Daily Noise

‘Time to create a left-oriented think tank’

Monday, June 01, 2009 By Shahid Husain Karachi Eminent jurist and former governor of Sindh, Justice (Retired) Fakhruddin G. Ibrahim said on Sunday it was high time a “left-oriented” think tank was established in Pakistan. Speaking at a memorial meeting for the late Dr Mohammad Sarwar at the PMA House Sunday evening, he said people said that Pakistan was a failed state but one should remember that it was the establishment and not the people of Pakistan who had failed. “Things are changing for the better,” he said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with us. Religion has become a cause of killing,” he remarked. He said people were ready to listen today and this was evident from the fact that there were few people around when the Judges’ movement kicked off but it culminated in a huge success. He said it was time to live up to the ideals of Dr Sarwar since “it’s our time to say.” He said the people of Pakistan needed a new leadership since the old leadership had failed totally. He said Dr Sarwar fought for a just society, a society free from exploitation and it was time to create a just society. Dr Badar Siddiqi, former General Secretary of the Pakistan Medical Association (PMA) said death was more universal than life because every body dies but there are people who live on even after they’re gone through their noble deeds and universal love. Dr Sarwar, he said, was one such person who strove for the establishment of a just society. He said Dr Sarwar established the Democratic Students Federation (DSF) that happened to be the first students’ organisation in Pakistan. Thereafter, he also established the All- Pakistan Students Organisation (APSO) and the Inter-Collegiate Body that comprised students unions from across the country. Dr Siddiqi pointed out that Dr Sarwar led the historic 1953 student movement that forced the authorities to accept many demands of the students, including the establishment of the University of Karachi. He said Dr Sarwar was injured when police resorted to firing on a student’s procession on January 8, 1953 in which seven students and a child were killed, and he also was arrested. He said after he was released from jail, he along with his colleagues, including Dr Adib-ul-Hasan Rizvi, Dr Syed Haroon Ahmed, Dr Moinuddin Ahmed, and Dr Jaffer Naqvi played a vital role in the affairs of the Pakistan Medical Association and transformed it into a strong and dynamic force. He said Dr Sarwar struggled for provision of health cover to the people and was never overwhelmed even by ferocious dictators such as Gen. Ziaul Haq while negotiating on behalf of PMA. “I will not classify him as an individual; he was an institution,” he said. He said the number of people who visited Dr Sarwar’s residence was unbelievable and they included Faiz Ahmed Faiz, Syed Sibte Hasan, Habib Jalib, Zohra Nigar, Ali Imam, and Bashir Mirza, just to name a few. Former student leader Mairaj Mohammad Khan said Dr Sarwar was an institution whose roots were very deep in society. He said 1953 movement led by Dr Sarwar was not confined to the students but impacted the entire society. “It was movement to change Pakistani society,” he said. He said the DSF was banned in 1954 because it was against imperialist military pacts and was against a dependent economy. Prof. Dr Jaffer Naqvi said Dr Sarwar was a phenomenon and a staunch enemy of dictatorship. Prominent singer Tina Sani sang a poem of Faiz Ahmed Faiz. Messages of Asif Hameedi, Eric Rahim, and Dr Mangi who are abroad were also read at the ceremony. A six-minute documentary on Dr Sarwar was also shown in the programme.

Born in Allahabad, he came to Karachi for ‘sightseeing’ in 1948 and stayed on when he got admission in Dow Medical College. He was instrumental in forming Pakistan’s first student union, the Democratic Students Federation (DSF). He served as DSF’s President and Secretary General before the Mohammad Ali Bogra government banned it in 1954. He was also the driving force behind the Inter-Collegiate Body (ICB) comprising student unions in different colleges and the All Pakistan Students Organisation (APSO), established in 1953.

Sarwar spearheaded the January 8, 1953 ‘Demands Day’ that spelled out the needs of students, including the establishment of a full-fledged university campus (now Karachi University). He tried to prevent the students from surging forward in the face of the police threat when the procession reached Saddar. Sarwar was injured in the police firing that killed seven students that day, commemorated for years as a ‘Black Day.’

APSO brought together college students from all over the country to demand students’ rights regardless of their politics or ideology. The organisation’s influence was visible in the 1954 elections in former East Pakistan when a student leader defeated seasoned politician Noor-ul-Amin.

DSF also published the fortnightly award-winning journal Students’ Herald, edited by the well-known economist S.M. Naseem, then a student activist.

Dr Sarwar received his final medical college results in 1954 while he was in prison for a year — the McCarthy era in the United States impacted Pakistan as well and progressive elements here were rounded up and incarcerated. His elder brother, journalist Mohammad Akhtar (1926-58) was arrested shortly afterwards. Fakhruddin G. Ebrahim, then an upcoming lawyer, defended many of these political prisoners, including their friend Hasan Nasir who was later tortured to death.

After graduation, Dr Sarwar worked as a general physician with various health services until setting up his own clinic in Gulbahar (New Golimar) where he practiced for over forty years. He was also one of the pioneers of the Pakistan Medical Association (PMA) where he was twice elected general secretary. PMA played a vital role in progressive politics during the 1980s. During the Zia years, the PMA was one of the important ‘civil society’ organisations that consistently stood for democratic politics.

Dr Sarwar will be remembered for his inspirational leadership, generosity of spirit, warmth of character and clear-headed political vision.

He is survived by his wife, well known educationist and teacher trainer Zakia Sarwar, and three children, Beena Sarwar, Sehba Sarwar, and Salman Sarwar and three granddaughters, Maha, Myah and Minal.

A memorial meeting is scheduled at PMA House on Sunday, May 31 at 6.30 pm.

The meltdown in northern Pakistan continues. A high number of refugees have evacuated Swat and Buner and have moved into the camps set up for them, human rights activist I.A. Rahman reports in his opinion piece in Dawn. The Pakistani government is exploring ways to offer cash as relief for the refugees.

In the meantime, the situation in Balochistan, a province that has long been ignored by most governments is explosive, as an editorial in the News underscores.

On the personal front (which is always somehow political), the formal closure of our daughter's early education program was announced today.

In the morning, Jeannette Doina, who has served as the Director of the program for almost 20 years, was led out of the building with a box in hand, and reassigned "somewhere else." At 1:00 pm, the school staff had a formal meeting with the Dean of UH's College of Education, as well as with UH Human Resources, and were informed that the school was closing as of July 31.

As parents, we were given 2 months notice to find another space for our children.

Over the last month, the Parent Advisory Board has repeatedly requested meetings with the Dean and has pressed for more information -- to no avail. Frustrated by the silence, we went ahead and posted a petition online. And then, late afternoon today, parents received an email from the Dean, along with the announcement of a 7:15 pm meeting tomorrow night.

The Lab School has a history of forty years of serving toddlers. It is outrageous that one body of "education" administration can charge through a program and shut it down without once talking with families most served by the program. Now, like all the 4o families in the program, we are scrambling to find a space for Minal in the fall. And at the same time, we are still continuing to speak out against the lies we've been told for months, against the way the director and teachers were treated, and against the way our kids have been disregarded.

The news from Pakistan continues to flood in, underscoring Pakistan's nuclear bomb and the 'taliban's' proximity to Islamabad. I find myself asking where were these questions in 2007, when the Lal Masjid siege took place in the center of Islamabad? Musharraf was in power then, well-supported by Dubya.

Of course, it's important to report the growing power of extremists in northern Pakistan. The situation is increasingly scary, but as always, it's better to go to news sources that are closer to the areas of conflict. Yesterday, I was surprised to hear Free Speech Radio Network's headline news using the sensationalist language of "Muslim state" and "nuclear arsenal." And then, over the last few days, I've seen CNN report news on Pakistan with repeat rolls of film, and the images (surprise) include: beards, burqas and namaaz. If people want to see television news from Pakistan, they can go to Dawn (in English), Geo, or Aaj, or the many other channels that are broadcasting directly from Pakistan. And of course, there are many English print publications: The News, Newsline, Dawn and others.

In the meantime, in the States, newsprint reporting sources are struggling to survive. The other day a friend from the Houston Chronicle dropped by the VBB office and shared relief that she still had a job. But we also grieved the hundreds of Chronicle lay-offs that have taken place over the last year, including senior writers and editors such as Barbara Karkabi and Fritz Lanham. My friend shared her perspective that Hearst Corporation is using the national economic fear to cut down its costs and centralize its offices. "The Chronicle wasn't running at a loss--not until January," she told me. "But the layoffs were announced even before the losses were known." Sad to think that a city of 5 million people has just one limping paper.

Iqbal Bano passed away today.

This year, once again, there's been a national movement around the US to organize a 40-Day protest (the six weeks prior to the Christian Easter holiday) against institutions that provide abortion services. As always, Planned Parenthood, an organization that offers so many important health services to women, and has the courage to stand up against vigilantes around the country, is at the forefront of all actions planned.

On Good Friday, a group of men and women camp outside Planned Parenthood's barricaded building on Fannin. A woman who stands holding a sign along with her ten-year old son tells me: "I have to talk to the women who go in there." She points to the barricaded building. "I don't want them to make the mistake I almost did. I do this because I love life."

When I ask her if she's considered how her words might affect those who have given significant thought to the choice they're about to make (as all women do), she says: "Yes, but it is the child that matters."

I guess, in her eyes, and in the eyes of others like her, the lives of women who have to make certain choices don't matter.

The group that ran Houston's 40 days against abortion has already started organizing against Planned Parenthood's new building that is under construction.

A frightening video (shot by someone using a mobile phone, who spoke to Dawn news) appeared on YouTube, depicting the flogging of a young teenage woman in Swat. The entire incident is reminiscent of the Zia era, but many times worse: extremist forces are more insidious and their reach is wider. Swat is already a lost region, but the effects are being felt nationwide. Today, talking to Ammi on the phone, I learn that some girls in Defence, Karachi were pelted with eggs and told to cover up.

Imran Aslam talking at the Station Museum, at a VBB event, Cultural Narratives. Documentation by Faroukh Virani.

It's been an intense month with so much happening on many different fronts. In Pakistan, the lawyers' movement escalated with the Long March, and on 16 March, Asif Zardari restored the Chief Justice Iftikhar Muhammad Chaudhary after nearly 18 months of lawyers' protest and his insistence to not give in to government pressure. Chudhary's reinstatement is an important step in the movement toward democracy and an independent judiciary.

The tow-truck driver strives to help me restart the car. "I don't want to tow it if I don't have to," he tells me. He urges me to push at the clutch while he pokes at the starter. "These Hondas. They're great cars. But it's always the battery or the starter."

Despite the prodding, the car doesn't move, so he loads it up on his truck. Along the drive to my mechanic's shop on Stella Link Road, I chat with Ahmed, who offers more advice. "It's nothing but your starter," he says. "I would fix it for you if I had time. But I'm busy. I have to study for my mid-terms and I do this job full-time." Over the 30 minute drive, I learn Ahmed's life story: His family is from Egypt, and he and his siblings were born and raised in the US. "We go back to Egypt each year," he tells me. "As soon as I finish my education, I'm going to live there with my wife and kids."

By the end of the drive, we've concurred that life in the US is difficult.

