Today I was told by my friend that the NGO I used to work for will be returning to Sudan to identify new projects. I felt a pang of envy because I wish I was going to join that mission and who knows, would have perhaps managed programs in the country again. But the feeling soon passed as that chapter in my life is clearly closed now.
Still it got me to thinking about my year in Sudan, especially Darfur. Many people are usually impressed that I worked there for a year. When they find out about my stint there, they usually ask the general question: “how was it?” For a long time I didn’t know how to respond as I never knew what exactly they wanted to hear. Were they expecting some exciting story about whether I saw any killings? Did they want to know whether I was caught in any crossfire? Did they want me to reaffirm that the Sudanese government were indeed supporting the Janjaweeds?
I used to respond with a blank look while trying to quickly muster an impressive answer in response to the impressed look on their face. After returning more than a year or so from the country, I have now perfected an answer (well, at least in my mind). I now say, that it was surprisingly peaceful and that it was the best country I have worked in. This is usually met with a surprised look and sometimes, a little disappointment.
Well, the truth is, it was peaceful. In terms of the continuous killings (typically reported in the papers as “200,000 people are thought to have died in the region and more than 2m have fled their homes”), it had reduced a great deal during the period I was there because a ceasefire had been officially declared a few months before I arrived in December 2004. Apart from that, there was present newly deployed African Union troops in El Geneina, the capital of West Darfur where I was working, who had, to a certain degree at the time, been able to slow down attacks as they were continuously patrolling areas which were not too far from the capital. This meant that much of the rebel activities had moved out to the borders of the other Darfurs (North and South), and with that, Government response to these activities.
If it were not for the conflict, West Darfur would be a beautiful place to live (droughts aside). Largely an arid plateau, it also had sporadic forests where animals could feed. El Geneina town itself had a river running through it which apart from the rainy season between August and September when the water rose, would be completely dry and used as a pathway for pedestrians and merchants on camels to get across to the other side of the bank. Darfur, unlike the north of Sudan has mild temperate weather so when I arrived it was winter - none too cold however - kind of like Cameron Highlands during the rainy season at 4am in the morning. Summer was of course terribly hot with a maximum temperature at 50 Celsius on a bad day.
The Darfur I knew in 2005 had no tarred roads, not even the airport, which sometimes was nerve wrecking especially when one was flying in on a Russian plane built in the early ‘60s which seatbelts were sometimes non-existent. Instead, the roads were un-surfaced dirt tracks, and by dirt, I mean they were on occasions where you would step into donkey, camel and goat dung (and if lucky enough…be walking behind the animal just in time to see the disposal).
Yes, I sometimes walked to work and meetings because really, El Geneina was small and the hospital where our main projects were located was only 5 minutes away. It was much nicer then being in a car most times simply because you could get to know the people and listen to the children call out to you “Khawajji-khawajji” (foreigner). When I first arrived in the capital, people and particularly kids used to stare and point – but after a year, I guess they got used to me, and apart from one slight act of animosity from a teenager at the local market, I never faced any problem.
It was even peaceful work wise. Three weeks after I arrived in Darfur, the world’s attention turned to countries affected by the Tsunami, my NGO included. Fewer volunteers wanted to go to Sudan, and my bosses were too busy organizing their response to Aceh in particular to worry themselves too much about Sudan. I would also like to think that I never caused them any particular concern since I kept up my regular reports as expected and usually without reminders to do so.
Most of all it was peaceful at night. I never slept so well like I did in Darfur. I had to get used to the occasional noises at night…especially the first night, in my room alone, with absolute silence except for a kind of a heavy breathing and scratching sound. That creeped me out so much that I didn’t sleep the whole night even though at that time I shared the house with 5 other people including 2 guards. The next day I found out that it was just a resident owl living in our roof (so much for the common myth that all owls hoot!). I eventually saw the owl – it turned out to be a beautiful white owl which seemed ghostly when it flew about outside the darkness of the night.And boy was it dark at night. I have experienced complete darkness in my lifetime – when I camped in the jungle or some place like that. But never have I slept in complete darkness in such utter silence apart from the occasional braying of a donkey or a shot discharged by a bored soldier or the crackling from someone fidgeting with their hand-held radio. Such peace and tranquility which, to this day, I still crave.
During the “Spring”, after the end of the “winter” season, my colleague and I decided to sleep outside in the courtyard which was surrounded by trees – paw-paw, orange, guava, grapevines – none unfortunately which bore fruit but provided a very beautiful garden nonetheless. Those nights were either dark with stars in full sight as I had never seen before (as one is hardly able to in the polluted parts of Malaysia where I live) or just the moon – so bright it shone that I had to cover my eyes to sleep. I now understood why there is a myth in some countries that you shouldn’t stare at the moon so much because you’re likely to go crazy. The moon was so dazzling and intoxicating that I could have lost myself staring at it for hours.
For the first time in my life I also lived without a steady supply of electricity, water, phone line, cooking gas and for that matter a seated toilet. We usually had to use a noisy generator on the days when our supply of electricity didn’t come through the main line (and even then only came on from 2PM-12AM). We didn’t have access to the internet except through an expensive mobile internet access only to be used for sending reports (in the day I had free access at UN agencies). The phone lines mostly didn’t work and when they did – only after you had dialed for 20 times or more. The mobile network was inconsistent – particularly during the rainy seasons when there would be no communication links at all. I managed to request for satellite TV which I must say helped keep the lonely nights at bay during many periods when it was only I and a local staff managing our projects and staying in the house (apart from our guards and resident hedgehogs, cats and owls).
There was also no shopping to be done – not even for much fruits and vegetables – I lived a year mostly on tomatoes and potatoes. Eggs and apples cost USD1 each and were considered treats rather than a staple. For one year I had almost the same dishes of adis (thick lentil soup), bread (that tasted sandy sometimes), a tomato based meat dish, canned tuna, fried potatoes and maggi mee (instant noodle) supply from home. Chicken was also expensive and so we only had that once or twice a week. Chickens which we Malaysians incidentally called “IDP chickens” because they were so skinny and tough (albeit tasty because they were organic/”ayam kampong”)!
We also had a strict curfew. Although it was relatively safe while I was in Darfur – there was still threats that could not be taken for granted and so there was to be no movement after 9.00pm. It would usually be pitch dark outside as there were no such things as street lamps. Any lights bobbing along the streets were foreigners or those from the North of Sudan walking or driving in cars, otherwise locals walked in the dark without any light to guide them. The only houses illuminated with light came from international aid agencies, government officials or a limited number of wealthy merchants who were profiting greatly from the agencies’ presence.
Despite all these limitations…I loved the simplicity of my life. It wasn’t complicated with too many choices. My life just came down to a few things – work which was slow but uncomplicated thanks to the Sudanese, the same basic meals, reading, watching TV, dates in the house with a loved one (because there really wasn’t anywhere to go – except for one open restaurant but one had to be sure one had their hepatitis shots which we both didn’t).
When I google Darfur, all I find are reports after reports on the problems going on in the area. I guess I wanted to show another side of Darfur – or should I say a side of living in Darfur as an aid worker – particularly with an NGO which was perceived to be small, friendly namely because it was Malaysian. I hope I haven’t done and undermined the problems the people of Darfur are facing. Never in a million years should the people of Darfur live the way they are living which got increasingly worse just after I left. Soon after I left in December 2005, the already increasing number of fighting, hijacking of NGO/UN vehicles and robbery at gun point of these organizations which had begun at the outskirt of West Darfur, finally encroached into El-Geneina, which was further complicated by the cross-border conflict with Chadian rebels, only 40 or so km away to the west. A few months after I left (having completed my main project which was to build and equip a maternity ward extension and obstetrics and gynaecology operating theatres and conducting training); UN agencies and international NGOs including my lone staff who had remained to tie up some minor projects had to evacuate on two occasions as the fighting between rebels from Darfur and Chad, and the Government of Sudan went out of control.
I guess I was lucky, or rather God was watching out for me, especially for my family’s sake who although gave blessing to my decision to work in such a difficult environment, was constantly worried for my safety. Whatever the reason may be, Sudan has so far been the best mission I have had for more than one reason. I truly hope that all the Darfurs, especially its women and children, including the lovely ladies who used to work for us as cook and cleaner, will one day rise above all their problems and be able to live in peace. Amin.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Iraq: Disturbing Images in my Head
And so with another sigh I read an article in the Guardian entitled 'A very private war' on the hire of private companies which provide security services to American individuals and interests, and how more often then not, they hired locals to do a lot of their dirty work, and worked under no jurisdiction, American or Iraqi. As I read that, two images sprung to mind, a pot bellied, tatooed, sleeveless t-shirt clad, lobster burnt caucasian at the HSBC Bank in Amman, Jordan and a weathered Iraqi interpreter who had worked with the American arm forces whom I had met in Malaysia.
