Wednesday, November 12, 2014

Ghosts

A story by Rafi Aamer


John and Mary had been saving money for a long time to make the initial payment to buy their own house. By their calculation, they were still a few years away from having enough money to buy the house of their dreams; a small unit with two floors in a quiet neighborhood of San Jose. They could not believe when their real estate agent friend told them that because of the housing crash, they already had enough money to buy a house.Now. Not years from now, but now. In fact Estella had a house she could show to them. It was one of those abandoned properties that was now some bank’s liability and the bank had put the house on the market on a throwaway price. They went to see the house and fell in love with it on the first sight. Like all abandoned properties, it needed some fixing to do but it wasn’t that bad. They did not have to wait anymore.

Mary, being a stay home wife, started the fixing and decorating as they moved in and within a few days, they had made that house a perfect home for them to live and have kids and raise them.

But there was something that was not so right with the house.

There was a night when John was working the night shift when he received a call from Mary’s cell phone. It was very early the morning and John wondered why Mary was using the cell phone and not the home phone. When he answered the call, he heard a terrified Mary asking him to come home immediately. She wouldn't tell him what was wrong. She just kept crying and pleading John to come home. John drove home that was only a few miles away. When he got home, he saw Mary sitting on the steps outside the house in her nightgown shivering in a perfectly warm night. John ran to her and took Mary in her arms.

“What’s the matter honey? Are you alright?”

“I’m scared, “answered Mary, “I was sleeping and I was woken up by the sound from the other bedroom. The sound…”

“All houses make sounds honey,” John said cutting her off.

“No, no, not that kind of sound.”

“What did you hear?”

“I heard…I heard a baby crying.” Mary said and broke into tears.

“You were sleeping. Maybe you dreamed about it and woke up.” John said consolingly while rubbing her back with his hand.

“No. It wasn’t a dream. It continued after I woke up. It continued for a long time. I could hear it so clearly. I was frozen with fear and couldn’t move. And then when the sound stopped, I grabbed my phone and ran out and called you.” She said, sobbing.

John helped Mary inside the house assuring her that it was just a hallucination.

But strange things kept happening. One night, John could swear that he too heard a baby crying but he dismissed it again as his mind playing tricks on him, something caused by Mary’s episode. Then there were other sounds, people talking to each other, whispering, and sometimes giggling. John kept reassuring Mary that they were just paranoid due to what happened when Mary hallucinated about hearing a child crying.

It only took John a few days to realize that he was wrong. That was the night of the party.

They, John and Mary, were not the ones who were having a party. They were sleeping in their bed. This time it was John who woke up, not because he heard any noises, but because he was thirsty.
John went downstairs to the kitchen to get water. The kitchen was part of the living area and it had a big window through which you could see the backyard. The window was covered with drapes and as John entered the kitchen, he saw flickering lights filtering in to the kitchen through the slits of the drapes. Curiously, John parted the drapes and what he saw sent a chill through his spine. There were people, backyard full of people, dressed for a party, drinking, laughing, dancing. The backyard was lit with different colors of lights. At the center of the crowd was a young man donning a black gown and he seemed like the center of attraction of the whole crowd. He had a big grin on his face. John kept looking at the scene thinking that he was just having a dream and he is going to wake up any moment now. He actually made a conscious effort, trying to make his mind wake him up, to no avail. He stood there for a long time mesmerized. The strangest thing was that there were a lot of people who looked like talking and laughing loudly but John couldn't hear a thing. The scene was completely silent. The first sound he heard didn't come from the party going on in the backyard. It came from behind him, the sound of a loud intake of breath, a big gasp. He turned around and saw Mary who was standing with wide eyes fixated on the scene in the backyard with her hands on her mouth. All blood had drained from her face. John hurriedly put the drapes back and hugged Mary who was shaking violently.

That night, they checked into a motel.

The first thing John did the next morning was to call Estella to find out who were the previous owners of their house.

