A Name Like Mine

Reading is probably my favourite thing to do. I connect so deeply with characters in whom I find glimpses of myself. I grew up with Nancy Drew, Enid Blyton, JK Rowling. Fell in love with Shelley and Eliot. Discovered myself in Bronte, and Browning, and Blake.

Except, as I touched the spine of each book, not a single one called out a name like mine. Elizabeth Bennet, Leopold Bloom, and Catherine Earnshaw never struggled with belonging in two places. No one ever struggled to pronounce those names. Or those of the authors who penned them into existence. They were outsiders but their skin never told their entire story and their accents never hindered them. Thus, their lives simply could not encompass so many of my lived realities.

My father marvels at my excitement any time I see people like me on a screen or in a book. I think the answer lies partially in perspective. He came here as an adult. After being nurtured in a land where he never had to prove he belonged. After feeling the warmth of a language that never challenged him. I came here as a child. Before I learned my brown skin could burden me. Before I grasped that my heart could belong in Canada and still beat for Pakistan. That is why it matters. We should be actively encouraging young immigrants to connect with their roots as they plant new ones here.

I didn't grow up reading Manto. Or bask in Faiz till I rediscovered him years later. Not because I didn't know South Asian literature and poetry existed. I simply didn't think it mattered as much. Particularly, to those around me. Their names sounded much more like the ones I regularly read. So why would they care about a name that sounded like mine? A name most of them couldn’t actually pronounce. A name I had been content to alter for their convenience. It took my parents resolutely affirming that my name was worth learning for me to insist that people make the effort to pronounce it properly.

On the bookshelves of my bookstores there were no places of prominence for those who sounded different. Their texts didn’t call out from the shelves, beckoning. Showing me that one day I too could be there. That I should confidently share my views. That others would read my stories. That my words could matter in equal measure. That my perspective was beautiful.

Amartya Sen penned it beautifully:

“Kautilya, the ancient Indian writer on political strategy and political economy, has sometimes been described in modern literature, when he has been noticed at all, as the ‘Indian Machiavelli’. It is amusing that an Indian political analyst from the 4th century BC has to be introduced as a local version of a European writer born in the 15th century."

My favourite authors encompass the globe. Jose Saramago wrote with a brutal vividness unmatched. Sahir Ludhianvi entwined politics and poetry in the most powerful ways. Pablo Neruda longed for home in a way I understand. Similarly, I’m lucky to have a mother who shared her love of Russian literature with me. It’s why I couldn’t put down Tolstoy. Why Lolita standing four foot ten in one sock enraptures me to this day.

Over 5 million Canadians belong to a visible minority. Over half the population of Toronto was born outside of Canada. Our curriculum and selection of books needs to reflect as much. Choosing texts that are more representative of our classrooms, will broaden everyone’s scope of exposure. We’ve finally started to see television shows with diverse lead roles, ad campaigns featuring people of all backgrounds and sizes. Literature is unique. The material doesn’t need to be created or re-branded. The richness of words from around the world has existed for centuries! It simply requires access and awareness.

We deserve to be heard. To be read. The spines of our books bear stories worth devouring.

P.S - I wanted to share my favourite poem by Sahir Ludhianvi. The poet of the poor and the oppressed forever changed how I saw the Taj Mahal. This version is an English translation:

Taj Mahal

The Taj, mayhap, to you may seem, a mark of love supreme
You may hold this beauteous vale in great esteem;
Yet, my love, meet me hence at some other place!

How odd for the poor folk to frequent royal resorts;
‘Tis strange that the amorous souls should tread the regal paths
Trodden once by mighty kings and their proud consorts.
Behind the facade of love my dear, you had better seen,
The marks of imperial might that herein lie screen
You who take delight in tombs of kings deceased,
Should have seen the hutments dark where you and I did wean.
Countless men in this world must have loved and gone,
Who would say their loves weren’t truthful or strong?
But in the name of their loves, no memorial is raised
For they too, like you and me, belonged to the common throng.