When I first saw the former in July 2006, I let prejudices and too many Hollywood blockbusters override my better sense because I immediately felt repulsed by this man and if anyone had been looking, I'm sure it would have shown on my face. I had immediately assumed that he was one of the many independent contractors hired for either security or construction (judging by the pot belly - it would be the latter) to work in Iraq. I was pretty sure I was right as I know for a fact a large number of expats working in Iraq held their bank accounts in Amman where it was safer. I felt disturbed then, because I figured he was one of the many who was benefitting from the destruction of Iraq.
I then thought of the Iraqi interpreter. He told me that he was forced to work for the American armed forces because he could not work anywhere else including Jordan as they were at one time clamping down on illegal immigrants from Iraq. He was in Malaysia to seek a job and get refugee protection. He insisted on showing me all his photos with the armed forces and the certificates they had awarded him - hoping that it would eventually help him get resettled in America. If only he knew that none of these made any difference and perhaps in his heart he did as he had already been turned away by the American embassy.
From there my mind trailed to a moment back in 2003 in Hyatt Hotel...once again in Amman, when a friend broke news to me that the US was about to attack Iraq and that in preparation to prevent escapes into Jordan, the Jordanian military had lined up their tanks all along its border with Iraq. When I heard this I broke down crying for this act of betrayal by a member of the Ummah.
I then remembered meeting the lovely family of Mercy's Iraqi ex-staff, namely his 80 plus year old parents, in Damascus, Syria in July 2006. As they fed us with so much delicious food, and presented us with gifts (for me a galabeyah and a trinket box), his father, who was a lecturer in Baghdad during Saddam's reign, told of the glory days of Iraq and how he could not believe he had to see Iraq in its current state in his dying years. When I asked the ex-staff why he doesn't continue living in Syria, he answered because my mother and father's home is Iraq.
My mind switched from the old to a youth named Mustafa whom I shared a staircase as a meagre means to protect ourselves and his family in Baghdad in 2003 when the exploding bombs sounded too close for comfort and as the windows in our building shook but did not break. With frightened eyes he stared at me and signalled to me while moving his hand across his neck as if to say we were all going to die. I wonder where he is now.
From a a child in Baghdad to Iraqi children in Malaysia sometime this year. I was in a detention camp for illegal immigrants to do some work when I looked up from where I was sitting to see a family of Iraqis - a mother and a father in their late 30s, two boys between the ages 8-12, and a baby age 1-2 with flat curly locks, behind bars, waiting for their turn to call somewhere - perhaps home, perhaps their embassy, perhaps anyone who would listen. I remember I subsequently gave a big sigh as I turned away and continued my work.
When I first saw the former in July 2006, I let prejudices and too many Hollywood blockbusters override my better sense because I immediately felt repulsed by this man and if anyone had been looking, I'm sure it would have shown on my face. I had immediately assumed that he was one of the many independent contractors hired for either security or construction (judging by the pot belly - it would be the latter) to work in Iraq. I was pretty sure I was right as I know for a fact a large number of expats working in Iraq held their bank accounts in Amman where it was safer. I felt disturbed then, because I figured he was one of the many who was benefitting from the destruction of Iraq.
I then thought of the Iraqi interpreter. He told me that he was forced to work for the American armed forces because he could not work anywhere else including Jordan as they were at one time clamping down on illegal immigrants from Iraq. He was in Malaysia to seek a job and get refugee protection. He insisted on showing me all his photos with the armed forces and the certificates they had awarded him - hoping that it would eventually help him get resettled in America. If only he knew that none of these made any difference and perhaps in his heart he did as he had already been turned away by the American embassy.
From there my mind trailed to a moment back in 2003 in Hyatt Hotel...once again in Amman, when a friend broke news to me that the US was about to attack Iraq and that in preparation to prevent escapes into Jordan, the Jordanian military had lined up their tanks all along its border with Iraq. When I heard this I broke down crying for this act of betrayal by a member of the Ummah.
I then remembered meeting the lovely family of Mercy's Iraqi ex-staff, namely his 80 plus year old parents, in Damascus, Syria in July 2006. As they fed us with so much delicious food, and presented us with gifts (for me a galabeyah and a trinket box), his father, who was a lecturer in Baghdad during Saddam's reign, told of the glory days of Iraq and how he could not believe he had to see Iraq in its current state in his dying years. When I asked the ex-staff why he doesn't continue living in Syria, he answered because my mother and father's home is Iraq.
My mind switched from the old to a youth named Mustafa whom I shared a staircase as a meagre means to protect ourselves and his family in Baghdad in 2003 when the exploding bombs sounded too close for comfort and as the windows in our building shook but did not break. With frightened eyes he stared at me and signalled to me while moving his hand across his neck as if to say we were all going to die. I wonder where he is now.
From a a child in Baghdad to Iraqi children in Malaysia sometime this year. I was in a detention camp for illegal immigrants to do some work when I looked up from where I was sitting to see a family of Iraqis - a mother and a father in their late 30s, two boys between the ages 8-12, and a baby age 1-2 with flat curly locks, behind bars, waiting for their turn to call somewhere - perhaps home, perhaps their embassy, perhaps anyone who would listen. I remember I subsequently gave a big sigh as I turned away and continued my work.
I'm alive
Just a short note to the few who read my blog...I'm still alive and have safely risen from the ashes of doom. What I can't change I am burying for now to deal with when it's worth my while, if ever.
Thank you JK Rowling and the Syed Al Attas family (and the Al Bukhary lecture series) for letting me see light in my mind's darkness.
And so she continues to whirl and whirl...
Thank you JK Rowling and the Syed Al Attas family (and the Al Bukhary lecture series) for letting me see light in my mind's darkness.
And so she continues to whirl and whirl...
Thursday, July 26, 2007
An Ode to Death
Why do I always seek to understand people who will never explain themselves to me? Why does it mean that much to me to know why an ex employee would purposely leave me out of events that I should be a part of? Why does it mean that much to me when people whom I thought were my friends, and with whom I took a step too far, but without force, not wish to associate themselves with me on any level anymore? Why do I still miss someone who has obviously wronged me by accusing me of something I didn’t do? Why do I care when a new friend judges me for a mistake which has nothing to do with her, but which questions my personal morals? Why should such people be allowed to diminish my day that started out well because I got free tickets to a concert I have been dying to see?
This is me.
This is my heart bleeding.
This is my soul slowly dying with every step that I take away from each one of you.
May God's Love be with you Always.
This is me.
This is my heart bleeding.
This is my soul slowly dying with every step that I take away from each one of you.
May God's Love be with you Always.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
All Good Things Come to an End
I'm sure we have all felt at some point in our lives that the song we hear over the radio or which a friend recommends just describes how we feel about something or someone. I have many such songs that I no longer need to write a diary. I just play a song and I am instantly brought back to a time and place in my mind's eye.
Offlate I have been listening to "All Good Things (Come to an End)" by Nelly Furtado. The lyrics go like this:
(Lyrics by N.Furtado/C.Martin)
Dogs were whistling a new tune
Barking at the new moon
Hoping it would come soon so that they could die
Honestly what will become of me
I don't like reality
It's way too clear to me
But really life is daily
We are what we don't see
We miss everything daydreaming
Flames to dust
Lovers to friends
Why do all good things come to an end
Traveling I always stop at exits
Wondering if I'll stay
Young and restless
Living this way I stress less
I want to pull away when the dream dies
The pain sets it and I don't cry
I only feel gravity and I wonder why
And the sun was wondering if it should stay away
for a day until the feeling went away
And the clouds were dropping and
the ................. the rain forgot how to bring salvation
The dogs were whistling a new tune barking at the new moon
hoping it would come soon so that they could die
(To listen to the song and watch the video, click http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1j5_7V0DMkA)
I suppose it summarises how I often feel after a trip or after a sweet but brief affair in the most unexpected places and at the most unexpected time.
The lines:
"Traveling I always stop at exits
Wondering if I'll stay
Young and restless
Living this way I stress less
I want to pull away when the dream dies
The pain sets it and I don't cry
I only feel gravity and I wonder why."
...seem most apt.
I think it's time to space out. Too sleepy to concentrate on work anyway. I'll go out, sit on the steps behind my office, face some greenery, listen to the song on my iPod, smoke a cheap cigar and think about my oh-so-short-passionate-yet confusing weekend in Bangkok (8-12 June, 2007).