“I don’t know. You bought this property from a bank since it was an abandoned property. I can check with the bank to find out. Why? Why do you want to know?”

“We want to know why they abandoned the house.” John replied.

Estella had the information in a couple of hours. Previous owners: David and Tiffany Rodriguez, current address: unknown.

John picked the phone book up and started calling every David Rodriguez. He had little hope to find the one he was looking for. The first five people he called told him that they had never lived at that address. It was the sixth one who said, “Why? Who wants to know?” John explained to him calmly that he wasn’t calling from any bank or any sort of similar organization. He was calling because they had bought David’s old house and they wanted to know a few things, some unusual things. After some hesitation, David agreed to meet them but refused to give John his address. Instead, he gave John the name of a coffee shop in a small town some 20 miles from San Jose and told him that he would meet them the next day at the coffee shop.

Next day, John and Mary drove to the small town David had told them about. It was a poorly maintained neighborhood with old buildings, some looking like they would fall down any moment, and streets in a bad need of repair. The coffee shop David had agreed to meet at was on the main street and the coffee shop itself looked like it existed in the early part of the previous century. When they entered the coffee shop, a young man behind the counter, who, for some reason, looked familiar to John, asked, “Are you here to see David?” When John said yes, the young man pointed to the corner table where a middle aged couple sat side by side. John and Mary walked to the table, shook hands with the couple and sat down on the opposite side of the table. The couple seemed to be in their late fifties and they were wearing cheap but clean clothes. After a few pleasantries, David asked John why he wanted to meet them.

“I wanted to know why you abandoned that house?” said John.

“Well, why do you think we abandoned it?”

“To be honest, I think you abandoned it because it is haunted and you couldn’t sell a haunted house. Maybe people in the area knew about that but we didn’t.”

“Haunted?” asked David with a curious look at his face, “No, it wasn’t haunted.”

“Then why did you leave it.” This time it was Mary’s turn to ask a question.

“I will tell you,” said David, “but first, I want to know why do you think it’s haunted?”

“We don’t think,” John said a bit aggressively, “we know it is haunted. We see and hear ghosts in the house.”

“Ghosts?” asked David and him and his wife looked at each other with puzzled looks on their faces.

“Yes, we keep hearing a baby cry in the smaller bedroom upstairs,” said Mary.

As soon as she said it, Tiffany's facial expression changed. She looked like she was about to start crying. She was looking in the distance. Then, with quivering lips and wet eyes, she lowered her head and said, almost whispered “Jenny coming home to have the baby.” Two droplets of tears fell from her eyes.

“And the night before the last, we saw some sort of a party going on with a young man in a black gown,” said John.

David, who was also looking in the distance, said, as he was in some sort of trance, “Ed’s college graduation party.”

They were all silent for a few moments that felt like hours. John, finally broke the silence, and said, 
“Who are Jenny and Ed?”

It was as if his question broke some sort of spell.

“Well, “said David, leaning forward and laying his arms on the table as if getting ready to tell a long story, “you know, Tiffany here, my wife, and I grew up in this very neighborhood. As you can see, it is a poor neighborhood mostly populated by Mexican immigrants. Our own folks came from Mexico. Tiffany and I married young, very young. But we decided not to have kids while we lived here. You see, we grew up in poverty and we didn't want the same for our kids. Neither of us is very highly educated but we decided to work hard, do as many jobs as we can in a day, work over weekends so we can get out of this town to some nicer place and then have kids so they can go to nice schools and don't have to live the life we did. And we did all that. We worked and worked and worked. It was tough, very tough, but the hope that one day we will get out of this town and have kids kept us going. After a few years, we had enough money to make the initial payment on a house, the house that belongs to you now. We had kids there, Jenny and Ed. We lived there for a long time but then the economy started going south. First Tiffany and then I lost our jobs. We could not find good jobs anymore. We tried to make ends meet by doing odd jobs but we couldn’t earn enough every month to pay the bank. So we started missing loan payments.”

