Rapist by Association

Rapists-we all hate them. Even those who rape their own wives hate them. We condemn the heinous act. Even those who sexually harass others once in a while condemn it.

Rape is a crime that doesn't belong to any particular terrorist group, religious identity or race - although 80% of sex crime victims are women. So one might generalise that this crime may be owned by the tribe of 'men'. That incriminates every single man in this world with a penis or a candle stick, doesn't it? That is not a fair inference, is it now? Then why is it acceptable that if a sexual assault is committed by a man of a particular 'visible' minority, his entire race is shamed?

A Pakistani man living in Canada made news when he sexually assaulted a woman. It was reported today that he was sentenced to (ONLY) two years and nine months in prison, but has fled to Pakistan to evade the charges. Any man who has the capacity to take advantage of a non-consenting other, is vile, rotten and should be punished by law (alhough that rarely happens in this world).

The rapist was a Pakistani and a Permanent Resident of Canada. By association, the ever so sharp social (media) justice is incriminating all Pakistanis living here. One man's Pakistani penis is reflecting the character of the rest of us Paki immigrants. 

Reading the comments posted by some very polite people on the news report about the man, I wonder - is that what you really think of me simply because I belong to a particular country? Is this what you are really feeling when you meet me and chirp 'Congratulations on getting immigration' - like you are my saviour and I am your burden? 

Never Again

Cute pets wearing silly hats is the greatest thing you will see today, said a Facebook post. Light-up unicorn slippers are the most magical thing you have ever seen, said another. Toronto has a new cafe where poop-like desserts are served in toilet bowls - anything is possible, said the blogger. People are arguing about who is right about the latest situation in Aleppo. Don't believe everything you read, they say. I see a cover photo with a beautifully illustrated image of a child's bloodied shoe. Never again, it said.

Two years ago on December 16, 132 children were attacked and killed by terrorists in a school in Pakistan. We mourned, made emotional songs and talked about giving guns to teachers in schools. We said never again. 

An estimated 345 children die everyday as a result of violence. In the last 2 years, 251,850 children of the world must have died violent deaths. 

Never say never I said before liking the bloodied shoe and the cute pets wearing silly hats. I don't like unicorns anyway.

Stimulating Conversations

Q. Can you speak English?
A. Yes. We just had a long conversation in English.

Q. But how can you speak English?
A. Because it is an international language. Because my ancestors were ruled by the British. Because I worship white people and their language. Because I am stupid?

Q. But you don't even have an accent???
A. I'm so sorry.

Q. Wow!
A. Wow!!

Q. Oh, you even drink? Weren't you ever stoned to death.
A. I was. I am dead.

Q. Wow!
A. Wow!!

The 84th Problem

Life choices are about accepting one set of problems over another.

Trade a fear for a different one. Relinquish the fear of safety to the fear of not being able to pay the rent.

Barter an injustice for another. Reject the social and legal abuse to accept alienation as an alien.

Exchange your tragedy with a new calamity. Choose between strife and debt, freedoms of sorts and the colour of your chains.

But do not regret. Remind yourself life choices are also about discovering and embracing new paths and new joys; about finding yourself again and meeting a whole lot of good people who teach you so much you didn't know before. And if you can't help but question those choices as you live them, know that there is always another set of 83 problems you can choose all over again.

I needed to write this to hear this.

Fifty Shades of Racism

Activism can easily overspill into the territory of hate. Opinions may start to come in the shapes of offence or defence. To be objective, one can become apathetic or ignorant. It is all very confusing.
Wordsmithing in such confusing times becomes paramount. Diversity and racism are two such influential words coined in recent times. Amusingly, they are often considered antonyms.

In a country where hate-speech is criminalized and diversity is chic, where one MUST write the word Aboriginal with a capital 'A' –you would assume that racism wont be popular culture. More likely it isn't, in black and white (no pun intended). But there are fifty shades of grey that still persist.