Offlate I have been listening to "All Good Things (Come to an End)" by Nelly Furtado. The lyrics go like this:
(Lyrics by N.Furtado/C.Martin)
Dogs were whistling a new tune
Barking at the new moon
Hoping it would come soon so that they could die
Honestly what will become of me
I don't like reality
It's way too clear to me
But really life is daily
We are what we don't see
We miss everything daydreaming
Flames to dust
Lovers to friends
Why do all good things come to an end
Traveling I always stop at exits
Wondering if I'll stay
Young and restless
Living this way I stress less
I want to pull away when the dream dies
The pain sets it and I don't cry
I only feel gravity and I wonder why
And the sun was wondering if it should stay away
for a day until the feeling went away
And the clouds were dropping and
the ................. the rain forgot how to bring salvation
The dogs were whistling a new tune barking at the new moon
hoping it would come soon so that they could die
(To listen to the song and watch the video, click http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1j5_7V0DMkA)
I suppose it summarises how I often feel after a trip or after a sweet but brief affair in the most unexpected places and at the most unexpected time.
The lines:
"Traveling I always stop at exits
Wondering if I'll stay
Young and restless
Living this way I stress less
I want to pull away when the dream dies
The pain sets it and I don't cry
I only feel gravity and I wonder why."
...seem most apt.
I think it's time to space out. Too sleepy to concentrate on work anyway. I'll go out, sit on the steps behind my office, face some greenery, listen to the song on my iPod, smoke a cheap cigar and think about my oh-so-short-passionate-yet confusing weekend in Bangkok (8-12 June, 2007).
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
The Scent of Afghanistan
I’ve started a new job. It’s proving to be a bit of an adjustment as it’s been sometime since I’ve worked in a proper setting in Malaysia or anywhere else for that matter. It’s a deskbound, 8am-4pm kind of job you see. Gone are the days when it took me a second to work – because my office was quite literally at my foot step. Thankfully my new job isn’t with the private sector so I can still run around wearing sloppy cotton tops and sandals.
I’m the kind of girl who likes to make her surroundings as cosy and comfortable as possible (in this case my desk and little corner at work). I usually like putting up photos and a piece of décor or two. So one night I began looking through my still photos which I keep in my bedroom drawers. The first ones I saw when I opened one drawer were the ones I took in Afghanistan. It’s been some time since I looked at them. I would say a good few years. Unlike Sudan, I never came to terms that I had to leave the country. Without going into intimate details, and without placing blame – I was kind of forced to leave due to circumstances out of my control – and in a way because I was naïve and easily manipulated at the time. But I digress.
I find that looking at my photos of Afghanistan and any evocation of memories of my experiences there always puts me in a melancholic mood and brings a tear or two to my eye. The first photo I picked was one of a few children running around in an internally displaced people’s (IDP) camp in Spin Boldak which borders the west of Pakistan. The sky was a bright almost turquoise blue while the ground was terracotta brown. The tents housing the IDPs, already torn from the harsh winds and hot weather were different shades of grey and no bigger than 3x3 meters each. Yet the children were smiling toward my camera – me, a woman trying her hardest to blend in by wearing the local garb – taking their photographs so I could bring home a memory I could look at to remind me of a country I never dreamt I would see in my lifetime.
And yet I hardly look at these photos anymore. It fills me with both a sense of loss and longing. Some aid workers have told me that your first mission is almost like the first love that you could never have. It’s your first experience, you fall in love head over heels with the discovery of a new way of life which may be of some use to others, you get addicted to feeling needed, and yet eventually you have to leave wanting more. My leaving Afghanistan was a break-up I didn’t want to happen. A six months love affair with a world I shared in common with because of my religion yet was a stranger to because of my culture, gender, education and opportunities in life. It was a first love that I was meant by God to meet and yet a love that was rudely disrupted by disapproving eyes. The first thing that hit me when I looked at that first photograph of Afghanistan was the sudden memory of a smell. I remember I was asked during my masters’ degree what I first recall when I entered my first IDP camp. I said the awful strong smell emanating from the camp. I remember that my lecturer wasn’t impressed by my answer. I didn’t mean it to sound degrading. I was stating a fact. I had never been in an IDP camp before, let alone been in a country which had little access to water or had been facing a drought for more than 5 years. Of course it smelt. That’s what made the poverty and stark difference between my life and the IDPs so very deep and wide. It made a major impact on me - an urban child educated in Britain and from the moment I was born lived in a bungalow and stayed in 5 star hotels. Yet…I soon got used to that smell because I stopped noticing it – until I returned home one day for a break and unpacked recently washed clothes from my luggage – and oooph…I couldn’t believe how bad it smelled amidst my Mom’s plush furniture.
Yes, I got used to the smell and moving within confined spaces, and confined times. I got used to having to cover my hair as soon as I left my bedroom because we shared an office and a home with men from conservative Pakistan and Afghanistan. I got used to washing my own clothes and taking them to the rooftop to dry while looking out to the wide plains of Pakistan and Afghanistan. I got used to eating hard bread, oily beriyani, getting diarrhea every so often, the security threats, the languages, the beautiful faces of the Afghan men with their hawk like expressions and stances, I got used to the fact I hardly saw women and when I did found how amazingly green their eyes were beneath their burqas.
I began to relish leading a simple life where your only entertainment was talking to your colleagues as you watched the stars from the rooftop. I began to take pleasure in finding the latest Glamour magazine amidst magazines that had glitzy Indian models, finding a beautiful cotton cloth and having it tailored into a salwar kameez (a top and a trouser) at a mere all inclusive price of RM20, I began to have an appreciation for Afghan carpets. I began to discover the value of being one of the few foreigners in a land which most foreigners made assumptions about from a distance without truly understanding the wider context of the country’s history and culture.
I fell in love with a young pretty boy and he with me. I discovered what it was like to have a teenage love affair at the age of 30. Where dates that could have killed us also led us along the beautiful rocky hills, a fair ground that glorifies Pakistan’s first nuclear arm, cheap hotels along dark alleys and stolen moments in any vehicle we could get a hold of – all in a part of Pakistan that used to belong to Afghanistan and which modernization had barely heaved a breath.
And just when I got used to my life there and my forbidden love affair with the boy had ended, and at a moment when I was confident enough to execute projects for the people – it was all taken away from me. Without warning. Without any clear justification except “I did it for your own safety”. An act which to this day I don’t understand and realise that I cannot forgive no matter the good intentions in which it was done.
Afghanistan. A place so many have described as unique, magical, mystical, moving, a place where in most places, time had frozen. The Afghanistan that I knew was filled with moments negotiating with people that looked so much like the man the greater world is still hunting, – moments where I shared their food, their tea, their homes and was given the privilege to sit with their women.
Afghanistan. The land where the weather could become so unkind you sometimes had to stay in for days on end and yet children could walk barefoot while you had on your warmest clothes. A land so barren yet you could find pockets of grapevine trees that could bear fruit to become the best raisins I have ever had in my life. A land so sparse of life that people could share with you the sweetest melons the tongue could taste because there were those few who had enough money to build wells.
Afghanistan, a country known for its extreme laws and yet when you wandered deeper, you would come across fields of pink flowers that looked pretty in the wind and green plants which you were tempted to pluck just to feel the freshness of a mystical herb which could get you hanged at home.
The smell, the sights, the wonder of Afghanistan will never leave my soul. I have been to many places since, seen many things but never are they anything comparable to my Afghanistan. Many a times I thought of returning but either God has His reasons for not opening the path to me or I fear that I may return wanting something I had painted in my head using colors of ignorance, naivety and romance of a life which seemed more real then, than the life I lead now.
I’m the kind of girl who likes to make her surroundings as cosy and comfortable as possible (in this case my desk and little corner at work). I usually like putting up photos and a piece of décor or two. So one night I began looking through my still photos which I keep in my bedroom drawers. The first ones I saw when I opened one drawer were the ones I took in Afghanistan. It’s been some time since I looked at them. I would say a good few years. Unlike Sudan, I never came to terms that I had to leave the country. Without going into intimate details, and without placing blame – I was kind of forced to leave due to circumstances out of my control – and in a way because I was naïve and easily manipulated at the time. But I digress.
