a little bit emptier, having lost such a beautiful soul to accompany us through this world.

Mabrouk, ya Hajji! And rest in peace, my friend. When next we meet, I'll tell you what it felt like for me to have - by then, God willing - finally seen Spain and the Alhambra in person, and you can describe for me what it must be like to sit in the Light of the Divine and see the Creator face-to-Face. I have no doubt that you will be one of the Illuminated. May the Lord, in His infinite mercy, grant you all that is good and pure and blessed - and an internet connection Up There, so that you can see, even through your infamous humility, how positively you've impacted and inspired all those of us you've left behind.

[Post title from a poem by Imran Saithna:

Forget the past, sleep the day,
Wake not for the dawn of tomorrow.

Bleed the pen, burn the paper,
Dry those tears of eternal sorrow.

Blind the eyes, pack full the ears,
Wipe the traces of that lonely smile.

Turn full-around, re-trace your steps,
and walk alone for a while.]

Send some love to Momo

Originally uploaded by yaznotjaz.

Please take a minute to send some love and prayers to the beautiful Momo, whose brother-in-law passed away last week after a difficult struggle with cancer. He is survived by his wife and their two children, 6 years old and 13 months old. I can't even begin to imagine how painful a time this must be for his family.

Momo's gorgeous poem, my sister's Love life, made me cry when I read it, over and over at least a dozen times, a couple of weeks ago.

Wishing Momo's brother-in-law much light and ease finally, and wishing strength and nothing but goodness for all the loved ones he left behind.

Hope for recovery

Originally uploaded by yaznotjaz.

Islamic Relief has recently been sponsoring a series of six dinners around the United States, in order to raise funds for continuing support for the victims of last October's earthquake in South Asia:

The earthquake which devastated the South Asian subcontinent in October has affected millions. Islamic Relief is working hard on the ground and around the world in order to ensure that the 3,000,000 people left homeless are not forgotten. Please join us to help us in our efforts to provide sustained rebuilding and rehabilitation projects to a devastated population. [Rebuilding Lives, Restoring Hope]

If you were following this weblog towards the end of 2005, you know the earthquake is something I felt quite emotional about.

So when my sister forwarded the email about last Saturday's fundraising dinner in the South Bay and I sent it to my father with a note asking, "Daddy khana, would you be interested in going to this event?", I was gratified to receive an instant email back: "Absolutely! Let's go."

At the dinner, I was impressed by the rundown of Islamic Relief's work, their speeches and powerpoint presentations and video footage and the 4-star rating accorded them by Charity Navigator (the largest charity evaluator in the U.S.), and their overall professionalism - but mainly I was impressed by their passion for what they do. The speakers I heard that evening - not only the Islamic Relief people, but also local community leaders and activists - have dedicated their lives to helping people and making the world a more beautiful, safer, respectful place, through various efforts. The least the rest of us can do is support such causes from the safe distance of the secure homes and comfortable lifestyles we inhabit.

In all the speeches about the earthquake, and about giving and making sacrifices in solidarity and in compassion, the part that struck me the most forcefully was when one of the brothers up there said, "We all set aside money sometimes, here and there, thinking we'll use it later in the year, for something or other. I know you've saved your money for something important."

He paused, then added quietly, pointedly, "Maybe this is important."

Someone later mentioned, "Alhamdulillah [all praise is for God], the winter in South Asia was not as harsh as we had thought it might be: there was only three feet of snow, as opposed to the six feet we had been expecting," and I sat there remembering that, in the two days prior to the dinner as I hung out with the ALL STAR CRACKSTAR SQUAD (killer phrase trademarked/copyrighted/all that drama by 2Scoops, and, don't worry, you'll hear more about the hanging out sessions later), all I had done every time we ventured outdoors was scrunch up my face like a disgruntled five-year-old and whine, "Why is it raining, dammit?"

I was stunned. Three feet of snow? I'm so sick of winter, I can't even handle three drops of rain. Clearly, some necessary perspective is in order.

If you're in Chicago, Tampa Bay, FL, or Dallas, the event's still on. Take a couple of hours out of your evening, and go.

Time will tell us if we're out of answers when it stops

After the rain, originally uploaded by yaznotjaz.

Mother
Can you keep them in the dark for life
Can you hide them from the waiting world
Oh mother

Driving across town a few days ago, I came to a stop at a red light. Diagonally in front of me, in the next lane, was a silver Honda Accord of the type I've become accustomed to looking for during the past two months. I automatically glanced at the license plates: Is it 4MUH810?

But, of course, it wasn't.

My sister, late on the evening we heard that Dr. Zehra Attari and her car had been recovered from the Oakland Estuary, said something like, "It's easier knowing that it's something that happened, not something that happened to her."

What happened is heartbreaking enough, either way. But there is a sense of relief, of sorts, in knowing what happened. There is even some relief in knowing that what happened wasn't as horrible as what could have happened. But, at the end of the day, Dr. Attari is still dead, her loss is devastating to her family, and there is pain in never knowing for certain that she did not suffer in those last moments.

The day of Dr. Attari's funeral in San Jose on December 22nd, it seemed to me that there was more rain than Northern California had seen this winter.

Rain and mud everywhere; the hell had I been thinking, wearing my shoes with holes? But my feet were the least of my concerns: there was my sister, teary-eyed and worried about her best friend; there were Dr. Attari's daughters, struggling to maintain their strength and composure; there was Mr. Attari, tousle-haired and heartbreakingly lost-looking.

And in between, well-intentioned on everyone's part, was an orchestration of umbrellas: how to best keep people dry without poking their eyes out. I remembered the previous day, at the Attari home, as the family planned the funeral. "But what if it rains?" someone blurted out.

Dr. Attari's older daughter raised her eyebrows. "So bring an umbrella," she answered quite directly. I wondered if she were thinking, My mother has been lying in dozens of feet of water at the bottom of an estuary for forty-three days. You damn well better be able to handle a few drops of rain. But, no, that's just what I was thinking; she was probably much more gracious and preoccupied than that.

What I liked most about Dr. Attari's funeral - if it isn't in poor taste to confess to liking something about a funeral - was the respect accorded to women. Women were specifically encouraged to attend the funeral, not only the prayer but also the burial. Even after Dr. Attari's body was placed into the grave, we women were silently allowed to remain standing where we were, just a few feet away - in front, ahead of the men - as the tractor (bulldozer?) lowered the concrete slab into the gaping hole of the grave, swept the dirt back into the grave, and repeatedly slammed a rectangular piece of wood over it to flatten the dirt at the top. It was an extremely painful vantage point, but I was glad for that wholehearted respect for the women and their right to honor and pray for the dead - the likes of which I had never before experienced.