Mary almost stopped David thinking something didn't make sense but she didn't because she couldn’t really understand what it was that didn't make sense.

“So, “David continued, “we decided to foreclose the house so we could at least get our loan written off and try to make a fresh start somehow. We went to the foreclosure court. We could not afford a good lawyer but the banks can. We tried our best but the judge ruled that we could not foreclose since we had the ability to earn. Ability. What a word! We were old now. We could not work anymore like we did when we were young. We are honest people and wanted to do the right the right way but the bank wanted us to work three jobs a day to pay them. We tried but could not do that. After that, we had no other choice but to abandon the house and come back to the obscurity of our hometown. The bank chased us but we had nothing of value left for them to take so they decided that we were not worth wasting time on. And, that’s the answer to your question.”

And it was at that moment that it hit Mary what didn't make sense. “Wait,” she said, “I don’t understand. You said you worked in this town for a long time and then you moved to the new house and had kids there. That should make you a lot older than you look to have two adult children, one becoming a mother and the other graduating from college. And you haven’t told us what happened to Jenny and Ed. How did they …?” Mary couldn't say the word.

“Die, you want to say?” asked David, “No. They did not die. The boy at the counter who talked to you as you entered is Ed and he could not go to college. He works here at this coffee shop. As for Jenny, Lord knows where she is. She got mixed up with the wrong sort of folks and fled town. I don't know where she is but I sure hope she is still alive. ”

“Then whose ghosts do we have in the house?” asked Mary, bewildered, to no one in particular.

David stood up to leave, as did his wife, and said, “Miss, you don’t have ghosts of people in your house. What you are seeing and hearing are ghosts of our dreams and hopes. If that house is haunted, it is only haunted by our dreams that didn't come true. The dreams that we could not pack into our suitcases when we left. We did not have another home to take them to. We had to leave them behind.”


David and Tiffany left the coffee shop, hand in hand, dragging their feet heavy with the weights of their lives tied to them

