Expectations from Children Raised Outside of Their Native Culture

Some time ago, this awesome Pashtun lady friend of mine reported to me that my nephew (six years old then) had called her by her real name. My response: a loud gasp followed by a scolding for my sweet innocent nephew darling followed by sincere apologies to the Aunty.

That didn’t teach my nephew anything.

So the Aunty and I talked about it, and we realized that when our children are being raised outside our areas, we *expect* them to uphold the same values that we were *taught* to uphold when we were growing up. There’s a difference. Back home, parents don’t have to work as hard on their children because practically everyone around them believes the same way; society works together to raise the children of all the families, so the parents aren’t burdened entirely. But when these parents come to the west, or migrate to some other society where their cultures and religions begin to clash, should they have the same expectations of their children that they would if the children were being raised in their motherland?

Pukhtuns living abroad don’t have it easy, especially when they’re born and raised here. There will inevitably come those phases of loss, of insecurity, of identity crisis. Our parents punish us when we do something wrong that we didn’t know was wrong because they never told us that it’s wrong. This is a big mistake on the parents’ side – whether Pashtuns or not – because what’s right or wrong, what’s appropriate or inappropriate (particularly in light of our religion or culture) is nothing “obvious”; it’s something we learn from people around us based on the way they practice or promote/reject what is considered appropriate or inappropriate by them.

Did anyone ever tell my nephew that he’s not supposed to call elders, or anyone older than him by four years, by their real name? No. Has there been a need? Not really. Why? Because he’s not being raised around many Pukhtuns. He knows that he can’t call his parents, grandparents, and teachers by their real names, but he doesn’t know why. No one has told him the why, and no one seems to think he should be taught why. It’s as if it’s “common sense” that all people should KNOW not to call elders by their real names. Yeah, okay, it *becomes* common sense when we’re being raised in a society where everyone shares almost the exact same values and no one's necessarily directly taught how to behave and believe (as it's mostly based on observations and the sort of education we receive both inside and outside our homes), but how can we expect it to be common sense for those who are being raised in other cultures? As I said, I think even when we’re raised inside our culture, we’re not told the *why* to most things. We just know we’re supposed to behave a certain way often without understanding the significance of it. I’m against this no-explanations-provided part of our culture (and religion… that is, when religion is taught to us by those who themselves don’t know what the answers to the questions starting with “why” are) because I don’t think one can really appreciate and wholeheartedly cherish something – in our case, Pukhtunwali and Islam – if one does not understand it. And why should anyone have to go through various troubling phases to finally understand and then appreciate Pukhtunwali and/or Islam?

So this is just a note to those who are parents outside their native culture and expect their children to behave in a way that they’d be expected back home. Teach them. Help them understand. Try to understand them as well. Try not to punish or blame them when they don’t understand because I swear it’s not easy accepting something that’d make sense in one culture but makes absolutely none in another, and you fall in between, hence being a representative of neither. It's almost like standing between two cities, with one of your feet on the side of one city and the other foot on the other city, with a large gap -- say, a river -- between the two. See? The pressure and pain (the gap) is such that you can literally drown in it.

Childhood Memoirs – Part 2

~ There was a pond close to our house, and it had several plants, including trees, in and around it. During Autumn time, it’d be filled with all sorts of leaves, but in Spring time, it’d be all green, so green you couldn’t tell it’s a pond; it looked JUST like a “chaman,” all green and stuff. One day, my relatives were over from another village, and I took some of my cousins to the pond… and the scenery was breathtaking. The whoooooooole pond looked like it was all sheen kabal and you could sit and relax in it. So I told a cousin of mine to jump in it :D:D:D And, mind you, the pond was deep too :O He must have jumped in it because I remember laughing my head off. hah.

(Seriously, that was just cruel. I think they should have a sign there that says “Jawarey uba! Daa kabal na dey; da lobo da para na dey. Mehrabani wakai ao laree te osai!” or something like that.)

~ ALLLLLL the kanzal (profane words/phrases) I know today, I learned from a group of boys who used to play tikaan/marbles near my aunt’s house in this area we called kandar.

