Mayada- Daughter of Iraq touched me: and how!

“Greed seems to attach itself to cruelty.” –Mayada

Mayada- Daughter of Iraq is a heart-wrenching tale of a woman’s fight for survival in Saddam’s prisons when he ruled the country with an iron hand.

Saddam, as the world knows, led the Baath Party and became the President of Iraq in 1979. He was sick: a megalomaniac who was paranoid about his own security and suspicious of every human being, including his family members. This led him to commit countless inhuman acts, including waging wars against Iraq’s neighbours - Iran and Kuwait.

The book primarily focuses on the miserable and terrible lives the poor Iraqis are forced to live whether outside or inside his prisons.

The protagonist, Mayada Al - Askari, belonged to a rich and highly influential family. The extent of how influential the family was can be seen from how powerful her grandparents from both sides of her family were. Loyalty towards, and love for, the country was the hallmark of Mayada’s forefathers. Mayada, a single mother of two young kids, and an independent working woman was, like many Iraqis, arrested and thrown into prison (Cell 52), on the mere suspicion of printing anti-government pamphlets - no trial, no proofs.

It was then that Mayada’s life took a turn for the worse - from being a happy mother and a proud Iraqi to becoming a victim of ruthless torture sessions in Cell 52 of Baladiyat. In that cell she came across cellmates dark as shadows who, just like her, had been imprisoned and tortured regularly.

As I read through the book it was extremely disturbing to know how people, men and women alike, were beaten mercilessly: their nails pulled out, electric prods used to hurt them, beaten black and blue till their bodies were one open wound.  Sodomy and rape was common! And all of this, just to make them confess to things they’d not done! Some, rather than face prolonged torture, confessed. The end result? Immediate execution. Others went through the torture and even died in the process. While in prison, each breath was a torture and there seemed no hope of release. Mayada herself had lost all hope the moment she saw ‘52’. It brought back painful memories linked to the number. “I will never get out of this” was her sentiment. The cell door seemed to scream, “All hope abandon ye who enter here.” Paragraph after paragraph seemed to let out cries of pain and suffering, screaming for sympathy and hoping for justice.

The book very powerfully expresses the deep bond that bound the tortured women of Cell 52. Though strangers, their common fate brought them together in care and concern.

Among others, the one aspect that touched me like no other was the person of Samara. An extraordinary shadow woman, she easily befriended her cellmates and was immensely kind to all. Her strong intuition of Mayada’s eventual release prompted her to enthuse Mayada not to lose hope but hang in there.

I was touched by the final section of the book when Mayada, a free woman now in Amman, writes to Samara hoping she has survived Baladiyat now that Saddam had lost all power.

Unlike Jean Sassoon’s Princess Trilogy which was based on the aggressive male dominance in Saudi Arabian society, Mayada- Daughter of Iraq describes a woman’s struggle for survival in her beloved homeland - Iraq. While my heart reaches out to the victims of injustice and oppression, I appreciate the sheer courage and determination of the author who explored the lives of people in patriarchal and/or authoritarian societies, and wrote about it. I congratulate her and look forward to reading her other works.

The book demonstrates how a megalomaniac is least bothered about human dignity in his lust for power. Indeed, greed seems to attach itself to cruelty. A poignant tale that touches the cord of pity and sympathy, and makes one desperately thank the Almighty for his/her state. 

Photo- Pinterest.com

Whose Fault?

                                                                     

During a casual visit to my dad’s friend, who happens to be a reputed gynecologist, something appalled me to no end. I’m used to sitting right across him as he carefully listens to his patients, and advises them politely- like a mother to her 4-year old. Today, however, unlike any other day before, I came to know of a woman (maybe in her late 20’s), who had come from Hyderabad to consult this particular doctor. She’d had three miscarriages in the past, as I had been told. Nevertheless, she was in high spirits of being able to sustain a pregnancy in future, and conveyed the same by maintaining a cheerful countenance.

 
To interrupt my stream of thoughts, another woman, aged 34, entered, who was evidently sick. Her hair unkempt, and her eyes and legs clearly refused to function. She was a mother of two girls, and was two months pregnant with a third child. It was only after the doctor examined her, and prescribed her the suitable medicines, did she utter the abominable. She said that after having two girls, the sex of her unborn child worries her all the time.