These structures and sepulchres, these ramparts and forts,
These relics of the mighty dead are, in fact, no more
Than the cancerous tumours on the face of earth,
Fattened on our ancestor’s very blood and bones.
They too must have loved, my love, whose hands had made,
This marble monument, nicely chiselled and shaped
But their dear ones lived and died, unhonoured, unknown,
None burnt even a taper on their lowly graves.

This bank of Jamuna, this edifice, these groves and lawns,
These carved walls and doors, arches and alcoves,
An emperor on the strength of wealth, Has played with us a cruel joke.
Meet me hence, my love, at some other place.

- Translation by K.C. Kanda, appeared in Masterpieces of Urdu Nazm published by Sterling Publishers Pvt. Ltd.

Letting Go - A Letter to My Younger Self

I'm about to get a little Swiftian on you. Taylor I mean, not Jonathan. We're going to talk about heartbreak.

I feel beyond blessed to have found an incredible man. He makes me feel more myself than I have ever been. Looking back though, I kissed a lot of frogs to finally find my prince. So this post is for my younger self. The one who didn’t understand how to mend her heart, and whether it was even a worthwhile venture. I hope it helps anyone else who is hurting the way I often did.

My dearest girl,

You have known a dazzling kaleidoscope of maybes and heartbreaks. The one who crafted daydreams out of his darkness. The one who was too scared of being hurt so he scarred you instead. The one who craved your friendship till you needed him back. The one who vanished with a slice of you and your designer sunglasses. 

I know how much this hurts. What you thought were approaching knights in shining armour turned out to be banged up aluminum up close. This is me telling you to rescue yourself from now on (weapons safety and your lack of coordination be damned).

You will soon realize that if they had truly wanted to be with you, they would have. No. Matter. What. I promise you will shake your head at the panoply of excuses you used on their behalf. Darling, don’t chase shadows like it’s your job. You can’t weave hopes out of hollow whispers. Those will always let you down.

You may have loved the idea of him, the potential of what you could have been together. But the reality of who you can be all by yourself is far more amazing. I know you feel “half-baked”, like you’re not done growing. You’re right, you aren’t finished learning. As you grow, build healthy emotional habits. You don’t need to sustain yourself on proverbial cookie dough, you deserve so much more!

The ‘aha’ moment happens when you realize that someone who genuinely enriches your life will not make you sweat tirelessly. They may hurt you, challenge you, and ultimately you may part ways. But they will meet your bar of basic expectations. Demanding as much is not wrong. Though often we are told otherwise; to lower our standards, be more accommodating. Being flexible and understanding are wonderful qualities. Just don't trade in your expectations of respect along the way.

It once mattered deeply to me why someone didn’t call, didn’t notice, didn’t reply; didn’t have his doughy shit together. Now I simply accept it as what they have chosen. You will feel so free the day you accept that you can't control their actions, but you have every sense of dominion over your reaction. In realizing this, I learned to let go. I gave myself permission to stop waiting. For a text, a call, a change of heart. If it happens welcome it. Champion renewed beginnings. ‘Til then, get busy pouring that love inward.

Love always,

Your Older (but still clumsy) Self

Living on a Prayer

Prayer is an essential element of faith. What I love most about Islam is that it recognizes the deeply personal significance of prayer. There is no prescription to be sought from a priest, no specific place you must be, and no vocal display you must perform. You can pray at home, in a car, or at a park. All you need is a mindful intention.

Yet Islam is also deeply social. It is grounded in the idea of togetherness. In fact the Quran explicitly states:

“Let there be a nation of you who call to charity and command beneficence”
- Surah Ali ‘Imran [3:104]

In large part, this sense of nationhood or community is found in the mosque. Those summer Friday afternoons were the most beautiful experience. I loved it, and as a child I went to the masjid regularly.