Quirky. But cool. That is the only way to describe Callaloo's conference Callaloo Salutes Texas Writers that took place earlier this week. On Monday, I drive up to College Station with Hosam Aboul-Ela who's also on the Tuesday afternoon panel with me, led by Rich Levy. It's my first time heading out that way even though I've been in Texas for 15+ years.

Dinner is at a winery. Sandra Cisneros, who's not in the anthology, drops by for a meal, and Ed Hirsch opens his keynote address by telling us that Texas has more than 500 birds that migrate through the state. Charles R. is amazingly warm. Just from my first encounter with him at the dinner, I can understand why people arrive from all corners of the country to be at College Station for the gathering. And the more I talk to Charles R.--that day and the next--the better I understand why Callaloo is what it is today. Hopefully, VBB and I will have a chance to work with him in the near future.

Through the 36 hours I spend in College Station, I meet many poets and writers that I know VBB will work with soon: Norma Cantú, Sahsa Pimentel Chacón, Daniel Chacón (who I interviewed many years ago for Arte Público Press on KPFT), and Rolando Hinojasa. The conversations shift from issues of identity, home, and where writers of color place ourselves in Texas and much beyond. It will resonate with me for sometime...

In the background, there is of course, A&M, and perhaps the reasons why I haven't ventured that way before.

Today's bombing of the Sri Lankan cricket players has left people both inside and outside Pakistan reeling. In her IPS story, Beena Sarwar says, "...(the) armed attack on the Sri Lankan cricket team in the historic city of Lahore in Pakistan has sent shockwaves through a country already racked by regular suicide and other attacks."

In the Guardian, Kamila Shamsie says: "With the attack on the Sri Lankan cricketers in Lahore, that alternative narrative lies so wounded it's hard to imagine how it will ever recover. How can we ask anyone to visit us, if even cricketers aren't safe?"

And from Swat, the silence continues, as Zubeida Mustafa writes in her piece, "For the Women of Swat."

It's hard to know where Pakistan is heading. In the meantime, in Houston today, Karachi was celebrated as Houston's sister city.

minal: ammi, remember when i used to call you momma?

me: i'm not a momma kind of woman.

minal: yes, you're not a mom kind of woman either.

The Pakistani government has reached a 'truce' with the Taliban forces in Swat. Read more in Dawn, The News editorial and the Independent. The situation continues to be dire and there's no clear word on what this 'truce' means, or how the government plans to run parts of the country on different legal structures. And in the meantime, Obama is sending 17,000 more troops to Afghanistan...

On January 24, women in Mangalore were attacked by Hindu extremists for drinking at a pub. The protest in response to the violence has been powerful. To read more go to BBC South Asia or visit Youtube.

A group of Indian activists based in New Delhi have begun a campaign to present pink chaddis on Valentines Day to the Sri Ram Sena, the group that led the attacks. Their Facebook invitation list has exploded from 5,000 as reported last week to almost 30,000 individuals as of today. Check out their blog, Consortium of Pubgoing Loose and Forward Women.

The news from Swat continues to be dire. Beena's opinion piece was published today in Dawn and BBC News is publishing a diary by a schoolgirl in Swat. In another Dawn opinion piece, two weeks ago, Zubeida Mustafa writes what many are saying in conversations all around Pakistan: We are willing to stand on the street for Gaza, but why are the protests so muted when it comes to Swat? Ultimately, it's important to speak out against atrocities being committed in both places.

59-S at Newcastle

It's eerie to read Mohammad Hanif's novel The Case of the Exploding Mangoes in 2009, nearly two decades after that giddy August evening in Karachi, back in 1988, when we all raced to the streets and danced in celebration of the death of a dictator. It's a wonderful novel.

And today, Pakistan is back on the frontline of another chapter of the same war, as the north collapses. And the international community once again watches silently as girls' schools are burned and closed, teachers killed and men forced to wear beards.

kemari road

Much of the footage that I have been collecting for VBB's Pakistan Live Broadcast production (with the help of my sister Beena) has been at moments when people come over to eat at our house and we grab a camera and capture conversations. Much of the talk moves between what's happening in Gaza to more pressing local issues such as India, and of course, the continuing collapse of the north, especially in Swat.

This week, I spent some time at the Lyceum School and interviewed the Principal, Scherezade Asdar, as well as some students who participate in the school's travel club. One student talked about how the school's rowing club's trips to India have been canceled because of all the ongoing tension between Pakistan and India. In a visit to the Indus Valley School of Art and Architecture, the teacher Ayesha Dar directed the students' attention to Swat, and how militants have threated a complete ban on girls' schools starting today.

At the very last moment, as my trip is winding down, the office of Constance Jones, Cultural Attaché at the US Embassy in Islamabad, sets up a visit for me at Government College University in Lahore and Fatima Jinnah Women's University in Rawalpindi.

It's difficult to capture everything that happens in the 36 hours after I leave Karachi for Lahore to the next night when I return to Karachi from Islamabad. In the discussions that ensue on both campuses that I visit, conversation rotates from questions about why Pakistani writers produce work in English, a writer's responsibility, why writers pick certain subjects, and the politics of language in Pakistan. It's exciting to see so much student enthusiasm about literature - and writing.

Mixed into the talks and readings are encounters with friends from different times in my life. At Government College, Fatemeh, a friend from school in Karachi (who now teaches in Lahore) appears, as does a friend from Houston, Shaista, who has recently moved to Lahore. In Islamabad, I see Tasneem Ahmar and Zaffar Abbas, old friends from The Star, and Quatrina Hussain, a friend from college.

And in both Lahore and Islamabad, there is more tension than in Karachi - a sharp contrast to how it was for decades when there was an ongoing civil war in Karachi. But now, given the Marriott bombing, the Lal Masjid debacle and the spiraling situation in Swat and Peshawar, Islamabad feels like a war zone. And in Lahore, following the bomb blasts at the movie theaters, every conversation touches back on the devastation in Swat and Peshawar.

These days -- and for some time now -- visiting newspaper offices in Karachi is different from how it used to be in the eighties. Now, to get into the Dawn office we have to show ID cards, and it's difficult to get into the parking lot (although Beena manages to sneak the car in through Idrees Bakhtiar who now works at the Herald). Once inside the building, I can see that not much has changed since I used to work there: the corridors are quiet and the library is in the same place. But now there is less activity, and the space where the old Star eveninger, where many of us started our writing careers, is now closed down and that space is being used for digital archiving. It's hard not to be in that space and not remember and mourn Star editor Saneeya Hussein.

On January 10, more than 800 people gathered at one rally that gathered at Karachi Press Club to protest the Israeli onslaught on Gaza. The march proceed down to main Saddar and down to Empress Market.

That same weekend there were at least four other marches, hosted by different groups. A few people were arrested at one rally that attempted to protest outside the US Consulate resulted in Karachi.

After the protest, Beena and I raced over to Geo to visit with Imran Aslam and collect some Geo TV archive tapes, which I can now use for my VBB project, Pakistan Live Broadcast.

During the first ten days of Mohurrum, there is an intensity in the air. It doesn't matter if one practices or not, we all conform to the notion of grieving. We are conscious of the colors we wear, the music we listen to or don't.

The procession in Old Karachi swarms down Bunder Road to the Jetty, and the road is closed off by trucks and old rail cars with policemen watching on all sides. Some even perch on the rail cars to redirect pedestrians and traffic. The group from Baltistan is large and their mourning the loudest.

Another day trip, this time to Sehwan Sharif, a city I have always wanted to visit. Here, Mohurrum is observed with dedication by all, shias and sunnis alike. The procession that happens on the seventh day of Mohurrum is led by camels.

In one afternoon, we visit two markets three miles from each other: Itwaar Bazaar, an outdoor Sunday market that sprawls over a large expanse, where one can purchase everything ranging from vegetables to cloth to second-hand books and magazines, all at cheaper rates, and The Point, one of Karachi's air-conditioned malls, where there are designer clothing stores, bookstores, and makeup.

Our expedition to Hala and Bhit Shah is born spontaneously. But that's how things happen around here. Sometimes, one can plan and organize, and even still nothing moves. But then, at the spur of a moment, at a gathering with friends, one simply says, I would love to go to Bhit Shah. And before you know it, the plan is made. And that's how it happened. It's a trip I would repeat many times over. Truly spiritual.

Yesterday was the first death anniversary of Benazir Bhutto. The government declared the day as a national holiday, and outside her home in Clifton, Karachi, people gathered to pay their respects.

In the meantime, tension escalated between Pakistan and India as there was talk of troops build- up on both sides of the border. For now, though, everyone recognizes this as media hype. The front-page headline, though, in today's Dawn was about the Israeli massacre in Gaza--and the story gives a different perspective from how the news is reported in the west.

It's been almost a week since we've been in Karachi. Saturday marks the death anniversary of Benazir Bhutto, and there are posters all around the city commemorating the loss - juxtaposed against the December frenzy of parties, weddings and shopping. In the house, electricity weaves in and out of wires, and one can never predict how much time there is to check email, charge phones and take care of business. And then, there is a different pace of living, where all plans are made to be altered, reconfigured, only to shift again.

This is Karachi. Some things don't change. And I suppose I am happy for that.

A moment that's hard to record:

Zainab Market with friends: A slender young woman guides us to a jeans store on the main road. Apparently the store has a following but it is known only those who are in the know. The young woman picks out a pair of slinky straight-leg jeans and the shopkeeper opens a tiny changing room behind the clothes rack. She pushes open the cardboard door and steps back into the store that itself at best can only fit four reasonably sized human bodies. She points to areas where the fit is good and where it's not so good.

The bearded shopkeeper watches and listens carefully. Then he nods and shakes his head, saying: "No problem, we will fix it."

Later, I laughingly tell the woman, a friend's cousin: "That was a funny moment."

She tilts her head. "What do you mean? Mullah-type? Was he walking by?"

As we leave Houston, our bags get searched by a drug-ammo dog...


The glittery Dubai airport where we spent an excrutiating 6 hours.

In just three hours, Minal and I will be flying out of Houston to Karachi to spend time with my family. I will also be traveling around the country so I can work on VBB's production, Pakistan Live Broadcast. I am ready. Check back soon for updates, images and videos.

Over the last few weeks, I've been asked by a lot of people to write my views about the bombings in Mumbai. While I've felt the same anger and grief as many others, I also have had misgivings about the terminology used in the west as a response to the violence. And then, yesterday, Arundhati Roy came out with an essay in the Guardian. She says:

"We've forfeited the rights to our own tragedies. As the carnage in Mumbai raged on, day after horrible day, our 24-hour news channels informed us that we were watching "India's 9/11". Like actors in a Bollywood rip-off of an old Hollywood film, we're expected to play our parts and say our lines, even though we know it's all been said and done before.

As tension in the region builds, US Senator John McCain has warned Pakistan that if it didn't act fast to arrest the "Bad Guys" he had personal information that India would launch air strikes on "terrorist camps" in Pakistan and that Washington could do nothing because Mumbai was India's 9/11."