At the end of the funeral, I saw one woman, a close family friend, hug the Attari daughters and heard her - though still tearfully - defiantly say, "I will not cry for a shaheed."

A young woman, whom I vaguely remember from Zaytuna classes years ago, hugged me and whispered, "Thank you for taking care of them." I stared after her retreating figure, bewildered. I had done nothing. If anyone had done anything, it was my sister, who had compiled and organized and distributed the flyers and photos, who had been (and still is) available every second of every one of those forty-three days as a source of support for her friend.

After the funeral, we made our way to the Attari home. In the evening, the rest of the friends and guests were gently shooed away so that the family could get ready for the dua and prayer at the SABA Center. My sister and I moved idly around the house, trying to be useful. I found Mr. Attari at the kitchen sink, rinsing the plates and glasses.

"Here, I can do that," I said. "Let me help with those."

He smiled and waved me off. "No, no, I can do it."

His younger daughter whispered to me, "My dad likes washing dishes."

I smiled slightly. "I know."

As we prepared to leave their home in our separate cars, Mr. Attari asked if we knew how to get to the SABA Center. "Yes, I printed out directions," I said. "Could you please take a look at these and see if they seem okay?"

Standing next to Mr. Attari as he glanced through the sheet of paper I held out to him, I had a horrible feeling - was he remembering all the times he had helped his wife with directions? Was he remembering that the one evening he had not been there to guide her was the same evening she never returned home? It was so intensely sad to think in those terms.

At one point during the evening at the SABA Center, the congregation began reciting Dua-i-Kumayl together. I didn't have a book to recite from as everyone else seemed to, so I kept stealthily glancing at the sheaf of papers belonging to the lady next to me. She soon noticed me peeking over, silently moved her papers over so that the pages were resting in front of both of us, and placed a finger at the line the congregation was reciting, so that I could follow along.

I still don't know much about Dua-i-Kumayl, other than that it is regularly recited by Shia Muslims, but I quickly read the English translation while reciting the Arabic along with everyone else, and I can definitely say that it must be one of the most beautiful supplications for forgiveness that I've ever come across.

At the end of the Dua, I thanked the sister next to me. "Would you like this copy?" she asked, "I have another one at home."

"Are you sure?" I asked, delighted. She was indeed. So now I have my own copy, and it's lovely.

Over the past couple of weeks, it's been heartwarming to read of strangers who were touched by Dr. Attari, to know that her spirit of giving and caring, her compassionate work, inspired even those who did not know her in person. My father, recently discussing her death with our relatives, said, "It's not just that she was a wife and mother, you know. She was a respected person in her community. She was a doctor who helped poor people who had nowhere else to go. We need people like her."

Driving to the Attari home after the funeral, listening to her family friends relate stories of Dr. Attari, made me realize what a loss her death is to those who knew and loved her well. The children Dr. Attari treated in her capacity as a pediatrician, the patients she left behind, are suffering her loss as well. To think that she is gone for sure, just a few days after I was thinking about her while in Oakland, is a difficult reconciliation.

My Lord, have mercy upon
the weakness of my body,
the thinness of my skin and
the frailty of my bones.
.
.
.
Thou knowest my weakness before a little of
this world's tribulations and punishments,
and before those ordeals which befall its inhabitants...

- from Dua-i-Kumayl

Update on Dr. Zehra Attari

Really, I have no words. So I'm copy-pasting what I just sent out in an email. Background here.

The car of Dr. Zehra Attari was removed late last night from the Oakland Estuary. She was a pediatrician who lived in San Jose and maintained a clinic for low-income families in Oakland. Dr. Attari disappeared on the evening of November 7th, somewhere between her Oakland clinic and a medical conference in Alameda, an island city in the San Francisco Bay.

Alameda County divers found her car last night at the bottom of the Oakland Estuary, flipped over and completely submerged in mud except for the wheels. It is believed that because it was dark and raining heavily on the evening of November 7th, and because Dr. Attari was not a very confident driver, she must have driven off the road, down the boat ramp, and into the estuary, which has no barriers in that area. Although the body found in the car has not yet officially been identified, it is believed to be that of Dr. Attari based on the clothing she was wearing the evening she disappeared.

Dr. Attari was also the mother of my sister's best friend, so the news has hit hard. But as difficult as this time is for us, it is even more devastating for Dr. Attari's family and close friends, who spent the last six weeks vacillating between hope and despair and doing all they could to gather any information about her disappearance when the authorities themselves had no news or leads to share.

Please take a minute to pray for Dr. Attari's soul - that she might rest in ease and peace. Pray that the remarkable strength the Attaris exhibited during the past six weeks will continue to sustain them for the weeks (months, years...) to come. And that they might find peace as well.

[Some news and information]

UPDATES:

Dr. Zehra Attari's body was positively identified yesterday morning. The funeral is today (Thurs., Dec. 22) at 1pm in San Jose. For updates and other info, keep checking www.zehraattari.com. There is a condolence book here, that you may sign.

The Attaris held a news conference yesterday. You can watch that here. It's about 30 minutes long.

Keep those prayers for the Attaris coming.

A cold winter sun, my feet underground/a pale winter city, numbness for sound

Feeding the birds, Lake Merritt, Oakland, CA, originally uploaded by yaznotjaz.

[You can find all my photos from this day here. They're more fun when you view them individually, so take the time to click through one by one, if you get a chance.]

Three days ago, I stepped inside the County of Alameda Administration Building in Oakland and set off the alarms on the security machine just inside the building's entrance. Not just once, but twice.

Right, I am a serious danger to the world.

Was it the silver bracelets? I have skinny wrists but bony hands, and putting on and removing bracelets is too much of a painful process for me to do it regularly, so I've pretty much just left the same ones on for the past couple of years. Or maybe it was the hearing aid batteries. Thanks to those, I distinctly remember setting off airport alarms multiple times as a kid.

But no: "Are you wearing shoes?" asked the white-haired man at the...what is it called? security checkpoint? He tried to peer over the machine. Shoes? Why, yes, indeed I was, for once in my life. Stupid shoes. I resisted an urge to shake my fist at the ground. I always knew shoes were no freakin' good for you.

"Raise your hands in the air and step back through the machine again," suggested the man. I gingerly raised my hands in the air (I haven't had much practice at it; hopefully that was the last time I'd ever have to do that) and walked through again. Another alarm.

