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When a person commits suicide, as my cousin Mani did in May, it’s a landmine exploding in one’s tight family circle, leaving us dazed and shattered and apart from one another, searching for pieces of our broken hearts, alone.
You go on, because life does. And most days, as long as you don’t dwell on his memory for too long, on the godawful waste and shame of it all, it’s fine.
But, there are still landmines waiting for an unsuspecting step to trigger the disbelief, grief, blame, regret all over again. His son who looks so much like him, the same long lashes, five-year old cocky swagger, and arms so needy for love, is one that I have learned to steel myself against. I look now only for who he is, not for who his father was, when I gaze into those bright eyes.
But how do you protect yourself against the unexpected? Yesterday after reading an article on internet privacy (or the lack thereof) I googled myself and came across a strange link. Following it, I saw my name, last three cities of residence and age listed. Below, links to people I was related to – including him.
The shock of it, the fact that he still exists here, listed at a vigorous 35 though he died at 34, rattled me. The recriminations grow fresh and ooze again, overcoming me when I’m alone, doing dishes, looking down at my aging hands and wondering if any flesh still covers his bones.
Mani’s younger brother visited his grave in a village outside of Lahore on a hot summer’s day when the air was breathless, still and oppressive. There at the grave dug days before, he leaned in to whisper to his dead brother, to promise to look after his son, to be the father Mani now could not be.
When he relates the story, he says at that moment the still air was broken for a few seconds by a cool, jasmine-scented breeze. He took that as Mani’s approval, and has been at peace since.
Usually that story gives me an almost tangible hope, but today it is a wraith that slips through my longing fingers.
I meant to post this on the day of the inauguration, but was sidetracked by an increased workload and upcoming chemotherapy.
My street in San Francisco – Bush St – was (temporarily) renamed Obama St on January 20th in honor of our new President. I love San Francisco!
As a friend who joined our celebratory inaugural brunch said: “Just think, someday, insh’Allah, thousands of schools, airports and other civic institutions may bear his name: Barack Hussein Obama.”
[Photo credit: Nerda]
A Hindi song celebrating Obama:
Imagine a scenario where mainstream news sites present only one side of an issue, and a comedy news site is the only one to take an honest and brave stand by amplifying the voices of the afflicted rather than those of the aggressors.
Sadly, that is the case in America today. Please take a moment to thank Jon Stewart and his team (and any other sane voices you’ve heard) for pointing out the obvious.
Critiquing the policies/military action of a nation is not the same as being prejudiced against that country, its people or its religion. Let’s move beyond knee-jerk, simplistic reactions to stand up for the peace and security for all.
Also use this link to contact your Senators/MPs (in the US, UK, or Canada) about opposing the siege. [HT: Fathima]
After you’ve called your representatives, taken part in local protests, sent money to Palestine, written a letter to your local newspaper, written an op-ed for a website or paper, and raised awareness, and still feel close to despair, remember:
Supplication is the weapon of the believer. There is no greater power than prayer for the oppressed and by the oppressed.
Other voices:
Margari’s “Obligatory Gaza Post”
Rachel’s “Nothing More Beautiful Than Peace”
Update: Moonwolf recommends the excellent Guardian article “How Israel brought Gaza to the brink of a humanitarian crisis” by Avi Shlaim
Avari says “You and I can do something” and points out fact checking and honest reporting by CNN’s Rick Sanchez
Also, download and tick off the Gaza checklist.
What do a couple of practicing Muzzies do in the City of Sin?
This weekend, we aim to find out.
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