I find that looking at my photos of Afghanistan and any evocation of memories of my experiences there always puts me in a melancholic mood and brings a tear or two to my eye. The first photo I picked was one of a few children running around in an internally displaced people’s (IDP) camp in Spin Boldak which borders the west of Pakistan. The sky was a bright almost turquoise blue while the ground was terracotta brown. The tents housing the IDPs, already torn from the harsh winds and hot weather were different shades of grey and no bigger than 3x3 meters each. Yet the children were smiling toward my camera – me, a woman trying her hardest to blend in by wearing the local garb – taking their photographs so I could bring home a memory I could look at to remind me of a country I never dreamt I would see in my lifetime.
And yet I hardly look at these photos anymore. It fills me with both a sense of loss and longing. Some aid workers have told me that your first mission is almost like the first love that you could never have. It’s your first experience, you fall in love head over heels with the discovery of a new way of life which may be of some use to others, you get addicted to feeling needed, and yet eventually you have to leave wanting more. My leaving Afghanistan was a break-up I didn’t want to happen. A six months love affair with a world I shared in common with because of my religion yet was a stranger to because of my culture, gender, education and opportunities in life. It was a first love that I was meant by God to meet and yet a love that was rudely disrupted by disapproving eyes. The first thing that hit me when I looked at that first photograph of Afghanistan was the sudden memory of a smell. I remember I was asked during my masters’ degree what I first recall when I entered my first IDP camp. I said the awful strong smell emanating from the camp. I remember that my lecturer wasn’t impressed by my answer. I didn’t mean it to sound degrading. I was stating a fact. I had never been in an IDP camp before, let alone been in a country which had little access to water or had been facing a drought for more than 5 years. Of course it smelt. That’s what made the poverty and stark difference between my life and the IDPs so very deep and wide. It made a major impact on me - an urban child educated in Britain and from the moment I was born lived in a bungalow and stayed in 5 star hotels. Yet…I soon got used to that smell because I stopped noticing it – until I returned home one day for a break and unpacked recently washed clothes from my luggage – and oooph…I couldn’t believe how bad it smelled amidst my Mom’s plush furniture.
Yes, I got used to the smell and moving within confined spaces, and confined times. I got used to having to cover my hair as soon as I left my bedroom because we shared an office and a home with men from conservative Pakistan and Afghanistan. I got used to washing my own clothes and taking them to the rooftop to dry while looking out to the wide plains of Pakistan and Afghanistan. I got used to eating hard bread, oily beriyani, getting diarrhea every so often, the security threats, the languages, the beautiful faces of the Afghan men with their hawk like expressions and stances, I got used to the fact I hardly saw women and when I did found how amazingly green their eyes were beneath their burqas.
I began to relish leading a simple life where your only entertainment was talking to your colleagues as you watched the stars from the rooftop. I began to take pleasure in finding the latest Glamour magazine amidst magazines that had glitzy Indian models, finding a beautiful cotton cloth and having it tailored into a salwar kameez (a top and a trouser) at a mere all inclusive price of RM20, I began to have an appreciation for Afghan carpets. I began to discover the value of being one of the few foreigners in a land which most foreigners made assumptions about from a distance without truly understanding the wider context of the country’s history and culture.
I fell in love with a young pretty boy and he with me. I discovered what it was like to have a teenage love affair at the age of 30. Where dates that could have killed us also led us along the beautiful rocky hills, a fair ground that glorifies Pakistan’s first nuclear arm, cheap hotels along dark alleys and stolen moments in any vehicle we could get a hold of – all in a part of Pakistan that used to belong to Afghanistan and which modernization had barely heaved a breath.
And just when I got used to my life there and my forbidden love affair with the boy had ended, and at a moment when I was confident enough to execute projects for the people – it was all taken away from me. Without warning. Without any clear justification except “I did it for your own safety”. An act which to this day I don’t understand and realise that I cannot forgive no matter the good intentions in which it was done.
Afghanistan. A place so many have described as unique, magical, mystical, moving, a place where in most places, time had frozen. The Afghanistan that I knew was filled with moments negotiating with people that looked so much like the man the greater world is still hunting, – moments where I shared their food, their tea, their homes and was given the privilege to sit with their women.
Afghanistan. The land where the weather could become so unkind you sometimes had to stay in for days on end and yet children could walk barefoot while you had on your warmest clothes. A land so barren yet you could find pockets of grapevine trees that could bear fruit to become the best raisins I have ever had in my life. A land so sparse of life that people could share with you the sweetest melons the tongue could taste because there were those few who had enough money to build wells.
Afghanistan, a country known for its extreme laws and yet when you wandered deeper, you would come across fields of pink flowers that looked pretty in the wind and green plants which you were tempted to pluck just to feel the freshness of a mystical herb which could get you hanged at home.
The smell, the sights, the wonder of Afghanistan will never leave my soul. I have been to many places since, seen many things but never are they anything comparable to my Afghanistan. Many a times I thought of returning but either God has His reasons for not opening the path to me or I fear that I may return wanting something I had painted in my head using colors of ignorance, naivety and romance of a life which seemed more real then, than the life I lead now.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
A Constant State of Mind
After some months of trying, I have finally got a job offer. I have for a while now been thinking it’s time I moved on from the NGO I’ve been working and been associated with for the last four years. While I am ever grateful to its founder and staff for helping me get to where I am professionally and personally – sometimes you have to venture further to be of better service because you have outgrown what made you what you have become.
I am terribly grateful to Almighty that I have been given what I have been seeking. It is not entirely everything I wished for but enough that it should get me by until something closer to my dreams comes along.
Yet I often doubt my decision to continue my line of work. Some days I am so convinced what I am doing is right. Other days I am so unsure. Some days I think well, I have to do this as I need to be a participant in all that I read in the World section of the newspapers. Rather than sitting in yet another cosy corner complaining and crying foul the demons that walk the earth. Other days I wonder whether what I do and the sacrifices I make are making any difference to anyone but my own sanity.
I have for sometime been trying to come to terms with the sense of guilt I often feel when I am away or so occupied with my work. Today, I could relate to Nelson Mandela when he states in Long Walk to Freedom, “I wondered – not for the first time – whether one was ever justified in neglecting the welfare of one’s own family in order to fight for the welfare of others.”
Do I fight my guilt and critics of a system that sometimes does more harm than good in the hope that compassion will prevail? Do I continue to sink in further into myself when my surroundings disappoint me or fail to meet my idealistic reasoning? Should I simply give up and give in to a normality that has never been in me?
What if I am wrong? What if I do wrong? Then what will become of me?
So many questions. So little time. So much to do. So far to go.
Round and round I go, where I’ll stop, nobody knows.
I am terribly grateful to Almighty that I have been given what I have been seeking. It is not entirely everything I wished for but enough that it should get me by until something closer to my dreams comes along.
Yet I often doubt my decision to continue my line of work. Some days I am so convinced what I am doing is right. Other days I am so unsure. Some days I think well, I have to do this as I need to be a participant in all that I read in the World section of the newspapers. Rather than sitting in yet another cosy corner complaining and crying foul the demons that walk the earth. Other days I wonder whether what I do and the sacrifices I make are making any difference to anyone but my own sanity.
I have for sometime been trying to come to terms with the sense of guilt I often feel when I am away or so occupied with my work. Today, I could relate to Nelson Mandela when he states in Long Walk to Freedom, “I wondered – not for the first time – whether one was ever justified in neglecting the welfare of one’s own family in order to fight for the welfare of others.”
Do I fight my guilt and critics of a system that sometimes does more harm than good in the hope that compassion will prevail? Do I continue to sink in further into myself when my surroundings disappoint me or fail to meet my idealistic reasoning? Should I simply give up and give in to a normality that has never been in me?
What if I am wrong? What if I do wrong? Then what will become of me?
So many questions. So little time. So much to do. So far to go.
Round and round I go, where I’ll stop, nobody knows.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
We Are All Under the Same Sky
(Thanks Brother M for giving me the courage to share my inner self)
I haven't really cried for sometime now. Not my atypical crying. I used to cry a lot because it always made me feel better. Some people get mad, hysterical, drunk...I simply cry my eyeballs out. I used to cry just about anywhere - most of the time on my own - as my thoughts drifted to old memories, regrets, loss, heartbreak, anger.
The last few months however have been dry. It's not that I haven't revisited memories nor because nothing bad has happened to me. I guess it was a case of being all cried out. I never quite understood what that meant until recently.
Two nights ago I bawled my heart out while sitting alone under the starry sky on a beach infront of my chalet in Langkawi. I had just had enough of some merciless teasing about my weight from a friend - a teasing I honestly didn't mind but which was simply getting downright rude.