 
On hearing her, I was taken aback. Her words momentarily shattered my world. Not only did she, knowingly or unknowingly, condemn my existence as a woman, but also pointed a sharp finger at my gender, as though literally poking it. I couldn't fathom how she had come to hate her own gender so much. I couldn’t help clicking my tongue and turning away my face, straining my vision as a cloudy film took a temporary abode in my eyes.


On retrospection, I think- what would the 2-month old inside the woman be feeling? What would s/he know about her/his gender and its complexities? Moreover, wouldn’t the innocent fetus feel humiliated on knowing that the most significant criterion for its birth was being discussed? What would it know about its possession of a particular kind of genitalia, but the fact that it has a beating heart and a beautiful soul embedded in it? Above all, it shudders me to recall the woman’s words.


Owing to the lack of my knowledge of her family issues, I do not completely blame her. She maybe someone who has been through traumatic circumstances, on account of giving birth to two daughters. But the combination of her teary eyes and words certainly made her lose my sympathy for her health, and my respect for her- as a woman.


I, being the second of three daughters to my parents, have often been asked, “Oh, three sisters, eh? No brother?” to them, I say- I do not know what it is like to have a brother. But what I do know, is how wonderful it is to have a sister. My sisters and I, have never felt the absence of a male sibling, and I’ve never sensed a tinge of disappointment when my parents are asked about one. I am extremely thankful to the Almighty for being sent among those that I am wanted by.


While my heart reaches out to that woman’s unfortunate child, I pray that it is a boy for her. And I pray that when he grows up, he doesn’t nurture preferences, like his own mother once did. And if it is a girl, I wish her all the happiness in the world, and pray that she learns to be proud of her gender, just as I am, because after all, who is at fault for her gender?

 

Some More Short Stories

• Dinosaurs were lucky- lived life on their own terms, died without drama.

• The lady in black is so cheerful, she doesn't give an impression of being a widow.

• We are so hopelessly used to shallow living, even the fish prefer deeper waters.

• We wish Mondays to go extinct. But then, won't Tuesdays be the new Mondays?

• There is a cure for cancer, but none for lust.

• Honesty and satisfaction are expensive; deceit and contempt- cheaper.

• "He whistled", "They catcalled", "He tried to catch hold of my dupatta". Mum said, "shh".

• Her derailed vermillion and kohl-rimmed eyes screamed and pleaded against the beatings. It was the mangalsutra hanging around the neck that inflicted more pain.

  

• There were petrifying screams throughout the building, and when everyone had got used to the periodic bellows, suddenly a strange calmness enveloped every corner. The baby got out motionless, as if compensating for the disturbance her ailing mother had just caused.

 

•  He had three young children and dreams of their prosperity. All that was needed to turn him hopelessly hollow from within, was a downpour. And while a couple rejoiced at the heavenly petrichor, the children realized that they had been orphaned.

 

A not-so-Indian tyohaar

You guessed it right! Say it again! Exactly! The IPL frenzy, and the not-so-friendly vibes it exudes. The whole idea of playing a single game, in several different formats, has just exceeded new levels of petulance.

Despite being a hopeless optimist, I couldn’t stop myself from exploring the dark legacy the colonial masters left us with. We look up to them and constantly try to be at par with them, in spite of serious hurdles like overpopulation and illiteracy (and others) pulling us back. But today, I have a formidable reason to proudly blame you, dear former masters, for making us an otherwise handicapped nation.

Being an Indian, I dare not claim to be anti-cricket, for I am still fond of my endangered peace of mind. However, a few things that bug me big time is when Maria Sharapova honestly admits not knowing a Sachin Tendulkar becomes a debate, and the umpteen number of inhuman rapes (in India) go unnoticed. And in the process, dear all, if you expect me to remain mum about his Parliament attendance, I’m afraid, I’m going to disappoint you. I have a problem with the soaring levels of commercialization our country is heading towards. It shakes me to conclude that the rich are becoming richer and the poor- poorer. What also worries me is how, people of all ages, miss a heartbeat when Gayle shows up to bat; how everyone hurls abuses when Dhoni misses a catch- all at the cost of wasting the precious time of their lives. The same magnitude of enthusiasm when employed in increasing work efficiency or enhancing a skill or just sitting back and contemplating would do so much wonders. Yet another aspect of the game, which, for me, is disgustingly lame is how a Navjot Singh Sidhu flaunts the extravagance in his attire. He is the same person who immodestly cachinnates at profane comments on sordid TV shows because well, sense of humour, anyone?