Tuesday, November 11, 2014

Dominos

Dominoes - A story by Rafi Aamer

In the middle of a forest surrounded by deserted and long destroyed villages many miles south of Hanoi, Vietnam, crickets and cicadas were chirping in a deafening chorus in the middle of a hot a moonless night. And suddenly all of them went silent. 
All of them…not a single chirp. An equally deafening silence following by deafening chorus. The insects must have sensed that something was about to happen. Insects have this sense of knowing the things-that-are-about-to-happen. And then the silence was pierced by a loud, painful, ear-drums shattering scream—a human scream. A scream that the snakes in the forest felt on their skins and writhed in anguish. Apes fell from the trees and started scurrying around to find a place where they could stop hearing the scream. It was the kind scream that goes on and on. And then it died. And after a brief silence, there followed a cacophony of hisses-barks-roars-tweets-squawks, all animals registering their protest for this alien auditory invasion. And they kept protesting till the dawn.
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Years ago, at the same spot of the same forest, Private James “Jimmy” Saunders of the 3rd brigade of the 4th Infantry Division of United States Army, was hiding in a ditch panting. He had arrived in Vietnam a week ago and on that particular day his company had faced the biggest ambush of Vietcong they had ever faced in that particular region. It was a surprise because their company commander had a truce with the local villagers promising them safety if they didn’t give protection to Vietcong. Seemingly, the Vietcong from other areas had been using the thickness of the forest to secretly gather and mobilize their troops. When the ambush happened, Jimmy’s company was taken completely off-guard. Jimmy saw many of his comrades just being cut in half by the salvo of incoming bullets. They took heavy casualties and started to run away in all directions. Jimmy had been running for 20 minutes straight. He didn’t know where the rest of his company was. He found this ditch and decided to hide and catch his breath.
He hadn’t completely regained his composure when he heard footsteps coming through the thick foliage of the forest. He squinted to see and wiped the sweat off his brow. Slowly a figure emerged. Jimmy crouched and straightened his rifle trying to hold his breath. The person was heading straight towards Jimmy’s hiding place. The person was wearing traditional loose Vietnamese unisex top and bottom of the same color. It had a bag slung over its shoulder. “Is it a stray Vietcong?” Jimmy thought. The person was still heading towards him. Then it reached into the bag and got something out. Jimmy could tell by the way the person’s hand was enveloping the object that the object was spherical…and then the person brought the object to its mouth…”Shit!” Jimmy’s mind yelled…”It’s a grenade and this Vietcong bastard is going to throw it at me”. Faster than the blink of the eye, Jimmy aimed and shot. The bullet hit the target and the person fell down. Jimmy rushed towards it, rifle still aimed at the fallen figure. When he arrived at his intended destination, he saw that “the Vietcong bastard” was a lean, about 16-year-old, girl holding her shot leg crying loudly. Her hat had come off and her bag was on the ground. About half a dozen apples had spilled from the bag.
“What the hell, what the hell, what the hell.” Jimmy started shouting in the air while stomping the ground walking in circles around the wounded girl.
“What the hell were you doing here?” he yelled in the girl’s face leaning down, saliva dripping from his lips. The girl tried to utter some Vietnamese words between her sobs. But Jimmy kept shouting at her face the same question. The girl got scared and started to crawl backward till her back hit a tree trunk. She grabbed the trunk and used it to stand up on her one good leg. Jimmy’s mind was still aflame with a mixture of fear, anger and frustration that he had been accumulating all day and which had now started to grow like a jungle-fire, setting Jimmy’s throat, ears, eyes on fire. The girl yelled at him in Vietnamese but the only word Jimmy could understand was “truce”. “Oh fucking beautiful!” Jimmy hit his helmet with the butt of his rifle. “Now I am going to get court-martialed for violating the truce” he shouted. His anger started to take over him completely. He started walking towards the girl. She wrapped her arms around the tree trunk behind her back and pressed her back against the tree as if trying to somehow get inside the tree-trunk to hide from Jimmy. “First your Vietcong brothers kill most of my friend, and then you show up, God knows why, in the middle of the forest biting an apple like taking the pin out of a grenade and now you are gonna tell your people that I shot you and the Captain’s gonna have my ass.” His rage had completely taken over his mind. He was mad angry now. “You know what! Not gonna happen!” Saying those words, Jimmy plunged his bayonet into the girl’s chest. It went through her chest and got lodged in the tree trunk. “That’s what you get for not minding your own fucking business in a goddamned war.” He yanked the bayonet back. Since it was lodged deeply into the tree trunk, it came off the rifle’s muzzle and fell down beside the dying girl’s body. There was slit where it had pierced the tree trunk, and the girl’s blood was dripping from the slit. It looked as the tree was bleeding.
---------------------