The man just nodded and smiled and waved his hand to let me go through. I guess he had somehow come to a conclusion that it was the shoes, and that they were harmless. I took care of the business I was there for, and managed to walk out in five minutes. Across the lobby, the white-haired gentleman laughed and waved again as he saw me leaving. I waved back and called out, "Have a good day!" What a nice man. I liked this day already.

Once outside, I started for my car, conveniently parked right in front, but paused at the row of plaques hanging on a low wall that lined the building's front plaza. It was a memorial wall dedicated to the children of Alameda County who have lost their lives by violence. One plaque for each year from 1994 to 2004. Some of the names stood out to me and I wanted to take photos, but wondered nervously whether that would be a bad idea. Setting off the security machine for wearing shoes (bracelets? hearing aids?) was amusing enough; getting busted for photographing an official county building might be a whole different thing altogether. But then I figured, The hell with it. It's a memorial wall, I'm sure people photograph it all the time.

As I stood there taking photos, a man scrounging through the garbage can a few feet away looked over at me and muttered, "'Bout time!" I glanced over, surprised. 'Bout time, what? 'Bout time someone noticed the memorial and photographed it? I wanted to ask him to elaborate, but he had already shuffled on to the next garbage can down the street.

I got in my car and sat there for a few moments, wondering what to do with myself. I had thought the Oakland stuff would take at least an hour, but it had taken only five minutes and I had nothing important to do for the rest of the day. I decided to stop by the lake I had passed while circling the block for parking. It looked pretty, and I felt like taking pictures.

I glanced cautiously around the perimeter of the lake as I was getting out of my car. Was it safe to be hanging around here, in this town I barely knew and a lake I'd never been to? But the lake was swarming with people jogging and strolling, alone and in pairs, and when I made my way down the path and stopped to take photos, I had to keep moving aside to let people go by.

I photographed a man feeding the birds. He stood calmly at the edge of the lake, throwing out bits of something, while the birds hopped around expectantly and, now and then, made a mad dash in the general direction of where he was throwing. Just as quietly as he had stopped for the birds, he was soon gone. I turned around from photographing the lake, and he had vanished. I shot photos of the water, the orange lanterns, and, oh, the birds. The birds were everywhere.

Two men paused while walking by me. "Taking pictures of the birds?" asked one in amusement. "Don't you know you have to feed them first?"

I laughed. "Oh, don't worry, they've been fed already."

"What kind of camera is that?" asked his friend, "An SD40?"

"SD400," I corrected.

He nodded.

"Have a good one," said his friend.

"You, too!"

They continued walking.

I decided it had been a beautiful day so far.

I would be lying if I didn't admit that, in the past month, I've felt safer in my little bubble of suburbia than anywhere else [even though I now won't drive to the grocery store just four minutes away without locking my car doors from the inside], that places like Berkeley and Oakland, which I once fondly considered only "genuine and eccentric," now make me feel guarded and wary.

But you've got to get out and live, no matter what the cost or the outcome sometime. And maybe, if this is all that life comes down to, even this would be enough: Walks around the lake, words exchanged with kind strangers in passing, the remembrance of those whom we've loved and lost and never stopped loving.

On this road to somewhere we have never been before

Candlelight vigil for Dr. Zehra Attari
Oakland, 11/11/05
Originally uploaded by yaznotjaz.

A recurring theme in my conversations over the past two weeks has been how much sadness this year has contained. And, again, we never really stop to think about it long enough until it hits close to home. These days, when we ask each other, "Has there been any news?", we're talking about Dr. Zehra Attari, mother of my sister's best friend, who practices pediatrics in Oakland and has been missing for two weeks now, somewhere between her International Blvd. clinic and a meeting in Alameda. A five-mile drive that they say should have taken her twenty minutes maximum, even in the rainy, stormy weather of that evening.

Five freakin' miles.

The Sunday before last, my father and sister and I joined a few hundred people in Oakland for a community walk to pass out missing-person flyers, something that Dr. Attari's friends and family and others had been engaged in all through the previous week as well. The three of us ended up in Alameda with a stack of flyers, and all my father had on his mind was an exchange with a man in Oakland: "I handed a flyer to one couple, and the man looked at it and said, 'It's been a week. There's been no news at all?' I said no. And he said, 'That's bad. What kind of car was she driving?' When I said Honda, he just shook his head and said, 'Hondas are popular cars around here.' "

Five hours of flyering in Alameda, and it didn't feel like nearly enough. But what's enough, anyway? "Enough" will be when she walks through the door, when she safely comes home to her family [requires login; punch the link into bugmenot.com to obtain a quick login].

I don't know what to think of the past two weeks: On the one hand, I've been amazed at people's compassion, like the girl at Peet's Coffee who said, "Go right ahead and tape the flyer in the window. I'd rather get in trouble for it later." And the crowd at one bar in Alameda: A man and a woman talking so loudly and gesturing so emphatically out on the sidewalk that I thought they were quarrelling - except, no, they were just talking animatedly, and glanced curiously at me and my sister while our father entered to speak with the owner. As soon as they saw the flyers in our hands, the woman's face drooped, and she took one while the man read it over her shoulder. While my sister and I spoke with them, the bar owner came bursting out with a missing-person flyer in his hands, tore down some random flyer that was right-smack in the middle of their door and held the missing-person one in its place, saying, "Here, tape it right here!" Walking away, we looked back over our shoulders to see people spilled out from the bar onto the sidewalk, one group gathered around the flyer at the door, another around the man and woman with the loud voices. "That was just like Cheers," remarked my dad.

Not to mention the crazybeautiful coincidence of wandering into another cafe and having the proprietor ask, "Have you met Alice?" and introducing us to Alice Lai-Bitker of the Alameda County Board of Supervisors, whose district includes both Alameda as well as the Fruitvale area of Oakland where Dr. Attari's clinic is located. "I've been thinking of the Attari family," she said, "but I didn't know how to reach them to help." Phone numbers and business cards were exchanged, and the next day I received a call from her office with a request for Mr. Attari's number.

But then there were also people like those at some cafes, salons, sports clubs, and other places who downright refused to let us mess up the pristine expanse of their storefront windows with our flyers, and others who merely glanced at our flyers and brushed off our offers of "We have tape" with a cold "No, we'll put it up ourselves," and then put the flyers aside as soon as we politely turned away to leave. And even the moderators of the Muslim Students Association listserve at my alma mater, who refused to approve and post any emails I sent out (three in 2 weeks does not constitute spamming, kids, if that's what you're thinking), which resulted in me sending them an articulate but suitably bitchy email requesting an explanation. All I ever really needed to know about grace and compassion, I did not learn from the MSA. [Edit: I got a nice, explanatory little reply back from the MSA, so I can't be pissed anymore. Much.]

