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This is what happens if you give up your honour
Anwar Iqbal[/I]
“Sardar Hashim Khan weighed his spear and spurred his horse. The beast galloped towards his daughter. Even before the spectators could understand what was happening, the sharp and cruel weapon pierced his daughter’s heart. She died, quietly.”
I looked at Hafez Saheb as he finished his story and asked: “Can you, please tell us why the sardar killed his daughter?”
“I already told you, didn’t I? When the flash flood hit the village, Gul Bahar was trapped inside. But the next morning, she came to the camp where the tribe had taken refuge with a young man from another tribe,” said Hafez Saheb.
“Who was this young man?” I asked.
“He had rescued her from the flood and had taken her to his village,” Hafez Saheb said.
“But why did he kill her?” I asked again.
“Well, you are from a city. You will not understand. She spent an entire night with a stranger. The sardar had no option. His honour was at stake,” said Hafez Saheb.
“Honour, eh? And who did you say was the beast, the horse or the sardar?” I asked.
“I told you, you will not understand. You don’t know how difficult it is to face your tribe in such situations, especially if you are a sardar,” Hafez Saheb said and moved his hookah away, indicating that he had no more to say.
We had gathered at the Virginia Tavern after a long break. And since it was Ramazan, the gathering had a religious touch. After breaking the fast, we said the evening prayers and returned to the table to eat more.
When we finished, we went to a large table, waiting for the daily dose of mint tea. It goes well with a full stomach.
“This is Saturday night, the time for our weekend story,” said Zahid Jedi, the cab driver, who was one of the founding members of the Alif Laila group.
“Yes, but this is Ramazan, so let’s ask Hafez Saheb to tell us a story, after all, he is our prayer leader,” said Hamid Malik, another member who owns a grocery store in a Northern Virginia neighbourhood.
“Yes, but it should not be a religious story as we have already heard enough sermons on the television,” said Zahid.
Hafez Saheb agreed and said he will tell us a story he had heard from his grandfather. “But this story is very old. My grandfather heard it from his grandfather who heard it from his grandfather,” he added.
“This is about a sardar from our tribe who lived many centuries ago. Everybody in our tribe knows this story.”
When he came to the part where the sardar kills his daughter to salvage his honour, we interrupted him.
“Sorry, Hafez Saheb,” said Hamid, “this was a very stupid sardar. Nothing justifies killing your daughter.”
“Hold on, hold on,” Hafez Saheb protested. “Don’t judge him yet. The sardar loved his daughter so much that he jumped into the river after killing her and was never seen again.”
“Maybe he swam to the other side and escaped,” I said.
“Yes, he must have remarried and lived happily in some remote village,” Zahid added.
“No, we all know he drowned,” said Hafiz Saheb.
“How? Did you see his body?” I asked.
“No, but we now have a shrine near where he jumped into the river. The daughter is buried there and there is a little monument for the father too,” Hafez Saheb said.
“That’s not nice. You put the victim and the murderer in the same shrine,” said Hamid.
“No, he was no murderer. He had to do this for himself and for the entire tribe,” Hafez Saheb said.
As we finished tea, we went to a large parking lot near the tavern where Pakistani-American teenagers were playing cricket. This was called the Ramazan tournament. They start their game soon after the night prayers and end it an hour before dawn to eat their pre-fast meal.
This is also our daily routine during Ramazan. We walk in this parking lot for an hour, while also encouraging the players with our comments, and then go home.
As we walked, we noticed a Latino couple kissing in a car.
This annoyed Hafez Saheb.
“Look at them,” he said. “This is what happens to you if you give up your honour.”
“Don’t look,” I suggested.
“I am not looking,” said Hafez Saheb, “but this is not right.”
Every time we walked by the car, Hafez Saheb looked inside and said: “May God protect us.”
“Why are you looking inside the car, Hafez Saheb?” asked Zahid.
“How can you not look?” asked Hafez Saheb.
“We are not looking,” said Hamid. “It is none of our business. Who are we to interfere in their personal affairs?”
Hafez Saheb disagreed. “It is our business. We need to prevent vice and promote virtue.”
“Try and you will end up in police custody,” I warned.
“Yes, this is what I do not like about this country. You cannot stop people from doing such things in public,” Hafez Saheb said.
“You do not like many things in this country and yet, you get very upset when someone suggests that you should leave,” said Hamid. “This is something I will never understand.”
“I like living here because this is a much organised place, very disciplined,” said Hafez Saheb who used to live in the Middle East before coming to America.
“Also because there’s justice and equality,” said Zahid, while reminding him that he was only quoting what Hafez Saheb had said before.
Hafez Saheb often used to say that there’s no justice in the Middle East for foreign workers. “They are treated like animals,” he complained.
“Yes, justice and equality too,” Hafez Saheb conceded.
“If there are so many good things in this society, then why can’t you just close your eyes when you see a kissing couple?” I asked.
Hafez Saheb did not respond.
“OK, what is better, to close your eyes or kill your daughter?” asked Zahid.
Hafez Saheb did not respond.
But the next week, when he received his green card, he came to the iftar gathering with a big box of sweets.
Anwar Iqbal is a correspondent for Dawn, based in Washington, DC.