A week later, Jimmy was discharged from the unit because he had threatened to kill some of his fellow soldiers and was sent back home to Houston, Texas. The Army had termed him mentally unfit for the duty and his friends were perplexed at his sudden metamorphosis into a crazy maniac who would pick fights on the smallest of things. But the officers had seen many such episodes so they were not as perplexed.
--------------------------
Once back home, Jimmy’s life was divided into brief episodes of jail time, mental asylums and even briefer episodes of employment. He could never keep a job because no provocation was small enough for him to not react violently. One April day, when he was driving on Highway 90 going home after losing yet another job, he spotted a hoarding on the side of the highway with a brown flower of some sort under which there were bold blue letters forming the words “Vietnam Airlines”. There was a picture of Vietnamese girl right next to the brown flower holding a bouquet. As Jimmy’s car got closer to the hoarding, Jimmy looked at the face of the girl and pushed the brake pedal with all his might. His car screeched to a halt in the middle of the highway. He couldn’t believe it. This was the picture of the girl—the girl he had killed decades ago in a Vietnamese forest. The cars passing around Jimmy’s car started honking and Jimmy had to drive away but he did give the picture another glance and he could see, right beside the bouquet she was holding, there was a wound on the girl’s chest.
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A few weeks later, when Jimmy had written the hoarding-girl incident off as an illusion, as his mind playing a trick on him, he discovered a plant that had sprouted out of nowhere in his backyard. He didn’t pay much attention to it but when he came back after three weeks—he had gone to Arizona to borrow money from his brother, most of which he lost in Las Vegas later—the plant had grown into a huge tree that had occupied almost all his backyard. He didn’t know the names of the trees but he recognized this one. It was the same tree. No, not the same type but the same tree because it had a slit in the middle of its trunk oozing blood.
Jimmy ran out of his house, panting and profusely sweating, got into his car and sped away from his house. He got onto the highway. And there they were, hoarding after hoarding, lined neatly alongside the highway, all advertising Vietnam Airlines with a girl wounded in the chest holding a bouquet. Jimmy drove hundreds of miles for many hours but the hoardings never stopped. When he ran out of gas, he ditched his car on the highway and ran into the shrubs like a maniac…into the trees with blood-dripping slits in their trunks. Jimmy crashed down sobbing and pounding the ground with his fists. He spent hours there into the dark night and then stood with some sort of determination in his eyes. “That’s it!” he said to no one present. “I know what to do. I have to go there and cut that goddamn tree down.”
--------------------------------
Jimmy was standing outside the ticketing office of Vietnam Airlines with a huge poster in the window displaying the same wounded girl. This was the first time Jimmy was looking at the girl’s picture this close and there was no doubting. It was the same girl. Same pale face, same narrow eyes, same thin lips, same short black hair parted neatly in the middle and falling straight down on her cheeks. For a moment, Jimmy thought of the stupidity of his plan. “OK. I can go there but what are the chances that I will be able to find that particular tree,” he thought. The poster girl’s lips parted. “You will”, she said.
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Jimmy rented a Jeep at the Hanoi airport. He bought a chainsaw, a map and some food items and drove south. Once he started getting close to his destination, the population started to thin out. There were small pockets of houses here and there but the closer he got, the fewer of them he could see. When he arrived at the edge of the forest, he hadn’t seen a single house or a human being for tens of miles.
Jimmy saw a trail entering the forest and he started to follow it. About a mile down, he saw that the trail was forking into slightly left and slightly right. He was thinking of which side to go when he saw a boy, about 5-year-old squatting on the ground playing with branches. His presence startled Jimmy but the boy did not seem surprised or scared. As he saw the headlights of the Jeep, he stood up and as the Jeep crawled closer to him, he raised his arm and pointed to the right side of the fork. Jimmy followed his direction. Once he passed the boy, he looked into the rear-view mirror. There was no sign of him.
As it grew darker, it started to become harder to follow the trail with any good speed. After one sharp turn, Jimmy had to slam the breaks because, there, standing right in the middle of the trail, was a girl, maybe a little older than the boy Jimmy had encountered previously. She was pointing to a clearing on the left. As Jimmy steered his vehicle into the clearing and the headlights hit the girl’s face, Jimmy could see that the entire side of her face had gone and he could see her exposed jaw-line.
On all the turns and forks, Jimmy kept getting directions from children of the ages ranging anywhere from 3 to 15-year-old. Some had blown skulls, some had bullet holes in their bodies and many had charred skin.