My father has wryly repeated throughout the week: "The first question all the white people at work ask about Dr. Attari is, Was she upset with her husband? Was she having trouble with her family? The first question all the ethnic people ask is, What kind of car was she driving?"

I think about how easily it could have been my father. My well-dressed father with his Infiniti SUV with the personalized license plates, who bought real estate in East Oakland about a year ago and has realized first-hand, since then, how harsh and cold a city Oakland is. We in our safe little bubble of suburbia often forget how the rest of the world lives. My father now calls Oakland "a vicious place." Until a year ago, he thought such things existed only in the movies: gang wars and auto thefts; people exchanging money for drugs on street corners in broad daylight; rampant, blatant crime and destruction and acts of violence. Oakland opened his eyes. Oakland has further opened our eyes in the past two weeks: such things are not supposed to happen to those we love and know.

A week ago, I remarked to my sister, "I'd be really excited about how good I'm getting at using Adobe Illustrator again, if it weren't for the fact that it's for such a sad thing." That was the night that, while I redesigned missing-person flyers, she had to stand in front of the crowds at the UC Berkeley MSA's Eid banquet and deliver the statement her friend, Dr. Attari's daughter, had asked her to read in her place. I know how difficult and emotionally taxing this was, since my sister relayed it all to me first-hand. One of the most difficult things, for her, was to see her classmates walk around laughing, dressed to the nines in their Eid finery, even though they all know H and know her mother is missing.

"But it doesn't hit some people as hard," I tried to explain to her. "If H weren't your best friend and you weren't so involved in this, it probably wouldn't hit me and Ummy and Daddy as hard either."

"Not even if it were someone you knew as an acquaintance? Or any of the Muslim people you went to school with?"

"No," I said bluntly. "Not even then. I wouldn't spend so much time on it. Probably just forward out a few emails, and feel bad for a couple days, and... yeah, that's it." My friend D doesn't call me a heartless bastard for nothing.

But when you've watched your sister and her best friend get to know one another and grow together during their university years, when you've photographed them with silly expressions in the moonlight outside Barrows Hall after leaving the UC Berkeley Fast-a-Thon during Ramadan and listened to all their anecdotes about one another and lunched with them at Julie's and laughed at their being married to each other on Facebook, when you've been to the lovely, gracious older sister's wedding and eaten their mother's homecooked, delicious food and smiled at the image of their father serenely washing dishes at the kitchen sink, when you've attended community vigils in Oakland and San Jose and seen grown men cradle candles, symbols of hope, in their huge hands as gently as if they were holding fragile babies, then you can't help but care a whole lot more.

"The worst thing must be to not know anything, one way or another," I said helplessly to my brother a few days ago. "To not have -"
"Closure," he finished.
"Yeah."
"But at least, this way, they have hope, and that's the most important thing they need right now."

I can't even begin to imagine the massive amounts of hope it must take to walk around and function and continue your daily life step-by-step, to return to school and work and concentrate on people's words when in reality you're just standing at the edge of the earth, longing for the one person who, as her older daughter put it, makes everything perfect, who puts everything in place, whose absence leaves a heartbreaking void.

I've never known two weeks to feel so long before.

All I can wish for the Attari family is:

Only good things
No in-betweens just
Peace and love.

And all the strength and hope they could ever need.

Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi rajioon

Requesting your prayers and good vibes for one of my favorite Blogistanis, Binje the biryani-wala and ice cream-lover extraordinaire, whose father passed away on November 14th. All I've got going through my mind, in light of recent and cumulative events of the past year is, "This year is on crack and I hate it: why is there so much sadness?" Wishing much ease, peace, and strength for Binje and his family. Send him some love and ice cream. He's one of the best people I know.

The open road for travelers' souls/they once were lost but now they're...found, please God

Leaving Berkeley at noon yesterday, I couldn't help but smile at the blinding, brilliant red-orange trees I passed on my way to the freeway. Contrary to popular opinion, California does indeed have fall colors. The world was glowing gorgeously, and I thought about how blessed I was, to have spent the entire day before in San Francisco with beautiful friends, both old and new, and to have spent yesterday morning in Berkeley with the lovely L lady (a.k.a. Lamushay) and my favorite (only) sister, eating gelato and crowing over Arnold's reforms having been terminated. [Yes, California is enjoying the puns.]

It all added up to a bunch of na lara gham sort of moments...except life is never that simple, and all happiness of the past few days has been enjoyed guiltily while the Bay Area community searches and prays for the return of a missing doctor who lives in San Jose and practices pediatrics in East Oakland.

This is a devastating time for her family and all those who know her. Her younger daughter is a very close friend of my sister's, and my sister and I had attended her older daughter's wedding just a few short months ago. When we left their home that evening, the girls were laughing and bhangra'ing it up with friends and family in the living room while their mother flew around the house high on the stress of planning and their father calmly washed dishes in the kitchen, smiling all the while. It is so unbelievably ironic to me that the photos my sister and I took at that happy occasion are now being used by Bay Area news stations and for news articles and missing-person flyers. I would not wish this sadness and uncertainty on anyone; I wish it even less on this beautiful family that deserves nothing but good.

If you live in the Bay Area or are affiliated with any Bay Area organizations and listserves, please email me for ways in which you can help.

Most importantly, please, please keep the family in your prayers. And if you don't believe in prayer, then send good vibes, warm fuzzy feelings, good karma - whatever works - to ensure her safe and sound return to her family.

The sky knows no bounds

The sky knows no bounds
Originally uploaded by yaznotjaz.

Today is Blog Quake Day.

It is also the day that the UN is holding an international donor conference in Geneva to dicuss relief operations and aid the victims of the earthquake before a "winter without pity" sets in.

Last week, after writing this post about the October 8th earthquake that hit areas of northern Pakistan, Kashmir, India, and Afghanistan, I felt so helpless and in dire need of mental relaxation that I did what I do best: I stopped by the local park on my way home from running errands.