This short video is part of a project that I'm doing for a VBB production, Pakistan Live Broadcast.

a sunday morning conversation with minal:

minal: who's that?

me: george dubya.

minal: why does he look sad?

me: because he's not going to be president of this country for much longer.

minal: why?

me: because his time is running out.

minal: but why is he looking so sad?

me: because he has to leave his job soon. he hasn't done a good job.

minal: has he hurt anyone?

me: yes.

minal: when i become president, i will do a good job. and i won't hurt anyone.

I travel on airplanes quite a bit, but I'm rarely searched as thoroughly as I am before I board the 2.5 hour flight to Raleigh-Durham, North Carolina. I'm running late, so I am jittery. Even when I fly back and forth between Karachi-Houston, I'm generally only surface-checked, but this time, I am pulled to the side for a "deep" search.

"It's just random," says the officer. "You ever been through this?"

"Not for a while."

He and his partner x-ray my body and she pats me down. Then, he begins to go through my carry-on luggage. He draws out one book after another. "Why are you traveling with these?" I tell him that I'm going to be giving a talk and a reading at a university. He draws out my DVD, turns it around and then puts it back. He looks through all my papers to make sure that the name that appears somewhere matches mine.

"Now watch me closely," he tells me. "I'll be going through your wallet so you need to keep your eyes on me. " He takes out my credit cards and stares at them one by one.

As he meticulously peruses my documents, I am aware that my flight will leave in 20 minutes-- and I still need to get to the other side of the airport.

"You'll make your flight," he tells me. "We have to do this. It's random."

Another security guard comes over and starts to chat with me as he continues to search through my wallet and my backpack. She also assures me: "You'll make your flight."

Finally, when they're done, I race through the terminal, wondering why they picked me this time. Miraculously, I manage to make it to the gate, aware that I am the very last passenger. The moment gets increasingly surreal when a blond Continental Airlines attendant welcomes me on board and says: "Karachi? Shukria."

She only smiles when I ask her how she learned to say thank you in Urdu.

As I struggle to find space for my bags, I tell myself to remember not to wear my Karachi t-shirt (made by Daku) in US airports again.

I never thought about the squirrels, the possums, the grackles, robins, the doves or the fire ants. I never thought about them that day. But I do remember taking Minal to Idyllwood park and feeling a wind that was different and noticing a light that was yellow and pink. I remember looking up at the oak and pine trees high above and watching the branches sway in the gust. I could almost smell that wind. I remember wriggling my nose, trying to identify that smell. Maybe it was seawater, maybe just electricity. Or maybe it was Ike collecting the devastation in Haiti and the Caribbean, and bringing that Houston, past Galveston.

Now, two weeks later, I can look back and recognize that while we were in the park 12 hours before Ike crashed into Houston in the early morning, the wind had to be different, as did the smells and the light. But that afternoon in the park, I doubted the hurricane’s splendor. Minal played on the swings and then, with some neighbors, we walked down to the bayou, swollen almost up to the top its banks.

And I remember commenting on how there were no fish leaping into the water. And we couldn’t see any turtles or rabbits. Or even mice. They were all gone somewhere, and in that moment of hollow sound, almost like a yellow-pink tunnel through which we walked together, holding hands, marveling at the different light, I still doubted that there was a hurricane coming. “That water is from Galveston,” one neighbor commented as she stared at the bayou.

And then we went home and we cooked and ate dinner: daal, qeema and bhindi. Every now and then, I opened the backdoor to look up at the sky. The Chinese tallow tree was now bending and the gust was harsher, stronger. I could no longer see the moon. There was no other sound but the gust and the rattling of falling acorns and small branches on the garage’s aluminum rooftop sounding almost like hailstones. But there was no rain. By the time I went to bed at midnight, the electricity had also left us, and of course, I had no way of telling that we wouldn’t be able to use a fan or a light bulb for 12 days after Ike arrived.

I woke up at 4:30 the next morning to the sound of something hitting against the house. And the wind, now like an airplane, was roaring and pushing against the house. I got up and peered out of the window. All was dark. And the wind so strong it drowned out all other sounds. Every few minutes something thumped against the house, as if we were on a boat and a door had come unhinged and was hitting against our structure, or the cars outside were spinning and moving on their own, banging against our brick walls.

At 6:30 that morning there was rain and still more horizontal wind. And that’s when the water rose as if the bayou had expanded past its banks and made its way to our home along the streets.

Almost twelve hours later, when we went for a walk that afternoon, long after the wind and rain subsided, after trees and branches crashed and fell upon homes and cars, I once again thought of the insects, the birds, the animals, and I wondered how far ants floated with their legs curled into their bodies, and how many miles the robins had flown along I-10 to be free from the hurricane wind.

Voices Breaking Boundaries' Brown in the Third Ward Living Room Art show was awesome. Tons of people turned out to support us and participate in the conversation about race. Oskar, you were missed.

In the midst of Ike madness, this gun show was postponed and has been rescheduled for November. Maybe I'll check it out. I see billboards for these shows all the time, and I always wonder what happens there, and who actually pays money to attend.

Houston is slowly struggling to a semblance of normalcy. The sun is shining, and incrementally, rain water is being drained and fallen trees are being removed, though some roads are still closed off. Grocery stores have no produce, dairy, eggs or meat. Most gas stations are closed. The ones that are open have lines longer than 50 cars queuing up on the streets and blocking traffic. Police officers direct angry drivers as fights break out. The school district is closed for the full week, but today, the universities reopened, as administrators attempt to pretend that life in Houston is normal.

There is nothing normal about today, a cool windy day in September. Our house has been without electricity for more than 4 days but we are lucky; at least we have water and our house did not suffer any damage unlike many of our neighbors. Café Flores is open, so we're camped out here catching up on email and work.

Fallen trees, destroyed homes, streets blocked off. And branches, so many branches. I have seen storms and I have seen flooding, but I have never heard the kind of wind that gusted through this city that early Saturday morning.

We are all right and our house is fine. Like half of Houston -- two days later -- we still have no electricity.

Lines building up for gas on Friday, before Ike hit the region.

Now that the US is openly sending troops and airplanes into northern Pakistan, the situation is getting more tense. Pakistani Prime Minister Gilani has stated that Pakistan can defend its own borders (and his assertion has even made matters tense between him and Zardari, who was sworn in as President this week).

Yesterday, when asked by a BBC reporter if the US government is resigned to the low regard people in Pakistan have toward the US, Richard Boucher, the US Secretary of State for South and Central Asia stated: "What are you going to do? You have to do the right thing no matter what...It's not done for short-term popularity or for political advantage. It's done because we have a fundamental interest in developing Pakistan as a nation and integrating these wayward parts into the nation into the whole system...

"What we do for Pakistanis and what we do for people and for the nation of Pakistan is that if we can in the end produce a Pakistan for its people that has more opportunity, where they feel safer, where they have access to education, then we'll get credit for it. But we have to do the right thing whether we're getting immediate results on popularity polls or not...I think our fundamentals are good. I think we just have to keep doing it."

I didn't know that bombings built a nation. I didn't know that the US was vested in "producing" Pakistan for the benefit of the Pakistani people. I'm learning more every day. (And trying not to scream as the larger scenario unfolds in front of us.)

Amy Goodman arrested at Republican National Convention. As of this morning, more than 300 have been arrested.

another minal-ism:

why are we born girls?

1931-2008

Poet Ahmed Faraz passed away today after a month of struggling with coma.

Faraz Chacha, you will be remembered with love and respect.

# #

Beena's post on the CNN Blog after Mush resigned.

from You'll Be Forgotten, As If You Never Were
By Mahmoud Darwish
Translated by Fady Joudah

I am for the road ... There are those whose footsteps
walk upon mine, those who will follow me to my vision.
Those who will recite eulogies to the gardens of exile,
in front of the house, free of worshipping yesterday,
free of my metonymy and my language, and only then
will I testify that I'm alive
and free
when I'm forgotten.

- posted in memoriam

Art in Houston
short piece presented at Houston Center for Photography's Lens Libs

Today I am remembering the sunny morning when William Pope.L began a crawl at Freedmen’s Town and made his way on his hands and knees all the way to glassy downtown Houston. Until that morning, I never knew how painful it was to crawl. I did ten yards and then got up with scraped knees and palms. I put on an orange blazer and helped Sixto with traffic, so William Pope.L and Laura Lark who were down deep on Dallas Street’s tarmac wouldn’t get hit by the SUVs that passed by. Today I am thinking about the time we took students to see FotoFest’s Guantánamo photo exhibition. I especially remember the open jaws of the teenagers from Pakistan, Yemen and Afghanistan when they learned that all Guantánamo prisoners were Muslim. And today I am remembering the tall black clothing installation that nearly scraped the ceiling at The Station during its “Made in Palestine” exhibition that heralded an exciting new art-space in Houston.

he performs his poem. when he is finished, he smiles and takes a deep bow. his electric words, his energy, and his appearance in sharp black pants and snazzy striped black and white shirt dazzle the women.

afterwards, his caring teacher drives him back to school. but at the end of a day filled with applause and excitement, he returns to the homeless shelter where he's staying, because he's been evicted from his apartment, and before that he was evicted from his house by his mother, and in between he was evicted out of another teacher's house because he threw a party and the management told the teacher it's either you or the boy.

so he goes back to the shelter and shuttles between shelter and school, school and shelter.

and somewhere in between, he decides enough is enough, and so he gets into a fight, is arrested and is now locked up in a jail for "assault."

today i am grieving for the boy, for the final straw that triggered him to react and do what he did. and now he has to find his way out of the corner in which he's locked himself.

and we all know that even if he gets out this time, life will remain a minefield for him. there are no simple answers to this vicious cycle.

Years ago, while still a grad student, I remember driving through New Orleans and thinking that this is a city where things happen and people move.

And then, things did happen and there was devastation. The French Quarter is not how I remember it to be. Now, post-Katrina, this section of town has been cleaned up, designed for tourists, and residents are visitors, performance artists who provide entertainment for a few fleeting hours each night. Older couples dressed in suits + ties and lace dresses wander through the streets, holding hands. All around, there is street action: dancing, bare bodies (male + female), music and street theater. There is art and life in this city and there is heartache and pain.

The devastation caused by Katrina and its aftermath have now become tourist material. "They don't want to clean up," says a taxi cab driver. "Everyone wants to come to our city and see what was destroyed."

independent bookstores rock. as do independent publishers.
to name a few: bookwoman, bookpeople, brazos bookstore, liberty books.

Yesterday afternoon, as I drive Minal home, I approach the stop sign that we pass every day. Once we reach it, I do what I always do: I put my car into neutral gear, I lightly tap the brakes, and then I zoom forward in first gear. Once again -- for the third time in a month-- I look in the rearview mirror and I see flashing lights. It's a cop signaling me to stop. I pull over. He comes out of his car. It's the same officer that I've seen a few times by now.

I roll down my window. "But I stopped."

He shakes his head. "That was a rolling stop. I told you that two weeks ago."

I gear up to protest, to defend my case. Just then, Minal bursts into loud tears. The cop looks at me, looks at her, gives me a warning, and then turns around and walks away.