Around the midnight, Jimmy’s jeep drove into an unexpectedly clear area and in the middle of the area was the tree. It felt as if the other trees surrounding it had just walked away from it. As Jimmy’s Jeep’s headlights illuminated the tree, he couldn’t believe his eyes. The tree had changed its shape. Its trunk had become smooth like a child’s skin, close to the top where the trunk divided into branches, there were two perfectly symmetrical holes like eyes. And the branches? No, they were not like any other branches. They didn’t rise up like branches do. They were parted neatly in the middle and fell evenly on the sides of the tree like hair. Jimmy got a little closer and saw the things that were weighing them, the branches-hair, down. At the tip of every branch-hair was a glistening, sharp, bayonet. Jimmy got out of the Jeep and with the chainsaw in his hand, he moved tentatively towards the tree. Once he got a few feet from the tree, the branches-hair started to swish and wave and suddenly Jimmy saw all the bayonets aiming at him.
“This is a not a girl only armed with apples that you would be able to kill so easily.”
Who said that? The voice was unmistakably the dead girl’s but it seemed to be emanating from the tree.
“I told you, you would find us.”
“Who is ‘us’? Who are you?” Jimmy asked in a puzzled voice.
“You know who I am. I am the girl you killed right here, right at this place.”
“Listen, I know what I did was wrong. But it was war. War makes you insane.”
“Yes, it does.” The voice from the tree said. “It makes you insane so it can live and rage. People don’t have wars. Wars have them. War makes you insane because sane people cannot kill strangers without any reason.”
“There is a reason. There is always a reason. One has to defend his country.” Jimmy said shaking his head. He was getting a bit calmer now for some unknown reason.
“A country is an abstract idea. By country, you mean the proximity in which you were born, which is real, and you didn’t make a choice in that matter. You defend that using insanity but insanity is nothing in itself. It’s just the absence of sanity. Like darkness is the absence of light. When sanity is taken out, it leaves a hole behind it. Rudderless boats don’t get anywhere and holed existences cannot survive so our proximities--call them societies civilizations neighborhoods--have devised pieces that fill the hole left behind by the departure of sanity. Religious duty, patriotism, tribal pride, family honor, these pieces go by many names but their purpose is the same, to fill the hole of sanity so when there is no hole and there is nothing felt missing, insanity can be waged upon the others.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Everyone is a slave of their proximities and these proximities guide everyone’s lives. They tell you how to behave, who to marry, what to eat, what not to eat and what is “acceptable”, only they call it “normal” and what is not. And then they tell you that everything is relative and there are no absolutes. What is considered a bad thing within the proximity is declared good, even honorable, when done outside the proximity. If someone starts killing strangers within the proximity for now reason, he is imprisoned. If someone does that to the people of a competing proximity, he is given medals for his valor. You killed me one day but did you ever think about killing the boy paddling madly towards you on his bike in your town last week?”
“That kid wasn’t trying to kill me.”
“Neither was I. I was just coming here to meet my lover. We were going to kiss for the first time. But you killed me, only because you were not in your own proximity. You see, you killed me and went your way thinking that that was it. It wasn’t. When my lover came here and found me dead, he went back to the village with my dead body in his arms. He convinced the elders to break the truce and mobilized all the youth with the help of Vietcong. They mounted a spirited resistance in the following months after which your proximity sent planes with Napalms that burnt our proximity to the ground. You didn’t just kill me. You toppled the first domino.”
“The first domino?” Jimmy asked, confused.
“Yes. You know the game where they make a long row of little tiles standing on their sides close to each other in complex patterns and then you topple the first tile onto the next one which sets out a chain reaction of dominoes falling one after another. Only the pattern of dominoes is not complex but random in a war. It has its own insanity. It’s random so it’s not predictable. It doesn’t follow any particular direction. It goes forward, backward, upward, downward, sideways and all other dimensions we cannot fathom. By killing me, you started this insane sequence. All the kids that you saw on your way died because of you started this domino sequence. They are all small domino tiles that fell because of your single act.”
Jimmy was silent for some moments and then he asked the question: why was he guided to this place.
“Because war dominoes are insanely random and insanely long. They take their own time to complete the sequence. You were guided here so that the sequence is completed. There is one domino, the last one, still standing. And that last tile is you.”
Jimmy couldn’t find anything to say.
“But,” the voice said, “I will give you a choice, although you didn’t give me one. You have to fall sooner or later. It is your choice to go back and keep living miserably and then fall. Or come into my embrace and I will give you serenity and peace.”
Jimmy’s hands couldn’t hold up the chainsaw anymore. He dropped it to the ground. At that very moment the cicadas and crickets stopped chirping. There was silence--such silence that Jimmy’s footsteps could be heard from miles. He walked up to the tree, leaned against it with his back and wrapped his arms around the tree trunk behind him. Hundreds of bayonets rushed towards him.
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A few days later, the rental company tracked their Jeep in the forest and saw Jimmy’s dead body sprawled on the ground with an old, rusted bayonet in his chest. 