Getting out of my car, I glanced in the direction of the playground and realized that there were an inordinate number of adults and children present. Some kid's birthday celebration. Not the best place for respite, after all, but my head and my heart hurt and I really, really needed the swings. I hesitated about whether to keep my sunglasses on (something I've never done outside the car), but then mentally shrugged. I hadn't wanted to see people; if I kept my sunglasses on, it'd be as if they weren't there. And if I kept 'em on, it'd be as if I blended into the background and perhaps no one would unduly wonder why this 24-year-old was venturing into the swing area. And, of course, if I cried, no one would notice. It'd be like sunglasses with superhero powers.

I slammed the car door shut, defiantly shoved the sunglasses further against my nose, and stalked across the playground, head held high, mouth tight, eyebrows furrowed, looking straight ahead. I couldn't tell if anyone watched or not. I dropped my bag onto the sand and clambered onto a vacant swing with only a cursory glance at the giggling little girl occupying the next one over. Only when my legs were swinging high was I able to breathe deeply for the first time all day.

But even with my superhero sunglasses on and my face sternly set in a squint against impending tears, I watched people, as always. A little boy, no more than four, sat astride a tiny, training wheel-equipped bicycle and peddled happily along the concrete paths winding throughout the park, followed by his mother in the distance. I turned to watch him with a slight smile as he continued peddling behind me. Just as I did so, he turned the bike handles abruptly, upsetting his balance. Both the bike and the boy tumbled down, crookedly coming to a rest half on the concrete pathway, half on the scratchy bark that lined the playground.

I sucked in a breath and slowed down my swing, but even as I dug my toes into the sand and his mother watched from yards away with only the merest, mildest hint of concern on her face, the little boy, lying face-down at a worrisome angle on the concrete, let out an unexpected, high-pitched peal of laughter. The pain around my heart eased up a bit. I felt an answering smile on my face, and, shaking my head, watched him wriggle around, jump up to his feet, and try to raise his fallen bicycle. It took him several minutes. I quickened my swing again and marveled at the fact that children are so resilient.

It is inconceivable to me that the same sky that spills sunshine in California will be soon sending snow onto the heads of those in the mountains of Pakistan and Kashmir, that the survivors have barely had a moment to mourn the loss of their loved ones, focusing instead on digging bodies out of the rubble and trying to make it through the night. Numbed by grief and cold, they wait for aid so that they can erect tents and make it through the winter.

Like Basit, I, too, have bought a pile of used books recently, with money that could have instead gone towards relief efforts. Actually, I've bought quite a number of things in the past few weeks: books, numerous bags of groceries, a pair of sandals, a shirt, some earrings. And every time the register rings up my purchases, I wince and think to myself, "Okay, for every dollar I've just spent here, I'll donate one towards earthquake relief." Because that's a lot of dollars. It's always hard to remember that once I get home, though. Or once I wake up the next sunny morning after tossing and turning in my comfortable bed and wondering what those without winterized tents are doing.

I've temporarily given up music this month in deference to Ramadan, listening to nothing but Quran recitations in my car these days. And for the last eighteen days, all I've been doing is compulsively playing the recitation of Surah al-Zilzalah, the chapter entitled The Earthquake, on repeat. I never thought I'd be able to recite those tongue-twisting lines myself, but I've got the first three down by now:

Idha zulzilatil ardu zilzalaha
Wa akhrajatil ardu athqalaha
Wa qalal insanu ma laha

When the earth is shaken to her (utmost) convulsion,
And the earth throws up her burdens (from within),
And man cries (distressed): 'What is the matter with her?'-

Think about how long these last eighteen days must have seemed for those affected by the earthquake.

DesiPundit has taken the initiative in organizing this Blog Quake movement to raise relief funds. As I mentioned previously, a small list of relief organizations is available in DesiPundit's post. You can also directly help relief efforts by buying hella slick tshirts through Chapati Mystery.

Here are a few ideas for donations:

one: The Association for the Development of Pakistan (ADP) has a Long Term Earthquake Relief Fund, which will "fund redevelopment once the immediate needs have been met."

two: The Edhi Foundation is "undeniably the most trusted NGO in Pakistan with a large operational network throughout the country." They accept credit card donations through this site. If you reside in the United States, you may also mail them checks at:

Earthquake Relief in Pakistan
Bilqis Edhi Relief Foundation
4207 National St
Corona, NY 11368-2444

They are a registered charity, Tax ID 11-345067, phone number (718) 639-5120.

three: Hidaya Foundation is an organization in the Bay Area that I know well and trust. Don't you want to help them help these children?

also: Baraka at Truth & Beauty has a creative list of ways in which you can help, and Sister Scorpion has posted everyday, practical ways in which we can cut back on our personal budgets and send the saved funds towards relief efforts. You can so do this.

The earthquake-related death toll has already hit 80,000, and will definitely reach still beyond that, as survivors in turn fall victim to the perils of cold weather, limited medical attention, and malnutrition. An entire generation of children has already been lost in many of the villages and towns rocked by the earthquake. Those people who've been lucky - or unfortunate - to survive are in dire need of blankets and winterized tents. In two weeks, it will begin snowing in the mountainous regions of Kashmir, and the nearly one million survivors who still have their lives to rebuild are lacking adequate shelter. A second wave of deaths has already begun.

The UN has said, in regards to this earthquake, that they have never before seen such a logistical nightmare. The photographs I've seen so far, and the articles I've perused, are breathtakingly shocking and heartbreaking. Please take a minute of your time to donate towards relief and reconstruction efforts. Help those who are struggling for relief and aid.


[Technorati tag: blog quake day]

The foundations are canyoning.

"With every difficulty, there is relief"
Originally uploaded by yaznotjaz.

Nightly, I dream of rain and hail and snow-covered mountains, when in reality my local mountains are gorgeously goldenbrown and I daily chase patches of sunshine all over the house so I can gleefully warm up my fuzzy-socked feet.

The past few days, I've been reading countless news articles about rescue workers tentatively forging into mountainous areas, into villages that have been cut off from any sort of relief for days following the earthquake, hoping to ease the suffering of those who have survived but being confronted only with devastating destruction and the sickly sweet stench of rotting corpses. I've read about villages that are eerily empty of children, about feeble elderly people who - in a cruel twist of fate - outlived the earthquake even as their children and grandchildren perished, about angry survivors who feel betrayed by the lack of aid in their areas. Survivors who've been sleeping outdoors for days, who can already see the snow on their mountains as winter begins to set in. I obsessively hit refresh on news websites throughout the day, checking for updates about the aftermath of the earthquake. I've watched dozens of sobering video clips. The photographs just get worse.

