True Stories of Immigrant Americans: Giving it All

Names, Places and some events have been changed to protect the identity of the protagonists in this tale.

I hit send and the email floats into cyberspace….. It contains sentences begging for his dignity and financial assistance for his health care from his own hard earned money ensconced in the treasure troves of the investment bankers of his health insurance.

I look up from the computer and am transported to my hometown and how close I came to loosing my faith and his role in reinstating it.

The humid of heat of Karachi permeates my kameez and I can feel the drops of perspiration trickle down my back. The rick shaw ride through the MA Jinnah road brings much needed relief of moving air as the rickshaw zips between cars, a camel cart and a bicyclist  turning on to  Bunder road moving forward at a snail pace.

17 years old I am full of dreams. I am going to become a Doctor and go to specialize in Pediatrics inn America and then sail from there to Africa on the ship called “HOPE”. He has accompanied me to the medical school  to sign my final entry into medical school and pick up my schedule.

I turn to look at him and perspiration glints on his broad forehead his fair hands hold on to the side of the rick shaw  as it veers into the medical school lane barely missing the bone setter under the tree just outside the gates.  His sign crudely written on cardboad box proclaims in urdu” if your Doctors could not take the pain away of your bones come to me, guaranteed healing”.

The rickshaw ride with him has been informative as He has just attended a rally of Maulana Maudoodi the day before, and we talk of his dreams for Pakistan.

I am boiling inside, and I turn to him “ How can Maulana say that if a woman touches a non mahram she loses her faith? What about female doctors?’ I turn to him belligerently. I can never forget his answer and his expression.  He looks thoughtful, and says “ everything is not black and white we have to think and study some more” he looks at me and smiles the smile that has charmed half of the female population of the department of English at the Karachi University.

To this day I have not shared with any one that the one sentence from Mawlana almost made me renege on a faith that I felt had no place for women doctors as I perceived it at that time. I sit back and feel the breeze rushing through the open cabin of the rickshaw, his soothing voice assuring me with a smile and a simple non commital answer that has since propelled me to seek answers about women in Islam to this day.

I am across the Atlantic and cannot travel to go see him.  I see his photo taken in a hospital bed his grey hair scattered over the hospital pillow, his grey beard shadowed with a smudge of blood or saliva I do not know. His face half covered with the oxygen mask and with his eyes closed I feel he dreams of making the world well again.

Flashback:

I hit send! I have just written a letter to the Dean of his University as too why he should not be dismissed for speaking out against Israel and speaking for the Palestinians at “Al Quds Day” in Washington DC. This is long before today’s genocide in GAZA.

13 senators and representatives from Congress have demanded his expulsion or resignation for his anti semitic, racist remarks against Israel.

He has fought back with the help of the “Proletariat” as my brother H would say. The reporters flood the University where he teaches and interview every faculty and they all give him a clean bill of ethics. They are surprised to hear him being labelled as Anti Semite and racist and against women puzzling over the fact that his seminal publication of a book is on The Struggle of Muslim women.  I don’t know if my two page letter to the Dean outlining his history of standing for the oppressed whether they were women or Palestinians made a dent. In the final analysis they  could not sack him, his students were interviewed and they bore witness that he was very fair in class and never voiced his political views as he had done at the AL Quds day in DC.

He ends up keeping his job, and continues to stand with posters for Palestine in Washington DC sometimes with only three people and continues to do this every year.

It was the beginning of the fall Semester, he had moved to an apartment closer to the University his wife had accepted a lucrative job on the west coast. His days were occupied with teaching students and his evenings were spent analyzing political news on TV, eating junk food and writing fiery articles for the political journal he edited.

He heard the pounding of the door, he shouted “Help!” but no sound came out from his parched throat.

In his semi stuporous state lying in the bathtub where he had slipped and fallen 36 hours earlier he could hear the pounding on the door but three days of starvation had sucked all the energy out of him and put his diabetes over the edge. He could not pull himself out of the bathtub nor scream for help. Who would hear him? This was an American neighborhood where doors and windows were shut tightly and soundproof walls let nothing in or out.

Unbeknowest to him while he had been wrestled to the slick floor of the American bathtub, the world had burst into flames: on the border of Gaza The IDF had come alive and started to shoot Gazan kids accusing them of sending incendiary balloons over the border.  Near Tel Aviv a bus full of Israeli kids had hurtled down a ravine and an ancient long standing vendetta in the Arab quarter had taken out a whole family bringing the annual death toll in that village to 187.

His pen had fallen silent now for 36 hours. The individualistic society of the west went about its business, no one called to visit, no neighbor checked to see why the elderly professor had not gone to work for two days.

As he lay wedged between the faucet and the handheld shower head he was aware that he was getting weaker every moment and felt on the verge of giving up hope. He would then nudge himself and try to make the effort to drink from the faucet of the tub but to no avail. He was not going to give up he told himself, but then he paused in his struggle, looked up to His Divine Creator and asked “Are you calling me? Is it time to leave this angry world?”

He heard the shattering of the window glass, Ahh he thought Allah has sent help and he looked around for a towel to cover himself……

To be continued……