With Love, from Saudi Arabia

I fail to understand why we are so eager to adopt the western coffee culture but not their intellectual activities. Every time I pass by Starbucks, Second Cup, Krispy Crème among other food outlets, I see people sitting together and having a chat or in more interesting cases, simply looking at the people passing by.

Window shopping, eating out, spending time in the malls or going for the popular hubbly bubbly seem to be the most favored activities here in the kingdom. While these activities are a good excuse for family outings, I have noticed that we seriously lack some important intellectual activities. On that note, I start wondering why we can’t be inspired by the Western world and participate in ventures that are more intellectual than lackadaisical.

For the youth, going to school and coming home is not enough. I admit school work can be taxing on the children, but providing other outlets where they can actually practice what they have learnt is equally important.

Volunteer organizations play an important role to help inculcate responsibility, empathy and punctuality in both youth and adults. The school curriculum should be designed in such a way that it includes some volunteer hours that contribute to the final grades. Although this option can be kept voluntary, it nevertheless provides an opportunity for the youngsters to develop confidence and the ability to exercise what they have learnt in the classrooms.

The government can help in building some non-profit organizations that promote these extra curricular activities. Instead of building one mall after another, some money should be invested in such institutions that will be helpful for the citizens in future.

Language institutes:
The other day I read about the lack of Arabic language institutes here in the Kingdom. While I agree we urgently need more Arabic language trainers and institutes, we can not ignore the importance of English language. Again, the schools (both private and public), should devise a curriculum that teaches English along with Arabic. And in today’s globalized world, we can not afford to let the new generation survive on weak language and writing skills. I assert on the importance on teaching English on a wide level because it is the most widely spoken language in the world, and here in the Kingdom, only the privileged few have access to good schooling. It is common knowledge that most text books used in the majority of schools have not been modified in years.

Literacy Centers:
Literacy centers can help those people who don’t have the basic language skills. Instead of shying away or ignoring the wish to improve their capabilities, adults can come and seek guidance. Some children or adults who have learning disabilities should be encouraged to learn in a manner that is suitable for them. After having determined their learning level by experts, these learners can be expected to lead an active lifestyle. There are many adults who have difficulty reading, writing or using numbers. This may cause them to have trouble finding jobs, reading to their children, participating fully in society and achieving their goals.

The government is actively seeking to become a part of the knowledge based economy, but only economy can not help sustain a healthy society. A knowledge based society is equally important because it helps the citizens to become more responsible and develop a sense of accountability. We can curb unemployment by assisting people with the very basic skills, because illiteracy is one of the root causes behind unemployment and homelessness.

Today, Muslims do not have a collective voice because we severely lack a collective conscience. Media and communication is one of the most important mediums through which we can show our uniformity and portray a positive image of ourselves. The media outlets can be built around strong code of ethics that protects the rights of the citizens, religion and the disabled. Strong media can also help us reject the negative notions that have been levied upon us, the most important one being the suppression of women here in the Kingdom. Through intellectual based activities aforementioned, women can volunteer and participate to help build a healthy community.

With mental dexterity comes a sense of empowerment, and in today’s competitive world, we need the combined efforts of women and youth to participate actively. After constructing this powerful medium, it is imperative we should spread awareness and literacy. Instead of feeling threatened by the West, we can surely be inspired by their intellectual capabilities, and not just the coffee franchises, fashion and the dollar peg.

Muse-less

Writing would not have been so hard all of a sudden if only I had remained true to it. I ran from it as if running away from a bad memory. I am still trying to form an affinity with it. A lost affinity. Recognition will take time perhaps, ample time, because I have created such a vast distance. But then I have heard when it is time, it just comes running.

I remember being very sincere to my thoughts and writing before I thought of taking it up as a profession. That is when I felt the muse disappearing through the cracks. I am not sure if its a process of growth or just timidness. I am trying to figure it out.

I had never thought of reading my work out loud in front of an audience. When the time came, I was caught off guard, but I went ahead with it because I was IN it. I remember how nervous I was reading out for the first time. I gulped down my nervousness repeatedly before my name was called. I could feel my heart thudding so hard in my chest yet I was thankful it was something no one can see or hear. Talking about matters is different and writing about it is another process. It takes a lot of soul searching to put down in words what the mind experiences. Maybe thats why I am oscillating between hard core journalism/reporting and literary journalism. Former is too hard lacking empathy and the other genre is one that I fully embraced- unknowingly.