I was always a woman before I was anything else though, and that meant I prayed in a different room. Asking why, I was told “it is for the greater good”. Apparently, a man could be distracted by me prostrating (bending down) in front of him during the prayer. I tried so hard to swallow this rhetoric of men as morally weak and women as martyrs of virtue. I wanted so badly for this explanation to make sense. Eventually though, I grew tired of feeling invisible. Of listening to a voice I couldn’t see, of feeling like I was eavesdropping on a sermon not actually meant for me. I stopped going, and some days I really miss it.

In the eyes of God, men and women are equal – we are held to the same standard, will be rewarded in equal measure, and were created as such. In Mecca and Medina, the two holiest sites, we pray side by side. Yet in our mosques we are relegated to the back of the prayer hall or ushered into a separate room altogether. We are unable to see the imam and often unable to even hear clearly.

As it happens, it isn't just our bodies which are distracting. The seductive potential of our voice is apparently why I will never hear a female giving the azan. Similarly, I am told women simply cannot handle the stresses associated with being an imam. That we are too emotional to be community leaders at funerals, trials, or divorce proceedings. That because we menstruate and experience pregnancy, it is impossible for us to maintain consistency in the performance of any authority roles.

It is infuriating. I am exhausted of being told that estrogen has made me “a precious treasure”. That while Heaven is found at the feet of my mother, I should never expect to see her leading a congregation. This obsolete cultural prescription of wanton female emotions and uncontrollable male lust which I must compensate for is complete bullshit. It is as disrespectful of men as it is of women. Instead of encouraging me to uphold the vanguard of my dignity by praying in a back room and keeping quiet, tell the man who may find me distracting to please stay home until he can learn to control himself. Though if you insist that we fixate on the female form, then let’s discuss how it is that a woman willfully endures childbirth. She allows her body to incubate and nurture the continuance of a community which will in turn exclude her.

I am not an object and I’m done being told that I must walk, talk, dress, and even pray differently because God gave me ovaries. From the time of Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) women have been warriors, educators, merchants, and healers. His wife Hazrat Aisha was not only an Islamic scholar, she also led troops into battle. This incredible woman narrated more hadiths than any other Companion. She taught, lectured, and was prized for her knowledge of poetry and medicine by men and women alike. One of the earliest Muslim saints was a woman. One of the first people to memorize the Quran was a woman. So how dare any man or entity reduce me to my body?

It makes me angry, but I’m not trying to argue that exclusion is the end of the line. There are spaces which have accepted women praying side by side with men and even leading congregations. Equally amazing are new ventures carving out space for women to share spirituality with one another at a women’s mosque (a structure which has also existed in China for a long time). The issue is not that tolerance cannot be found, it is that tolerance is not the benchmark. While there are women who are scholars and those who lead mosque boards, a vast majority of Muslim women are not elevated into that sphere of religious authority and public participation. They are not invited, they are not welcomed. Even when they demand to be let in, often the answer is a resounding no. Change is of critical importance, because until we have a balanced representation of gender and perspective alike, we can never have a true sense of community.

The Wisdom of Winnie the Pooh

I love Pooh Bear. Most notably, we share a fondness for elevenses. That and I can always count on his wisdom:

“You can’t stay in your corner of the forest waiting for others to come to you. You have to go to them sometimes.”

It feels like our generation has forgotten this resoundingly simple truth. We’ll go after a job, a degree, maybe even a date. But we’re often too afraid to venture farther.  To apologize for the sake of our friendships, comfort a colleague, invest to transform dates into a relationship, or do anything that leaves us at the mercy of emotion. It’s somehow easier to subsist in a clinically vegetative state than allow ourselves to be passionately vulnerable and risk our feelings.

It was stunning to see this philosophy being foisted upon young women at a recent professional event I attended. We were told to lose the sensitivity. That it is quite literally better to be caught …self-fornicating than crying. Frankly, that’s absurd. Instead of harping on about never crying, maybe try telling us it’s ok to have emotions. Sobbing in a board meeting? It’s probably advisable to avoid that. But having a moment alone to feel your feelings – that’s healthy!  It does not make you any less of a professional.