Every afternoon, my mother asks me, "Is there any news?" and I know instinctively what she is referring to, because, let's face it, most of the time we don't really care about the news unless it affects us directly, unless it is about people from our motherland, unless the reporters interview and the photographs depict people who look like us. Yesterday, I went to the grocery store, and, just before I walked in, I made a sudden beeline for the shopping carts by the newstands, even though I needed only a few items and a basket procured from inside would have been enough. What I really wanted to see was if there were any above-the-fold articles about the South Asian earthquake at the newstands. Of course there were, enough headlines to get me sufficiently teary-eyed before I continued indoors to finish shopping for groceries and supplies I've never had to beg for.

While Pakistan childishly bickers over whether or not India has really been crossing over the Line of Control in disputed Kashmir to provide relief and aid (God forbid that the two nations should even think of helping one another), there are still remote mountainous areas that are cut off from aid, forgotten villages whose remaining inhabitants have been left to fend for themselves, and survivors who "take their quota of relief rice to a wet rocky patch wondering where to cook it" because they have no fire or utensils at their disposal.

I am reminded of part of a piece I wrote in January, in response to the Asian tsunami:

.
.
.
Like you, I watched the aftermath of
That tsunami thing on television.
Like you, I watched the faces of the people
Left behind,
Dazed and broken,
Shell-shocked and shattered.
What do you do when your world
Literally falls down in ruins
Around you?

What you do is this:
You scrabble in the cold, hard ground
And lift out chunks of dirt
To dig graves with your hands
To bury your children.
You pray that the vast world beyond your boundaries
Will be watchful and compassionate enough
To ensure that you receive
Clean water and medicine.
And food, too, yes, food.
But you can't help but weep
In irony, in frustration,
When they send you endless bags of rice
And you have no clean water with which
To wash and boil the rice in.

And what you do is this:
You close the gaping eyes of your loved ones
And cover their faces with shrouds
And step back to watch as they
Fill the mass graves of victims of
That tsunami thing.
And you whisper fervent prayers over the bodies
Because you so desperately want to believe
That there was a reason for all this,
That God was not absent
From the world the day
The waters rose up in walls,
Only to leave behind the horror and stench of decaying bodies
And vestiges of colorful rags
And empty, flattened villages
In the wake of that tsunami thing.
.
.
.

It's all heartbreaking, but, really, the earthquake survivors don't need my tears. Lord knows they must have more than enough of their own. What they do need is food and shelter and medical supplies, and money to ensure that they get all those things. News sources talk about compassion fatigue and donor fatigue. I hope this is not true of all you people reading this, because we don't have jack to be fatigued about. So scroll down and check the links below. As Hemlock said, "For those of us who can turn to our beds and sleep in comfort, I want to know how we can look ourselves in the eye."

Again, RESOURCES & things to read:

Quake survivors answer BBC readers' questions

Hemlock has posted a list of supplies that the NGOs are specifically asking for.

Baji has the following post for October 12, 2005 [The donations through APPNA are indeed tax deductible]:

The Association of Pakistani Physicians of North America, APPNA, has set up an emergency disaster relief fund for the victims of the earthquake. You can call in your donation by credit card or send in your checks to their office. If you want to fax, you can use this donation form. APPNA is 501 C3 organizations. All donations may be tax deductible as permitted by law.

A P P N A
6414 S. Cass Avenue
Westmont, IL 60559
Phone: 630-968-8585 or 630-968-8606
Fax: 630-968-8677
Email: appna@appna.org

Danial, a reader of this weblog, emailed me with the following info [Thank you]:

"I just wanted to bring to your attention the need for tents in the earthquake hit areas. We are not able to purchase tents here in Lahore anymore and there is still a dire need for them. So please get people to ship tents over to Pakistan. Apparently, PIA is willing to ship donated goods over to Pakistan free of cost."

The document Danial attached explains that "3-5 million people have been left homeless and at least 200,000 tents are required, there ARE NO MORE TENTS IN PAKISTAN, ALL THAT WERE AVAILABLE HAVE BEEN SHIPPED TO NORTH. Please send as many tents (preferably waterproof, winterized) as you can. People abroad don't even know that Pakistan International Airlines (PIA) has decided to carry all donations from any of its stations wordwide for free."

I know you like the word "free." Find your nearest PIA station on the list of PIA's worldwide Stations by Countries, and here is the list of PIA's booking offices around the world, alphabetized by cities (see N for New York, C for Chicago, F for Frankfurt, D for Dusseldorf etc.). For more info, please contact Waqas Usman: waqasusman AT gmail DOT com, (Mobile) 92-321-4060186.

avari/nameh has also posted several links for relief and aid.

And, again, Chai is collecting donations for blankets and tents. Every little bit counts, especially considering that one American dollar is worth so many Pakistani rupees.

Blogistan's very own lovely GrouchyOwl is in Pakistan, covering the aftermath of the earthquake for her newspaper. Wishing her much strength, steadiness, and safety.

[I know I've been going massively link-crazy lately, but this is the only way I can remind myself, and make it personal for myself. Add thoughts and ideas and links to the comment box if I'm missing anything. Thanks much.]

When the earth is shaken to her (utmost) convulsion/and the earth throws up her burdens (from within)

My eyes, and my heart, ache from three days of reading about the earthquake in South Asia. For most of Saturday, I sat at my father's computer, alternately updating Excel/QuickBooks spreadsheets, downloading mp3s of Quran chapters for my father (I prefer Sa'ad al-Ghamidi; he wanted Abdul Rahman al-Sudais), and compulsively hitting "refresh" on news websites for the latest coverage of the earthquake. With a sobering magnitude of 7.6, the earthquake's estimated death toll has climbed from a few hundred to over 30,000 in the course of three days. The ever-increasing numbers, and especially the stories of people digging through rubble with their bare hands, bring back the heartbreak of the Asian tsunami last December.

Early Saturday morning, when we woke up for the pre-sunrise breakfast to prepare for our fast, my father mentioned in passing, "There's been an earthquake in Kashmir. A whole village was wiped out."
At noon, Somayya's father called, inquiring, "Have you called Rawalpindi?"
"Yes, last week," I said.
"You haven't called today? There's been an earthquake near Islamabad."
"What? I thought it was in Kashmir."

Every news website we skimmed mentioned Kashmir and Islamabad. We panicked, thinking of my mother's family in Rawalpindi, not too far from Islamabad, the Pakistani capital. I hunted for every map I could find; most did not list smaller towns and villages.