This morning, on our way to Minal's pre-school, as I turn left onto Dismuke, Minal pipes up: "This time, make sure you stop. So the police will not give you a ticket, okay?"

There's no question about it. She'll pass her driving test when she takes it in twelve years. For now, I'm just relieved that my wise little three-and-a half-year-old is there to remind me of simple traffic rules.

Back in January, shortly after I returned to Houston after spending six weeks in Karachi, I got an opportunity to write a piece for the New York Times' Sunday Magazine "Lives" section. It was a rewarding experience, and the essay, Karachi's Winter Days, appeared in the magazine's Sunday, March 30 issue.

Over the last 48 hours, I've received a lot of comments. I'll try to post some up later.

Today, Minal's developed low fever and we're spending the day recovering. She's resting. So am I after an intense weekend: the organization that I co-founded, Voices Breaking Boundaries, presented its annual Words for Peace (along with Words Without Borders). The event featured writer Najam Ali, Hayan Charara, Farnoosh Moshiri and Zara Houshmand. Inam Wali, accompanied by pianist Tom Conroy, sang powerful Iraqi poetry. What an evening.

Neither side of Minal's family is particularly religious. But today was a quirky day. After dropping Ammi to the airport, we pick up Sissy Farenthold and drive to Bapsi Sidhwa's house for lunch. The lunch was set up so Ammi could meet Sissy and spend time with Bapsi, but I messed up on her travel dates. So now, after the long drive to the airport and back, Minal and I head to the other side of town.

It's only when Sissy emerges from her building in a silk dress that it strikes me that today is an important Christian holiday (with pagan roots). On the drive over to Bapsi's, Sissy and I joke about the irony of how she's sharing her Easter meal with Bapsi and us.

Once we get to Bapsi's, Minal draws out a book that she's grown to love: Saat dum wali chuhyia (The Seven-Tailed Mouse) by Bapsi Sidhwa. She remembers meeting Bapsi when she was a baby and now wants Bapsi to sign the book for her. After lunch, Sissy, Bapsi sit around the dining table talking politics. Minal meanders between us, sometimes talking to Bapsi's dog, sometimes climbing on the sofa to stare outside, or sometimes investigating Bapsi's coffee table decorations. Her highlight is certainly when the book-signing takes place.

Election fever's in the air. At 9:30 am this morning, as I head out to drop off Minal to pre-school, I see police cars blocking the street in front of Henderson Elementary, our polling station. Throngs of people are in line to cast their ballot and they're holding up Hillary banners. A policeman is directing traffic away from Dismuke Street. As we pass by, I look at him questioningly. He shrugs his shoulder and motions for us to turn.

I swing by again 40 minutes later -- this time armed with my camera -- and the crowds have dispersed. The police cars are gone.

I enter the building to vote and find that there's no line. Talking to the ballot officer, I learn that Hillary was at the polling station with her supporters. Hence, the crowd.

I did not vote for her.

I'm not excited about elections. And I'm not excited about the US candidates. I don't believe US international policy will change, and it'll take miracles to make progress on the domestic US front.

But for now, I'll vote, so the world hopefully can at least see a new name and a new face. For once, it feels good to have votes matter -- even if choices remain few.

It's now been five days since the Parliamentary elections took place, and despite the rigging, it's clear that the tide against Musharraf is rising.

But there seems to be no respite for the lawyers' struggle to resist the government. Yesterday, at a lawyers' rally in Karachi, police opened tear-gas and then arrested 15.

Other stories about the legal battle:

In Dawn :
Lawyers’ reminder to govt in-waiting: Impressive post-poll show
Lawyers determined to go ahead with March 9 plan

In The News:
Lawyers boycott courts, demand independent judiciary

Some days the distance between Karachi and Houston seems very short.

All week, there's been dire forecasts tornadoes and hailstorms in Houston for today, Saturday. Many events were postponed, but the day comes and goes and nothing more than the usual heavy rain and a few spots of flooding were recorded. Except at around 7 pm, I happen to be around Rice Village. And it's then that I notice that the shopping strips around me are dark. Pitch dark. There's a blackout, a power failure that covers more than 10 blocks. If I were in Karachi I wouldn't be surprised at all. Load-shedding I'd say, and then, continue on to where I was heading (expecting to arrive at someone's home lit by generators or candles). But here, in Houston, I haven't seen this sight before and I'm definitely intrigued. I will read the local paper tomorrow to find out what happened.

After I get home, I'm missing my mother, and for once we manage to catch each other for a fast conversation. There's stress in my her voice. "We have petrol in all the cars and we're all stocked up," she tells me. "Schools are closed on Tuesday in anticipation of what might happen..."

Parliamentary elections are scheduled in Pakistan on Monday. Let's see how many more lives will be lost in Pakistan by the time that day begins and ends.

After we hang up, Minal says, "Sometimes my Daddy likes elections. Sometimes, he doesn't." She's talking about US elections, but she might as well include Pakistan in her statement.

More police brutality in Islamabad after lawyers decided to boycott courts until the 18 February elections. Check out teeth maestro and read the article in today's Dawn.

Today, on the drive to pre-school with Minal, we talk with each other in Urdu--as we often do when we are alone with each other. Generally, I have to dictate to her, and then she gets into the stream of the language.

As we go under the railroad track on the feeder, she throws out on her own: "Nana ko Urdu pasand hay."

I smile. It's nice to know that the language is sticking. "Yes, your Nana does like Urdu."

She laughs and then gives me a list of all the people in her world who like Urdu: "Nani, Beena Khala, Maha." She stops.

"How about Tammi and Carol at school?" I ask.

"No," Minal says. "They're teachers. They don't know Urdu."

Blogspot is back up and running in Pakistan, but other websites are still hard to enter such as the Human Rights Commission website. Definitely feels as if things are back to where they were two decades ago.

But around us, prosperity is on the rise. Today, I ventured out with a friend to visit Crescent Bay development, a large Karachi project in conjunction with Emaar, a Dubai-based real estate company (slated to be the largest global real estate company) that has begun a new “development” project along the reclaimed land surrounding Karachi.

We drive along the Clifton Sea Wall, and the road that once used to end right by the water now continues along a rough patch (reclaimed land) that leads to Crescent Bay. As the road winds around, one can see that there is a great deal of construction taking place: high-rises, parks and of course there is still the water. The area is almost completely open and few people are in sight—unusual for Karachi, a city of more than 16 million—but of course, there are the stragglers: men taking brisk walks, a few couples ambling along the stone wall.

When we take the turn into the driveway leading into the Emaar office, we are stopped by their security officers.

“Why are you here?” we’re asked. “Do you have permission?”

We shrug. “We just want to see the office. We want to learn more about what Emaar is doing.”

The guard is ruffled, but then lets us in. The driveway is lined by flapping Emaar flags and in the distance, one can see the calm winter sea. The building itself is a square with a few arches and the murals depict happy families that belong somewhere else not Pakistan. That feeling is continued inside where an Emaar administrator shows us the model of the three bays that Emaar will develop. All the décor and images have little connection to the land or city: everything looks western or Arab. Pakistan, or at least a tiny valuable piece of the country, has shifted to West Asia/ Middle East.

“We had a meeting for investors a month ago,” we are told. “There were so many people—who paid a lot of money to attend so they could get first dibs on apartments—so in fact we had to do raffle.”

“Are you marketing within Pakistan or abroad?” I ask.

“Both.”

Before we leave, I am asked to fill out my contact information so they can learn more about me. I fill out my name, address and email address…I might as well continue to be on the list to learn more about what they plan on doing.

This is only a small piece of “development” along Karachi’s coastal drive. Further west, fishing villages will be displaced, Manora Island, Sandspit and Hawksbay beaches will also be taken over by similar projects. The coastline of Karachi is going to go through a dramatic shift. More on that later….

An article in today's The News gives updates on government blocks on blogspot.

Life continues to be turbulent. Those arrested yesterday were released on bail late last night, and today there was another bombing in Landhi in the outskirts of Karachi. Ten more were killed.

On another note, on Sunday night, after posting about Justice Bhagwandas' house arrest, and expressing doubt over Musharraf's ability to move Pakistan toward election, I found that I couldn't access my blog from Karachi while people outside Pakistan could. Thanks to resourceful dissidents, people in Pakistan, India, China, Bangladesh and Iran can circumvent such blocks by visiting different sites so their internet activity cannot be tracked.

With army rangers on the streets, censorship, mass arrests, and the added element of suicide bombing, I feel as if we regressing further back than the dark Zia days.

Read Teeth Maestro's blog on Draconian Cyber Crime Law in Pakistan.

More arrests. We return from a day at the beach--a wonderful multi-generation family gathering with the older generation, my cousins, our kids. Just a calm January day where we bask in the sun, eat fresh fruit, zeera biscuits, and home-made haleem.

And then, we get back home and my sister's phone starts ringing: During the evening vigil outside Justice Bhagwandas' home to protest against his house arrest, eight individuals--people we know--were arrested. They are expected to be released on bail sometime tonight. The official word regarding Justice Bhagwandas' arrest is that it's for 'his protection.'

The madness continues.

Today, Justice Bhagwandas was placed under house arrest in Karachi -- read more in Teeth Maestro. And yesterday, shortly before a lawyers' rally was scheduled to take place in Lahore, there was another suicide bombing, and more than 30 police officers were killed. At the Women's Action Forum conference earlier today, we were again reminded of the 1,000 FIRs put out against PPP activists, and hundreds of arrests have already begun all over Sindh.

It's hard to say too much these days. You don't know what's going to happen next, and no one can predict how far Musharraf will push the judiciary crisis, or what lengths he will go to in order to prevent elections from taking place.

Around the city, billboards and writings welcoming Benazir are scattered on walls and roundabouts. But Benazir is gone, and a sense of depression and grief pervails. The January 7 election day has also come and gone, and no one knows what will happen next, or what more will be done to postpone elections.

We are living in uncertainty--much more bloodshed is forecast--and people have created a temporary memorial for Benazir outside Bilawal House. Here, they lay down fresh roses and gather to remember her.

Today, we drive to the Sea Wall with Minal's cousin to attend her classical Indian dance class taught by dancer-performer Sheema Kirmani, who also runs a theater group called Tehrik-e-Niswan. As we park the car, our attention is drawn to a lamb tied to a bush, and a goat standing on its hind legs to reach for some leaves. While Maha runs inside Sheema's home to be on time for class, Minal wanders over to the animals and makes some friends.

After a while, we enter the house and make our way into the open space, where Sheema sits on the concrete floor and calls directions to the girls. Minal, inspired by the movement, stands behind her cousin and embraces her legs. Then, she darts into the hallway, and through the mirrored wall, I see her lifting her arms and twirling, resisting Sheema's calls to her to join the class.

As I watch the girls, I am reminded of dancing classes my sister and I used to attend with the Ghanshyams and how, once Zia came to power, they like many religious minorities as well as artists, packed their belongings and left the country.

Ten days ago, in a nighttime conversation in our home, my father grimly forecasts: "There will be much bloodshed before the elections."

No one thought that Benazir would get shot and that her blood would splash her bullet-proof vehicle. No one ever dreamed that the brave woman who came back would fall so soon. But she did. And now, with elections pushed further back--another six weeks--no one knows how many more lives will be lost, and how much more destruction there is to come.