I had my print-out decorated on my lap and the professor called out my name. I sensed a strange feeling of confidence as I read out the title. Deep within I knew I was reading out something I fiercely believe in. That is what makes all the difference. There is a glint that sparkles in sincere words and feelings. Maybe it is borne out of concern and empathy. So as I read out my draft, my voice delivered the message I had always believed in: spread literacy. The subject matter was very close to my heart because it involved uncovering the scathing and bitter reality that frames the skeletal image of Pakistan, my homeland. Reading out candidly about how unaware people are about their own rights and dilapidating conditions, I felt naked to the bone. Reading to those who might not understand the background, culture and weaknesses can lead to some severe loop holes in the well intentioned writings. I finished reading and waited for someone to respond. The critical evaluation had arrived majestically. I looked around the room and almost everyone in the class had something to say. Words, beautiful and encouraging were presented to me. I was applauded for sophistication, empathy, lyrical quality, and that dignity resonated throughout the lines I had written. As these words flew around me, I tried not to adjust them around myself. I wanted them to fly away, because that’s how expectations build a majestic throne around your mind. And a throne can surely confine your creativity at times.

After that, every piece was silently expected to be just as good. Every time I was secretly pining for that glint of pride in the professors eye, who even today is one of my strongest supporter. A support I don’t think I ever gave to myself. After presenting a few drafts of what we prepared week after week, I started drowning in other matters that took over my life and I got further away from written words. Thoughts, doubts, apprehensions were swimming in my mind day and night. Classes ended, exams passed and thoughts and aspirations that I was able to glean with the help of the university routine, lay splattered around me in a very incoherent form. I just let them be and time passed.

Today I am sitting here and trying to get in touch with myself after a very long time. All these months that I spent away from myself and my inner being were the most disjointing. But sometimes, this process is also necessary to get in touch with a part of yourself. Stagnancy can never feed into creativity. Or should I say creativity can never drink from stagnancy.

I hope to bring that person in me who had the ability to tap on a moment, watch it in all its fluidity and then capture it in words like painters do on the canvas.

I want to reach…

Unwritten stories

A girl on my left passionately writes away as I take a seat in the waiting lounge at Pearson International airport. She writes in a determined manner, as if words have come to her and she has embraced them. Her eyes downcast, she separates herself from the rest of the world and is one with language. A man not far away holds a book in front of his face, but his eyes look far away in a contemplating gaze as if some old memory just beckoned to him. His leg crossed over the other moves as if swaying to music, but looking at him I wonder if he is in tune with his moment. Maybe he is, with some memory, a dream or an unanswered question. Each of us is an art that is found in books. The creativity flows in these pages for those who seek.

I am one of the millions walking towards some destination. As I pull my hand carrier behind me, my eyes anxiously wait for the familiar smell and the beautiful sight of shelves that hold the treasures. In search of a bookstore at the airport, I find myself eager to see the familiar names. I walk past numerous stores watching my step and holding my belongings. I am in a strange place and at an unknown time. Some have run away from the clutches of routine while others are going towards it.
This is a place full of strangers I will never know and never see again. Many faces swim in front of me. Faces of strangers found in books, in stories that are unforgettable.

A magical smell greets me as I enter the bookstore I have finally discovered. The fresh smell of a new book unopened and unearthed. I try to read the scattered words all at once as if time is surely slipping through my fingers. The hunger has been aroused and my sight asks for more. When time is on my side, my ritual consists of looking at these acquaintances and friends whom I might never meet. My fingers touch the tightly bound books, one after another. Perhaps it is an effort to create an affinity, if not a relation.

How strong is the line of demarcation that divides this bookstore from the path of these millions of people? Stories in these books are intertwined at some point, because a story of one is the story of all. Many thoughts have taken flight under this roof. Muddled thoughts have found coherence in this surrounding; a home to a greeter of words and wisdom. Wayfarers have found friendships, horizon and meaning. Ideas and aspirations bound together, yet sought separately.

There are those who walk around in feigned ignorance, an attempt to forge a joyous relation with the moment they are living in. Eyes that seem to look, but might not be seeing. Not everyone is liberated. Many are exiled by some sorrow, regret or guilt. I might be walking among stories, many tragic and some full of joy. A mystery lurks in the eyes of these strangers.

Niagra-on-the-Lake

The colors of Niagara-on-the-lake are so crisp and the picturesque beauty of the town is extremely enchanting. The chilly wind followed us even into an antique shop where we stopped before entering the town. The musty smell emanated from the old collectibles and faces looked at us from black-and-white portraits. The lady behind the desk sat with her hands clenched with cold and an old heater was making a feeble attempt to warm the interior. Rubbing her hands together she informed us the store will be closing down because it could not sustain the ferocious winter ahead. “Not even that heater can save this place”, she said looking outside the window.