"I love your kind of people", says a stranger on the street when he sees me walking with two other visible minorities.

"Was it you or XYZ (an Iranian girl) I spoke to regarding a communications project?" says a colleague for the 100th time when speaking to the only communications person on the team – a Pakistani girl.

"Do you know what a pizza is?", asks a well-meaning acquaintance who is fascinated with my humble origins.

And when I am spoken down to with the assumption that I would be meek, submissive and most likely deficient just because I am a woman from a country where women are known to be suppressed, controlled, marginalized and often killed.

Ironically, the minorities also carry similar biases. 'White and privileged' is one of the first derogatory terms used to describe someone who is just not liked.

Maybe racism and all its shades have become innate in all of us – like sexism. The inferiority and superiority complexes inbred in us from our tumultuous and glorified histories. Like a congenital disease that does not have very obvious symptoms, in all likelihood is incurable and causes deep pain not to our bodies but our souls.

Tomato Tomato

The Sycophant: "Oh let me climb on your glorious head so I could lick your noble boots and sing your praises so loud."

The Narcissist: "Of course. Let me place my boots on my head - lick them forever and make me, oh make me proud."

The Critic: "I shall not resort to this charade, I shall not play their game. But when will they look at me, for I am so well-endowed?"

The Moaner: "Why am I not so bright? Why do I have short sight? If only I could do something to stand out in this crowd."

The Impervious: "This is not my life, this is not my care. I will return to my kingdom in time, where the narcissist in me is allowed."

P.S: Do not have fear dear immigrants. You will find the kind of jobs you have been accustomed to all your lives.

Reaching the one-year mark

Q: What was the first thing you wanted to do when you landed in Canada?

A: Kiss my man, in public.

Q: What did you really do?

A: I smoked my fucking cigarette.

Q: What did you want the most when you came to this country?

A: A job.

Q: What do you really want now?

A: Win a fucking lottery.

Q: What did you want to be in this new country?

A: I wanted to be an artist.

Q: What do you really want to be now?

A: I want to be fucking rich.

Q: Is there anything you got that you really, truly wanted?

A: I got to lie down by myself in a public park without causing a fucking riot.

Dreams do come true.

Because we have nothing

Women are getting burnt alive in Pakistan. Muslims are celebrating Ramadan on Facebook. Rapists are being protected in the US for being good white swimmers. It's summer in Canada.

I am sitting on my newly purchased mattress pleased with myself and life. I have lost stability so many times, but never my sanity. That is an achievement I am satisfied with. My home smells of delicious curry. I had spent the weekend lying on the grass with my friends looking up at the trees as they rustled madly. I am looking forward to hosting the first play date in my new house with rooms. Life is good and kind. 

My child is sulking. She doesn't want her friend to come over. "Because we have nothing", she says as she frustratingly bounces on the new mattress, balancing her personal iPad in her hand. 

She is often unaffected by 'nothing' as long as nobody is there to see it. 

Maybe if she lies in the grass all day looking up at the trees, she would feel the abundance worthy of sharing with those worthy of caring. Maybe when she is not 10.

Pants of interest

"Why can't you dress like normal Pakistani women?" asked my then husband, disgruntled at my choice of Western attire - a pair of jeans. "Don't wear pants to the court if your moral character is on the line", said my lawyer when a custody battle brewed. "But you dress in a certain way that invites too much attention", said my boss pointing to my jeans, when I complained about sexual harassment at the workplace.

My pants have been of great interest to many in my past life.

Interestingly enough, they have continued to attract attention in my new life, albeit for different reasons. 

In all my new interactions, before anyone even begins to make an effort, I provide enough evidence to discourage any respect or sensitivity expressed due to my association with my religion. With that out of the way, it leaves the female kind astonished that I still choose to wear pants each day, even in the scorching heat (by Canadian standards), even when my legs are shaved!! Everyone wants to take me shopping for an educational trip. Eager to integrate some more, I finally yielded and bought myself a 'professional looking' pencil skirt as per standards and instructions. It was an exciting day for me to mark the end of my suppression as I tried my newfound symbols of freedom.