Noha

نوحہ
اختر حسین جعفری
4 اپریل 1979

اب نہیں ہوتیں دعائیں مستجاب
اب کسی ابجد سے زندانِ ستم کھلتے نہیں
سبز سجادوں پہ بیٹھی بیبیوں نے
جس قدر حرفِ عبادت یاد تھے، پَو پھٹے تک اُنگلیوں پر گن لیے
اور دیکھا --- رحل کے نیچے لہو ہے
شیشئہ محفوظ کی مٹی ہے سُرخ
سطرِ مستحکم کے اندر بست و در باقی نہیں

یا الٰہی مرگِ یوسف کی خبر سچی نہ ہو
ایلچی کیسے بلادِ مصر سے
سوئے کنعاں آئے ہیں
اک جلوسِ بے تماشا گلیوں بازاروں میں ہے
تعزیہ بر دوش انبوہِ ہوا
روزنوں میں سر برہنہ مائیں جس سے مانگتی ہیں ھنّتوں کا اجر
خوابوں کی زکوٰۃ

سبز سجادوں پہ بیٹھی بیبیو
اب کسی ابجد سے زندانِ ستم کُھلتے نہیں
اب سمیٹو مشک و عنبر، ڈھانپ دو لوح و قلم
اشک پونچھو اور ردائیں نوکِ پا تک کھینچ لو
کَچی آنکھوں سے جنازے دیکھنا اچھا نہیں

Thursday, November 6, 2014

The days after ....



After 9/11, a lot of my Pakistani friends were concerned about my wellbeing. Me being a Pakistani Muslim living in the New York area, they were worried that I may become the victim of the reported persecution of Pakistanis in USA. I need to set the record straight.
The days and weeks after 9/11 were surreal. Americans had never experienced anything like this before and they didn’t know how to react to this strange situation. On the day of 9/11, everyone I met was just shocked, dazed and confused. That state lasted for weeks during which a lot of things happened that were very un-American in character but the American spirit survived eventually and what I saw in those weeks had an extremely humbling effect on me. Following is the account of some of the things I witnessed.

The Bush administration surely went into the state of paranoia. FBI was given a free hand to round up any number of people they see fit and they did go on a man-hunt that was unprecedented in the history of the United States. But then, their hands were tied because they were operating at the fringes of law and any encroachment outside could have negative consequences. So, a lot of Pakistanis did get into trouble but those were the ones who were illegally residing in USA. (And by the way, people who reported them were mostly other Pakistanis trying to settle personal scores). Due to their illegal status, it was easy for FBI to round them up to show that they were doing something without getting into legal trouble. But even that didn’t get unprotested. There were reports of several Pakistani families migrating to Canada asking for political asylum. I was driving to the office listening to a radio station the day that report was published in the New York Times. I was listening to a talk show whose host was the renowned lawyer and human rights activist Ron Kuby. I will never forget his remarks that he made out of sheer frustration on the news report: “The last Pakistani family leaving New York, please take the statue of liberty with you because, apparently, we don’t give a crap about liberty anymore.”