Niagara-on-the-Lake is located in Southern Ontario where the Niagara River meets Lake Ontario in the Niagara Region. Within a day’s drive of New York City, Detroit, and Pittsburgh, and only one and a half hours from Toronto, this town has preserved its quaintness and beauty. A fifteen mile scenic route from the town took us to Niagara Falls and one instantly feels disconnected from history as contemporary shopping centers and food outlets dominate the horizon.
Endless acres of vineyards passed us with thousands of perfectly shaped grape-bearing vines standing like soldiers in the fields. For wine aficionados, the Niagara winery tour is highly popular. Niagara region produces 80% of Canada’s wine (and also the very popular ice-wine) so it was no wonder that after every few miles we saw a wine shop with “taste our wine” signs glaring at every passerby. Soon the roads diverged and I entered the town that is home to the much celebrated George Bernard Shaw.

The Shaw festival, a series of theatrical productions features the works of George Bernard Shaw and his contemporaries, or plays about his era (1856-1950). I remember reading out the arms and the man for my english class back in school. Had I known I would be walking around a town dedicated to the memory of Bernard Shaw, I would have definitely revisited the commercial success written in 1894. When I clear the fog in my mind all I can recall is the term that had seemed so exquisite back in those teenage years: the chocolate-cream soldier. The feel of the glossy page in my hands is still so vivid.

The narrow road that was tucked between rows of shops is visited by tourists and locals alike. Many flock to the town for fine wine, shopping sprees or just to enjoy theatre during the seasonal Shaw festival that runs from April to November every year. Each color of every flower stood out joyously as I walked about in this town. I was trying hard to ignore the wind that was turning chilly despite the deceptive presence of the sun. Various cafe’s, bakeries, galleries and antique shops were waiting to be visited and the constant sound of wind chimes could be heard from the antique shops nearby. Art was visible in so many forms and the past was lending its charm to the atmosphere as horse drawn carriages went by rhythmically on the road.

From afar I could see him but not clearly so I walked closer to Shaw who stood towering in the middle of the lane as people passed him by. Steps away from the immaculate statue was a sprawling cafe named after the prominent playwright. I read the plaque that rested at his feet and crossed the road again as my eyes rested on the Shaw Festival Shop. The door glided open at Bernard’s and I was greeted by him yet again as he stood in one corner of the shop, but domineering in his presence nevertheless. His figure stood between two bookshelves that were stacked with fresh hard-cover copies of Shaw’s work. I picked up some wooden bookmarks made of oak and cherry (yes, I am a book worm), and checked the memorabilia. Shirts, pens, diaries, scripts, books, there was so much to choose from.

I wondered how the Shaw festival gained so much popularity in Canada and I found out that the Shaw Festival was started in 1962 by Niagara-area lawyer and playwright Brian Doherty. The following year, the Shaw Festival Theatre Foundation was established as a non-profit organization, and in its first decade, the Shaw Festival enjoyed immense popularity and the audience grew. The company toured extensively in the United States and Canada and then on June 20, 1973, in Niagra-on-the-lake in Ontario, the Festival Theatre was officially opened by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II. This beautiful new building enabled the Shaw Festival to gain national and international acclaim.
But with the onslaught of recession dampening the ticket sales, the director have not given up as they try to deal with the problems creatively. Sticking to comedy for the upcoming festival in 2010, two of Shaw’s works are being used to kick of the next season: A Doctor’s Dilemma and John Bull’s Other Island.

Walking along I stopped at the Ten Thousand Villages (a fair-trade organization) and couldn’t help but grin out of joy when I saw items from Pakistan on display as soon as I entered the shop. A beautiful sheesham table was on sale along with the items made of stone such as Onyx. The shelves were stacked with beautifully crafted products, and my personal favorite were the multicolored paper coiled products from Vietnam and Philippines.

The same vineyards that had greeted us on our way into the town, bid farewell as we drove away the quaint town for a more commercialized Niagara Falls. But not before plucking a few grapes from the sprawling acres. Shaw’s character world was being left behind.

No jobs for new immigrants

Aleem Zaidi came to Mississauga from Pakistan two years ago with a post-graduate degree in Agricultural studies and extensive work experience in the banking industry. But after unsuccessful attempts at securing a job that matched his credentials, he applied to the University of Western Ontario to upgrade his education and to increase chances of employability.
“My credentials were assessed in Pakistan and I was accepted in the skilled immigrant category when I applied for immigration to Canada,” said Zaidi.