I could not walk. I found the skirt's inability to stretch enough for human-sized steps strangely confining and honestly confusing. I was unable to sit with my legs uncrossed unless I was compelled or willing to flash others. Bending down for any purpose was completely out of the question. I was not womanly enough for the skirt. 

My next investment was a nice summery skirt instead, with an acceptable circumference. I wore it on a day turned windy when both my hands were occupied with heavy bags of groceries.

Needless to say, I will be sticking to my pants for now. I have moved countries and continents and have therefore earned the right to feel anxious about letting go of my two-legged comfort zone that fits me very well. If that refutes the acceptable standards of beauty, gender or sexual stereotypes, I've been to the other side far enough not to care. 

Manifestations of Transportation

Public transportation speaks volumes about the character of 'public'. The depiction is not even metaphorical. The filth, stink, harassment, sense of entitlement, or apathy experienced in a public vehicle literally represent all that about the nature of human kind that resides within geographical or communal confines of a society.

I am an entity of contradictions — a trait I share with metropolises. Maybe that is what attracts me to them. The list of my failed conquests of big cities has only three names - Karachi, Bangkok and now Toronto and I have been fortunate to have experienced the public transportation in all three.

I remember.
Once, I tried to get on a crowded bus that would stop for passengers but really wont. I remember hanging on for dear life as the heedless driver watched me in his sideview mirror with my clothes torn from the sudden blow of movement that had hit me when my toes had barely even touched the steps. When I finally found ground under my trembling feet, I remember my bottom being pinched and those stares of the surrounding crowd, snickering at my torn shalwar as I frantically tried to cover myself while balancing in an unforgiving mob. This was Karachi.
I have memories of how I would look for a motorcycle taxi driver with relatively fewer bottles of beer scattered around him and ideally find one who wasn't holding any in my particular moment of interaction with him. I remember how I tried to get over my debilitating claustrophobia in an overcrowded train by watching and thinking people — wondering how can so many people be staring at their phones that had playboy bunny ears; maybe this time someone wont sport a peace sign or a fake pout for every single selfie taken. I think I must have lost my sense of smell during one of such train rides as my brain tried to shield me from losing my mind. This was Bangkok.

The driver is cracking jokes on his microphone about the weather. Even when its not about the weather, the humour comes back to it eventually. Some of the seats are visibly withered and seem to have had their share of regurgitation over the years. A woman is speaking violently to herself, by herself. Other than her, no one is talking. Earphones are blocking all ears, screens are choking all eyes. Occasionally a dog or a baby comes through and everyone takes a moment to look and smile. People seem visibly annoyed with the speed of the vehicle as it is not compatible with the speed of their lives. In the silence, annoyance and crowd, they still remember to offer their seats to anyone in suspected need. Some times someone would start singing along loudly, and often not melodiously, to their earphones...probably because they cannot hear their own voice, or maybe they just doesn't give a fuck. Nobody cares about what you are wearing or how you look as no one ever looks the same as the other anyway. As I step off through the doors that open and close automatically, a man who has climbed down just one step ahead of me choses to hold that very automatic door for me just out of habit. My third metropolis, Toronto.

I have come a long way.

251 Days of Travel

It has been 251 days. I wonder for how much longer I can call myself a new immigrant.

251 days ago, I was surrounded by my close friends. The living room was dark except for some failing candles, music and laughter. The only care I had in the world in that moment was to get through immigration without incident. Was my luggage too heavy, would I get through the flight? There was a fleeting moment when I wondered how I will survive without my friends.

251 days ago, I was often sure of myself, suffering from bouts of very high self-esteem. I knew what to do and when, where to go, or so I thought.