The country waited a long time for the PPP press conference following the reading of Benazir's will and the party's decision regarding the 8 January election. First, the conference was to be held at 6 pm, then at 6:30 pm. Finally at 8 pm, all major channels are pointed toward Naudero where the first image is of 19-year old Bilawal Zardari seated beside his father Asif Zardari in front of many microphones.

Over the past few hours, news has leaked out: The PPP will call for election on 8 January, 2008 as originally planned. They will appeal to all other parties to contest the elections. But the most staggering news is that the new party chair will be Benazir's son, Bilawal.

And sure enough, that is exactly what we learn through the press conference. Asif Zardari--hwo has served 8 years in prison on corruption charges--informs the world that in his deceased wife's will (which will not be made public to the media), Benazir asked for her husband to chair the party, who in turn has passed on the torch to their son. In doing so, Zardari added the surname 'Bhutto' to Bilawal and his sisters so that the Bhutto legacy can be passed down. Other press conference news: Neither Asif nor his son (of course) will run for power and instead, if PPP wins in the elections (if they are held) the role of Prime Minister will be passed to Makhdoom Amin Fahim.

I, like many others, am stunned. Yes, placing a Bhutto face as the Chair of the party is a short-term solution to keep PPP together. It might be the way for PPP to ride on the national wave of sadness and be voted into power. But is it the job of a lifetime PPP Chairperson (which Benazir served) to will the party to a successor--let alone the fact that the successor is her husband, a man whose honesty is questioned? Is that the path to democracy? And are our people only able to respond to leadership through a dynasty?

Now we await Musharraf's response.

Today is the third day of mourning. BB's soyem prayers are being held nationwide with the heart of the gathering in Naudero, Sindh, where all her family members will be gathered. There will be soyem ceremonies, after which a PPP meeting will be held and the future of the party will be decided.

Here, in Karachi, in honor of BB’s memory, a group of us, cousins and friends, pile into two cars and head toward Boat Basin toward Bilawal House, the home of Benazir Bhutto and Asif Zardari. There, arrangements have been made for prayers.

In the small gully between Bilawal House and the main road, PPP members have set up durriees and shamyanas, men on one side and women on the other. There is a large crowd, but much smaller than usual—the city is still shut down and there is no public transport. Collective prayers are said. As women cry, organizers pat them on the back: “Don’t weep. Don’t cry. We have to show the world we are strong.”

Around us swarms The Press (national and international) armed with cameras/ video cameras, brazenly pushing lenses close to women’s faces so they can be the first to capture the grief. As a woman wails, photographers swarm within six inches of her and the sound of prayer is dimmed by the rapid clicking of cameras and whirling of buttons. The woman behind me, wearing a cap and a PPP waistcoat, beats her chest and cries louder, and photographers step over the line of seated women to reach her.

At times such as these, the difficult role of the press is brought to mind again: While it’s important to share news with the world, how can the media do so without making grief a public performance?

After the soyem, the men march out, shouting slogans of revolution. And then, three blank gunshots fired into the air are a frightening reminder of the past few days and the crowd rapidly disperses.

Out on the main road, a collection of men march, waving flags and calling out: “Benazir zinda hai, Bhutto zinda hai.”

When I get home, Minal asks me: "Did you go to Benazir's house? Did you go there because she was sad?"

Again, this evening, restless from home confinement and curious about what’s happening in the city, my mother, Minal and I wander out for a walk down to the main road. Today, there is more traffic, but still, the street action doesn’t even vaguely resemble what usually happens on a Saturday night. There are still no buses and trucks. But today, people are out on motorbikes, bicycles and in cars, restless just as we are. Some Pakistan Peoples Party (PPP) posters on an apartment building wall announce 18 October, 2007, Benazir’s return rally in Karachi when there was a failed attempt on her life.

We end up walking all the way to the main intersection to Delawala Center. There, the parking lot has remnants of glass from shattered car windows. A small crowd is gathered outside Askari Bank (owned by the military) that has been burned down. Next to the bank, several shoe shores, Bata and Hush Puppies, as well as other stores have been burned, and faded cloth drapes flap around what were once glassy windows displaying expensive shoes and clothes.

The armed guard who wears a large AK-47 strapped across his back, tells us: “They threw a bomb and everything burned. No one was killed. Even the people in the apartments above were able to get out. On Monday, we will assess damage.”

“Who was it?” we ask. “PPP? MQM?”

He shrugs. “The suspicion is PPP, of course.”

Across the street, a car dealership has been burned, and in the dusky evening light, it’s hard to know what is smoke and what is shadow. As we return to our house, we have to step out of the way as a Toyota zooms up fast onto the sidewalk and is parked against the fenced park. A father and son leap out of the car, and jump the fence toward the swings.

Minal has a pretend pink Barbie camera and she points, shoots and clicks at the burned car, still there from Thursday night, the pileup of trash and then, she abandons the photo project and instead, chases after her own shadow down our lane where there is no traffic. And for once, as we walk down the street, I don’t have to hold her hand, carry her or warn her that a car’s coming and get to the side.

My cousin wanted to drive to Larkana tomorrow to attend the soyem ceremonies, but when he went to purchase diesel for his jeep, he learned that the supply of diesel has been closed off and that petrol is being dispensed in small amounts. And the lines at the stations are two hours long.

In our little home, we are fine. We have food and water, and no one plans to drive anywhere until after Monday when things might normalize a little. But the suspense about elections, and about what will happen next remains—and the television remains on.

“Benazir Bhutto is sad,” says my 3-year old.

“Why?” I ask, nervous about what I am to hear. After all, for the last 24 hours Minal has been moving in and out of rooms with televisions blaring.

“Because they were silly to her. And she is sad. The little girl in the tank top, Benazir Bhutto is sad." She pauses. "And... and... they killed her.”



To read local papers and get another perspective on how events are unfolding in Pakistan, visit The Dawn or The News.

Today, the country is shut down. All offices, shops, banks are closed. And there is no street traffic. After the mayhem of last night (in Karachi, more than 1,000 cars were burned), everyone has been warned to stay home. Hyderabad, a city just two hours from Karachi, has now been brought under control by the army: according to the TV station Aaj all petrol stations there were burned and more than 70 percent of shops destroyed.

In the evening, right before sunset, my mother, Minal and I walk out of our tiny lane onto the main road, Khayeban-e-Jami. There is no traffic. Just a few cars whizzing by. As we reach the corner, we see the burned shells of two cars. I am reminded of Wim Wenders’ movie, Until the End of the World. Karachi, much like the rest of Pakistan, is a shell today and will be so for at least the next two days till the formal days of mourning are over.

I first encountered Benazir Bhutto in 1987 at a press conference at Karachi’s Hotel Mehran when I was working as an editorial assistant at The Star. She had just returned to Pakistan. There was a buzz and excitement about her return that reminded me of the thrill we felt when we went to rallies to see her father in the seventies (of course, as his government took a corrupt path, our feelings toward him changed). Nonetheless, Benazir Bhutto represented freshness and change, a person that could melt the frightening world that General Zia-ul-Haq had created during his decade of power. I still remember our dance of joy down main Clifton road toward the Bhutto residence when General Zia’s plane was blown up.

Benazir was only in her early thirties when she returned to Pakistan in the eighties and she won with a landslide victory in the elections following Zia’s death. But once in power, she proved to be ineffectual. She returned to office a few years after her first try, but again did not complete her term. And by the time she left, her support base was disillusioned by the few changes she brought and the corruption charges that she and her husband faced.

But this year, 2007, when she returned to Pakistan after eight years of self-exile, she again brought with her the buzz of excitement and change. With elections just 12 days away, her assassination at Liaqat Bagh Park (very close to where her father Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto was hanged by General Zia-up-Haq) is a blow to those who believe in her. Even for those of us who lost trust in her, we feel a deep sense of sorrow. For Benazir represented a history that is now gone and her voice, the only secular female voice in Pakistan’s political landscape, has been erased. And no matter how we view her, it is hard not to grieve a sudden death that will now pivot Pakistan toward a more murky future than we already face.

Read Tariq Ali’s piece on Benazir Bhutto’s death in the Guardian.

Around 4:30 pm yesterday Minal and I clamber in our car to drop Nusrat to her father's house. Afterwards, we stopped off at Guddu and Salma’s for tea, where Minal joins in to play with their daughter Summer and her friends.

"Let’s take the kids to Arena," says Guddu. "It’s a great play area. Minal will have a fun time and the older kids can ice-skate. It’s all the way in KDA but they’ll have fun."

As Guddu eats a late lunch (or an early dinner), we brainstorm on what food we can take for the kids. “Maybe get some paratha. Or maybe we’ll just stop off somewhere on our way there and feed them something. It’s on the other side of town and they’re going to get hungry,” Guddu says. “The food at the Arena’s terrible.”

Right around 6:30 pm as we're getting ready to leave, Guddu emerges from his bedroom, keys in hand. His son Rafae is playing PS3. “Turn it off,” Guddu commands. “Go to BBC.”

And that’s when we hear the news: Unconfirmed stories that Benazir Bhutto is dead after a bomb blast set off by a suicide bomber. It is 6:00 pm, and fixated to the TV screen, we watch as the news unfolds. Her death remains an unconfirmed rumour for the next 20 minutes but slowly, it becomes clear, that Benazir Bhutto is no more. And then, there’s a debate on how she died. Was it through the bomb blast that killed at least 15 other people or were there bullet wounds?

It takes almost the whole night for that story to clarify. Benazir Bhutto was shot dead in her neck and temple when she emerged from her bullet-proof vehicle to wave at the public. The suicide bomb happened seconds later and more lives were lost.

As the story unravels, and as grief hits the country, chaos ensues. Here, when there is grief, people burn buildings, cars, trucks, buses, petrol stations. Anything and everything. We watch in shock. This is a scenario that no one planned for. And the country continues to burn.

In the short stretch of street between our house and Salma-Guddu’s, there’s a strip of street shops, Gizri, a known Pakistan People’s Party (PPP) neighborhood. Here, there is fire. And we sit and wait at our friend’s house. It is only at 5:00am, in the short sliver of tiem when the country is quiet, right before morning prayer, that we manage to get driven home. I carry Minal out of her temporary bed and rush her to the car. And then Salma’s driver whisks us down Zamzama. On the quiet streets, we see abandoned cars, trucks and buses. Some are burned. There are no people moving and no cars—a vacancy, an emptiness that is unnatural to this city that never sleeps.

Today, the silence continues. On Khayeban-e-Jami, the main street closest to our house that’s an artery between the port and the industrial sector, the steady roar of traffic has been silenced.

The turbulent life of a powerful woman has been snuffed. Another day of grief for a country already struggling to survive.

For an analysis of Benazir's passing, read my sister's story filed with IPS last night.

Two years ago, a new educational institution was added to Karachi's cultural landscape: The National Academy for Performing Arts (NAPA). Envisioned by artist Zia Moyeddin, who serves as the Chairman of NAPA, the school is based inside the recently remodeled Hindu Gymkhana (a 1925 building designed by Agha Ahmed Hussein). NAPA is revolutionary for Pakistan, offering a bachelor's degree in classical music, classical dance (Orissi) and theater.