~ I hated the poor children in my neighborhood because my mother would sometimes take my most favorite clothes and shoes and other stuff and give them to the kids! I’d cry and beg for them to remain mine, and mom would say, “Daa maa manalee dee. Wass ye za da Khwdey na sanga wapas rawakhlam, lewanai.” And I’d cry for hours and hours and hours… and take my anger out on the children who’d then wear those clothes!! One of the girls, I used to pinch her like hell. Like this one time, she was trying to close the door to this house, and I was standing behind the door and as I saw her hand on it while the door was closing, I held her hand and pinched it soooooo hard. She started crying but silently so that no one heard. Her mom had climbed the wall of her house and was seeing me do this. She said, “Zrra de khwashala sho?”
I showed absolutely NO remorse at that time :S

(And, Gosh! That family loved me so much. When that woman got a daughter, she said to me, “I was going to name her but then I thought your family might mind.” I was about 10 years old, and I thought, “But why would they mind it? It’s not like I’m the only person with this name, or that this name belongs only to me.”
And I still don’t know why some people should take it as an offence if someone’s named after them. Why is it considered a bad thing? . . .)

hah.

~ Umm… I hate doing khatmuna and stuff for anyone for any reason! :S On Fridays, the first 30 minutes of our Quran class would be spent doing khatmuna because some family would always send a request to our teacher to make us do khatam on their behalf! So our teacher would use us for it (I was the littlest and youngest student in this group of girls, whose ages ranged from maybe 15 to maybe 35; we were the “advanced” group learning translation, not recitation, of the Quran. And so we were supposed to be able to handle khatmuna pretty much every Friday while the other students didn't have to.). So!!! You know what I’d do?! To resist it, I’d either go like rrrrrrreally late, or then once I’d reach there and start the khatam, I’d cheat soo much… Oh man, how I cheated! I’d pretend to be reading it, but in reality, I’d just be moving my lips really fast and turning pages every now and then and rocking my body back and forth. God. It was totally normal.

Whaaaaaaat!! I was a KID! NO ONE should torture little children with so much burden as having them finish a whole sipaara of the Quran in one setting! Or reading Surah Yaseen ten times in one setting – not when they’re like seven or eight years old, kha huo! So unfair. I actually used to feel really bad cheating, and I’d worry that if the person’s wish didn’t come true, it must be my fault. So to compensate for it, I’d cry to God to fulfill the purpose of the khatam even though I’d cheated on it because I don’t wanna go to hell for it (Oh! The pressures they put on sweet innocent children! May they be forgiven for it!)

I now wonder if anyone else did/does the same! I’m SO never asking anyone to do khatmuna for me. Never. Please, let me ask my God myself what I need from Him.


~ My other favoritest memory: When this ghwaai/bull took my younger sister in its khkaraan/horns and lifted her into the sky and dropped her to the ground. :D I think she hit an apple tree, though something tells me she was stuck in the tree until my grandpa rescued her. But I’m not sure.
So, yeah :D That was fun :D (But at that time, my mom wasn’t present, so I was really, REALLY sad for my sister and even cried with her for her pain. But now … yeah, we laugh about it :D)

~ My Quran teacher had a niece named … Mumlikat? Malkiyat? One of these. (‘s been ten years since I last heard or used these names. My God.) I think it was Malkiyat. Anyway, so she was my friend. Now, I hated and still hate fighting people, but sometimes … people just compel you, you see!! This Malkiyat girl and I started a fight while in the (Quran) class one day, and since I had a rrrrreally good reputation there, I couldn’t ruin it by fighting with the teacher’s niece, kana. So I told her to let’s continue it once class is over at such and such place (the place I told her was, um, far from her house, of course, so that her aunt would never come to know about it, lol). Daaaaamn, man, I tell you! When we had that fight, it was good. I pulled her hair SO hard some strands literally came off, and I punched her eye so hard she cried. And when she started crying, I ran away and went home. The next day, Thursday, we didn’t have class, so on Friday, I was scared to death, thinking that she must have told her family and all and I’ll be punished for it. No one seemed to have known about it :D

P.S. I still do this to people who fight with me. Just a little warning. ;) Men’s/boys’ short hair makes it all the more not only fun but painful as well!

Ahhhh!! Such sweetness from childhood! There are many more, of course, but I should stop here, no? :) There were bad ones, too, though ~cries loudly~ Like that time when my 1st and 2nd grades teacher had me and this classmate of mine (my opponent) slap each other while he just sat there and enjoyed it :S I have no bloody idea why he bloody had us do such a bloody thing like that!! He apparently got pleasure from it! It wasn’t rare that he’d force us to slap each other for hours until we’d start crying and just fall to the floor, begging him to let us stop! When we’d cry, he’d say, “What?!? hahahahha! You’re scared of each other! Such cowards you are!” When we’d stop, he’d say, “Do you want ME to hit you? No, I’m sure you don’t because you know I won’t spare you. Then don’t stop.” When we’d take a break, he’d say, “HURRY! HURRY! Shaabase! No taking breaks, you chickens!” And so we’d continue until we just couldn’t anymore, changing hands every now and then!