And so...I took a chair out to the beach. I started listening to songs by Nelly Furtado (Why do all good things come to an end), Justin Timberlake (What goes around comes around), Joshua (May God's love be with you), Coldplay and Michael Stipes (cover of May God's love be with you) and Coldplay (Fix you) on my iPod and started smoking a Backwood Berry cigar.
I sat under the stars feeling like I needed a moment to reflect before going home the next day on what has been and what was to be. Before me was the dark sea lit by a row of fishing boats along the coast. Behind me were lights emanating from the chalets along the beach. Lights which unfortunately shielded the sky from showing all its glory. I had no particular thought in my head. I was simply chilling out.
I then realised that what I saw above me was a shadow of what I used to see everyday in Sudan. I suddenly remembered how beautifully the stars shone over Darfur and how I used to gaze at the sparkling diamonds in the sky with wonder and peace.
And suddenly, while I listened to music which I found both a comfort and a reminder of things lost, I cried from beneath my heart.
I cried for the love I had in Sudan - a love I never knew I could find. I cried for the people who I saw but didn't want to know because I couldn't do everything I should have to help them. I cried that I had lost a love I thought was stronger than the green eyed monster. I cried for all the people I left under the glittering stars who can still see the sky through their thatched roof waiting for intruders to steal their peace.
Most of all I cried because I cannot control what is not mine to have or mine to change.
I haven't really cried for sometime now. Not my atypical crying. I used to cry a lot because it always made me feel better. Some people get mad, hysterical, drunk...I simply cry my eyeballs out. I used to cry just about anywhere - most of the time on my own - as my thoughts drifted to old memories, regrets, loss, heartbreak, anger.
The last few months however have been dry. It's not that I haven't revisited memories nor because nothing bad has happened to me. I guess it was a case of being all cried out. I never quite understood what that meant until recently.
Two nights ago I bawled my heart out while sitting alone under the starry sky on a beach infront of my chalet in Langkawi. I had just had enough of some merciless teasing about my weight from a friend - a teasing I honestly didn't mind but which was simply getting downright rude.
And so...I took a chair out to the beach. I started listening to songs by Nelly Furtado (Why do all good things come to an end), Justin Timberlake (What goes around comes around), Joshua (May God's love be with you), Coldplay and Michael Stipes (cover of May God's love be with you) and Coldplay (Fix you) on my iPod and started smoking a Backwood Berry cigar.
I sat under the stars feeling like I needed a moment to reflect before going home the next day on what has been and what was to be. Before me was the dark sea lit by a row of fishing boats along the coast. Behind me were lights emanating from the chalets along the beach. Lights which unfortunately shielded the sky from showing all its glory. I had no particular thought in my head. I was simply chilling out.
I then realised that what I saw above me was a shadow of what I used to see everyday in Sudan. I suddenly remembered how beautifully the stars shone over Darfur and how I used to gaze at the sparkling diamonds in the sky with wonder and peace.
And suddenly, while I listened to music which I found both a comfort and a reminder of things lost, I cried from beneath my heart.
I cried for the love I had in Sudan - a love I never knew I could find. I cried for the people who I saw but didn't want to know because I couldn't do everything I should have to help them. I cried that I had lost a love I thought was stronger than the green eyed monster. I cried for all the people I left under the glittering stars who can still see the sky through their thatched roof waiting for intruders to steal their peace.
Most of all I cried because I cannot control what is not mine to have or mine to change.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Afghanistan: No You Can't Drive
In 2002, I volunteered and then was employed to work for an NGO on aid projects in Afghanistan. Although our projects were in the country, we lived in Pakistan very near the border. As the distance between where we lived and where our projects were, was not within walking distance and foreigners were not encouraged to walk in the streets due to security - we were usually driven to project sites by hired drivers in our van.
Our drivers were all Afghanis who were born in Afghanistan but had been brought up and educated in Pakistan, in an area where a large community of Afghanis like themselves lived and who mostly still held onto their strict values and culture. These drivers spoke some English and were young and full of spirit and I have to admit, rather good looking.
But their looks have nothing to do with this story. This story is about something else.
One day a group of us had a meeting with Pakistani army officials near the border. As usual, I sat in front, next to the driver. And no, it wasn't because of his looks (well, not entirely!) but because the front seat had the best view of the road. It was my first time in these two countries and there was always so much to see and observe that I always wanted the best seat.
As we left the army compound I told the driver "you know, back home, I drive a lot". He didn't quite respond and just sort of smiled like I was joking. So I said, "no, really, I drive back home. I even have my own car." He simply replied "no you don't. Women can't drive."
As usual, I, a woman quite easily scorned in such circumstances, told him, "Okay...I'll prove it to you that I, and other women, can drive. Stop the van and I'll show you." At first I thought I was playing along with what his "teasing" when he stopped the van and stepped out of the driver's seat to let me in. So I got in the driver's seat. Adjusted the rear view mirror and the seat so I was comfortable and revved the engine a little. My driver, who was in the passenger seat just looked on amused. I wish I could have taken a photo of his face when the van moved after I stepped on the clutch, got into gear and stepped on the accelerator quite comfortably without letting the engine die. He was genuinely shocked. He almost couldn't believe his eyes. A woman was actually driving!
I was almost as shocked too as I thought he was teasing when he said women can't drive. I think that was the very moment I realised that women in his part of Pakistan and Afghanistan were living in a completely shut off and conservative society. I had certainly heard and read the stories. I had Afghanis tell me the same but an experience like that kind of brought the fact home closer.
I continued to drive without much problem although I had never driven on small road road congested with trucks, cars, horse carts, children pushing wheelbarrows, pedestrians and three wheelers. All of whom didn't take much notice of me driving at first.
Not until I drove to "No Man's Land", a smugglers haven between the border of Pakistan and Afghanistan, that is. We stopped here to order some supplies for a food aid project. After about 5 minutes of waiting, a boy who had noticed me came up to the my driver who was still in the passenger seat talking animatedly in Pashto, the main local language in the area. My driver looked at me, smiled and responded to the boy, who then turned around and called other boys to come up to the van. Quite suddenly there were at least 10 or more people surrounding the front of van peering into the windscreen at me pointing and laughing. I got a bit nervous as they started getting more and more excited and shouting words I couldn't comprehend. And so I asked my driver what was going on? He told me that some of the people were asking whether I was a man or a woman because they could not believe that a woman was driving!
This went on for a number of minutes before more people came to look. I felt like a clown in a circus or more like a caged animal in a zoo as it was unlikely I could move the van. It soon got too uncomfortable for my liking so we drove off without any incident.
When we got back to our office and home, my driver complimented me on my driving - which I thought was rather nice of him! I asked him whether it would be safe to continue driving and he seemed to think so. So, from then on, I was known as the first woman to drive in Chaman (Pakistan) and Spin Boldak (Afghanistan). I would regularly drive around, never alone of course, but with at least a staff or volunteer in the car. I loved it. I felt it was also an opportunity to educate Afghanis and Pakistanis in the area just what a woman, particularly a Muslim woman, is capable of, given the chance. I don't think I changed their mindset, because as a foreign woman, I was expected to get away with doing certain things local women weren't allowed to do, but I hope I at least opened up their minds a little to some possibilities.
I know for certain that my drivers were more than happy to let me drive and that I had gained their confidence as a competent driver. Oh yes. I must have. Because one day, they let me drive for over two hours from the border to the nearest capital, while they all slept in the back seat.
Our drivers were all Afghanis who were born in Afghanistan but had been brought up and educated in Pakistan, in an area where a large community of Afghanis like themselves lived and who mostly still held onto their strict values and culture. These drivers spoke some English and were young and full of spirit and I have to admit, rather good looking.
But their looks have nothing to do with this story. This story is about something else.
One day a group of us had a meeting with Pakistani army officials near the border. As usual, I sat in front, next to the driver. And no, it wasn't because of his looks (well, not entirely!) but because the front seat had the best view of the road. It was my first time in these two countries and there was always so much to see and observe that I always wanted the best seat.
As we left the army compound I told the driver "you know, back home, I drive a lot". He didn't quite respond and just sort of smiled like I was joking. So I said, "no, really, I drive back home. I even have my own car." He simply replied "no you don't. Women can't drive."
As usual, I, a woman quite easily scorned in such circumstances, told him, "Okay...I'll prove it to you that I, and other women, can drive. Stop the van and I'll show you." At first I thought I was playing along with what his "teasing" when he stopped the van and stepped out of the driver's seat to let me in. So I got in the driver's seat. Adjusted the rear view mirror and the seat so I was comfortable and revved the engine a little. My driver, who was in the passenger seat just looked on amused. I wish I could have taken a photo of his face when the van moved after I stepped on the clutch, got into gear and stepped on the accelerator quite comfortably without letting the engine die. He was genuinely shocked. He almost couldn't believe his eyes. A woman was actually driving!