And then I fell through the rabbit hole into the unfamiliar. What ensued was an adventure that is ongoing. Sometimes I grow too tall. Other times I shrink too small. 

In these two hundred and fifty one days, I have survived without a bed, TV, a car and other familiarities. I have found a job with benefits (it is nothing like having a friend with benefits) and that is not in a grocery store or a call centre. I have not yet been lured by the oh-so-attractive and imminent cycle of debt, on the weak foundation of which life survives here. I have realised that always being sure of myself and knowing what to do has got nothing to do with self-esteem. 

251 days ago, my daughter was stressed about being killed by the Taliban in school. 251 days after, she is stressed because a boy in her class had a minor outburst. I have witnessed how quickly fear thresholds change; how quickly the unfamiliar starts to seem like the reality we have always lived.

I wonder for how much longer I can call myself a new immigrant.

Oh Pakistan

"You are so brave", some people said in response to my decision to immigrate. And I thought to myself, what is the bravery in starting over? Isn't it the most natural consequence of a dissatisfied life? I chose to change my own life instead of choosing to change the lives of others. If anything, that is cowardice.

Such thoughts become more dominant in times of turmoil in my homeland. A bomb goes off and 72 people, most of them children, die in Lahore. If I were in Pakistan, my first thought would have been of gratitude that my family, friends and I are safe and alive, yet again. I wouldn't have done anything other than call people and get depressed for a while. I would have talked to friends about leaving the country. I would have tweeted constantly about blood donations needed, without ever thinking of commuting five hours to Lahore to donate my own. I would have cried.

Now that I am not there, I feel a dark sense of longing. So many of my Canadian and American friends have messaged me in the last couple of days, condoling me for the tragedy. And every time, I felt I did not deserve those words of kindness and support. For I have abandoned the right to talk about that tragedy as my own. I fled.

As I non-territorially mourn the tragic loss of human lives and yearn to reconnect with that sense of loss as my own, I read about the protests going on in Islamabad. A horde of bearded men ransacking Islamabad to glorify a murderer who killed in broad day light a man trying to oppose the barbaric Blasphemy Law. The beards want the hanged murderer to be declared a martyr. They want promises from the government that all laws that marginalize minorities, criminalize freedom of speech, and permit murder in the name of religion must be upheld.
My mind quickly makes associations. I start to remember the times I was threatened to lose custody of my daughter because I could conveniently be proven to be a bad character woman in the court of law, as I don't abide by the decrees of the accepted religion. I recall my 4-year old daughter coming home from school and asking me 'what is hell?' just because another child had told her that is where she will burn for not being religious. I shiver when I think of the time she asked me 'will we be killed by Taliban in our school?'

I did not have the strength to fight all that or to even tolerate it. I did not leave because I was brave. I left because I was a coward.

May the departed rest in peace. May the peace that has departed rests on us.

Gritty City Toronto

Toronto is turning 182 years old this weekend. Even though I have been living here for only 6-months, I have developed a strong affinity for this city. It offers the perfect balance between a civilized society and an uncivilized one. Coming from a largely uncouth country like Pakistan, I feel Toronto is helping me ease into the system without experiencing ‘civilization shock’.

The streets are dirty and you have to be vigilant enough to navigate yourself through sporadic dog shit. You get generously pushed around on subway stations. There are beggars asking for change here and there. The newspaper reports random street crime and killings almost twice a week. The car drivers are often impatient and rude during rush hour. Finding a parking spot is tantamount to achieving self-actualization. Homelessness is rampant and the average person can barely afford to live a decent life. All this makes me feel right at home. The city reminds me of Karachi without the bomb blasts, frequent street riots, power failures, inhuman treatment of animals, and men touching themselves in public. 

The lack of decent street food and the often broken down public transport system is compensated by the ample availability of recreation and entertainment options for every budget. The absence of feeling as a result of living fast-paced mechanical lives is indemnified by (very) frequent utterings of ‘sorry’s’ and ‘thank you’s’. The lack of depth in art is made up by abundant support available for artists.