Immigrants accepted under the “skilled workers” category of immigration are accepted based on their work-related skills, professional credentials, and knowledge of one or both official languages.
Currently pursuing graduate studies in Environment and Sustainability at Western, and gaining experience through a co-op placement program, Zaidi says his potential is not being recognized. “No matter how frustrating it is intellectually, changing professions to adapt becomes the only choice.”
Many skilled workers, like Zaidi, despite having their education and experience assessed prior to immigration are not more likely to be employed or to be able to find employment in jobs that utilize their skills.
Unlike Zaidi, not every immigrant chooses to join educational institutes to increase chances of employment. For immigrants like Mohammad Shafiq, 51, the transition requires quick thinking and fast action. When Shafiq came to Canada from United States armed with a doctorate in economics, he looked around for suitable jobs but not for too long.
“I realized the Canadian job market didn’t require what I had to offer, so I switched gears and went to a community college and completed a certificate in computer programming,” said Shafiq.
But due to stiff competition and aftermath of recession, opportunities are shrinking for newly arrived immigrants. A 2008 study revealed that the proportion of degree-holding immigrants ended up working as store clerks and taxi drivers even after living in Canada for more than a decade has increased.
About 12 percent male immigrants with a university degree had jobs with low educational requirements in 1991. By 2006, it was 21 percent.
Among female immigrants, the study said, these numbers increased from 24 percent in 1991 to 29 percent in 2006.
“These increases for established immigrants suggest that the difficulties, which have long plagued immigrants who have arrived recently, today have an impact on established immigrants,” said Statistics Canada in a statement.
“If we are accepted in the category of skilled immigrants, then where are the jobs that can help us utilize those skills?” said Zaidi.
It is an uphill task for some immigrants to establish themselves professionally because their work experience and foreign credentials are not recognized in Canada.
A recent report released by the Region of Peel in Ontario shows immigrants lagging behind in accessing the job market. The Peel Immigration Labour Market Survey has unveiled that immigrants are not faring as well as their Canadian born counterparts.
In the sample of 1,425 immigrants and Canadian-born Peel residents surveyed, lack of Canadian work experience was reported as the barrier faced most often. For those who had international work experience, only one-third were successful in obtaining their desired employment.
Laureen Rennie, project manager at Department of Human Services in Region of Peel says it takes around six to ten years for the immigrants to settle down in Canada. “The process is difficult because when qualified immigrants arrive here, they enter a market that doesn’t necessarily require those qualifications,” said Rennie.
Human Services serves as a liaison between the federal/ provincial government and municipalities of Peel region that include Brampton, Mississauga and Caledon. Immigrants make up 49% of peel’s population.
According to the survey, one in four immigrants accessed some government-funded employment services, and just under one-third obtained more education and credentials in Canada. The Peel Immigration Labour Market Survey is the first study conducted that provides local data on the labour market in Peel, and how immigrants are faring in finding employment. Funded by the Ministry of Training, Colleges and Universities, the study was done in collaboration with Ryerson’s Diversity Institute in Management and Technology.
Rennie said that Region of Peel is working on creating a dialogue between public and private companies and the new immigrants so they can be facilitated in the work place.

First published in South Asian Generation Next.

Synergy 2010

Fom the tiny window of her shop Neelam Kapoor has seen the snow and the crisp leaves fall listlessly to the ground. In the coffee shop pretty much everything is within reach, the coffee machine, sandwich bar, toaster and her laptop.
Neelam Kapoor owns and operates a small cafe all by herself. But she’s got big dreams.
When a customer walks in, she quickly flashes a smile and takes her hand away from the keyboard. But as soon as the cafe is empty, the laptop’s screen glows on her face in the dimly lit area behind the counter.
She is creating a list of guests she wants to invite for her next event in June. Kapoor started a series of events called Synergy 2010 in May, as a part of the South Asian Heritage Month, which aims to bring out the hidden potential of women from all walks of life and different cultural backgrounds.
The event helps women showcase their talents, but before the event Kapoor finds herself knocking on the office doors of the city mayors she invites to hand out certificates of recognition to the participants.
“When I explain my motive that this is a multicultural event for women and for them to show their talent, they agree to come to my event”, says Kapoor.

