The Lost Pearl (2012) (23 page)

May 2011
: Pakistan was led for several years by General Pervaiz Musharraf, who was seen by many as a ray of hope but by many, including the western world, as a dictator. We witnessed some economic progress, a leap towards modernization. News media flourished under his reign, like a bird that had been freed from its cage. There was a steady increase in accountability and a parallel decline in corruption.

My son, Arsal, was born in 2007, which was a magical, miraculous time that brought me the most intoxicating joy I had ever known. Later that year, on December 27, Pakistan witnessed yet another assassination—that of Benazir Bhutto. Pervaiz Musharraf stepped down as president, and Benazir’s husband, Asif Ali Zardari, was elected president shortly after the tragedy. Pervaiz Musharraf had not only improved things in Pakistan in general terms but had played a crucial role in stabilizing Pakistan’s economy and was seen by the West as an important ally in the war against terror. However poor judgment in opposing the judiciary had led to his downfall and forced resignation. Pakistan’s fate seemed precarious once again.

After much deliberation, we decided to settle down in Pakistan. I know I will always have a home in America, and I try to go every other year, for my aunt and uncle continue to be an integral part of my life. Some years ago, we went to New York and visited Ground Zero. It was touching to see the silhouettes of the victims, their list of names, and the heartfelt tributes families and friends had paid. It was a perfect portrayal of my sentiments
that every person counts and every life matters. I spent some time in silence, gazing at the pictures, reading each name, and thinking about how close Ahmer had come to having his name on that tragic list. I wondered how my life would have turned out had Ahmer taken Flight 93. I would probably have never married or had any children, or I would have spent decades being part of a loveless marriage to Zain. Worse still, Ahmer’s father might still have been in jail and would have died there mourning the loss of his only son, who had promised to get him out. In 2005 too, I travelled to San Francisco to stay with my aunt and meet up with Jennifer. I was able to attend the graduation ceremony at Stanford that year as part of the alumni association. Steve Jobs had given a memorable commencement speech as we fanned ourselves with the program schedule to ward off the heat.

“You can only connect the dots looking back, not looking forward. So you should hope that your dots will somehow connect in your future,” he had said. He had encouraged the graduating class to live their own dreams and never settle.

In Pakistan, I am trying to live my dream. I joined the national news channel, Geo, which means “to live.” Earlier this year, I participated in preparing a documentary about Faiz Ahmed Faiz in honor of his hundredth birthday. His words, written long ago, are still relevant today:

Faiz’s daughter said that he did not write simply about despair or gloom; there was hope in his words, but one had to search for it, as one has to search for it in every aspect of life.

A few weeks ago, when I had stopped thinking of Osama bin Laden and had started believing that he was either dead or would never be found, we got word in the newsroom that he had been captured and killed in Abbotabad in Pakistan. The day the news came, Arsal asked me, “Who is bin Laden, Mummy?”

It was a complicated question that no parenting book had prepared me to answer. “Maybe you can ask Papa,” was my hesitant reply. At his age he would not be able to comprehend such evil, the distortion and abuse of religion, the international struggles for power, or the ironic retrogression of the civilized world. Osama had been captured nowhere near the Pakistan-Afghanistan border, the targeted area for the drone strikes. It was unclear what Pakistan’s involvement had been in the capture, but it was perplexing that the most wanted man in the world had been hiding in our country for six years. I hope but doubt that bin Laden’s death will bring an end to al-Qaeda. I pray that there will be no other date as dreaded as 9/11 for America. I pray that there will be no more drone strikes that kill innocent civilians in the comfort of their modest homes in Pakistan.