Anwar Iqbal[/I]
“Sardar Hashim Khan weighed his spear and spurred his horse. The beast galloped towards his daughter. Even before the spectators could understand what was happening, the sharp and cruel weapon pierced his daughter’s heart. She died, quietly.”
I looked at Hafez Saheb as he finished his story and asked: “Can you, please tell us why the sardar killed his daughter?”
“I already told you, didn’t I? When the flash flood hit the village, Gul Bahar was trapped inside. But the next morning, she came to the camp where the tribe had taken refuge with a young man from another tribe,” said Hafez Saheb.
“Who was this young man?” I asked.
“He had rescued her from the flood and had taken her to his village,” Hafez Saheb said.
“But why did he kill her?” I asked again.
“Well, you are from a city. You will not understand. She spent an entire night with a stranger. The sardar had no option. His honour was at stake,” said Hafez Saheb.
“Honour, eh? And who did you say was the beast, the horse or the sardar?” I asked.
“I told you, you will not understand. You don’t know how difficult it is to face your tribe in such situations, especially if you are a sardar,” Hafez Saheb said and moved his hookah away, indicating that he had no more to say.
We had gathered at the Virginia Tavern after a long break. And since it was Ramazan, the gathering had a religious touch. After breaking the fast, we said the evening prayers and returned to the table to eat more.
When we finished, we went to a large table, waiting for the daily dose of mint tea. It goes well with a full stomach.
“This is Saturday night, the time for our weekend story,” said Zahid Jedi, the cab driver, who was one of the founding members of the Alif Laila group.
“Yes, but this is Ramazan, so let’s ask Hafez Saheb to tell us a story, after all, he is our prayer leader,” said Hamid Malik, another member who owns a grocery store in a Northern Virginia neighbourhood.
“Yes, but it should not be a religious story as we have already heard enough sermons on the television,” said Zahid.
Hafez Saheb agreed and said he will tell us a story he had heard from his grandfather. “But this story is very old. My grandfather heard it from his grandfather who heard it from his grandfather,” he added.
“This is about a sardar from our tribe who lived many centuries ago. Everybody in our tribe knows this story.”
When he came to the part where the sardar kills his daughter to salvage his honour, we interrupted him.
“Sorry, Hafez Saheb,” said Hamid, “this was a very stupid sardar. Nothing justifies killing your daughter.”
“Hold on, hold on,” Hafez Saheb protested. “Don’t judge him yet. The sardar loved his daughter so much that he jumped into the river after killing her and was never seen again.”
“Maybe he swam to the other side and escaped,” I said.
“Yes, he must have remarried and lived happily in some remote village,” Zahid added.
“No, we all know he drowned,” said Hafiz Saheb.
“How? Did you see his body?” I asked.
“No, but we now have a shrine near where he jumped into the river. The daughter is buried there and there is a little monument for the father too,” Hafez Saheb said.
“That’s not nice. You put the victim and the murderer in the same shrine,” said Hamid.
“No, he was no murderer. He had to do this for himself and for the entire tribe,” Hafez Saheb said.
As we finished tea, we went to a large parking lot near the tavern where Pakistani-American teenagers were playing cricket. This was called the Ramazan tournament. They start their game soon after the night prayers and end it an hour before dawn to eat their pre-fast meal.
This is also our daily routine during Ramazan. We walk in this parking lot for an hour, while also encouraging the players with our comments, and then go home.
As we walked, we noticed a Latino couple kissing in a car.
This annoyed Hafez Saheb.
“Look at them,” he said. “This is what happens to you if you give up your honour.”
“Don’t look,” I suggested.
“I am not looking,” said Hafez Saheb, “but this is not right.”
Every time we walked by the car, Hafez Saheb looked inside and said: “May God protect us.”
“Why are you looking inside the car, Hafez Saheb?” asked Zahid.
“How can you not look?” asked Hafez Saheb.
“We are not looking,” said Hamid. “It is none of our business. Who are we to interfere in their personal affairs?”
Hafez Saheb disagreed. “It is our business. We need to prevent vice and promote virtue.”
“Try and you will end up in police custody,” I warned.
“Yes, this is what I do not like about this country. You cannot stop people from doing such things in public,” Hafez Saheb said.
“You do not like many things in this country and yet, you get very upset when someone suggests that you should leave,” said Hamid. “This is something I will never understand.”
“I like living here because this is a much organised place, very disciplined,” said Hafez Saheb who used to live in the Middle East before coming to America.
“Also because there’s justice and equality,” said Zahid, while reminding him that he was only quoting what Hafez Saheb had said before.
Hafez Saheb often used to say that there’s no justice in the Middle East for foreign workers. “They are treated like animals,” he complained.
“Yes, justice and equality too,” Hafez Saheb conceded.
“If there are so many good things in this society, then why can’t you just close your eyes when you see a kissing couple?” I asked.
Hafez Saheb did not respond.
“OK, what is better, to close your eyes or kill your daughter?” asked Zahid.
Hafez Saheb did not respond.
But the next week, when he received his green card, he came to the iftar gathering with a big box of sweets.
Anwar Iqbal is a correspondent for Dawn, based in Washington, DC.