Brampton Mayor Susan Fennell attended Kapoor’s event in May.
The steel counter top is spotless and she rests her elbows on it as she animatedly talks about her project.
“But I am making every effort to help myself and other immigrants who feel alienated in a new atmosphere,” she said as a customer walked in.
Having completed her Masters in Public Administration and a post- graduate diploma in Industrial Relations from Punjab University in India, Kapoor immigrated to Canada in 1999 and stayed in Alberta for a while before settling in Toronto. After eleven years in Canada, Neelam Kapoor has turned stepping stones into building blocks. “Events like Synergy provide a meeting ground for the newcomers,” said Kapoor.
Kapoor worked as a Manager at a popular food chain for six years before deciding to venture into social work and event management.
“People I hired there are still in touch with me”, says Kapoor.
After meeting so many people who were striving to belong and adjust, Kapoor felt the need to do more for those who had left their country.
It felt as if she were looking in the rearview mirror. Their effort was a reminder of her struggles. “Sometimes they just need someone who can listen to them.”
Kapoor’s mother worked as a registered nurse for 36 years and she retired last year. “She is my inspiration, I don’t remember her sitting idle,”said Kapoor.
At times when her husband is busy she brings her two sons to the cafe for a few hours. The four year old sits on the stool and behind the laptop and the seventeen-month old refuses to be anywhere else except in his mother’s arms.

Girls from the fashion show organized by Kapoor

Kapoor’s husband Pankaj Kapoor supported her constantly because he knew it was her dream to promote multiculturalism and to unveil the hidden potential of Synergy’s participants.
Kapoor has a penchant for designing also and she showcased her collection of jewelery and clothes in the Synergy event that took place in May.

Sometimes when everyone’s asleep I gather my beads and start working. I have to start a website soon. This can be a good online business,” said Kapoor as she flashed a smile and poured coffee for her next customer.
Kapoor’s next event Synergy 2010 will be held on 28 June, 2010 celebrating Canada Day with Regional Councillor Elaine Moore and all the participants of Synergy.
“My message for women is to respect yourself and your dreams. You will definitely achieve the success you deserve”.
Proceeds from Synergy 2010 were donated to the Toronto Sick Kids Hospital.

First published in Generation Next.

Nip, Tuck and Glow

Lo and behold, welcome to the anti-aging movement. Diamonds may have been a girl’s best friend, but that was then, this is now. These days love for expensive rocks has been replaced by a magic potion called Botox. Innovations recognize no boundaries, at least not where cosmetics are involved.

With the influx of anti-aging products in the market, women have become increasingly conscious of their looks, and many are willing to pay any price to slow down the traces of time on their faces. Advertisers promise to reverse the aging process and help you pucker up instantly before heading out to a new restaurant.

Were we paranoid about our looks before the market was infiltrated with heavy duty products that could make our wrinkles disappear or even out our skin tone or make lips fuller with collagen enhanced lipstick? There’s another product hitting the markets in the fall: Maybelline New York’s Instant Age Rewind Primer Skin Transformer. Tongue twister isn’t it? It might sound whacky, but promises to work as a primer and filler. Voila.

Buying a wand is not that easy anymore. Another company has come up with ‘breakthrough’ mascara that does not even let you move your hand. All you have to do is turn the thing on and it spins, vibrates, oscillates and covers your lashes with a thick coat of black paint so you can flutter them throughout the evening. I wonder if they are going to create a lipstick that can be applied without having us open our mouths into a wide O?

Ellen Degeneres of the popular show of the same name is sending out an interesting message these days: “Inner beauty is important, but not nearly as important as outer beauty.” This Cover Girl ad that frequently appears on the idiot box has shattered the notion that was ingrained in me and finally opened my eyes. It is very interesting to note that even in a progressive Western society, many feel weak at the knees when encountered with an amazing marketing gimmick. We have hundreds of international and local cable channels being broadcast in Pakistan and so the message somehow becomes universal.

Sadly, the good old written word is not far behind, with what started out as leisurely reading turned into a pop culture phenomenon. Chick literature helped us ladies carve a niche in the world of insecurities and discontent. Books such as the Bridget Jones Diary, Gossip Girl, the Shopaholic series and the very popular Sex and the City were adapted into movies. And now we can’t seem to get enough. Don’t believe me? A Facebook group for Sex and the City fans even lists a Google map that shows where Carrie Bradshaw’s character has been in New York City. Fans can follow her fictional footsteps and appease their desire. For what? I have no clue. But it sure sounds a lot like using virtual money to play Farmville on Facebook.

And then a deluge of sitcoms that give us some creative tutorials on how women overcome issues of ageism and matrimonial troubles. Some writers have succumbed to their desire of embracing misogyny by churning out sitcoms like Cougar Town and Desperate Housewives. For those who are out of the loop, Cougar Town revolves around a 40-something divorced woman targeting young lads out there for sexual and emotional satisfaction, and the men are more than willing to oblige of course. Nothing wrong with the older woman’s fascination with the younger lot, but why is the idea exaggerated through raunchy jokes and highly insecure demeanour?