Last night my mother and I attended the closing night of the stage performance of Shakuntala, presented by Third Year NAPA students and directed by theater instructor Zain Ahmed. Just that the play is an adaptation of a 2,000-year old play--written by a playwright Kalidas about a Hindu princess Shakuntala and that it's being performed in Karachi -- are both reasons enough to make sure one sees it. But the performance itself was strong.

Experimental theater is fairly new in Pakistan, but the director did an excellent job of creating a group performance where 14 performers played all roles. Student performers created background music and it was exciting to see a traditional play with a hero/ heroine converted into a larger canvas with no one performer taking a lead role. With an open stage and few props, the short 45 minute performance was compelling. Using light, body movement, music, glitter and a six foot silk cloth, the actors were able to recreate the motion of water, transport on an elephant, and collective joy and grief. It was a vibrant performance and I was glad that I had scraped out the time to attend.

Check out a review in Pakistan's leading English newspaper, Dawn.

Another bout of police violence in Islamabad yesterday, just one day after the lifting of the "emergency" when 400-500 protesters protested for the release of Chief Justice Iftikhar Chaudhry. More than 60 people, including a group of women, were arrested.

Visit the Human Rights Commission of Pakistan's blog for more details.

There are moments of peace in this crazy city. Today, we took a 45 minute drive to visit Hawkes Bay beach. Winter-time is an amazing time to be out here; the Arabian Sea is calm and the coastline clear. Common sights include men walking by with horses and camels trying to induce beach visitors to take rides, fisherman on small foam-rafts collecting fish in nets and other stray sights (the usual donkey cart, camel cart, man with the snake and mongoose).

The calm of the beach is temporary. Much of the bay has already been sold to developers and it's a matter of time before the flat open beach is wiped away, ancient fishing villages destroyed and thousands of people displaced. All for what? The usual: to make room for the rich.

In Karachi, there is never a stortage of stories to tell.

More than 400 people gathered at Regal Chowk, in the heart of old Karachi, to hold a demonstration to protest against Musharraf's 'Emergency' (which ironically, will be removed tomorrow). Demonstrators represented a large number of political parties and groups including National Worker’s Party, Labour Party of Pakistan, Communist Mazdoor Kissan Party, the Human Rights Commission of Pakistan and many more. When the protesters first began to gather, the police on watch warned them not to march to the Press Club (because of the 'emergency', rallies are permitted but not public marches). However, when the organizers did not back down from the original plan, the police decided to cooperate and escort the marchers to the Press Club.

The unarmed police -- an unusual sight in this city -- marched at the front of the rally and had jeeps closing off the end; this rally was a sharp contrast to the protests that happened last week in Islamabad, Multan and Lahore where protesters were beaten and arrested.

Once we reached the Press Club, different groups gave out short speeches. The gist of the evening: its time for Musharraf to go.

This week has been one of much action in Karachi. Thanks to the People's Resistance (an assortment of activists, journalists and community members) who are organizing to express resistance against Musharaff's new Martial Law, each Saturday, a group gathers to do a peace vigil and protest against media censorship in Pakistan.

Last week, a group of us attended and placed hand-prints on a cloth canvas that will be used in Friday's protest rally.

Other gatherings over the course of the week included a Human Rights Day rally on 10 December as well as an on-site talk show, Live With Talat, at Karachi Press Club on 12 December. The show has been removed off the air ever since Geo TV, the leading Urdu TV news agency that broadcasts from Dubai, was closed off to its Pakistani audience after Musharraf declared his new version of Martial Law on 3 November.Read a piece about media censorship by Beena Sarwar on IPS.

We’ve only been in this city of 15 million for about four days but it feels as if we never left—other than the fact that the weather and fruits in August are very different from what one experiences in the Karachi ‘winter’. During most of the year, the weather here is exhaustingly hot. There is extreme humidity or dryness and people shy away from sunshine. But for a few weeks between December and January, one can sit outside, pore through newspapers while peeling fresh oranges or eating mountains of guavas. My personal winter passion is roasted pine nuts, which become an addiction for me; I sit outside and peel and eat and peel and eat more until my fingers hurt and are tattooed with the pine nuts’ brown shells.

The picture painted above is only a very small window in life in Pakistan this December 2007. Outside our quiet home in Clifton, Karachi, trouble brews. The lawyers’ movement to resist the government is loud and there are demonstrations every day in Lahore, Islamabad and sometimes even Karachi, a more fragmented city where it’s hard to mobilize—especially since the city is filled with MQM, supporters of Musharraf.

Nonetheless, in just the few days that I've been here, I’ve talked and met with people who are taking risks speaking out. The Peoples Resistance is a grassroots movement –of which my sister is an active participant—is collecting ideas of how to galvanize forces against Musharraf. A hot debate in the group’s listserv is whether there should be support for a boycott of the upcoming January elections. The group is comprised of activists, academics, journalists—and of course, lawyers, who are leading the movement in this country.

Everyday there are new issues about which one is angry and wants to take to the streets: yesterday, police completely surrounded the Lahore University of Management Sciences, where students were about to stage a protest, an act that is currently forbidden by Musharraf’s ‘state of emergency’ when no more than six people can gather publicly. Students were only able to exit by driving out in cars, two or three at a time.

At a larger scale, there was a human chain formed around the home of Justice M.A. Shahid in Pakistan, so he could resist the government move to evict him from his residence (government property). Justice M.A. Shahid is one of the judges who refused to take the new Oath to join the Supreme Court. Today, he suffered chest pains and was moved to a hospital. According to my sister, Beena Sarwar, there is a rumor that tonight, at 2:00 am, police will try to evict Justice M.A. Shahid from his official residence tonight, around 2 am: “Heavy force expected, protesters to be arrested. Vigil outside his house continues. Lawyers and other activists are gearing up for the fight.”

In Islamabad yesterday, police baton charged a protest organized by the Islamabad Student Action Committee, where between 700-1000 protestors gathered. Pictures of the rally are available on the Pak Voices website.

Also, Code Pink/ Global Exchange peace activists Medea Benjamin and Tighe Barry are expected to be deported from Pakistan later tonight. They were arrested yesterday for “visa expiration”—a false accusation. The two US activists have been in Pakistan to learn more as well as spread information about the lawyers’ movement in Pakistan.

To get updated information, visit these sites or join Beena Sarwar's yahoo list (bsarwar1@yahoo.co.uk):

Pak Voices
Human Rights Commission of Pakistan
Teeth Maestro

On a different note, David Barsamian, producer of Alternative Radio (from Boulder, CO, USA), is presently in the country. He was invited as a guest of the Eqbal Ahmed Distinguished speaker series and he gave a talk yesterday at Karachi’s Arts Council as well as another one two days ago at T2F. He’s now left for Peshawar. No doubt when he returns to the States, he will have many stories to share. It was wonderful to see him and spend time with him—in a space completely different from Houston, where he and I have spent time before.

Today, I was sharing with friends that Minal and I will be returning to Karachi soon to see my father who hasn't been well. One friend (like most people with whom I share this information) asks me: "It sounds rough over there. Will you be ok?"

"Yes, Musharraf's martial law is scary," I reply. "But the response to him is what should be happening in the US. In Pakistan, people are protesting, speaking out and risking their lives. And that is a good thing."

In the meantime, there's been an attempt by Musharraf to completely silence the media, but one can get snippets of news by visiting youtube and see students and lawyers protesting against Musharraf.

Angry as I am at what's unfolding in Pakistan, I find myself wishing that civil action was what happened in every country where governments stripped the people of their rights.

On November 3, General Musharraf declared a state of emergency in Pakistan (something that has been expected for the last 6 months). My sister, who is presently back in Karachi, has been posting regular updates through her yahoo group. To join the list, email her at: bsarwar1@yahoo.co.uk

Below is one of her most recent posts (many of the people she lists as under arrest are artists, activists, lawyers who have been protesting for years). In a conversation with my brother earlier today--as he and I were planning our December Karachi visit--we commented that no curfew has been declared-as yet. This is the Zia era being relived all over again.

Here's Beena's post:

Police rangers surrounded the Human Rights Commission of Pakistan (HRCP) office this afternoon, where a meeting to discuss the current political situation was underway organised by the Joint Action Committee. Police broke the hall windows and disrupted the peaceful meeting and asked the participants to come out. All the participants were bundled into the police vans and driven to the Model Town Police Station.

Some activists who were a bit late for the meeting found the office cordoned off by 12.45 and the road blocked towards the office blocked. "We stayed outside the hall for half an hour to assess the situation. We contacted some friends in present in the meeting on moble and apprised them about the situation outside. More contingents of police were pouring in. It was all a threatening scenario. Gun totting police men on red lighted vehicles and bikes were all around. The police ordered all the people waiting ousite the hall to leave the place," said one of the activists.

They remained in contact with some participants on phone and learnt that after police entered the hall and stopped the meeting "they offered the women participants to leave the venue while all the men were told that they are arrested. The women participants refused to go so they were also arrested along with men. later they werte all taken to police station. Police has refused to tell them the nature and period of their detention."

Over 70 people have been detained and taken to the Model Town (Block A) police station. They include eminent journalist & director HRCP I.A. Rehman, economist Shahid Hafeez Kardar, lawyer Iqbal Haider, HRCP's Rao Abid Hameed, Dr Mubashir Hasan (later released because of his age), artists Salima Hashmi & Lala Rukh, educationist Samina Rehman & other Women Action Forum members, SAFMA's Imtiaz Alam.

Their families are not being allowed to meet them, although some were able to get medications etc through to them. There are about 150 family members and friends gathered outside the police station. Police are saying that under Sections 3 & 16 of the MPO 1960 (maintenance of public order) they have the right to detain for up to 30 days without charge.

Meanwhile, about 50 people gathered at Karachi & chalked out a plan to keep information flowing. Anoher 50 or so just met at Karachi Press Club at a meeting called by the Peoples Movement for Justice. Prominent Fakhruddin G. Ebrahim, Hafeez Lakho, Yusuf Mastikhan and others was also there.

Other updates coming in thru various sources, some already published on newspaper & TV channel websites:
-Sindh lawyers are defying the replacement of the judiciary. They've sent out a text msg saying: "Sabihuddin in our Chief Justice. All judges continue to hold office. We do not recognise Afzal Soomro!"
-Sindh High Court Bar Association president Abrar Hasan has been arrested and taken to Karachi Central Prison (source - his daughter in law)
-Asma Jahangir is under house arrest.
-Other prominent lawyers like former president SCBA Munir Malik are also under arrest
-Judges being pressurised to take oath
- All news channels still blocked by cable operators, but cell phones and internet working (at least in Karachi)
- In a press release today, the Pakistan Federal Union of Journalists (PFUJ) rejected the promulgation of "mini-Martial Law" in the cover of emergency, "strongly condemned late night police raids on private tv news channels, two FM radios following the virtual ban on news channels for the last two days and decided to resist these action with the cooperation of other media organisations including International media watchdogshas. They have called an emergency meeting on Tuesday at 4 p.m. Other journalist unions have already held meetings in different parts of the country.
- PFUJ has condemned the ordinance-2007, to amend Press, Newspapers, News Agencies, and Books Registration Ordinance, 2002 and the Pakistan Electronic Media Regulatory Authority, PEMRA, 2002 - the amendment has 'added to already existing "black laws," against media and its a direct attack on freedom of expression and freedom of the Press.'