This teacher’s name was Asadullah, and I THINK he was from Sirsinrai! Someone, please make him suffer for what he did!!! :@ Or then I hope he was BUTCHERED by the Taliban!!!! Unless he sincerely regretted what he did and spent his life begging God to forgive him for it!!!

The classmate’s name was/is Ayaz Ahmad, and he was/is from Dadahara. One brilliant guy he was. His father and I were SUCH good friends! :D He adored me for no apparent reason. Once took me, my sister, and my brother along with Ayaz and his siblings and cousins to the riverside, near their house (Dadahara has so much water, nazara na shee), and we had this awesome picnic there. We swam and fished and ate and talked and enjoyed – until it was time for my Quran class. The teacher used to take money from you if you ever missed a day, and so I didn’t wanna miss any!

Maaaaaaaaaayyyynnn....!!

~ Ohhh wait! :D Lemme add how this one time ... :D:D:D I fell off this swing :O (I LOOOOOOOOOOOOVE swinging.) My father had, um, tied(?) it. I don't know the English word for it, but in Pukhto, it'd be "taal zaangawal," I think. And it was there for several years until it fell off at last! Then after that, we sisters and cousins would try to "tie" it to the ceiling ourselves, and it was never as stable as it oriignally had been. One day, I was swinging on it, and my sisters were pushing me. I was going SO high that I could see my cousins and aunts faaaaaar below my house. We were on the second floor, and they were far away and on the first floor. And my cousins had all come out to see me swinging so high and I was being all brave and stuff and was waving at them. And then ... BOOM!! I fell!!!!! After a few seconds when they didn't see me anymore, they all ran to my house and said, "DID SHE FALL? DID SHE FALL???" hahahahha ... and I was hiding in the room, lol. I swear I got lucky, man, because I tell you, I could've so easily fallen down to the first floor and broken every bone in my body. But I didn't -- da khwdey loy shukar dey!

Childhood Memoirs – Part 1

I started writing my childhood memories, and they got so many I figured I should submit them in two parts :O

I grew up in a village in Swat. A famous village the name of which is now all over Youtube because, thanks to our recent/current war, it has been one of the most-affected ones. It now lies in utter annihilation. Khwdey de ubakhee …
When my mother visited Swat a few months ago, she was telling me how much it has changed, and I don’t and won’t believe it until I see it all for myself. I dream of going to Swat – or any Pashtun region, really – and I imagine that the moment I reach there, I’ll get out of the car and literally kiss my soil. I will prostrate there and open my arms to God and shout my thanks to Him for reuniting me with my land. I tell you, I will not care if people watch with open mouths or laugh at me; I won’t mind if my family/relative who will be with me mock me and feel embarrassed by what I’ll be doing. It’s a dream … and I will make sure it happens whether anyone likes it or not, ka khairee.

As you all know, I’ve been longing for Swat these past few months – rather, since the end of 2007. What is keeping me from visiting/going, you ask? Well, nothing, to be honest. I have absolutely no excuse not to go . . . :S I guess maybe the fear that seeing Swat this destroyed will kill me. I guess I’d rather enjoy remembering everything the way they were ten years ago than to go there and be haunted for the rest of my life…

Khair, lemme share some precious childhood memories here.
~ My most favoritest one: How my friends/cousins and I would pick up chewed gums from the ground and eat them like it was nothing. No one ever stopped us – yeah, we never did it in front elders because we knew they’d beat the hell out of us. hah.

~ In the morning, when my sister and I would be walking to school, we’d come across a lot of butcher shops, you see. They’d have these butchered animals lying on the floor, in different positions, waiting to be chopped into pieces and then sold. One morning, this one cow was lying on her back and her tummy was huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuge. Sama parrsedalee wa and stuff, like a humongous bubble. So I thought it’d be absolutely COOL if I just stepped on it to make all the fluids inside it pop out :S I lifted my leg and came THIS close to bursting that bubble ... I was only showing my sister how I’d do it, and then I saw this teacher of mine who was standing there (he had been my teacher some year before that time), watching me and was about to burst into laughter and then I was tooooo embarrassed to do it! So I didn’t… and we continued walking to school in the usual boring way, nothing exciting other than wishing I’d be able to pop the tummy of the next cow I see. Never happened.
hah.