Times are changing and so are the ways with which we profile gender. The boob tube seems to be portraying women as hunters going after innocent doe-eyed men. A decade ago a woman was a damsel in distress but now they gossip incessantly, have extra-marital affairs and all this not just in private spheres, but publicly. Well, at least that’s what the producers and directors have bet on. And guess what? These ideas sell like hot apple pies. And so do those cosmetic products that are lined up for women who wish to transform themselves and enter the time capsule.

And in fear of physical regression, we seem to have progressed in strange ways. Gender stereotypes may be cute to a certain extent, but they lose their appeal when that’s what you have to live with.

Is the media portraying society or is it the other way around? I don’t know. Now, I am no Carrie Bradshaw, nor am I one of those who follow the Sex and the City episodes fanatically. But I do know that according to the media (and society), women are going to weep just like Carrie if any of the following is missing: a good man, a great career, and an amazing filler job. With cosmetic surgery clinics burgeoning like mushrooms in Pakistan, it won’t be long before our society looks like a set from the Stepford Wives.

See you there.

First published in The Friday Times.

The Holiest of Shrouds

The street was quiet and the road clear; completely devoid of pedestrians. The guards at the gates checked our car and tried looking into the rear where I was seated. I rolled down the tinted window, and with a quick glance they shooed our car inside the gates. The desert is almost always candid, for it can’t hide anything underneath the expansive sky. Or so it seems. With water bottles stashed away in my bag, I was ready for the cruel heat of the day. Immaculate palm trees lined the road that led to the small factory in the city of Makkah where the covering for the Ka’aba is made. The small factory is situated in the district of Um Al-Joud, some twenty kilometres north of the holy city of Makkah.

Kiswa means ‘dressing’ in Arabic and some two hundred trained Saudi workers are employed to carry out the task of preparing the cloth. Earlier, the kiswa was woven in Egypt and carried to Makkah by pilgrims, but since the mid-twentieth century it has been made in this factory situated on the barren and silent outskirts of Makkah.

The manager, who had promised to give us a tour of the factory, strode out with small definite steps, as his long white thobe swished around his ankles. After exchanging pleasantries, he took us to the air-conditioned room where all the ancient pieces of kiswa cloth had been framed on the walls. But mostly, the old coverings with all their accessories are given to the government of Saudi Arabia, which divides them into small pieces and gives them to senior guests, a number of religious institutions and global bodies and Saudi embassies abroad.

We were told that the first factory was set up in Makkah in 1926 by the late King Abdul Aziz to make the kiswa . But it took more than a hundred craftsmen the whole year to weave the cloth, using the ancient wooden hand-looms and embroidering it with magnificent calligraphy. Due to the non-availability of modern machinery the factory was closed down in 1937 but it was reopened after a long gap in 1962.

We left the room and were hit by another shot of heat before entering the factory. Huge pillars dominated the vicinity around the factory rooms and I saw a man approach us with hurried steps. He had strings of gold and silver metallic thread in his hand and he cut out a few inches from the reels he was holding. He handed me the strings and said this was a haddia , a gift. It was the same metallic thread that was used on the black cloth, he told me, as I rolled the string into a ring form before safely tucking it away in my bag. In soft accented English he told us to enjoy the tour, before he ran into the factory.

Men dressed in white thobes and jackets sat on the floor with outstretched legs, while some were seated in their work chairs. Their hands were busy sewing and weaving the threads intricately into the cloth. Using the needles’ end they joined the Arabic alphabets together to create a calligraphic effect that sprawled into an exquisite Quranic verse. The silk cloth they work on is imported from Italy and Germany and with the help of special detergents and special olive oil soaps the silk is washed to remove its protective wax. Then the silk is exposed to high temperatures of ninety degrees Celsius and washed several times to achieve its natural colour.

A single covering consumes approximately six hundred and seventy kilogrammes of natural black silk. The kiswa consists of forty-seven parts; each one is fourteen metres long and ninety-five cm wide. Professional weavers and workers do the embroidery work of the belt, the torches and the door curtain. Besides, they make stitches and stuffing by using silver and gold coated wires, the latter consuming around one hundred and fifty kilogrammes of gold and silver. In general, the covering costs about seventeen million Saudi Riyals, according to statistics.

It was apparent that I was the only female on the premises and they were not used to having one visit the factory too often. Their shy eyes lifted up momentarily before continuing to perform their sacred duty. I busied myself with the camera and was pleasantly surprised when many workers flashed a smile as I tried to take pictures of the whole process.

There were a few disabled workers who sat on their wheelchairs and worked on the cloth. Machines outlined the three walls of the huge room and one end was dedicated to an old interior of the Ka’aba that had previously been used. I had read that a strip from the Ka’aba’s kiswa dating back to the Ottoman era with verse 197 of Sura Al-Baqara written in Al-Naskh calligraphy was sold for a record figure of pounds 311,000 (SR 2,376,947) at a Sotheby’s auction in London in 2007.