These states of exposure and sensitivity are essential to our humanity. Vulnerability requires strength, yet somehow, society has evolved to covet its death. When I get nerdy about it, I feel like Pooh could have had a fascinating chat with Emile Durkheim about “anomie”. The misalliance of personal and social standards that leaves us grasping for a suit of public armour. So we spend our youth frantically building boxes and padding the walls, hoping it will buffet us against the potential of pain or the risk of appearing weak.

 Like Pooh Bear, I’ve always believed in “going to people”. Social armour never made me feel protected, it just constrained me. Yet eschewing it has been a voyage. Some days, the process still eludes me. It’s frustrating to realize you didn’t come equipped with a filter to care less. It’s taken me time to accept that I’m simply hardwired to wear my heart on my sleeve. That by default I will always be more exposed to the risks of failure, rejection, and heartbreak. I know being this way is scary, because it terrifies me actually. Just not as much as the thought of walking away from myself.

So next time you hesitate with those pesky feelings, don't hide. Venture forth out of your comfort zone, because pain is the price of admission my friends. Pay up and get on board. It really is where the magic happens!

ADHD & Me

I walked into my final university exam armed with some knowledge, some dread, and a lot of Timbits. Those chocolate glazed wonders were more than just the salve for any particularly wounding questions; they were my strategy for slowing down. Most people want to do everything faster. Me? I need to dial it back about 50 miles. Processing at whirlwind speed is both a blessing and a curse. Fantastic in a debate, but it is a nemesis for almost every test you will ever take. Instead of writing “SLOW DOWN” as I had many times before, here I tried the Timbit approach. Read a question, take a breath, nibble, scribble, repeat. All in a quest to encourage my brain to walk, not sprint. When I sprint I trip, and that feeling is overwhelming – I shut down.

I’m neither unmotivated nor apathetic, yet this is how I have felt for much of my academic career. The reason? I have ADHD. Or more commonly known as why I have been called everything from a motormouth to a smartass. While having exhibited those characteristics, the way it affects my brain is different than a child who has just had too much excitement or too much sugar. For them, the lack of focus is temporary. It’s a phase that will wane. For me, it is a permanent state of being. No two instances of ADHD are identical. So what I share may apply only to me or you may well see a glimmer of resemblance to your daughter, your brother, or even to yourself.

Sometimes I wish it was labeled “having the energy to do lots and lots of things excluding the one thing you really need to focus on, except the times you can only focus on that one thing” disorder. Perhaps then people would have a better grasp of what it is like to constantly negotiate with your own brain. I say that because there are many prevailing attitudes which do not recognized ADHD to be an actual learning impairment. “You just need more sleep, a better diet, you’re just not trying, big pharma has duped you, drugs are evil!” Respectfully, none of that is helpful. As someone living with unbridled chaos in my mind, what I seek is understanding, and perhaps a little patience. So I’m hoping I can break down the bedlam.

Growing up, I was oblivious of why I blurted out answers in the middle of class, awkwardly inserted myself into conversations, or why my mouth would betray me – speaking even when my brain would admonish, just be quiet! My deepest hope was that being like everyone else would help me feel less alone. So I worked hard on being less myself - I learned to put up my hand, bite my tongue, and measure my words. Slowly, I mastered the betrayal of my inner spirit.

I want to learn, but I can’t hurt my brain in the process. It is counterproductive. The idea that all children learn the same way is about as ridiculous as assuming every person is capable of drawing or sprinting with equal ease and success. It’s been said that if a child isn’t learning the way we are teaching then we need to teach the way that child learns. I have rarely heard a more resonant nugget of pedagogical wisdom!

Learning with ADHD basically boils down to stimulation. I cannot sit there and just listen. You need to engage with me, not talk at me. When there is no participation required, it removes a major incentive to stay tuned in. I recognize that stimulation can be a double edged sword, necessary yet distracting. The key is a focused approach, one that keeps me present rather than pursuing a tangent in my head – I don’t need Facebook to tune you out!

