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| A family next to our 'rock' |
Introduction
This is a description of Pakistan through the eyes of an 18 years old
woman during the mid 1990s. What is recounted here are the views and thoughts
of myself at that time and I concede now that some of my thoughts and opinions
may have changed a little since then, so please do not take this as a balanced
or an objective account of a country so complex.
Being a Jersey girl and coming from a small island, I had no idea what
would be ahead of me or how I would cope. I went to Pakistan blind but came
back six months later painfully aware of life, especially if you are poor, and
a woman. When I came home I could not relate my experiences, and after the
first five minutes of my conversation people became bored and changed the
conversation. I started to notice people hadn’t changed in the way I had. I
felt very much alone as I felt most people wished to be kept in ignorance.
Below is only a snippet of what went on but I just wanted to give you a
cross-section of all that happened. Even though there were many things wrong
with this country at that time, there are so many beautiful aspects as well,
for me one may not necessarily outweigh the other but there were many happy
times in this nation. I am very glad I went.
…………..
The first day we arrived, the plains were enjoying a beautiful crisp
spring day, the temperature being about 20c. As we climbed Murree road in
Islamabad to the mountainous ranges, the van started to become cool. The usual
temperature for our destination at this time of year being -15c; we started to
gather our jumpers and coats around us. Intermittently, we would see
ice-encrusted shacks that sold some sort of brown liquid in Pepsi bottles with
men sitting around in groups, not worried about time, not really talking, just
staring, looking at the new white faces in the van passing by, drinking Green
Tea and smoking chillums.
The higher we climbed the more sights we sought, men squatting on walls
pondering the amazing countryside around them whilst open drains poured forth
human excrement on to the plains. Men drove motorbikes with their wife/wives
and children balanced precariously side saddle. Huge old Bedford trucks filled
with people and men hanging off the sides leaned dangerously into the other
lane of oncoming traffic, dazzling in the sunlight and complete contrast
against the snow. The gaudy colours shocked the unknown foreigner – reds,
yellows, greens, blues – bright and beautiful, a colourful carnival luring
passengers into its quarters. Beautiful Arabic letters were written along the
sides of the buses quoting the Koran to keep everyone safe within. Up front
there were bells, chains and an Indian movie star picture besides a good luck
charm hanging off the mirror.
Women dressed head to toe in the most amazing shades – alluring yet off
limits – eye contact not made when walking unless of the same sex. Wonderful
glimpses of eyes, slight show of hair for most except for the lenient/rich
families where a full head of hair would be allowed and preened with pride.
Bright yellow taxis invented a new highway code, careering off in front
of everyone, overtaking on blind corners, no seat belts, Indian movie music
blasting from inside. Suzukis filled to the brim with people – mostly men, yet
there would be women sitting together or next to a male member of their family.
Rickety rickshaws rattling along: stopping, starting, how many rupees? “Teekeh?
Teekeh? Atcha… Atcha…” (Okay? Okay? Fine… Fine…) The inevitable cow (buffalo,
Miss) lolling and walking wherever they pleased.
On the roadside, children smiled, playing with their mother’s dupatta or
hiding behind their father’s shalwar kameez, the father smiled benevolently at
their child (regardless of sex) and put a protective arm around their shoulder.
Men with bad taste in Western clothing (cheap guys, Miss) strutted around
together, holding hands. Half built houses, rubble, rubbish, potholes
scattered, food stalls pushed out onto the road, selling nuts, pulses, rice…
the sights were endless and for the whole time I was there I never tired of
them.
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| St Denys' High School |
My companions and I were green, clean, unsure of what to do and how to
do it. The senses were bombarded with strange colours, clothes, smells, sights,
noises, language and people with a huge taste for strong and very sweet tea. My
unknown friend for the next six months, Sarah, looked as scared as I felt –
both thrown in a completely different world with no idea what to expect or to
believe – we reacted totally differently to the situation. Sarah blindly
accepted everything as if it were normal and I became defensive and demanded to
be told what was going on.
And so started our time in Pakistan.