More than thirty-five thousand people have been killed in Pakistan in the aftermath of 9/11, their deaths the result of a combination of suicide bombings and target killings. That list includes thirty-four journalists. Unfortunately this has become such an everyday occurrence that people have become numb to the pain of it. There is no monument dedicated to those who perished at the hands of terrorism in Pakistan. I hope that one day my son can be proud of a Pakistan that is free of poverty, of hunger, and of the corrupt leadership that has contaminated this country. I pray that there will be no child who is misled and taught the table of hatred and misconstrued religious values, no child who is deprived of a childhood and thrown into the world of suicide bombing. I pray that our country will one day be free of the discrepancies between rich and poor and the divide between religious extremists and the overly modern. I pray for a day when, as Fatima Bhutto said, there will be enough refrigerators to house polio vaccines in a country that is a nuclear state. I pray that the literacy rate will not be amongst the lowest in a country estimated to be among the top five nations on the global intelligence scale. I hope that the leaders of the world will remember
the reason that the United Nations was created and that wars both official and unofficial will become a thing of the past. I hope that my city can overcome this darkness and once again become the City of Lights. I hope that my country can one day live up to its name, Land of the Pure.

The people of Pakistan all came together in the earthquake of 2005 and the floods of 2010, which killed thousands of people and rendered many more homeless. Volunteers generously offered their money, their belongings, their prayers, and their time. These good citizens made the relief efforts successful amidst the chaos created by the state of lawlessness.

Today I am going to pick four-year-old Arsal up from school. He looks like both Ahmer and me. It is heartwarming to see what a good father Ahmer is. Arsal does not have my dad, but he does have three grandfathers who love to spoil him: My Uncle, Ahmer’s father, who I call Baba, and my stepfather, with whom I have reestablished a new bond through my son and who I now call Abbu. Sara is getting married in a few months, and the wedding preparations are in full swing. She comes over often to visit me but mostly to play with Arsal, who is the apple of her eye. Sahir’s grueling surgery residency is nearing completion, and I pray that he will catch up on some of his years of sleepless nights. He is married to Maryam, and they are expecting their first child. It is ironic that he has been in America all this time since I moved back to Pakistan. Despite the physical distance, our bond is stronger than ever before. Ahmer’s aunt visits often; she is now cancer free.

I roll down the window to let my hair bathe in the Karachi breeze. It is a hot day but is cooler than what is typical for this time of year. The smoke from the buses and the noise of the continuous honking of the horns no longer bothers me. I can hear the
koyal
as she sings softly her announcement that the mangoes are ripe and ready to be eaten. I feel like a replanted tree once again, yet my bond with my family as well as my
country feels stronger, and the love feels more reciprocated. I turn on the radio, and the Strings song “
Mein tho dekhoon Ga
” is playing; it has lately become Arsal’s favorite. I sing along:

I check my phone and see that Kavita has replied to my e-mail; she will be able to make it for Sara’s wedding. We have not met for years, though she lives nearby, in India. I am so pleased that I will finally see her children in real life rather than simply witnessing their escapades on Face book. Jennifer is good at keeping in touch, and her blonde jokes continue to entertain us. Ahmer is a practicing lawyer, and other than his long hours, I seldom have complaints. He works as a defense lawyer and has helped reopen many cold cases and exonerate countless innocent prisoners. We both work closely with his father, who has now established an NGO for prisoners. Zareen’s eldest daughter, Ayesha, has recently passed her matriculation exams and is soon to embark on a college education. She will be the first girl—and possibly the first person in her family—to complete all ten grades. Zareen cannot change the past but she is living her dream through the achievements of her children.

A bracelet with a dozen pearls adorns my wrist, and I tell Arsal that each pearl is for every valuable lesson I have learned in my life. He always asks me what he should do with the lessons he learns, since boys do not wear bracelets, and I tell him, “You can carry them in your heart; that way you will protect them and never lose them, like I once did long ago.”

Despite the insecurities and the everyday tragedies around us, life goes on. I try to make the world around Arsal as beautiful as every child’s world should be. Some days ago, we went to Jimmy’s Studio to have a family portrait taken. We were having difficulty deciding whether Arsal should wear the red or the striped blue shirt and whether the background should be beige or black. Finally we chose the red shirt and the beige background, and the photographer was able to capture Arsal with the most radiant smile. On the way to school, I picked up the enlargement and a bronze frame to go with it. I must say, it turned out just perfect.