Are we realizing this, people, that we are merely becoming a cricket nation, nurturing generations towards ignoring every other human virtue and imbibing “cricket” as a way of life? Are we not grown up enough to know that it’s no more a six, but a Yes Bank maximum; no more spectators, but Vodafone superfan; no more a drinks break, but a Ceat strategic timeout and no more the man of the match, but the Pan vilas dumdar khiladi?

I don’t have much issues with the game as I have for the mindless fan following it renders. I appreciate the fact that we, as a country, are doing a brilliant job when it comes to producing cricketers. I also respect the hard work of the players behind putting up great shows. But I dread a day in future, when all the other sports would lose the meagre recognition they receive, and cricket would begin to define us. I believe that it is time we stop eyeing Anushka Sharma at the pavilion and focus on more meaningful things. 

Feedback would be valuable. Thank you!  

Hello there! 

This one's an experiment. Recently I garnered a lot of inspiration to write 16-word short stories. Inspiration courtesy- Quora.com. So, following are 15 16-word short stories penned my me. Tell me how you get along with them! And oh! Before you ask, no, there isn't anything too special about the number 16. :)

• It hurts seeing that little boy serve tea, doesn’t it? Wouldn’t he look better at school?

• Foolish people follow foolish people. Neither of them realize the other’s misfortune. Such an interesting conundrum!

• “I do it so many times”, I shamelessly justified my act of ignoring the beggar’s plea.

• “No stories! Are you a Literature student?”, the professor remarked, oblivious- that was her secret ambition.

• They wept, she cried- she had lost her husband. They wept sympathetically, she- out of love.

• He imagined lovely things. So did she, but it just amused her. He wanted it real.

• Her eyes had uncomfortable pillows under them. She disguised her weeping and unending sorrows for insomnia.

• “When are you taking it from me?” “What?” she asked perplexed. “My heart”, he calmly replied.

• She was a killer. She killed all his dreams to become one herself- an unachievable one.

• They said she had pretty eyes, she indeed had. But failed to notice her prettier heart.

• “Don’t kill me! Let me out, realize my futility, then I will kill myself”, she pleaded.

• She is a plethora of contradictions. Strong, gentle, glad and pensive- all at the same time.

• All he desired for was my life, oblivious, that his desire is what kills me more.

• She talked adorably, like she does with everyone, and he fell for her this time- again.

• If love ever meant anything to her, it was only books, their smell and his smile. 

A Love Untold Of

On a hospital bed, waiting for the doctor to see the progress in her bone repair, lying there with her hair disorganized, with one foot seemingly reduced and apparently abnormal when I glanced at mine to confirm, and the other, in a dressing gauge, was a woman in her 50's. A few other acquaintances of the various patients, my mother and I sat across the lady's temporary bed and I started to wonder how she must have damaged her foot. I got acutely engrossed in observing every detail of her and comparing myself with her on every possible ground. Her face was dark, wrinkled, and spoke of a sadness nobody except her could comprehend. Her eyes were closed and didn't give an impression of her being asleep. After all, who feels the need to sleep on a hospital bed. 

A little while later, I felt shattered. I could see her crying. The world, at that instant meant nothing to her because her pain kept her reluctantly occupied. Her weeping got my vision blurred. She made another movement to adjust herself in a way nobody could see her, for, there is no market of her sorrows in this world, she better not advertise them. What happened next was the sole driving force of me writing this post. An old man, probably in his 60's, got up from the second chair on my right and went to the lady. He was lean, wore a simple shirt and a pair of trousers, big glasses, had dirty toe nails, as if he is so busy earning his livelihood, he can't remember to clip them. He carefully wiped her tears with his old hand and said something to her. It was not audible to us, sitting just a short distance away. He moved his hand once on her right cheek, then left and then again right to reassure me that love can actually exist. I could see the lady stop crying and become motionless once again. The old man came and seated himself. 

