In my loving innocence, I suggested to my dear husband, Ameir, that he put himself as an administrator on me photo gallery and blog so he could edit and change designs, picture titles, etc. Little did I know that he would use the oppurtunity granted by me trust to sabotage me blog and reveal me deep hidden secret, one I had kept locked in the vault of me heart for ages.

Now that my secret has been so openly revealed, I can no longer hide behind this mild-mannered muhajjibah demeanor, savvy? I am a pirate, and a proud one at that. I’ve dedicated my life to this sweet trade. Aye, me hearties, I do have a mask and two swords in me possession, as well as a black cape and a hat with the initials of me pirate title emblazoned across the front. Now that I’ve graduated, it is my intention to pick up a crew in Lahore, raid, pillage, plunder and otherwise pilfer me weasely black guts out.

Ameir be Chief Swabber of the Deck and be responsible for the training and maintenance of my trusty parrot, Chota T. If he keeps his mangy hands off of me blog, I may be persuaded to promote him to First Mate. Else he walks the plank.

Where’s me rum?

The Masked Taebo
Commodore of the Punjab Fleet
Pirate of Seas, Oceans, Lakes, Rivers, Small Streams and Bubbling Brooks, and Occasionally Bathtubs (if There is To Be Found There a Goode Quantity of Goode Scented Bubbles)

I’ve been hiding the truth for too long, and now it is time to reveal to the world that yes, I am a pirate. No, not a pirate of music or movies but scurvy scallawag that sails the seven seas in search for buried treasure. Arr, ’tis my lifelong calling and now that I’ve finished school I can hear the spray of the water calling my name back and I cannot resist anymore. I shall be setting off to sail next week with my faithful parrot, chota T.

yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me

This is an earlier post that I re-post here, in honor of the Fourth of July, with pictures I took yesterday at the Independence Day ceremonies at Mount Vernon (George Washington’s home). More pictures here.

This was an essay i wrote for my religion class. The prompt was very broad: “What does it mean to be an American?”

What makes me an American? I asked myself a series of questions to help me attack this issue. I didn’t come up with answers to all of them, but I’ve reached some “enlightened confusion,” which is, according to Isaac, as good as an answer.

In terms of group affiliations, what are the defining parts of my identity?

To this, I answered: Muslimah, American, Pakistani descent, first-generation child of immigrants. I wasn’t sure what the order of all of these identities was, but I was certain that being a Muslimah (a female Muslim) was first. We’ve discussed in class that nowadays in America, identifying yourself by your religious identity along with your American identity is “acceptable” and the “safest” way of differentiating yourself. But I am compelled to take it a little further. I am not afraid to say that I am Muslim first and American second. And not to play the victim, but I think I live in an era and a country where that is scary to hear for a lot of people. But why should it be? Though it is a crazy hypothetical, wouldn’t a Christian or a Jew or a Hindu choose their religion over a national identity if it came down to such a choice?

As the child of an immigrant family who both understands the struggle for personal success and the difficulties of living in a country where freedom of speech and religious practice is not to be taken for granted, being American means that I can freely express myself without being forced into conformity and without fear of retribution. I know that I can succeed by getting an education and working hard without having to wet the palms of greedy government officials at every step.

That’s the traditional answer for a first-generation American, but there has to be more than that cliché. So I asked myself more questions. What do I miss when I visit my family in Pakistan for an extended period of time (one to two months)? I miss being able to go to the mosque on a regular basis and participate in community activities (women in primarily Muslim countries generally do not go to the mosque). I miss my conveniences (internet, primarily, but also things like clean water). For a longer term, I’d miss education…..and I’d miss the environment of people who think like me. Wait…that’s not right. I’d miss the environment of conversation, dialogue, and discussion. Is this what makes me being American?

But the very first thing I said I miss was a religious thing particular to my faith community. True. One of the major things I consider as my American identity is the ability to practice Islam without as much influence of the “back home” cultures (Southeast Asian, Arab, etc.). I don’t have to practice the kind of Islam the government allows through its filters. I have a greater range of motion within my community, allowing me to take leadership roles and engage in activities that are, to me, very Islamic but would not be allowed for Muslim women in primarily Muslim countries.
(more…)

I’ve discovered a shelf of old journals of mine and have started reading entries from them. I found this entry written on the back of an envelope, stuffed into an old journal. I remember writing this about seven or eight years ago during a visit to Pakistan. Here it is, modified a bit. More Pakistan pictures from this year’s trip here.

Sure, you’ve ridden in a taxi, a bus, or a metro to get from place to place in a city. But riding in a rikshaw is something that these modes of transportation can never compare to.

A rikshaw is somewhat of a cross between a mail truck and a tricycle and is one of the main modes of cheap transportation in South Asia. A rikshaw is a three-wheeled motorized vehicle with barely any windows or doors, just a handlebar to grab onto when you’re about to fall out. The minimalistic structure is covered with thin blue metal and brightly painted with poetry and cultural decals. The motorized version has been updated from the “human rikshaws” that were outlawed on humanitarian grounds from the streets. (Read “City of Joy” for a story of a poor rikshaw driver in Calcutta. Absolutely phenomenal book)

Riding in a rikshaw is an….interesting (read: life threatening) experience without which a trip to South Asia cannot be complete.

The driver sits in the front seat steering the car with…no, not a steering wheel…come on, get serious…the handlebars of a motorcycle. The back has a long seat that by American standards can fit two or three. But, if you’re desi, you know a rikshaw can easily fit yourself, your parents, your four siblings, your cousin, and any shopping you’ve done for the day. And maybe your goat.

Furthermore, imagine the road conditions. In America, we complain about bad drivers and traffic….but you ain’t seen *nuthin* till you’ve driven the streets of Lahore or Rawalpindi. Potholes galore and street construction without any detours. People walking and cutting around racing traffic. Motorcycles, bikes with seven people on them, buses with people hanging off of the roof, cars, trucks, rikshaws, “khoota gari” (literally: Donkey car - carts pulled by donkeys or horses). Cows, goats, sheep, chickens, crows. Street vendors and movable cart vendors (ice cream, corn). Dust. Smoke. Heat. Bugs.

There are street lights, stop signs, lane demarcations painted onto the roads. But just because these things are there doesn’t mean you have to follow them. They’re like the Pirate’s Code….more like “guidelines” than actual rules (tip of the hat to Captain Barbossa).

There is absolutely no reason to signal and tell anyone which way you want to turn. Just go! You can drive in the middle of two lanes, on the shoulder, or maneuver your way between everything when there isn’t even room for a mosquito to squeeze through. (This latter option is, amazingly, the most common) Plus, if you do get pulled over by a cop, just wet his palms with a little cash and you’ll be on your way in no time.

Add all this to the fact that everyone is constantly in a hurry because they have somewhere absolutely essential to be….like a tea break or to the cricket grounds or home to eat lunch. Hurry, of course, means horns. While in America, short beeps (even in the north) mean “Hey, watch where you’re going!” or “Scuze me, the light’s green. Mind moving?”

In Pakistan, honking your car horn means “YAAR, MOVE OUT OF THE WAY! I’M COMIN’ THROUGH!” It’s more like a final warning to save your own life.

Oh dear, have I put you off from visiting? Don’t worry! It’s all a beautiful symphony of organized chaos because everyone knows exactly where they’re going. If you do get stuck or frustrated, just sit back and listen to all the different kinds of horns people have installed into their car or truck. Baby’s laugh, wolf whistle, pig’s squeal, etc.

If the US Secret Service wants to train its forces for defensive driving, they should send them to Pakistan’s crowded streets. Anyone who can last a week there can handle any driving situation anywhere.