Bad things did happen. I was at my office having lunch with my colleagues the week after 9/11 when we heard that someone had fired some shots at the mosque next town. I was subdued hearing that. One of my colleagues, Tara, noticed that and asked me if I was OK. I told her what exactly I was feeling; that this is not the USA I came to. Tara, a born and raised New Yorker, put a hand on my shoulder and said, “Rafi, you are a good person and I am very happy that you decided to come to USA. This is not how we are. This will pass and I want you to give us some time before you make any decision.”

One day, I was smoking outside a restaurant in Brooklyn. It was a calm Friday afternoon. There was a group of young Americans hanging out at the corner of the block chatting and laughing. Another group of boys emerged from the mosque across the street and as they were passing the corner where the first group of teenagers I mentioned, they became silent and hanged their heads low avoiding any eye contact. One of the American boys saw that and shouted, “hey, pick your heads up. You didn’t do it.” That almost brought tears to my eyes.

Taking pictures of buildings and installations became an issue in the ensuing paranoia. Pakistanis were telling each other to be careful with their cameras. I read a report one day that a Pakistani student was taking pictures of Tappan Zee bridge and someone saw him doing that and called the police. Police arrested him but then taking pictures is not a crime so they had to come up with a charge to book him under. It turned out that he was delivering pizza for a local pizzeria. Working while on Student Visa was a violation and the police handed him over to FBI which started his deportation procedure.  The town he was arrested at is a small town on the borders of New Jersey and New York consisting mainly of retirees, people in their 70’s and 80’s. The news report mentioned that the citizens of that town, upon hearing the news of the arrest and deportation procedures, had formed a committee to provide legal support to the Pakistani student. I decided to meet this group of people.

I went to the local library where they regularly met. Their meeting was about to begin. I was greeted by John, an 83-year old retiree who used to be an attorney. John told me all they were doing to get the Pakistani student released so he could resume his studies. Everyone in town was pitching in money to fight the case. At the end of our meeting, I asked John what was motivating them to fight the cause. John said, “This is not the America I was born in and this sure isn’t the America I want to die in.”

And then one day, I came back from work to see a crowd gathered outside my Pakistani neighbor’s apartments. I came to know that about half an hour before my arrival, my neighbor’s kids were playing in the adjacent park and someone threw stones at them from behind a bush. Some people saw that and called the police. Within an hour, people of the town were out with candles in their hands and there was an impromptu candle light vigil outside my neighbor’s house. The vigil continued till the city’s mayor came there and assured people that he would make sure that a police patrol is available whenever kids were playing in that park. For weeks, I saw a police car guarding the park all day long.

One of the ways Pakistanis who come here illegally and then get a legal status is by marrying an American citizen. There are many legal requirements to be met and they are so complicated that it’s almost impossible to meet them all. Before 9/11, no one cared. But after 9/11, the government had to show that they are doing something so they decided to go after the people who were going through the process which is usually called “getting the papers”. One such Pakistani was picked up at his apartment in Queens and it was clear that he hadn’t filed his papers strictly in accordance with the law. The deportation process, that usually takes a couple of weeks, began while that person’s wife contacted a human rights group which promptly obtained the services of an immigration lawyer. But the time was of the essence. Immigration authorities expedited the deportation case while the defendant’s attorney was preparing to file the case. One morning, the defendant’s attorney came to know that the deportation proceedings had been completed and the person was being taken to the airport to be sent to Pakistan. The attorney rushed to the court and asked to see the judge immediately. The judge listened to her for 15 minutes while she explained how this deportation was unfair (note, not illegal, but unfair) since she hadn’t had enough time to file the case. The judge immediately issued a stay-order and called the airport authorities not to let the person to be boarded on the flight against his own will. He was brought back to the court and released after a week.


So, yes, bullets were fired at mosques, stones were thrown at children but the reaction from the civil society is what the real story is. People in America, in the weeks following 9/11, showed why and how they are special. As for me, who was unsure about staying in USA after shots were fired at a mosque, I was overwhelmed with the acts of kindness and humanity of the people of United States.