Makkah’s cultural heritage might be moving towards a decline, with the construction of contemporary hotels and malls surrounding the Holy Mosque, but the making of the kiswa is still being practiced with the same fervour as before. This ritual was a custom started by the Prophet Ismail four thousand years before the origin of Islam. The colour of the kiswa kept changing during the reigns of different caliphs and rulers. But the Al-Shaibi family has been the hereditary bearer and guardian of the key to the Holy Ka’aba since three thousand years before the Hijrah when the Prophet (PBUH) gave them the key to the sacred spot. I was surprised to know that the Shaibi family used to sell the covering of the Ka’aba for a long time. But after an order from the Council of Senior Islamic Scholars prohibiting the sale of the kiswa , the family has instead been compensated with money from the Saudi government.

According to an article published in the Arab News, the sheikh said there was nothing unusual about the interior of the Ka’aba. “It is a single chamber with three pillars. It used to contain some antiques. There are no manuscripts of the ancient classical poems inside the chamber; these are all rumours of the Ottoman period. All the antiques have been taken away to the Ottoman Museum in Turkey.”

Pilgrims come from all walks of life to touch this cloth and shed tears over it. After completing its yearly life, the kiswa may adorn the walls of the majestic houses of various dignitaries and leaders, but the place where it is manufactured is humble, and the workers creating this piece of art with tranquillity and rhythm, are even simpler.

First published in The Friday Times.

Family Matters

Michael Ondaatje, a Canadian author best known for his work The English Patient (1992), wrote his memoir Running in the Family in 1982. Describe it as you may: fiction, memoir, or a travelogue, Michael Ondaatje blurs the traditional autobiographical form and we arrive at a surreptitious yet poetic account of lives strewn on the pages of Running in the Family . Ondaatje writes about his family settled in Ceylon in the 1920s. This was the time that witnessed the exuberant lifestyle of the affluent, where drinking, gambling and romance were the main occupations of the elite.

Ondaatje left Ceylon when he was eleven, but after returning at the age of thirty six, he tried to recollect fragments of experience and family scandals. The journey begins in Jaffna where he visits relatives and old friends to know more about his father Mervyn Ondaatje, whom he had barely known, and to reconcile himself with his memory. The erratic pace and presence of the characters is calmed by words which are patient and demure. While tactile imagery sweeps a reader in, Ondaatje’s lyrical sentences need to be deciphered. Ondaatje is known for his use of metaphors and lush poetic sentences that he employed in The English Patient, Coming Through Slaughter and In the Skin of the Lion. But in his autobiography he oscillates between reality being delivered from oral history and his own understanding of events. Perhaps that is the reason his sentences remain at the periphery of lyricism. Diverging from the conventional form of autobiographies, Ondaatje weaves photographs of his parents, poems, conversations, quotes, personal memoirs, and historical documents into his writing.

The narrative form fluctuates from past to present and travels in time, similar to the wandering and ghostly presence of the characters in Ondaatje’s life. He maps the story of his parents and estranged relatives while his own personality flickers in and out of the sentences. He is the conscious narrator, yet the fictive elements intricately place him in the story as an anxious searcher. He becomes the painter of his family lineage and the observer as well. In his words, “I witnessed everything. One morning I would wake and just smell things for the whole day, it was so rich I had to select senses.” An attempt to reconcile with his past becomes a story of salvation. When Ondaatje’s brother says that he must get this book right, for it will only be written once. Ondaatje admits that his effort remained incomplete: “In the end, all your children move among the scattered acts and memories with no more clues.” Upon his return he meets relatives who volunteer to fill in the missing gaps and reconstruct a missing life for Ondaatje, yet he feels as if these stories are just a tug at his memory and not the truth he is looking for. And so, the reader becomes a traveler along with Ondaatje as he embarks on his search.

Like his other works of fiction such as Anil’s Ghost (2000) and In the Skin of a Lion (1987), Ondaatje succinctly weaves the theme of colonialism into his memoir, transfixing lost faces in juxtaposition with Ceylon in the 1920s. The lack of chronology allows him to sway between time and space. But in an effort to provide authenticity to his text, or perhaps to satiate his inquisitiveness, he does include quotes from his relatives, as well as pictures and anecdotes.

With every memoir arrives the question of authenticity. But Ondaatje’s memoir doesn’t follow the generic code of western autobiography. He slips away from chronology, realism or even from the role of the omniscient narrator. Instead, he relies on oral history and brings to life those people who might have a clue to his past.