I was so comforted by the gentleman's act, I could not have been happier for the ailing lady. Sometimes, more than medicines and rest, we need an assurance that we are wanted; that there are people praying for our well being and that we cannot disappoint them. Being totally touched by this happenstance, it didn't just restore my faith in love, but also made me thank the Almighty for my condition. I was much better than her by all means. I longed for her betterment and then came my turn to see the doctor. It was as if I was destined to witness what I had, and as if it were meant to convey my emotions here. I now think love is much more than those lavish dinner dates and cliched magical words. It is probably beyond every explicable feeling and so- called romantic sentiments. I feel it has to offer a greater deal of self- confidence in oneself. If it has to be something, it is about standing by the person at all times. In place of love making us weak and dependent, it should always be our strength and a constant source of encouragement to help us become better individuals. Love should constitute small, meaningful things to be proud of. Love should be the comfortable silence between people that need not break.  

If merely opening doors and pulling chairs for someone is what the world calls 'love', then I cannot help but happily disagree.

Feedback is welcome. Thank you :) 

A Candid Commentary

As chauvinistic as I might sound to you in the next 10 minutes, let me tell you that this is serious stuff. If you're not into it, you’ve not wasted much of your time. The rest of you who happen to “know” me or even slightly relate with me, please go ahead.

Yesterday I thought of catching up on a movie to compensate myself against the week’s exhaustion and ended up watching a recent one- Holiday.
The movie as the trailers suggest, pertains to the lives of the soldiers of the Indian army. Having known that, I was dead sure that it is going to contain plenty of action sequences which is certainly not my taste. Owing to the freedom of stopping the movie anytime in between and switching on to a seemingly better one, I gave it a try.

As the movie began, my overactive mind kept on imagining what would happen in the next 2.5 hours that would not make me discontinue it midway and I may have a good word to talk about it.

The movie, in a nutshell, revolves around the rationality, wisdom, honesty and dedication of the protagonist, who is a part of the Indian army. He has his ways of dealing with the terrorists and has it all in the end, after going through a LOT.

The film, apart from accommodating patriotism and cheesy Bollywood romance, also provides a room for effective thinking.

I remember being a part of an educational trip in my 9th grade which included visiting a BSF camp. We, a bunch of notorious students, were warned against demanding the soldiers to take us across the border before unloading the bus. What we were also told was to not to ask them anything about their relatives. Yes, these were probably the only Indians who hated talking about their families. The reason being, that remembrance would only bring melancholy and heavyheartedness to weaken them. The reason also being, there is a love greater than, much greater than the hatred they are subjected to face when they are reminded of their families whom they get to meet in ages. As we sat there in front of their tents asking naïve questions (we were not allowed to ask mature questions, remember?) and still getting them answered, there was this unfamiliar biting silence uniting us which we were all helpless about. There must be so many things they would have been reminded of. On seeing us, they might have recalled their own children; on smiling back at someone’s smile, they must be struggling to fight back their tears, and that they were, trust me.

The trip now remains only in some of our photographs and temporary memories and the movie shall also meet the same fate. However, what keeps me going to back to it now and again is the fact that our generation has failed to realize the necessity of those people who happily compromised on a comfortable life and chose to dwell miles away from the cities.

We crib about momentary issues. We only like to “like” stuff on Facebook that demeans our nation and projects a better picture of other nations. We are simply fond of sitting on our couches and cursing the nation for what has been printed in a daily. We only like to loathe our country for its downfalls and we are 24*7 available to debate about them on any given platform. We can never appreciate something unless its absence makes it essential. And this absence, I suspect, is going to be very awful by all means. I wish to make a small but meaningful change in our mentalities by incorporating my thoughts with real events. There is no offense intended personally, or to any group of people, but if I rebuke your arguments and challenge your conscience in this context, I am happy doing so. For there are humans like you and me (or not much like you and me), keeping up all night, in order to shield us, irrespective of our likes and preferences, religions and languages by sacrificing all of what we usually take for granted. Next time before you go ranting, put in a little more thought and you will be compelled to thank for your state of existence.

Feedback is welcome,

Thank you.