I was almost as shocked too as I thought he was teasing when he said women can't drive. I think that was the very moment I realised that women in his part of Pakistan and Afghanistan were living in a completely shut off and conservative society. I had certainly heard and read the stories. I had Afghanis tell me the same but an experience like that kind of brought the fact home closer.
I continued to drive without much problem although I had never driven on small road road congested with trucks, cars, horse carts, children pushing wheelbarrows, pedestrians and three wheelers. All of whom didn't take much notice of me driving at first.
Not until I drove to "No Man's Land", a smugglers haven between the border of Pakistan and Afghanistan, that is. We stopped here to order some supplies for a food aid project. After about 5 minutes of waiting, a boy who had noticed me came up to the my driver who was still in the passenger seat talking animatedly in Pashto, the main local language in the area. My driver looked at me, smiled and responded to the boy, who then turned around and called other boys to come up to the van. Quite suddenly there were at least 10 or more people surrounding the front of van peering into the windscreen at me pointing and laughing. I got a bit nervous as they started getting more and more excited and shouting words I couldn't comprehend. And so I asked my driver what was going on? He told me that some of the people were asking whether I was a man or a woman because they could not believe that a woman was driving!
This went on for a number of minutes before more people came to look. I felt like a clown in a circus or more like a caged animal in a zoo as it was unlikely I could move the van. It soon got too uncomfortable for my liking so we drove off without any incident.
When we got back to our office and home, my driver complimented me on my driving - which I thought was rather nice of him! I asked him whether it would be safe to continue driving and he seemed to think so. So, from then on, I was known as the first woman to drive in Chaman (Pakistan) and Spin Boldak (Afghanistan). I would regularly drive around, never alone of course, but with at least a staff or volunteer in the car. I loved it. I felt it was also an opportunity to educate Afghanis and Pakistanis in the area just what a woman, particularly a Muslim woman, is capable of, given the chance. I don't think I changed their mindset, because as a foreign woman, I was expected to get away with doing certain things local women weren't allowed to do, but I hope I at least opened up their minds a little to some possibilities.
I know for certain that my drivers were more than happy to let me drive and that I had gained their confidence as a competent driver. Oh yes. I must have. Because one day, they let me drive for over two hours from the border to the nearest capital, while they all slept in the back seat.
Compliments Everywhere but Home
Today as I was entering the loo in The Curve, a shopping mall, I heard a lady tell her friend "skinny is better than fat, so don't complain." I couldn't help but smile, because as a fat lady, I felt inclined to disagree.
Whenever I come home after a long trip, it always strikes me how most Malaysian women are tiny, boobless and buttless. And when they look like they have boobs, I suspect their molds are made from artificial material rather than flesh and blood. I always feel extra, extra, extra large in Malaysia.
I never think about my weight when I am away. As far as I am concerned (and according to my regular medical check-ups) I am healthy, enjoy my life fully and still have the ability to attract the opposite sex. Yet, I am often made to believe otherwise when I come home.
Let me provide some examples of some of the conversations I've had since coming home after sometime being away: a close relative starts telling me about all these new ways to lose weight - from herbal drinks to massages; my cousin - whom I only meet once a year during Eid - after talking about men and relationships suggests "you should lose a bit of weight"; and one of my bestfriend's father says "wah...you makan banyak ah" (wow, you eat a lot don't you - or something to that effect). I know that the first two examples were said with concern to my health and apparently dismal marital status respectively, while I suppose the last was said in jest (albeit in a rather insensitive manner - sorry S).
Never mind how I am suddenly popular with agents from Herbal Life, or other weight loss or nutrition programs who are keen to help me lose weight insisting I can lose so and so kg after only two weeks. Never mind as well that I never seem to go on dates in this country.
I must admit that such suggestions, remarks and occurrences affect my self confidence sometimes.
When I'm away however, no one makes any remarks or suggestions about my weight. NEVER. Certainly not to my face. Instead I often get compliments from people including strangers - whether men or women. Mind you I am talking about people from countries in the Middle East, South Asia, Europe and Africa where heavy set women are often the norm.
I remember now a strange advice I often receive from Malaysians before I travel. "You'd better be careful when you go to countries in Africa/South Asia/Middle East - the men from these countries like women who are big especially those with big boobs and bums". I never used to think much of it in the beginning - and in fact viewed such a "fact" as indeed a negative characteristic - perceiving that these men were particularly lascivious just because they liked ample women with ample assets.
So whenever a man from Africa/South Asia/Middle East used to compliment me - I used to instantly think that they were just trying to flatter me so they could get into my pants.
Thankfully after spending some time travelling in these continents and knowing their people better, I now think much more of myself and understand cultural behaviour much better to recognize that such assumptions weren't always right. Rather, I came to realise that Malaysians had smaller minds and that men from Africa/South Asia/Middle East had better taste!
Knowing that doesn't help my self confidence in Malaysia. I still feel conscious as I try to find suitable clothes that fit, or when one day I stood next to a girl in an alteration shop who complained that the smallest Levis she had bought was still too big, or when I feel men no longer look my way (except at my chest when they realise this fat woman has some specifically appealing assets).
Oh to wander the world and receive compliments from a restaurant staff who says to you as you pass "you are so beautiful" and then gives you an orange just before you leave the premises (Turkey). Or to receive compliments like "I was first attracted to you when I saw your bum and the way it jiggled as you walked" (India - from a man I got to know beforehand as a friend - not a stranger!). Or to be appreciated for my smile and the colour and the feel of my skin (Africa, Middle East, South Asia). Or to go places where people find you attractive enough that they flirt with you with a smile, with words, with gestures.
Yes, of course I don't depend on compliments to feel good about myself. But it's nice to be appreciated for who and what you are and not be reminded that you are not at par with other women just because of the size of your body.
I suppose that's partly why I always crave to leave Malaysia. Well one of the many reasons. I just feel pretty damn much better about myself!
Whenever I come home after a long trip, it always strikes me how most Malaysian women are tiny, boobless and buttless. And when they look like they have boobs, I suspect their molds are made from artificial material rather than flesh and blood. I always feel extra, extra, extra large in Malaysia.
I never think about my weight when I am away. As far as I am concerned (and according to my regular medical check-ups) I am healthy, enjoy my life fully and still have the ability to attract the opposite sex. Yet, I am often made to believe otherwise when I come home.
Let me provide some examples of some of the conversations I've had since coming home after sometime being away: a close relative starts telling me about all these new ways to lose weight - from herbal drinks to massages; my cousin - whom I only meet once a year during Eid - after talking about men and relationships suggests "you should lose a bit of weight"; and one of my bestfriend's father says "wah...you makan banyak ah" (wow, you eat a lot don't you - or something to that effect). I know that the first two examples were said with concern to my health and apparently dismal marital status respectively, while I suppose the last was said in jest (albeit in a rather insensitive manner - sorry S).
Never mind how I am suddenly popular with agents from Herbal Life, or other weight loss or nutrition programs who are keen to help me lose weight insisting I can lose so and so kg after only two weeks. Never mind as well that I never seem to go on dates in this country.
I must admit that such suggestions, remarks and occurrences affect my self confidence sometimes.
When I'm away however, no one makes any remarks or suggestions about my weight. NEVER. Certainly not to my face. Instead I often get compliments from people including strangers - whether men or women. Mind you I am talking about people from countries in the Middle East, South Asia, Europe and Africa where heavy set women are often the norm.
I remember now a strange advice I often receive from Malaysians before I travel. "You'd better be careful when you go to countries in Africa/South Asia/Middle East - the men from these countries like women who are big especially those with big boobs and bums". I never used to think much of it in the beginning - and in fact viewed such a "fact" as indeed a negative characteristic - perceiving that these men were particularly lascivious just because they liked ample women with ample assets.
So whenever a man from Africa/South Asia/Middle East used to compliment me - I used to instantly think that they were just trying to flatter me so they could get into my pants.
Thankfully after spending some time travelling in these continents and knowing their people better, I now think much more of myself and understand cultural behaviour much better to recognize that such assumptions weren't always right. Rather, I came to realise that Malaysians had smaller minds and that men from Africa/South Asia/Middle East had better taste!
Knowing that doesn't help my self confidence in Malaysia. I still feel conscious as I try to find suitable clothes that fit, or when one day I stood next to a girl in an alteration shop who complained that the smallest Levis she had bought was still too big, or when I feel men no longer look my way (except at my chest when they realise this fat woman has some specifically appealing assets).