Earlier some ideas were floated about peaceful protest against the emergency:
- Wiki site being set up for info
- Wear white with a black armband or black ribbon.
- Put a black flag on your car or motorcycle and wear black arm bands in peaceful protest against martial law.

I make up songs for Minal every day and I’m considering creating a blog just for her so I can put in my nonsensical thoughts about her. But then, the thought of fragmenting and creating another task seems too much. So for now, my Minal stories will just be here, in Daily Noise.

My songs this week:
1. are you my chooza mooZA?
2. I say yes, you say yes
yes, yes yes yes yes yes yes
(this one was created to help her eat her breakfast yesterday)
3. minal meri rani hai, rani hai, rani hai
4. minaloo mera bhalloo hai, minalloo bhalloo bhalloo

Last night Minal cries a lot before I put her down.

“I feel like crying,” she says.

“Go to sleep, close your eyes,” I say, tired.

“I close my eyes after I get done crying.”

I am silenced by her words. This morning I ask her why she was crying last night.

“Because you get up off my bed,” she replies.

My chooza, getting brighter and more expressive by the day.

Last Thursday, Minal and I flew out of Karachi right as a heavy rainstorm was starting up—our only experience of the monsoon this year—and it took us over an hour to get to the airport because of flooded streets. After all the lame connections in west Asia that one has to make when entering and leaving Pakistan (we had two: one in Muscat and the other in Bahrain), Minal and I landed in Charles de Gaulle Airport, Paris. We were exhausted and hungry. We stood in line to get some naashta. Minal was being (understandably) cranky. She yanked the tray that was on the counter and my hot coffee slid off and fell on her. She got a burn about 2" x 2" on her back. First aid helpers and doctors showed up immediately and bandaged her up and said she was okay enough to fly. By some small miracle, after she stopped crying, we were actually able to make our connecting flight to the US.

When we reached Dallas, I called René to tell him what was going on, and he broke the news that on Thursday night (about 1 or 2 hours before Minal had her accident), he had a horrible car crash. He came out of it with shattered elbow bones and a bashed up eye, and the car was totaled. Again, like Minal, René is okay but obviously has pain.

We arrived in the States last Friday evening—and spent Saturday at the Children's Hospital and Sunday at an another emergency center for René. Over the week, Minal’s burn has almost completely healed, and her bandage (bandik, as she says) is off. René on the other hand will have surgery this coming week so his elbow bone resets fine.

Other random news: the weekend we landed, Houston was experiencing a heat wave. Last Monday afternoon our neighborhood had a power outage for 3 hours, and it felt like we were back in Karachi. And then today, there were heavy thunderstorms that caused the temperatures to drop but also created flooding around the city. After one hour of lashing rain, our street had water rising over a foot. I couldn't even reverse my car into our street to go to the office or pick up Minal. So, I took time out to do yoga and writing.

As I meditated, I registered that today is the first time in nearly six weeks that I am in a space completely by myself and the hustle of Karachi is now far behind me.

It’s a long drive from our corner of the city, Clifton, to the northern edge of Karachi where the campus of University of Karachi is located. (Everyone always refers to the University as KU or Karachi University, but today while doing a web-search, I discovered that the University’s real name is different…more formal).

I’m heading out to the distant corner of Karachi at the invitation of Professor Amberina Kazi to give a talk to students who take a Post-Colonial Literature course in the University’s English Department. As we visit in her office before talking to students, Amberina shares the challenges of setting up such a course at KU: “We wanted two new courses, South Asian Literature and Post-Colonial Literature but only one was approved.”

It’s an unusual day at the university. There is no electricity and the special auditorium that they’ve arranged for me to give my talk is locked and the special generator to pump air into the the room isn't up yet. It takes some time for the custodians and the persons in charge to work out the minor kinks, but in the meantime, I get a chance to chat with Amberina and her colleagues about the challenges of working at the campus.

When we finally enter the room, I am struck by the high number of female students—there are nearly 80 students in the room and only about 10 are young men. Many of the young women wear hijab, their appearance representing a significant change in this city. I read an excerpt from Black Wings and then take questions—and I am surprised to see that students are very prepared. The questions thrown at me focus on issues of identity, language (English versus Urdu), displacement and much more.

In the evening while reflecting on my morning, I process the fact that Q & A sessions in Pakistan are very different from those in the US. In the States, people are not so direct and confrontational, while in Pakistan, the energy is higher and people don’t hold back from saying what’s in their hearts.

I'm not sure which style I enjoy more... each has its virtues. It's been a while though, since I've spoken in a large Pakistani gathering and today's talk was a sharp reminder that that I've been away from "home" too long.

Today I was a guest on a talk show on Dawn News, Pakistan’s latest English language television station. On the show, I represented Alhamra Publishing and shared my thoughts (and publisher Shafiq Naz’s thoughts) about the English publishing industry in Pakistan. The overall theme of the show was on reading habits for Pakistani youth, and if my schedule hadn’t been so crazed I’d have been able to participate in a larger discussion with Bina Shah (fellow writer and also a new friend) and Muneeza Shamsie (well-respected literary critic and writer). Their segment of the show was broadcast after the one-on-one with me.

As it was, I had to shuffle my schedule to get to the station on time. Interesting enough, Dawn News pre-records its talk shows in DHS, in a separate space from where its news shows are recorded—near the seaport. I had to wait for almost an hour for the hosts of the show to turn up. They, apparently, had got caught in a traffic problem between the two stations, and from what I gathered through conversations with another host and a cameraman, that’s something that happens quite a bit with a TV station that has two venues. A large chunk of my time was taken up with makeup, and I emerged from the session looking glamorous, but not at all like myself.

All in all, the session was fun and the hosts were great…and it was good to see television in Pakistan expanding. Dawn News is still relatively new, and many criticize the station as serving the elite since it is Pakistan’s only English language TV station. And overall, it’s generaly accepted that the Urdu Geo TV, the first local television station outside of government-run PTV, will continue to dominate the national TV news. It’ll be interesting to see if Dawn can make its presence felt on the larger international front.

I've been in Karachi for almost three weeks, yet it seems like a lifetime, as if I was never anywhere else. I sit at Beena's desk with all the blinds down. It is past noon and outside, the heat is searing. A mynah sends out a musical chirp. By now, Minal can recognize the different bird-sounds: the mynah that sings all morning, the pigeons that echo guttural coos from behind my parents’ air-conditioner, and the aggressive bellows of the young rooster that the gatekeeper has adopted.

In the weeks that we’ve been here, a lot has happened. On the national front, we landed the week the Lal Masjid fiasco imploded, the day bearded Maulana Abdul Aziz was arrested in a burqa, after which negotiations stretched for almost another week, only ending on 17 July when the army launched an aggressive attack that led to many casualities (the exact body count is still under debate); the almost daily suicide bombings, a new phenomenon in this country, in the northern areas and in Baluchistan; and more lately, of course, the exciting verdict on the Chief Justice who has been reinstated to power. Everyone is talking about how these events mix together and more than anything, there's excitement regarding the precedent that has been set when the verdict on the chief justice was accepted—this was the first time the verdict of the Supreme Court has gone against the military government and has actually been accepted. The aftermath of this decision has yet to be seen. In the meantime, suicide bombings continue.

On the personal front, I went out for coffee with five ex-classmates, some of whom I attended school with for more than fourteen years. On Sunday, there's a brunch where more of us will gather. I’m also in touch with some of my first editors and fellow journalists back from the 80’s when I was working at The Star, one of Pakistan’s leading radical papers that's now defunct. Next week I'll be giving a reading at an exciting new spot in Karachi, the Second Floor Coffee Shop. I attended a jazz concert there last week. The music was great but the funniest moment was when I walked in and ran into three people I know from Houston. The world is getting small.

It’s challenging to post blogs right now. For a while, I was riding on a wireless service from someone in our block, but then he/she must have caught on, because a password has been set on the connection. So, I’m back to my mother’s slow but reliable dialup and for that I need time—something that’s always a challenge in my life.

On Thursday, 5 July, René, Minal and I emerge from our 36-hour journey from Houston to Karachi and step out into the open waiting area at Quaid-e-Azam International Airport. I hear my name being called. It is my mother waiting for us. We move onto the pavement so the car can roll around and we can stuff our bags for drive home. It is only six in the morning but the light is already strong and I know that in one hour, the morning light will be blazed away by the hot sun.

Leaning back into the car, René and I share tales of our painful journey to Ammi: six hours of a tortuous stopover wait in Bahrain, crowded airplanes, and Minal’s desire to hear stories the entire journey. We’ve never had such a rough trip, I say.

Well, there’s even more drama here, Ammi says. And that the first time we learn about the Lal Masjid seige in Islamabad. The takeover began on Tuesday, 3 July, the same day that we board the American Airlines airplane heading west. During our entire trip, we are too busy taking care of Minal and have little time for news.

But since our landing last week, we have been glued to the television watching daily changes in Islamabad. This morning at 4 am, the army launched a direct action and more lives have been lost. The last of the resistors are still hidden in the basement of the school barricaded by large petrol cases and bombs and women and children are being held back as hostages.

In our house and in houses around the country, televisions and radios are on as the nation is riveted by another story of extremist struggle in the heart of Pakistan’s capital city. It is just a matter of time before this scary saga ends and many more lives are lost.

One night, in a debate with my cousins and friends, we talk about the situation in Pakistan today.

We’ve never had police officers and army officers killed like this, says Haris. Three Chinese men were killed in the north. There’re uprisings in the north and in Balochistan. Things are very splintered in Pakistan today. It’s different from before.

It’s more scary than before, adds Asho. There’s militancy everywhere.

I feel as if a bomb is going to go off any minute, says Masume, who’s visiting from London.

I think back to the seventies, eighties and the nineties when General Zia was ruling, or when the MQM was waging war in Karachi. It is hard to compare those frightening days with today when on the surface, there is much more personal and media freedom. But it is true: Pakistan as a whole is more divided than ever before and talibanization is on the rise. The Lal Masjid incident—still ongoing—is just one clear example.

Today, I eat mangoes in a city stripped off all its billboards, many of which fell in June and took the lives of more than 200 people during an early monsoon storm. In Sindh and Balochistan, provinces ripped by a cyclone, hundreds have died and many are still living without food, water, shelter.

But all eyes are on Islamabad. Another story of drama and death, overtaking the needs of those who most need help.

it seems as if every few days when i think about posting on my blog, something new is happening in karachi. i wish i could say that the news was good but it's not. this past weekend, more than 200 people were killed after a thunderstorm that took the city by surprise.

i've experienced many floods in karachi at different points in my life. but in 2007, to have so many lives lost because of basic incompetencies is just horrific. and the bad news is that the standard of living gets worse, not better.

next week this time we will be on the airplane for the long trip back and we will land in a city that's torn by floods, electric outages, water shortages, intense heat, and much more.

ironically, this is still the place where i still find the most rest.