Religion infiltrates every pore of life here, to say that you are not of
a religion or that you are an atheist would go against all that most Pakistanis
represent. There is a very limited concept of somebody not believing. As Sarah
and I are non-Muslim everyone automatically assumed we were devout Christian.
This is not the case either, however, as this was a Christian school we had to
perform morning devotion, go to chapel every Sunday and a prayer meeting once a
week.
Yet our duties were nothing compared to the average follower of Islam -
a practicing Muslim performs the five pillars of Islam. These are:
- Profession of faith: ‘There is no God but GOD.’
- A Muslim should pray at least five times a day, facing the city of Makkah. In Pakistan, most Muslims follow the Azan (a call to prayer) that bellows everywhere from a loudspeaker at prescribed times of the day. Luckily for Sarah and I, the school was situated beside a mosque and the 5am call was always welcome especially if we had been up till 2am marking.
- A Muslim must give a certain percentage of their wage, called Zakat, to the poor.
- On the ninth month of the Islamic calendar, Muslims must abstain from food and drink from dawn to sunset. The period is called Ramadan.
- A Muslim must undertake the pilgrimage to Mecca, this is also called the Haj, at least once during their lifetime (if they have enough money). The Holy book is called the Koran and that contains the words of God (Allah) as they were given to the prophet Mohammed.
Makkah / Mecca is situated in Saudi Arabia and is the holiest city
according to Islam, millions travel there every year. Within the mosque in
Mecca there is a simple stone structure that has a single door six feet up from
the marble floor called the Kabba. Fifty feet high and thirty five feet long,
the Kabba is in the centre of the sacred mosque. This is the spot where three
millennia ago, Ibrahim, known as Abraham to Jews and Christians, first
dedicated a house of worship to a single God. In the Koran, God said that, ‘The
first house of God that was built for people is the one in Makkah.’ It is
towards this structure that one billion people turn five times each day to bow
down and pray.
Sarah and I were bombarded by religion from every angle. In essays we
received, even if the question had no relation to the subject whatsoever, the
student would always incorporate some quote or view from the Koran. Where
Muslims believe Islam had set them free, all I could see were the restrictions
that had been imposed, especially for women. Are they blind or am I?
I know there is a difference between culture and religion in every
society and that one Islamic country is not necessarily similar to the other
but when I think of some of the Islamic countries that come to mind, all I can
see is a religion that imposes and restricts the freedom of women; from Purdah
to wearing a burqa. Yet some women choose this as part of their identity and see it as empowering... When women are pregnant, there are people who pray for a boy because they
will gain respect in this patriarchal society and conveniently not have to pay dowry
in the future. If the mother has a baby girl, the mother will be consoled with
the thought that next time will be better. If the family does not have the
economic means, it has been known for female babies to be killed.
It seems to me that the status of women in Pakistan’s society is a contradiction – it is
believed women are revered and this is why they shouldn’t go out alone, or as
the case may be, at all. Yet some of the stories I have been told, and from
what I have seen in front of my eyes, some of these customs could be described
as barbaric and infringe upon basic human rights.
One day I was walking to a class when one of my students came up to me. "I want to say goodbye, Miss." I looked at her and asked her why she was saying goodbye as the term hadn't finished and it confused me because the girls weren't allowed out of school generally during the term. I asked her when she was coming back, she shook her head, "I'm not coming back, Miss, I am getting married." I was shocked, the girl had just come on her period so she was to be sent home and married to her cousin. She was 9 years old. I hugged her and wished her luck. I never saw her again but I think of her often and this moment is the reason why I became a social worker.
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| Sarah in the distance - Kashmir |
These cultural views can also affect the men and their view of women in
general, especially white young Western women. Most young men felt it was okay
to harass Sarah and I because we had fair skin; we later found out this is
mainly due to the perception that all Western women were similar to the low
budget American movies that are found in Pakistan, which involve scantily clad
Westerners who participate in many endeavours of the sexual kind. I tried to
understand that their view of women is limited but it was hard to feel empathy
when men were trying to grab or feel me when they thought others weren’t
looking.