Paper is actually the best way to organize my mind. I admit, I am an intransigent tree killer! In fact, I could probably drown in the Luddite Sea I regularly scribble all over. Paper works because it is tactile and therefore real, writing rather than typing forces me to slow down, and the page affords me the ability to draw arrows connecting disarrayed thoughts and even doodle in the corner when the need arises.

Throughout the majority of my schooling I got incredibly lucky. I was blessed with small classrooms and motivated teachers who let me explore the world through books, and challenged me to ask even stranger questions. I will be forever grateful for their long-suffering dedication to instilling in me the essential value of structure, all without stifling my creativity or my curiosity. Similarly, I went to an alternative high school. Our teachers sometimes jumped on tables to make a point, we rolled bowling balls down hallways in the name of science, and no subject seemed to be off limits. I couldn’t wait for university. That gleaming ivory expanse where I could focus on the subjects I loved. It actually turned out to be a brick wall, and I hurtled through it at full speed. Throughout my years there, I hated lectures. Even when I loved the material, being spoken at was unflinchingly tedious. I felt like a tiny invisible ant, desperately trying not to be crushed by the very rock I was working to push up the hill of learning.

The stunning fact is that I had no idea as to why till I was 20. I was identified as “gifted” at the age of 9 and despite the high comorbidity of ADHD, no one ever quite figured it out. All I knew for most of my life is that my brain is a maddening binary between hyper focused and a lack of any focus.

Remember the seesaw at your childhood playground? Up and down, over and over. A flash of infinitude happens, and you’re suspended equal to your partner. That instant is my mental sweet spot. It’s the horizon where everything is clear and I am fully present. Before I knew how to use coping mechanisms, I experienced that clarity about as frequently as Halley’s Comet (Hint: Rare). The point is, I have difficulty directing my attention in a sustained way at a consistent level. But my diagnosis is not a crutch, nor do I ever want it to be. I have control over medication, finding alternatives like paper and Timbits, and vocalizing my struggles so those around me become pillars of support. It’s a potent combination which has empowered me both interpersonally and academically.

For many others, they have neither the benefit of alternative schooling, nor the support of understanding family, friends, and teachers. They desperately need a seismic shift away from traditional and inflexible models of education. Until that happens, a sizeable contingent of smart and otherwise capable children will continue to quietly declare, “Drone on, oh mighty ship of learning, drone on."

Why I Write

There is something incredibly inviting about a white screen with nothing but a patiently blinking cursor. That blank page is always willing to unconditionally accept my outpouring. It listens even when it seems no one else cares to. If I painted, drew, or had any artistic ability at all, I’m sure the teeming possibilities of a new canvas would feel quite similar.

This blog is not my first attempt at trying to chronicle the deliberations and reflections roaming uninhibited inside me. My shelves are littered with old journals, my initial attempts at blogging still linger on the internet, and now I’ve found myself right back at that place where the thoughts get very loud and demand the page in front of me to listen to them.

As a child, I used to trip over myself whenever I tried to write. I had so much I wanted to say, to share, to understand through putting it on paper, that I couldn’t coordinate the proverbial “one foot in front of the other” when trying to form all the right words in a sequence that made sense. I’ll never forget my Grade 3 teacher trying to hammer home the benefit of an outline, or my dad repeatedly reminding me that other people couldn’t know all of what I was thinking unless I took the time to explain it more methodically.

At 27, I've certainly grown a lot from that restless, impatient, young girl who couldn't always mold her explosions of zeal, but my drive to write is often still my worst enemy. A quick scan of my computer would show you umpteen unfinished blog posts, a litany of scattered yet impassioned thoughts, and an endless list of ideas and subjects that interest me.

I want to let my thoughts breathe and in the process allow them to experience the acceptance of a blank page. Writing is my commitment to myself; a journey to give all those unfinished passions a fitting resolution.