Today I visit a downtown Houston Harris County jail, my first time in a prison in any country, even though my father was jailed for a year nearly half a century ago in Karachi. I make the trip with René to see his student Alejandro, who was picked up two weeks ago for being undocumented while he was trying to get a drivers license so he could apply for a job. He got caught for faking his social security card and was thrown into a county jail. After many pleas by his lawyers, he will be released on Wednesday but there is a chance that he might be deported to Mexico. Alejandro, 18 years old, has been living in this country since he was five years old. His entire family is in Houston, but he may get sent away to a place he no longer considers home.

The downtown Houston prison, just a few blocks away from University of Houston Downtown, is a five story building, and when we step inside, I am struck that people standing in line to get visitors’ permits are either African American or Latina/o. Just yesterday I was in a downtown Houston city courthouse to defend a traffic violation, and I found myself making the same observation. And today, once again, I am reminded that the color of Houston’s population changes when one is in spaces such as prisons and courthouses.

After waiting in line for some time so we can get a permit to see Alejandro, René and I finally get our paperwork, go through the metal detectors and then, take the elevator to the third floor where we wait for Alejandro to be released into a glassed-in room. When he finally emerges, René talks to him through the intercom system in the glass. Around us are mostly women and children talking to the imprisoned men in their families. At the corner booth, an older man presses his mouth to the intercom and calls out to his son behind the glass to hold on.

Alejandro, dressed in orange county prison pants and shirt, is young, and all he can do is press his ear into the round intercom and nod as René encourages him in English and Spanish to be strong. Our visit is short—just fifteen minutes—and through the whole conversation, Alejandro’s head is bent. But I can sense the tears in his eyes. When René asks him, “Are you okay? Are they treating you well?” he nods. Behind him, talking into the glass on the other side, are two tall men, older and more toughened.

I hope it’s true that they are treating Alejandro well. He is too young and he didn’t commit a crime.

We live in a fucked up world operating with a fucked up system, and yes, this is where our tax dollars go: we pay our city and our county to catch the young and throw them into prison for merely living.

In 8 days, René, Minal and I will be flying to Karachi so we can hang out in the heat, get replenished by family love, mangoes and night-time sea-breeze. I am so ready to leave these borders. There is a jaded exhaustion that I feel just by being in one space for a long time. Houston is a city that has been good to me. But today I feel ready for change. Five weeks in Karachi is a start, but hopefully, there is more change down the road.

Every time Minal sees an airplane, she says: “Daddy’s in the airplane. He’s going to Karachi to see Nani.” When I ask who else is on the plane, she tells me that both she and I are on the plane that we will see her Beena Khala and cousin Maha in Karachi too. Today, on our way back from her pre-school, she says: “I am ready to go to Karachi.” In her toddler language, the word ‘Karachi’ sounds like “crunchy” and it makes me laugh every time she says it. She was on the other side of the world last year and the year before—two times before in her short life—and she still remembers the fresh balai cream that she ate with her grandfather.

We are ready for change, and while Karachi offers heat and electric outages (as often as four times in one night), I am certain that I will get replenished. There is something about Karachi's dense crowds and a closer connection to the world that I find irreplaceable.

Today’s blog was inspired by JP, my neighbor, who rolled down Jefferson Street and came over to help me take ownership of my blog. “It’s not daily,” I tell him. “But I can always try.” Thank you, JP.

Reality and dreams don’t always fit but if we can, even for a moment, align them then together we can make a wooden house on the mountains in Hunza or Chitral in the Karakoram or Himalyas.

Beside the rippling gushing icy water, we can build wooden bridges so we can go to the other side of the field where the grass is more green and the land more expansive and the mountains even higher with their snowy tips brushing against sky but where they are somehow even more reachable than they have ever been. And we will live here for a long time, all of us girls and women and our home will be open to all who want peace and whenever a new person joins us, we can build him or her a new room.

There will be a kitchen where we can prepare cauldrons of vegetables and daal, which we will eat together every day. At night we will light candles and sit around in a circle and tell stories. And during the day, ah during the day, what is there that we cannot do? We will go fishing or swimming or hiking or writing or drawing. Or sometimes we will just lie on the grass our heads resting on one arm, our bodies outstretched and we can have our eyes open or we can have our eyes closed. And we can lie there and watch the eagles and kites soar above us. Sometimes we can close our eyes and just enjoy the rustling of the fir branches, the tickling of the grass on our necks, the twittering of the doves and the sparrows. We can inhale the fragrance of the narcissus flowers and enjoy our closed eyes and know that the peaceful darkness behind our eyelids is of our own choosing and when we open our lashes, the sun and the grass and the trees and the birds will all still be there.

And if we want to stay longer, after the sun sets, we can do that as well and wait till the stars appear to rain into the sky like fireworks. And we can stay there all night and all day and awaken the next morning to enjoy the grass and the mountains and the silence that we have all almost forgotten.

Today, yesterday,
The day before
And other days to come:
Shar-e-Faisal aka Drigh Road is
CLOSED

C-L-O-S-E-D

No way into the city, no way out
All exits from the airport are
Closed. Bund.

I want to go home and breathe smoke
From bodies and tires burning
As brother-sisters from every side D-E-A-D

The city is closed. Again
Today it is because we moved us in and moved them out
And 60 years later, the city is closed. Again.

I am a people displaced and there are connections to be made
Between this fire and that
Between different displacements, exiles and choices.

And today all roads
To Quaid-e-Azam international Airport
Are shut down-closed.

A city and a people in flames
All linked to soil
This is mine-no this mine
And on the zameen they fight
While the city remains closed.

I wake up in Houston
Thinking and breathing the smoke
On the other side
Babba watches tv
Ammi cooks a home without fire and electricity

And no airplanes in or out.
Today I picture it.
I see it.
And people are dying.
Again.

The city is C-L-O-S-E-D.

para Carolina, Rich y las estudiantes

I-10, a ribbon stringing across the southern borders
Of the USA (los estados unidos de américa),
A freeway racing parallel to curling barbed wires and military lights
Across which are homes much like the ones on this side
Maybe more decrepit, maybe more dusty
But maybe more in touch with the sand, the earth, the cactus
And the lives lost.

I have seen the barbed wire along the rio grande between el paso and juarez
And I have heard of guns, walls and barbed wire in ramallah and jerusalem
And I know of AK47s and kalashnikovs and military checkpoints
Along kashmir, baluchistan and sindh,
Borders where sisters wait hours to see their sisters
But then are turned away.

More than anything
I know children live, sleep and eat and roosters crow
On every side of the silver wire-ribbons that cut across the globe
Piercing our skin to draw blood
Forcing us to forget
That one day we will cry together when our mothers pass away.

Mera naam sehba hai
Munjho nalo sehba ahay
Mi nombre es sehba

And I don’t need to tell you, on any side of I-10
Or you, anywhere along the sharp wire ribbons that divide earth
I don’t need to tell you what I just said
Because you know on every side of the border that you-we-us-I are the same.

So put down your gun
Tear the ribbon and wear it like a roman crown over your head
And join us in los estados unidos de americas y mundo aur dunia
To build bridges and destroy walls.

—Sehba Sarwar
El Paso, TX, March 28, 2007

I sit in a quiet office in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and look out the window at a tall red-brick building, a swaying leaf-less oak tree. If I stare a little harder, I can see rain dripping down. Some pellets are clear, others icy white. A gusty wind pushes against the bushes on the terrace in front of this window.

Yesterday, there was no rain --just bright sunshine-- and I was not in this office. I rented a car, took the Mass Turnpike and drove west, to South Hadley, Massachusetts, a quiet rural town that I haven’t seen for over twenty years.

Exiting the Turnpike, I get on Route 116, a curving farm road that leads straight to Mount Holyoke campus. I find a parking spot directly across from Odyssey Bookstore and step out into the sunny morning. My friend Kat, who used to live down the hall from me when we were freshwomen, stands on the steps of The Odyssey to greet me. Today, Kat's playing hooky from the elementary school in Connecticut where she teaches, now lives. After dropping her children off to their school, she drove 90 minutes north to meet up with me. She looks almost the same as she did May 1986 when we were last on this campus together.

Together, we walk through the campus, marveling at how little has changed. The library has gotten larger and there are a few new buildings, all designed so they don’t blend into the older architecture.

We wander through the library, marveling at how different it is inside, even though it looks exactly the same outside. “There’s a picture of me framed somewhere in this building,” I tell Kat. "My ex-high school student Claudia (from Jones High School in Houston) told me about it. I don’t believe her but we should look.”

We wander through the stacks, the Stimson room, then find ourselves in a room that didn’t exist in the old days. And there I find a photo on the wall: Nema, Fawzia and myself, holding placards, mouths open, yelling for our college to divest funds from South Africa. This, I find out later, is the Politics Room, and the presence of my class, my group of friends remains indelibly part of Mt. Holyoke’s history.

Later on, we walk down to Willits-Hallowell and eat chicken noodle soup that tastes exactly as it did 20 years ago. (Too bad some things didn’t change!) We also manage to enter Torrey hall, where we spent our first year on the first floor. Walking down the hallway, we can stare at each pine doorway and name the women who became part of our personal histories: “Sarah and you, Heather and Lisa Woo, Nema and Fawzia, myself and Jenny, Seema and Nissreen, and down the hall, Kim and Leah, and across from us, Robin….”

When I see Bill Quillian, my English advisor who fueled my passion for contemporary literature, he asks me: “What brought you back? And why’d you take so long?”

Later on, I run into Jenn Udden, an ex-high school student of mine (from Houston) who is now taking courses with a Politics professor, Kavita Khory, a Mount Holyoke alumna, who attended the same school in Karachi as I did for fifteen years. The world is getting smaller.

My visit to Hampshire college re-reminds me of how tiny the world is: I have a quick cup of coffee with Ragni, a 4th year student there and she tells me about her documentary that focuses on hijras in Pakistan. "I’m going to spend next year in Bangladesh," she says. I know Ragni back from Karachi when she was a little girl and we visited her parents’ home. And now, she’s about to graduate from the same college where I spent many evenings my senior year, taking classes with Eqbal Ahmed, a man who made me realize how big, yet tiny the world really is.

I end my evening with a drive down to Amherst to the house of my ex-roommate, Heather Davis, her partner Nina and their two children, Audrey and Cole. Another friend, Beth, has driven down from Vermont with her four children and dessert to meet up with us. The short visit—just two hours—is rich with stories and 20 years melt away.

On the drive back to Boston, I don’t listen to music. My mind is quiet but I can remember the conversations we had at different times during my years on that sleepy campus: ‘Should I step back if the police come? I have an F-1 visa?’, ‘How should we express our anger at the US’s bombing of Libya?” and “How many of us can fit into your car to the Take Back the Night’ rally in New York?’

There is much to remember and, exiting the Tollway to enter Cambridge, I remind myself, there is no need to close doors to memories. The world has not changed much. There is much to speak out about and the passion from the past can serve as fuel for the future.