"Ummy, you need to call 'Pindi."
"It's one a.m. there right now. They'll be sleeping" she said uncertainly.
I almost snapped back, "Maybe you should be worried about whether or not they're still alive," before considering that that was the last thing she needed to hear at a time like this. But my father was home a few minutes later, and his urging did the trick. They managed to get through to Rawalpindi, and alhamdulillah, everyone is fine, although the aftershocks continued even while my relatives were on the phone with my parents. Some, I read later, were up to 6.3 in intensity.

I read temors reached as far as Ahmedabad in Gujarat, India, my friend D's hometown. I called her. "D, I was just reading about the earthquake. Is your family in India safe?"
There was a long pause. "I thought that was in Pakistan."
"Well, mainly Kashmir. But I read they felt it in Ahmedabad, too."
"Hold on, let me check with my mother."
She called me back a minute later, with news that everyone was okay.

Mansehra is near Abbottabad, which is near Attock and Hazro, which are part of the same district as my own village in Pakistan. In 1995, we stopped for ice cream in Abbottabad, and I was wide-eyed at the wide orderly town, having been a village girl for a year by then. Mansehra is not far; it's painful to read stories of the hundreds of children who died there (as well as the 400 schoolchildren in Balakot) when their school buildings collapsed on top of them. They're already being referred to as the "lost generation." Every place is connected somehow to yet another place; the world feels smaller every day, everything hits a bit closer to home every time I turn on the radio or surf news websites. This was never more apparent to us than now.

Disaster coverage tends to focus on urban areas, and I felt selfish for resenting it on Saturday when all we heard was "Islamabad and the upscale residential Margalla Towers" nonstop and kept asking our friends and family, "But what about the village? Hazro? Attock?" But it's natural to think of our own homes at a time like this, and necessary to remember that those who were poor and lacking before the earthquake are even more so now. If the earthquake had shattered District Attock, we would have been devastated. It is unsettling to read Chai's notes about lack of proper rescue efforts in Islamabad, and I think of how much more complicated such attempts must be in rural areas, in villages similar to my own, where streets and alleyways were so narrow that even taxis had difficulty maneuvering through, much less emergency vehicles and equipment. The logistical problems of getting food and medical supplies to villages in the mountains must be especially difficult. And winter is already setting in, in some areas.

Our television is limited to about two (static-prone) local channels, so most of the news we've been receiving has been through family and online news sources. This has been especially difficult for my mother, who wishes we had cable channels so she could see and understand the effects of the earthquake with her own eyes. Photographs, though distressing, have been more helpful in conveying the impact.

Living in California, and especially in the San Francisco Bay Area, we've gotten used to the idea of earthquakes. After all, we're sitting right on top of the fault lines. Friends in other areas shake their heads at the thought of us living right smack in the earthquake zones, but we laugh back and continue on. In the aftermath of this recent South Asian earthquake, local news stations have been emphasizing that the Bay Area has a 62% chance of experiencing a catastrophic quake like the 1989 Loma Prieta temblor. I still remember the 7.1 magnitude earthquake in 1989, which memorably collapsed the upper level of portions of the Bay Bridge and the 880 freeway, crushing cars on the lower levels. My father was working in San Francisco at the time, in one of those tall clusters of skyscrapers you see as you cross the Bay Bridge into the City, even though I could never figure out which one was his. When the earthquake hit, his building shook madly from side to side. Somehow he made it down several flights of stairs and twenty miles south to his friend Mr. R's home in Belmont, where he stayed overnight. We at home in the East Bay, having felt minor tremors ourselves, watched television footage of flames and smashed concrete for hours, waiting to hear he was safe.

The Gujarat earthquake of 2001 hit close, too. I remember we had just walked out of chemistry lecture and were standing on the lawn outside, Somayya and D and our friend A and I, when someone absently questioned D about whether her family was safe in the aftermath of the Gujarat earthquake that had occurred a day or two before. She paled. "What earthquake?"
We mumbled something about 20,000 people dead. A thrust his cell phone at her. "Here, use this."
D was dazed with worry, yet protested, "It's long distance."
He almost shouted at her: "I don't care if you call India. Take the damn phone and call your parents."

And then there was the minor earthquake back when I was living in Pakistan. Drowsy with my afternoon nap, I thought my mother was sitting at the edge of my bed, shaking it with her laughter. I've always liked telling this story. But what was only minor tremors at my end must have been more forceful somewhere else.

The stories of grief and loss coming out of the earthquake are heartbreaking. As Hemlock commented the other day on Monologist's weblog, "Everyone is somebody's someone."

To those from Kashmir, Pakistan, India, and Afghanistan - I hope you and your loved ones are safe and well inshaAllah. Much strength and peace and ease. And relief, especially relief.


RESOURCES

Knicq has an extremely well-written and thought provoking post, as does avari/nameh. Go read.

BBC reporters' logs are here.

South Asia Quake Help contains "news and information about resources, aid, donations and volunteer efforts" [via Sister-Scorpion].

Karrvakarela also has a list of several organizations we can donate to for relief work.

Chai's family is collecting donations for blankets and tents (about Rs. 270/$5 and Rs. 7000/$120, respectively) for those who have lost their homes. Please contact her for more information.

and i will never learn to say goodbye to yesterday.

“Are you still sick from, like, 5 weeks ago?” L’s roommate (“the other Yasmine”) exclaimed when she heard me speak a few days ago, and all I could do was shrug helplessly and nod. I remember when I came down with the flu a year ago, how helpless and annoyed and exhausted it made me feel. Then, at least, I was able to take two weeks off from school and lie around the house, napping my days away. This year, I am not blessed with such an opportunity. I have a job, and a time-consuming internship that is another job even if it’s not as well-paid as the other, and four classes, each of which I’m two or three weeks behind in. How did I let it get to such a point that I have four papers I’m desperately trying to finish by Monday otherwise I might as well just shoot myself?

I’ve given up on energy drinks for now, and I’ve stashed all the cough syrup and maximum strength sinus/allergy pills and codeine and sore throat spray and pain relief medication back in the cabinet, and I try to eat (at least two) real meals everyday, and I sleep every single night instead of pulling my usual vampire child hours, but none of it has really been doing any good.

I still recall Tuesday the 8th as the worst day ever. Work, then lectures, then a class presentation for which I could barely speak because my voice was almost gone, then another class, then facilitating discussion at the women of color circle when, again, I could barely speak myself, then, at the end of the day, walking out and checking my voicemessages, only to find that damn T-Mobile had gone and changed the voicemail set-up, which meant the only way I could access my new voicemessages was to re-setup my voicemail settings and create a new greeting right then and there. I struggled not to cry. All day long, I had been walking back and forth across campus, the cold making my already-sore throat hurt so badly that I was constantly blinking back tears from the pain of it all.