I often thought to myself - why was I in one of the world’s most corrupt
countries in the world, sharing the same room with a girl I have no idea about
in a place termed third world where communication was limited, illness an
everyday occurrence and wearing shorts and t-shirt on a summer’s day an
impossibility?
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| One of our many views |
One night Sarah was ill so I had to go to the dining room alone. I had
made friends with two of the teachers yet they had both left for the weekend
due to other commitments within the school. The other teachers hardly even looked
at me so conversation that night was out of the question. Left to my thoughts
whilst eating dahl, I turned to the window which presented a wonderful picture
of Murree at dusk; trees, mountains… all around. At that particular time, a
flash of panic and inspiration hit me, panic because I thought I might never
get home as the mountains might never let me go. Inspiration because the view
was, indeed, truly beautiful. On clear days, from Kashmir Point you could see
the snow-capped Himalayas as far as the eye could see, inviting yet perilous,
beautiful yet demanding. I could see what mountaineers found so inspiring about
mountains – the challenge is there – what could possibly be more fulfilling
than to climb to the top of a mountain and survive? Maybe, on a smaller scale,
that is what I felt when I looked at the Murree hills or at my trip to Pakistan
as a whole – I was conquering a piece of my own life and 7,500 feet at the same
time.
When I was staring at the view, not for the first time did I wish I was
an artist. The colours visible surpassed anything I had seen on the plains, an
amazing sunset filled with flaming oranges and reds before turning into violent
shades of purple and soothing blues. The mountains looked unreal, as if the
world were too small to fit them in - it continually amazed me how they
comforted but suffocated at the same time. I knew it was only a bus ride out of
there but I still felt a slight sense of alarm that I would be teaching Senior
Cambridge and eating dahl for the rest of my life.
A week before this, we experienced an earthquake while eating dinner.
There we were, all teachers, matrons and secretary together eating the usual
dahl when the whole dining room shook for about five/ten seconds. The girls
started screaming (for any dramatic event usually accompanied a lot of noise
from the girls) and Shaista Begum, a friend of mine, started praying to God.
Christine, a fellow teacher possessed with an unusual temperament , started to
prophecise the end of the world. Maybe because of the shock, excitement or just
because we couldn’t understand what good praying or prophesying would do, Sarah
and I wanted to laugh. Sarah and I have been together three months at this
point, practically twenty four hours a day, and we began to start sensing the
other’s emotions and thoughts. We looked at each other, tried to conceal any
emotion and politely excused ourselves. Once free of the confines of the
serious dining room, to the amusement of the pupils and servants, we ran out
onto the forecourt and crumpled with laughter, not really understanding the
full potential of the quake or the horror it may have caused; it became a
release for us and our emotions.
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| Sarah working... |
The next day, while teaching class 8, a day girl with a solemn face told me a story and she swore this was true. Apparently, a few days before the earthquake a baby was born with a moustache and it spoke straight after birth. The baby predicted the earthquake, floods and famine and the end of the world on 2nd/3rd June. The student looked so scared and the other girls seemed so determined to believe, I just smiled and told them that this couldn’t possibly be true, the end of the world could not happen when the date was so close to my birthday. I went into the staffroom and there was a grown woman, a teacher, Mrs Naeem, telling the same story with all the teachers captivated. The fate of the baby? It died mysteriously two hours later.
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| The girl's bathrooms |
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| Sarah getting to grips with our bath |
The usual working day for Sarah and I would be school from 8.30am until
2.00pm. This would start with an assembly where all the girls would sing the
national anthem. I taught the subjects English, English literature, Music and
PE to girls ranging from ages four to eighteen.
Class 11, the last class, had to be prepared for their Senior Cambridge
exams. English was the main aspect of this paper and if the pupil failed this
subject, they would automatically fail all their subjects. The pressure to get
these girls though this exam was immense, if they passed they could gain a few
more years of ‘freedom’ at a college, if they failed they would head straight
for their appointed husband and begin their own families. Having no knowledge
of the books I would be teaching, I came unprepared for this task and I wanted
to go home when I realized I would be teaching ‘The Warden’ by Anthony
Trollope.