The old creaky street cars packed with tired people staring mindlessly at their mobile phones is a sight I genuinely look forward to every evening. I imagine their life stories and try to predict their personalities. I see faces (and bodies) from all over the world, struggling to keep up with life, and I feel I belong. As I cross the streets of downtown in large packs of silent humans, I feel like an animal in a herd. A friend suggests I should try mooing next time.  

I think I am falling in love with the city. 

     

Happy Birthday Toronto. Thanks for being my new home. 

The red in Valentine's

I look at the office calendar and notice that Valentine's Day is recorded as an important date. I think about Pakistan and smile about the irony. I think about Sabeen Mahmud. I met her at a conference in 2013 in Bangkok where she was a speaker. The topic of discussion was Freedom of Speech; a right she avidly demanded, worked for and died for less than a year ago from today.

She was funny and animated as she narrated how her Valentine's Day rally in Karachi was responded to with death threats by radicals. She had to go underground for a while until the Muslims found something else to criticise about. 

Two years later, she was killed. One of her killers - an educated boy from my university - claimed that  her unIslamic Valentine's Day rally was the sin she eventually paid for. Here it is just a day on the calendar. People can choose to celebrate it or ignore it. It can be a perfect excuse to buy more commodities or a reason to feel loved/unloved. It cannot be a matter of right and wrong, piety or evil, life or death. 

Such memories remind me of the reasons I left. I didn't stay, I didn't fight. You can't fight religious dogma. It is too big an evil to be dealt with through dialogue or creative expression. It is too ominous to win over. I wish Sabeen had known that.

I am not a Syrian refugee from Pakistan

In four months I have learnt that Canadians love to talk about the weather. Lamenting about the weather being too cold, or not cold enough is the perfect icebreaker and helps new comers identify with the locals. I recently got into a such a conversation with my fellow streetcar passenger.

As I discussed the cold winds with my random stranger of the day, I proudly announced that it was my first Canadian winter. This revelation led to the obvious question, ‘where are you from?’ ‘I am from Pakistan’, I replied. Visibly excited, the young man asked his next question, ‘so…are you like… a Syrian refugee?’  Once my insides had laughed enough, I realized how much that young man wanted me to be a refugee so he could utter one sentence to me with pride, ‘Welcome to Canada'.

It is true that Canada does not rank very well as a country that offers refuge to a larger number of people, when it certainly can. But I am sure it would rank very well in terms of the treatment of refugees and their reintegration into the society. As the news of the pepper spray attack on a group of refugees in Vancouver spreads, I can, as a newcomer to this country, confidently say that the incident does not represent the sentiments of the public at large.

I am a big skeptic when it comes to what is reflected in the media. I have been a storywriter myself, carefully crafting scenarios and recreating reality on camera to appeal to popular perceptions. So my opinion is not based on the social media frenzy created by the video of Canada’s (gorgeous) Prime Minister receiving the first lot of refugees at the airport. Rather, I am judging the situation by the willingness of the common people towards this issue. A substantial number of Syrian refugees meant to come to Canada have been privately sponsored by families and communities. There are places where locals are even taking Arabic lessons so they could communicate with their refugee families upon their arrival.  Toronto airport had to announce to the public to not head to the airport to welcome the first plane carrying refugees so as to not overwhelm them.

The elaborate systems being put up by the Government to resettle the newcomers are also a clear reflection of the positive intent of this country. The refugees are being given Permanent Resident status upon arrival and are being offered a genuine chance to start over. There is avid critique about this situation, because there is much room for improvement and expansion. But that should not stop us from appreciating what is intrinsically positive.

As a willing immigrant with no language or culture barrier, I am struggling financially and emotionally. I can’t even begin to imagine how much harder it must be for the refugees after their arduous journeys to escape war. But I can definitely say that we have arrived in a country with a relatively good heart. A pepper spray won’t change that.