The echoing gap rests between Ondaatje and the visit to his homeland, and as he sifts through the days and nights to construct an identity, each step takes him deeper into an abyss of missing clues and answers. There are no dramatic moments of recognition that suddenly bring Ondaatje to any simplified answers, but the journey treads at a constant pace, carrying with it the enormous weight of an incomplete identity.

Does a true story exist in the words people utter or convey? Or does it rest silently in the unseen moments we could never witness. Stories can’t bridge a gap between people; they just help us visualize a mirage, which silently and gradually recedes as night descends. In an attempt to reclaim his past and write this autobiography, Ondaatje visited Ceylon/Sri Lanka twice, since history threatened to slip through the fingers, and the past wandered in the streets as if in a drunken stupor.

First published in The Friday Times

Pages of tomorrow

Living life micro size. One bit at a time. I know my sentences are getting shorter, but hey don’t blame me. After all, we all prefer the micro and the mini now. Even attention spans are getting shorter. We no longer like the longer routes to understand or comprehend things, so cut to the chase. Twitter? Heck, we don’t even have time to go and buy a book for goodness sake, let’s download some e-books instead and flick the page, oh, I mean the button. Is it just me or are we clicking our life away?

The other day my mother took out all her old newspaper cuttings from a box she keeps tucked away in her drawer. Some articles were worn out and an old paper smell emanated from them. She proudly took them out and smoothed away the tiny and ancient ruins that were lined at the sides of all the old cuttings. I told her she can find all these articles in the archives online, but she dismissed my suggestion with a wave of her hand. For many like my mother there is nothing like the old smell of a paper and the settlement of ink on it. But these days paper and ink have practically become obsolete thanks to keyboard typing and texting.

I was standing at a popular electronics shop and Lady Gaga’s song was giving us a lesson on a (sadistic) bad romance. “You might as well get one,” said the gentleman standing beside me. He must have noticed my pensive gaze as I stood staring at the Sony e-reader in front of me. “I don’t know, I am more of a book person, I’m wondering if I can accept a book turning into a gadget,” I told him as I dug my hands deeper into my jacket pocket. He threw his head back and laughed and the silver stud in his ear glinted. He tried to convince me that nothing can beat the e-reader because it saves so many books for you to read. Well yeah…was my reply. “But if something happens to it, then all those books are gone!” I mustered up this reply to his technologically justified thought. He looked at me as if I had just flown in from Pandora and said I could always ‘back up’ those downloaded books and transfer them back to the e-reader. I nodded in complete understanding and started staring at the gadget in front of me, contemplating if I would turn into a prospective buyer. No, he was not a salesman but a customer who was there to buy the e-reader for his mother (she had suggested it would be the appropriate present for her this Christmas).

I started sifting through the electronic pages but somehow my fingers just missed the tactility of a real page, the sound of it turning and the special smell that emanates from even the newest edition. He collected his new e-reader and flashed me a smile before leaving. “Don’t forget you can’t carry so many books with you,” he stated emphatically and sauntered off. I just stood there and sighed. It is getting increasingly difficult to stick to the conventional style of reading books, especially when the technologically inclined critical mass is moving ahead at a torrential speed. I admit I am not the kind who adapts easily to new technology. My Cancerian nature makes me crabby and nostalgic every time someone reminds me that the tightly bound pages are in the process of being replaced by this thing that resembles a page and loads up words digitally. Soon, the market will be brimming with products such as Amazon Kindle, Sony reader and Barnes and Nobel nook, and it has already ignited a spark in the publishing industry since the publishers will have to revolutionize and introduce books digitally.

The notion of literature, great or mediocre, is in the process of shifting. Researchers are now emphasizing this shift to see how people practice their writing skills more openly on mediums such as Twitter, Tumblr and Facebook, creating a technological revolution in the traditional methods of reading and writing. The boundaries between recreational reading and analytical reading is getting blurry, because reading on the internet has become more common, and with gadgets such as e-readers we tend to read on the go, just like getting a cup of coffee from a drive-thru. But even the advocates of new media encourage a disciplined approach to reading a text, where the reader is fully engaged and present, a habit we must nurture and a lesson we must impart to the young.

Book lovers are fast turning into electronic readers. The size of the e-reader might resemble a page, but it does not have the real feel of paper. I am an avid user of highlighters and sticky notes, but the art of annotation might also change and become more technical with the usage of electronic bookmarks and notes.

For years the wooden bookshelves in my study have carried the weight of paperbacks and hard covers alike. I am not relieving them of the responsibility anytime soon. But I wonder if I should give the e-reader a try? But then again, real books don’t need a warranty. They only need care.

First published in The Friday Times.