After lunch, I would usually have extra classes with Class 11, usually
dealing with the English language paper and how to pass. The standard of spoken
English for most of the girls was very good but their written English was
amusing at best. Here I was, a student masquerading as a teacher, feigning
intelligence and pretending to be knowledgeable in all subjects when it felt so
apparent that I was a fake. They thought I was so strict when I believed I couldn’t
be more lenient. Apparently my marking standards were really high yet I kept
trying to make excuses for their mistakes. Nearly every day I would have to go
into the classroom and try to make them understand the importance of reading or
why cheating would not get them to colleges, it felt unmistakably strange
because I was echoing those teachers that so recently taught me.
I had problems with my conscience whilst teaching; Sarah and I would
debate all the time, never really coming to a full conclusion. Here we were,
teaching girls on how to pass an exam for a few years of freedom. What was the
point of giving knowledge to most of these girls who may never use
their education but would be aware of the oppressiveness that exists in their
lives and country? Would they be happier being blissfully ignorant? Should I
show them a freedom they could never obtain? Is my life necessarily better that
they should try to emulate it? If they tried to gain their personal freedom,
this could be at the cost to their family and society could lose respect for
them and suffer, would freedom be worth this?
Later on we would have tea, and Sarah and I would put off marking by
writing letters or talking or listening to music. It seems so simplistic now
but although we would get lonely occasionally, homesick – nearly always, we
were never bored. There was no pub to go to at night for alcohol is illegal
without a permit. There were no other friends we could see and no other
amusement other than our own ideas. One of our favourite pastimes would be
looking at the food in my photos, wondering what it would be like to taste
anything other than rice and dahl. I would give lectures to Sarah about music and
she would tell me all about her life and family. We read many books, talked
about many subjects and recounted the day’s details.
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| Fun times :) |
Every night I would check my sleeping bag and cover for tarantulas. It was always the same, I’d get comfortable, put my Walkman on and try to sleep. Inevitably, five minutes later, I would be sure that a spider had crawled up my leg or across my bed so I’d be up again, checking the covers, emptying my sleeping bag, making sure the sheets were clean and pillows clear. After I would put my Walkman on and think about home, food, and the love I had left there
I would often sit on my window and stare out towards the view, green
hills sloping towards the playground where Sarah insisted I joined her jogging
sometimes, watching the swings sway in the breeze. In awe of the mountains, I
began to understand why I was doing this or why I was here. I HAD to come here.
Some yearning inside of me had made it essential to come. Sarah and I would sit
on our rock, talk about our lives, ourselves and tried to find our purpose. I
grew serious and thoughtful; I had to be if I wanted to gain any kind of
dignity the mountains commanded. The Himalayas… a place Westerners talk about
in hallowed terms – bypassing all the shit that surrounded them – majestic,
glorious… are there any words that describe them fully? Yet, there were times
when I would lose hope, cry at all that could not be done and feel helpless
against a whole system of humanity that seemingly defied any hope of progress.
On that rock, all we stood for was not important, nor were we in terms
of the world at large. I knew this before I left my inconspicuous rock I called
home, yet I wanted to make a difference. Bob Marley’s lyrics used to
reverberate around our room and I would understand, ‘Emancipate yourself from
mental slavery, none but ourselves can free our minds.’ This journey was taken
to free my mind as well as the girls I taught. I tell people, ‘I went to
Pakistan to teach English for six months,’ yet in reality it was, ‘I went to
Pakistan so I could be taught what life really means.’ I’m not ashamed to say
my innocence ended in Pakistan, I went there as a visitor, I tried to become
something else but in reality I am all that I ever could be. I found a country
that embodied every contradiction; it contained heaven and hell in their
fullest sense.
All class 11 passed their English exams.
Rest in peace, Sarah – may we share another adventure together soon. I
love and miss you xxx
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| Leah and Sarah - best buddies |
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