I stood there by the MU, my throat burning from breathing in the cold air, and, after multiple attempts, managed to croak out a sufficiently coherent voicemail greeting. It sent all four of us into gales of hysterical laughter when I reenacted it for Somayya and our co-workers as we went out on a car-moving break two days later, but at the time all I wanted to do was cry. Or smash my phone against a bike or throw it onto the roof or kick it across the street and then maybe cry some more. I’ve re-played it just now, to make myself laugh: “This is Yasmine. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you.” The “please” is muffled and the rest of it degenerates into a hoarse whisper. Perhaps I should change it, but it seems to be providing some much-needed comic relief during these days when I could definitely use the laughs.

The past month or so has consisted of an interfaith memorial service on the one-month anniversary of the Asian tsunami, numerous workshops and forums, presentations, discussion circles, a tsunami relief charity dinner, the Student Leadership Development conference, more workshops, and, in the past two days alone, the winter Dialogue with the Chancellor and the Women on the Verge conference – all of them events at which I had to present something, facilitate discussion, or at the very least offer some semblance of articulate input. And this is all stuff that is scheduled around my work and classes. I leave home at seven every morning, and it’s rare for me to get home before ten p.m.

The scribbled notes in my planner for the upcoming week make me wince: a class presentation, two cultural programs (I will be presenting at one and co-MCing for the other), and four workshops. Oh yeah, and did I mention those four papers I need to finish pretty damn soon? The week after that, there’s a workshop and a discussion circle. The week after that, final exams begin. It’s enough to make a rockstar cry. Or go take a nap. Because no matter how much sleep I get, I’m always tired.

I do all this extra stuff because I genuinely love it and believe in it and because it allows me to meet beautiful people who are equally passionate about such issues. But, yes, it tires me out and it means I've been spending more time on campus and less time at home recuperating and seeing my family which means I’m behind in my schoolwork because I’m still sick and if I can’t stay on top of things now then what the hell am I thinking by registering for five freaking classes (twenty units) next quarter? Oh wait, that’s because I need to graduate and get this drama over with already. Yeah, that would be a good idea.

This past Tuesday put things into perspective and reminded me that when I graduate and leave college, what I’ll look back and remember will be not the endless papers and all-nighters and energy drinks and my grade point average which is not even average but just simply atrocious by anyone’s standards (seriously, it is), but, rather, the memories involving the people I love.

H called me that morning while I was at work. I called him back on my way from Sacramento to campus, even though he hadn’t left a message and I usually have a policy of not returning phone calls if people don’t leave messages. But H is, well, H, even though he returns phone calls a week late, or, when he does answer his phone, he’ll hurriedly say, “Hey, let me call you back in two minutes, okay?” and then he never does. But he’s engaged to be married soon, and making plans for umrah, and still as much my hero as ever. Talking to H always serves to remind me of how much I don’t know, and gives me that extra inspirational push I need to better myself. How could I not love this kid?

When I called him back that Tuesday, he was walking to work in LA, buzzing with excitement at the books he’s reading these days. “Have you read these already?” he asked, rattling off the titles. “I wasn’t sure, so I wrote down the ISBNs for you, but I’m just going to send them to you with R when he comes up to Nor-Cal.”

I asked what the books are about, and he said, “Here, let me read some of it to you.” I could hear the wind in the background, and the sound of rustling pages being hurriedly flipped through, and H rapidly muttering into the phone, “Hold on, hold on, hold on... Hold on, okay?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I said, amused. I got out of my car and stood with the sun in my eyes, listening to him reading to me over the phone. Later, when he had run out of breath long enough to pause and I had a chance to get in a word edgewise, I said cautiously, “Hey, last time we talked, you were all stressed about stuff, and I’m sorry I had to go in the middle of our conversation. How’re you doing these days, and how’s everything for you?”

“ALHAMDULILLAHHHH!” he exclaimed, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “Everything is fine!” I honestly don’t know anyone else with the gift of imbuing the word “ALHAMDULILLAH” [all praise is for God] with as much heartfelt joy and contentment as H does. Just hearing him drawl out the word with such genuine happiness was enough to make smile as well. I sank down onto the curb in front of GAP, laughing with relief, absently studying the patterns of sunshine and shadows on the sidewalk as he updated me on his life.

Four p.m. found me sitting next to Somayya in a two-hour-long human development seminar, where we made faces at each other and rolled our eyes at how bored we were. I scribbled funny little notes to her and struggled not to laugh out loud at how amusing I thought I was, while she played the role of good student and constantly raised her hand to answer questions I hadn’t even been pretending to pay attention to. Half an hour into lecture, she mouthed, “I’m leaving at five.”

“I think that’s a great idea.”

“You should come with me.”

“Sure, why not.”

“Which door should we use?”

Struck by a sense of déjà vu, I clamped down on a wave of laughter, remembering the afternoon we had left an anthropology lab early: “Which way should we go now?” “How ‘bout that way?” Was that really almost a year-and-a-half ago? Some things just never change.

We had two hours with nothing to do, which sounded wonderful until we realized there really was nothing to do. We drove around town in Somayya’s car, checking out both movie theaters three times and realizing that nothing was playing at a time that we could watch it. Neither of us was hungry. Funds were low, so a shopping spree was out of question. “Who are our friends, and where are they?!” I exclaimed. “No idea,” said Somayya. We ran through the list of core people: D was at work, L was at home but napping, HA has been missing-in-action lately, H graduated and went back to LA, H#2 was around somewhere or maybe in class or at work, who knows… So much for our friends. Useless!

“Okay, so what are our options? Sleeping in your car. Hanging out at Borders. Maybe if we had friends, we could have rented a movie and watched it at their place,” I said glumly, “but nooo…” We laughed. “I gotta yell at H for abandoning us, cuz as soon as he left us, everything fell apart. We don’t have friends anymore. What is this!”

A few minutes later, back on the main street and stopped at a red light, I caught a glimpse of the red double-decker bus in front of us out of the corner of my eye, and said idly, “You know what, I miss A.”

“I saw him the other day,” said Somayya.

“Oh yeah?” I said with interest. “Did he see you?”

A split second later, we both looked straight ahead through the windshield of her car to find a grinning A waving frantically at us from the back of the double-decker bus, where he stood as conductor. “Oh my God,” I laughed, “well, look who it is.” We tried to make out his gesturing. “What’s he saying?” I asked Somayya. “Three? C? What?”