Oh to wander the world and receive compliments from a restaurant staff who says to you as you pass "you are so beautiful" and then gives you an orange just before you leave the premises (Turkey). Or to receive compliments like "I was first attracted to you when I saw your bum and the way it jiggled as you walked" (India - from a man I got to know beforehand as a friend - not a stranger!). Or to be appreciated for my smile and the colour and the feel of my skin (Africa, Middle East, South Asia). Or to go places where people find you attractive enough that they flirt with you with a smile, with words, with gestures.
Yes, of course I don't depend on compliments to feel good about myself. But it's nice to be appreciated for who and what you are and not be reminded that you are not at par with other women just because of the size of your body.
I suppose that's partly why I always crave to leave Malaysia. Well one of the many reasons. I just feel pretty damn much better about myself!
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
The Drifter...
Not so long ago, someone told me "Hey...it's not good to be drifting for so long you know". As usual I never react fast enough when some someone says something that takes me completely by surprise. So I didn't respond by asking why she thought I was drifting.
I get the impression she thinks so because I do not have a full time job and haven't had one for more than a year now.
It makes me sad and annoyed at the same time when a person chooses to label me as someone who is drifting without asking me beforehand what exactly it is I have been doing with my life just because I prefer to keep some information to myself. I guess I shouldn't care but apparently I do because I feel I need to get this whole thing off my chest.
So let's see...what have I been doing in the last one year or more to qualify me as a "drifter":
1. Jan-April 2006: Went to Egypt to study Arabic.
2. May 2006: Spent two weeks in Sudan working.
3. June-August 2006: Had a 3 month contract to work. Spent two weeks in Jogjakarta indentifying rehabilitation projects and a month in Syria working on Lebanese displaced projects. Plus travelled to Jordan and Sudan for work, and Egypt for a short holiday.
4. July 2006: Spent a week on a training course in Australia.
5. September 2006: Spent two weeks on a training course in Korea.
6. October 2006: Took the month off for Ramadan.
7. November 2006: Attended a few days training course in Bangi.
8. December 2006 - March 2007:
- Contracted to write two operational manuals for an NGO
- Went to Thailand to buy supplies to sell at a flea market
- Started selling household wares at a flea market on Sundays
- Did a number of voluntary work for two organizations in Johor and KL
- Conducted a training for an NGO
- Went for a ToT in India and travelled some
Oh yes...I have been drifting because I haven't been working full time and because I didn't sign a long term contract. I have been drifting because I refuse to work for the only organization in Malaysia that does the kind of humanitarian work I like, on a full time basis for personal reasons. I have been drifting because I have been spending the last 6 months applying for jobs overseas. I have been drifting because I refuse to give up my dream and passion of working in the field and because I want to experience working for a new organization. I have been drifting because I won't beg for help to get me a job somewhere.
If that's the case, then a drifter I am glad to be.
Hi. Ever Tried Spicy Cigarettes?
Yes, I confess. I smoke. But no, I am not a smoker. I suppose you could call me a social smoker of sorts.I remember my first cigarette. I was 5 and it was a Dunhill. My Mom was a smoker then and curiousity got the better of me. Tried it, didn't think anything of it until I (Photo by Amr Fekry, Egypt) was in university. I can still remember it clearly. It was 1995 and I was so stressed out because I was about to sit for my final exams. I had a headache having stayed up all night trying to remember all my cases. As I was walking towards the exam hall I saw some friends hanging around. And Oh My God...they looked so calm and cool, like they had no worries in the world - and yes, they each had a cigarette in their hand. I thought, damn...maybe I need to start taking those.
But still I resisted. I snuck a puff or two from my Mom's and some friends. However there was always this fear that I'd get addicted or found out by my Mom (who always forbade us to smoke lest we get hooked like she was at the time).
Finally I gave in. It was 2003 and I was in Jordan feeling highly stressed again. Iraq was about to fall in the hands of the US and I was in charge of identifying projects in Jordan in anticipation of the influx of refugees. I also had to manage a bunch of volunteers and was greatly concerned for the future of Iraqi people. Plus I had to prove myself as a field staff. And there was my local interpreter smoking away at his Marlboro Lights looking jolly well relaxed when I felt like the burden of the world was on my shoulders. So I caved. Can't say I enjoyed it much. Can't say it helped calm my nerves. But I guess it offered some comfort. It was also something I did on my own. I never smoked infront of anyone else because it didn't seem appropriate for a woman in a hijab to do so. Plus I was with a bunch of doctors who I knew would not approve.
I even snuck off to have a cigarette while in Baghdad. My team and I had been caught in a crossfire and we were stuck in the delapitated Sheraton hotel trying to figure out how to leave the country safely. The hotel was crowded; there was little electricity; you could hear bombs going off; you could see aid workers, reporters and American soldiers walking in and out; and the hotel was surrounded by tanks. I just had to find a corner somewhere, take a deep puff of the Malboro Lights I got from my interpreter, calm my nerves and try to comprehend the events around me.
Thankfully I didn't become a regular smoker after that. I would take the occasional one or two when I started feeling burdened with work back home. By this time I had discovered Sampoerna Mild & Menthol - Indonesian cigarettes with a clove flavour and a sweet taste on the bud. I actually started to like its taste and from then on never smoked any other kinds of cigarettes. I could never take more than one as I found it too strong. But the occasional (which I still smoked in private) was comforting.After some months, I quit my job to study my masters' in England. I started hanging with friends who drank regularly in pubs. As a non-drinker I found that holding on to your glass of juice just didn't hack it. I still didn't feel comfortable smoking in public but decided that hey, maybe this will help me blend in a little. So while people 'chummied' with each other talking about the different types of alcohol they enjoy, I started conversations with "have you ever tried these kind of cigarettes?" And it worked! It suddenly began to be slightly easier to bond with fellow pubbers (who smoked). I didn't get to do it all the time as some of my friends abhor smoking.
Smoking then began to have its advantages. And in the most surprising way. Suddenly I found I could even bond with Arab women! I remember back in January 2004, I was travelling on my own in Lebanon and had decided to go up to Tripoli to have the best sweets in the country. I stumbled across a CD shop where I could buy some music for my sister. There I sat listening to different songs trying to decide which CDs to buy when the owner's mother came in and offered me a cigarette and a Turkish coffee. I was shocked. This was an elderly woman in a Hijab offering me a cigarette (not of the mild kind either!) We couldn't communicate much because I didn't know Arabic at the time but there we were bonding over cigarettes and coffee in the middle of the cold winter.
In 2006, once again I bonded over cigarettes with some Arab ladies. I was on the Syrian side of the Syrian-Lebanese border in the north with my colleagues distributing hygiene kits to returnees. While resting I sat with a bunch of women in Hijab who were waiting for the male members of their family to pick them up and take them back to Lebanon. By this time I could speak a little Arabic. I noticed some of them smoking and offered one of the ladies a cigarette. I asked whether they ever smoked before the war and they said no. I asked why they were smoking now. They said because they were worried about their husbands, brothers and their home and that cigarettes helped to calm their nerves somewhat. After about an hour, two men came to pick them up. I then realised that the male members of their family were fighters with the Hezbollahs. I will never forget the look of complete relief and happiness on their faces when the families reunited.
I know cigarettes are unhealthy. That's why I make sure that I don't become a regular smoker. I smoke maybe once in two or three weeks. The number increases to once a week when I am particularly worried about something. While I recognise its vices, I can't deny it has its advantages. Yes, you don't have to succumb to a bad habit just to bond with people. Sometimes however, it can create a special moment and a special memory. Like moments I shared Sampoernas with my South African angel in Edinburgh and in Cairo because we both love the taste so much. Or when I shared one with an army officer in India after we had experienced a wonderful intimate moment. Or those times with those Arab ladies. I wouldn't trade those memories for anything.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Random Acts of Kindness
I am the receiver of many random acts of kindness. Random acts of kindness makes me feel good, gives me hope that this world doesn't suck so much, makes me look forward to a new day with new surprises.
The wonderful thing about random acts of kindness (ROK) is that it can come at anytime, anyday, anywhere. My last experience with a ROK was a few days ago at a craft exposition where I was volunteering for a few hours. A person, who I knew by reputation for his work with the local indigenous community and his no-nonsense approach, bought me a local handicraft, after knowing me for only a couple of hours. We hadn't spoken much in that short time, I knew he didn't "fancy" me, nor were we ever likely to meet again. Yet, he knew I liked this beautiful object, knew I hadn't had enough money to pay for it at the time, but had insisted I "take it because I've learnt that you should always buy something you like immediately or else it will be gone". The memory of
that ROK still makes me smile.