~ I loved, loved, LOVED Wednesdays because I didn’t have sabaq (Quran classes) on Thursdays. One Wednesday, I’d just gotten out of the house of the lady who taught us Quran and was running home. It was just a few minutes before evening prayer, and I was crossing the Mosque. Now, I wasn’t just running but shouting really loudly as well (hey, it was my way of celebrating no-class the next day, all right?) :S This rrrrrreally, REALLY old man, who had just … umm… I shouldn’t say, but basically he was getting ready for prayer. He saw and heard me, and apparently, I musta scared him half to death or something because he cursed me so bad ~cries bitterly~ He said, “ITA KHWDEY DE RRANDA KA!!!” :S And I started crying because I hadn’t done anything to deserve his such evil khairey! Those khairey stuck with me for years because I used to cry that one day, I’ll go blind because an old man wished it so, and old people’s prayers/wishes/requests come true, I was taught (I don’t anymore believe that khairey come true! No one deserves them, k! I was hardly maybe seven years old, and he wished such evil upon an innocent, harmless little girl who hadn’t done anything to him!! HOW CRUEL!!! ~cries harder~)

~ My aunt (tandaar) sews. Often, she’d ask me to buy her nache/threads, and often, I’d return with them. There would come times, though, when I’d just … go to the bazaar and buy me a rupai-waal cake with the money she’d given me for a nacha! (WHAAAAAAAAT! Those cakes were SO GOOD! Do they still exist? I remember how much I longed for them allllllll the time. Each time I won a rupai, that’s all I got me :D) I’d come back home hours later and avoid my aunt for as long as I could, until when she’d ask me herself where her nacha is and I’d say, “What nacha?” I’m not sure how I ever got away with lying, lol.
hah.

~ There was a cemetery right next to my house. In it was a huge olive tree, large enough to have several children climb it and stay in it for a long time and tell stories and jokes and stuff. My cousin and I would climb it and spit on people below us :O We ruled the neighborhood; no one could ever hurt us, lol.

~ There used to be this crazy and weird man in our village; we used to pass his house on our way to school and the chawk. We’d stop by his house, and his door had this big creek in it, enough for us to see what the house looked like, what weird things he had inside it, which trees he had, etc. EVERYTHING was ALWAYS in the EXACT same position; never did he seem to change things around, to change the location of his shoes – which were ALWAYS placed right next to the door on this platform-like area near the door – his beds/katuna (those beds you put in the veranda/courtyard), or anything else. And his door was always locked. He was known to be a crazy man, and we told each other and everyone else that “Never open your mouth when he’s around because he might count your teeth. When he counts your teeth, you’re going to die. Everyone knows this.” So poor man, when he would be near us, we’d press our lips tightly together and stare at him, as if to challenge, “hahhahahaha! You can’t count my teeth now!” But, really, he WOULD stop there in front of us and, without uttering a word, he’d point to our teeth and open his mouth, showing his own teeth, indirectly asking us to show ours as well! So that’s why we were scared, you see!

This same man would visit the cemetery each Sunday at 9:00. He’d sit by this small grave that was right beneath the olive tree and pray. Then he’d leave a few rupees on the grave and get up to swing on this big branch of the olive tree for a while. All us kids would be watching him from a distance, and once he’d leave and be out of sight, we’d all rush to the grave to get the money he’d left :O

More later.

Khpal Rabab Ta - by Spogmai

All this time when I've been begging Spogmai to get a blog so she can feature her poetry in it, she won't listen! Insaan la sama jarra warwalee!

k, so this is a poem by our own most beloved Spogmai Khaaperai. It's an ode to the rabab, the instrument without which Pashto music wouldn't taste the same.

If you need a glossary like I always do, lemme know :D
Enjoy!
(And I don't know what's wrong the fonts here....)