This ROK was especially significant as it was my first in Malaysia. I've experienced many outside of the country. I have received numerous invitations to eat and sleep at strangers' homes (Central/South Asia and the Middle East), I've even had a stranger walk with me for miles just to be sure I got on the right bus (Beirut), I've had a stranger search the whole city for a safe and cheap hotel for me to stay in (also Beirut), and so many other ROK I now regret I have forgotten.
I am not sure whether I have practised ROK. Perhaps I have. I certainly advocate it. It just simply makes the world a nicer place to live in.
The wonderful thing about random acts of kindness (ROK) is that it can come at anytime, anyday, anywhere. My last experience with a ROK was a few days ago at a craft exposition where I was volunteering for a few hours. A person, who I knew by reputation for his work with the local indigenous community and his no-nonsense approach, bought me a local handicraft, after knowing me for only a couple of hours. We hadn't spoken much in that short time, I knew he didn't "fancy" me, nor were we ever likely to meet again. Yet, he knew I liked this beautiful object, knew I hadn't had enough money to pay for it at the time, but had insisted I "take it because I've learnt that you should always buy something you like immediately or else it will be gone". The memory of
that ROK still makes me smile.This ROK was especially significant as it was my first in Malaysia. I've experienced many outside of the country. I have received numerous invitations to eat and sleep at strangers' homes (Central/South Asia and the Middle East), I've even had a stranger walk with me for miles just to be sure I got on the right bus (Beirut), I've had a stranger search the whole city for a safe and cheap hotel for me to stay in (also Beirut), and so many other ROK I now regret I have forgotten.
I am not sure whether I have practised ROK. Perhaps I have. I certainly advocate it. It just simply makes the world a nicer place to live in.
Meeting People Who Have Killed
I was thinking what else to write about. For some strange reason the first thing that popped in my head (while sitting in a cafe in Hartamas Shopping Center) was the image of a kindly old man working in the garden in Pakistan near the border to Afghanistan.
I still remember his name, his gentle smile and his fondness for plants. We never really spoke except for a few words through an interpreter. I never felt threatened in his company nor intimidated. In some strange ways, he reminded me of my grandfather - someone who I never really knew but whom my Mom said was a kind and gentle old man.
Yet, I had been told that the old man, who in his old age made sure that our garden was cared for, used to fight for the muhajideens. I suppose what I was told was true. And that was to be the first man I met whom I was told had killed for a cause he believed in.
Since then I have met others. All of whom who were fighting for some ideology they believed in - whether or not they were labelled by the world as terrorists, cowards or patriots. I got on with all of them. I fancied one. I had a short love affair with another. I had compared one to my own grandfather who never in his life hurt a soul. At each of those times I didn't think about what they did or had done. All I cared I suppose was that I got along with them on some level or the other.
Then I thought about it some more. Am I supposed to feel disgusted by these people? How is it that I can hate war and work as a humanitarian aid worker and be involved at any level with people who commit the very acts I am suppose to be absolutely against. Am I so accepting of people's right to be as they choose that I can accept anyone as they are?
I am still unsure of the answer. The only thing I can think of for now is that all these people had done what they did because they felt it was their duty to do so in the name of their country, their leaders, their people or their religion. And that I too do what I do for my beliefs and sense of duty, and perhaps in some strange way, I share something in common with these people after all. That because of my strong sense of duty to the people I saw suffer in the world namely Iraq, Afghanistan and Sudan, I too, like them had been willing to put myself in a position where I could have been killed. No doubt, unlike them, I hadn't killed for my beliefs - but like them, I had put myself in extreme risks to champion something I really believed in. And perhaps that's why I can befriend people who I know have killed people.
I still remember his name, his gentle smile and his fondness for plants. We never really spoke except for a few words through an interpreter. I never felt threatened in his company nor intimidated. In some strange ways, he reminded me of my grandfather - someone who I never really knew but whom my Mom said was a kind and gentle old man.
Yet, I had been told that the old man, who in his old age made sure that our garden was cared for, used to fight for the muhajideens. I suppose what I was told was true. And that was to be the first man I met whom I was told had killed for a cause he believed in.
Since then I have met others. All of whom who were fighting for some ideology they believed in - whether or not they were labelled by the world as terrorists, cowards or patriots. I got on with all of them. I fancied one. I had a short love affair with another. I had compared one to my own grandfather who never in his life hurt a soul. At each of those times I didn't think about what they did or had done. All I cared I suppose was that I got along with them on some level or the other.
Then I thought about it some more. Am I supposed to feel disgusted by these people? How is it that I can hate war and work as a humanitarian aid worker and be involved at any level with people who commit the very acts I am suppose to be absolutely against. Am I so accepting of people's right to be as they choose that I can accept anyone as they are?
I am still unsure of the answer. The only thing I can think of for now is that all these people had done what they did because they felt it was their duty to do so in the name of their country, their leaders, their people or their religion. And that I too do what I do for my beliefs and sense of duty, and perhaps in some strange way, I share something in common with these people after all. That because of my strong sense of duty to the people I saw suffer in the world namely Iraq, Afghanistan and Sudan, I too, like them had been willing to put myself in a position where I could have been killed. No doubt, unlike them, I hadn't killed for my beliefs - but like them, I had put myself in extreme risks to champion something I really believed in. And perhaps that's why I can befriend people who I know have killed people.
Why I Don't Like Talking About What I Do
Last January I was in Singapore visiting a friend. I stayed with her and her husband in a really nice apartment in Bedok. I was in a relaxed mood most of the time because their place was rather like a resort - palm trees, gentle breeze, swimming pool and an apartment that was spacious and had nice wooden flooring and furnishing.
I hadn't met my friend's husband in a while. As expected he asked me questions about what I do, as most would once they found out I had worked as an aid worker in countries like Sudan, Afghanistan and Iraq. As soon as he asked me the first question - I literally felt my whole body stiffen. I began to feel stiffled and uncomfortable. And the more he asked the more defensive I got. His questions varied from, what's it like working there, did you see any Janjaweeds to do they put spies in each NGO? The conversation ended when I snapped at him saying "you watch way too much TV!"
I know I was being harsh. But really, talking about what I've seen in conflict ridden countries is hard. I guess I find it hard because talking about it only makes me feel that everything I saw was too real and worse, reminds me that I had to leave before I could really do anything to make the situation better. I could do what I could do and that was it. I feel whatever anyone has to ask me is irrelevant. Because what I did there was so small in relative to everything else going on in the country.
I understand people want to know more from someone who has seen things that they can only read about in the papers or watch in the news. I know it makes it feel more real for them. It helps them qualify or disqualify whatever they may have assumed.
But for me, it only reopens that feeling of helplessness that made me become a humanitarian aid worker in the first place. So when I go home, I no longer want to talk or think about the people I saw and left behind. If I did, I wouldn't be able to live normally, being the sensitive soul I can be. Because I've seen too many realities that the world is truly messed up.
So don't ask anymore about what I do, what I saw, what it was like. Let me tell my story when I am ready. If I ever can be.
I hadn't met my friend's husband in a while. As expected he asked me questions about what I do, as most would once they found out I had worked as an aid worker in countries like Sudan, Afghanistan and Iraq. As soon as he asked me the first question - I literally felt my whole body stiffen. I began to feel stiffled and uncomfortable. And the more he asked the more defensive I got. His questions varied from, what's it like working there, did you see any Janjaweeds to do they put spies in each NGO? The conversation ended when I snapped at him saying "you watch way too much TV!"
I know I was being harsh. But really, talking about what I've seen in conflict ridden countries is hard. I guess I find it hard because talking about it only makes me feel that everything I saw was too real and worse, reminds me that I had to leave before I could really do anything to make the situation better. I could do what I could do and that was it. I feel whatever anyone has to ask me is irrelevant. Because what I did there was so small in relative to everything else going on in the country.
I understand people want to know more from someone who has seen things that they can only read about in the papers or watch in the news. I know it makes it feel more real for them. It helps them qualify or disqualify whatever they may have assumed.
But for me, it only reopens that feeling of helplessness that made me become a humanitarian aid worker in the first place. So when I go home, I no longer want to talk or think about the people I saw and left behind. If I did, I wouldn't be able to live normally, being the sensitive soul I can be. Because I've seen too many realities that the world is truly messed up.
So don't ask anymore about what I do, what I saw, what it was like. Let me tell my story when I am ready. If I ever can be.
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