خپل رباب تۀ

کاواک دړدونه بې زغم سوې مې چې زړګې شورو کړي

نيم روغ زخمونه مې بيا اوشلوي سنګين يادونه

چې د ماتم اؤ سړيکو کريکو دنياګئ سازه شي

په غزوؤنو شي سلګئ ، د سترګو ځي رودونه

زما د خوب لېواله سترګو ته بانې جوړې شي

بيا راتازه مې په زړګي شي وخته ستا ضربونه

په داسې وخت کښې اې زما د سوز نه ډک ربابه

سړيکې د زخم مې تحليل کړې په خوږو نغمو کښې

هر اضطراب مې د زړګي ، هر اذيت د ذهن

يؤ دم لاهو کړې د لېتهی زود فراموش چپو کښې

ټولې تړسيکې، اندېښنې اؤ تلوسې د زړه مې

په لللو اوده کړې رو د بې غمئ زانګو کښې

د صباؤن د زړه چاؤدلې تورنقې په شان

هغه سندرې کړې برسېره چې ژړا ژړا وي

د ژوندون لاس چې مې رضا کړي د شکست اقرار ته

نو ستا نغمې مې د تيرو رڼا ته رهنما وي

کله طنزونه ، تضحيکونه چې مې روح پرهر کړي

هره نغمه کښې راته ستا بې نيازي ندا وي

ربابه ستا په هر يؤ تار کښې د شوخ شنګ جانان مي

د شرارت اؤ ناز مکيز ډکه خندا پټه ده

ستا په هر تار کښې د وامق اؤ د عذرا قيصه ده

ستا په هر تار کښې د ادم سوې ژړا پټه ده

ستا په هر تار کښې تلقينونه دي مجنون ته د ضبط

معجزه تا کښې هر يؤ لاش له د عيسی پټه ده

ربابه تۀ مې د خلوت پېمانې ډکې ساتې

ربابه تۀ زما د هرې پرېشانئ قضا يې

ربابه تۀ د غم زغملو بې کران قوت يې

ربابه تۀ ستړي کاروان له د اميد ځلا يې

په خپل دوزخ کښې زه ساه اخلمه دا ستا په نغمو

په جامد ذهن کښې مې تۀ د نوي خيال رڼا يې

زما د ژوند په هر لحظه کښې اې زما غمخواره

تۀ مې د مينې د کمال اؤ د زوال رازدان يې

د وصل ډک مازيګرونو د ګودر کښې تۀ وې

اوس د فراق اوږد شوګير کښې راسره ګريان يې

اوس چې د زړۀ مارغه زما دي له پرواز پرېوتې

په دي ګران وخت کښې د نشاط اؤ رنګينو سامان يې

زما همراز ، زما همدم ، زما غمخوار ربابه

د وچ ګوګل نه دې بهيږي د سورونو ابشار!

- سپوږمئ -

"Would You Permit Me?"

I think this poem is a perfectly perfect representation of what Islam has come to mean, especially today and especially with the type of people who are accepted and authorized as our leaders and scholars.
It is written by Nizar Qabbani, a Syrian poet who died in 1998. His other poetry can be found at this link. God bless humanity as long as we have men like him existing and doing what they believe is a productive means for the liberation of every silenced heart, mind, and tongue.

In a country where thinkers are assassinated,
And writers are considered infidels
And books are burnt,
in societies that refuse the other,
and force silence on mouths and thoughts forbidden,
and to question is a sin,
I must beg your pardon, would you permit me?

Would you permit me to bring up my children as I want,
and not to [let you] dictate on me your whims and orders?

Would you permit me to teach my children
that the religion is first to God,
and not for religious leaders or scholars or people?

Would you permit me to teach my little one
that religion is about good manners,
good behaviour, good conduct, honesty and truthfulness,
before I teach her with which foot to enter the bathroom
or with which hand she should eat?

Would you permit me to teach my daughter
That God is about love, and she can dialogue with Him
And ask Him anything she wants,
Far away from the teachings of anyone?

Would you permit me not to mention the torture of the grave
to my children, who do not know about death yet?

Would you permit me to teach my daughter
The tenets of the religion and its culture and manners,
Before I force on her the ‘Hijab’?

Would you permit me to tell my young son that hurting people
And degrading them because of their nationality, colour or religion
Is considered a big sin by God?

Would you permit me to tell my daughter that
Revising her homework and paying attention to her learning
Is considered by God as more useful and important
Than learning by heart Ayahs from the Quran
Without knowing their meaning?

Would you permit me to teach my son
That following the footsteps of the Honourable Prophet
Begins with his honesty, loyalty and truthfulness,
Before his beard or how short his thobe (long shirt/dress) is?

Would you permit me to tell my daughter
That her Christian friend is not an infidel,
And ask her not to cry fearing her friend will go to Hell?

Would you permit me to argue
That God did not authorize anyone on earth after the Prophet
To speak in His name nor did He vest any powers in anyone
To issue ‘deeds of forgiveness’ to people?

Would you permit me to say
That God has forbidden killing the human spirit
And who kills wrongly a human being is as if he killed all of humankind,
And no Muslim has the right to frighten another Muslim?

Would you permit me to teach my children
That God is greater, more just, and more merciful
Than all the (religious) scholars on earth combined?
And that His standards are different
From the standards of those trading the religion,
And that His accountability is kinder and more merciful?

Would you permit me?

*Nizar Qabbani*
*Born: 21 March 1923, Damascus, Syria*
*Died: 30 April 1998, London, England*
*Occupation:diplomat, poet, writer, publisher*
*Nationality: Syrian*