Status: first 5 chapters. still working on it. would love feedback
Forever After in Pakistan
Forever After in Pakistan
Chapter 1
Departure from America
It was the end of 2003 that the economy was getting tougher and tougher. We had a very difficult time financially. I was married with three children just moved back to Washington from Las Vegas. My husband Hussain was trying to set up some kind of business. He was introduced to a doctor that welcomed the opportunity for a business relationship. They had just started working together on a project, when a problem was discovered. An investigation started, and wild accusations began. With all the publicity, my husband came to Pakistan to visit his ailing father.
I found myself all alone, with three small children. I wondered how would I support myself, with a van that was not very reliable. My family on the east coast was not able to support us or take us in, I had to do something. But what do I do? I asked my husband’s brother and his wife. They couldn’t advise me, and suggested I go to Pakistan to reunite my children with their father. In all this chaos of an investigation, I panicked. Was the advice to join my husband in Pakistan a good option? Or should I put my kids in daycare and work and try to make ends meet? What to do? I called my dad, who was in the Philipines. He advised me to relax, I didn’t do anything wrong. Come to the Philipines, and we will figure out what to do.
So, I went and had my childrens' traveling documents prepared and planned out the journey. I packed up my personal possessions, and sent them to the Philipines. I gave my house key to my sister in law, to put our furniture in storage till I get back. In the desperation, I worked hard to get things organized for our trip. One cold morning came in January 2004, I woke up the children and put them into the van. I had the suitcases all packed and loaded the night before. We drove to Seatac Airport and parked the van close to the doorways. I left the van, managed all six suitcases and three sleepy small children onto the airplane. It was a very difficult task, the hardest task of my life. Inside I was so full of fear and anxiety, but found the strength in the fight or flight response. We arrived in Manila, and the next morning in the island Dumagheti. I was very relieved to be received by my father, for much needed relaxing and regrouping. I had to make some hard decisions.
After a few months, it was time for us to go. There wasn’t any future for us in Dumagheti, it was a matter of going back to America, or go join my husband. I spoke to my husband, and he convinced me we should stay together, and shortly in time, go back to America as a family. With that in mind, we flew from Philippines to Lahore.
Chapter 2
In the Beginning
We arrived in Lahore in April 2004. We were greeted by the in-law family. There was Nusrat, the widow of my husband’s late brother, Munir. Then her children Gul “Mary”, Cameron, Sunila and husband Imran, and Ali. They all came with hugs to greet the children and I. After gathering ourselves, we went into the dark roads in the middle of the night, and drove up to the house my husband made. The house was where his father stayed in. Hussain requested his deceased brother's family stay and look after his father, Mohammud Suleman. Nusrat received an allowance from Hussain to feed and care for Mohammud.
The next morning we visited Mohammud. He was so happy to see his favorite son, Hussain. I met Mohammud in America when we received him from the airport some time ago. He was very delighted to see us again, and the newest family member Batooli. He already met Jenna and Mustafa. They were the apple of his eye. He spoke with them and called Mustafa "Navab Saab", which meant little soldeir. He adored Jenna and spoke with her in Urdu. She had no idea what he was saying, yet at five years old, a kind voice is a pleasant voice. He even labeled me as his favorite sister in law. Nusrat was not pleased to hear that.
The days and nights passed quickly. I was learning to adjust to the local routine of daily tasking while minding the children. The children and I were so at peace to be reunited with their father. We ate our breakfast with their grandfather, and he thoroughly enjoyed us. We had a room to ourselves, my husband and I with our three children. The weather turned hot very quickly, and we had the air conditioner installed. Summer months from May through October are unbearably hot with temperatures over one hundred degrees. I realized how terrible it was to have the electricity shut off by the government all throughout the day and night. The temperatures rise without the air conditioner running or fan during these regularly scheduled power outages. I found them quite annoying.
Later on, my husband started about looking to earn a living. The widow was very clever and observing. She expected and enjoyed any and all money for food and costs my husband gave her. She was used to her monthly allowance my husband sent after her husband died. My husband was very kind and generous for more than twenty years, sending money so she wouldn’t have to work. She was able to live very well in this poor country, nothing but the best. Children were well fed, and had plenty money for private education.
In addition to the house my husband made, he sent money for the purchase of a car. The family car was rather small, yet practical. We took the car out and explored all over Lahore. Hussain grew up here as a child. When he was twenty one years old, he left to go to America. After twenty five years living in America, coming back to Pakistan had changed and he had to learn his way around town. Not knowing which shops to go to, the town was foreign to us both.
The driving is on the left side of the road, and the traffic laws are not practiced. The driving makes New York seem like easy going traffic. Here the horns are always honking, cars driving down the wrong side of the road all the time. Lots of motorbikes, everywhere zig zagging carelessly.
Shopping was a whole new experience. Some shops are fixed pricing, where the other half or more are negotiated sales. Learning the art of haggling was an uphill battle. When the locals saw a white foreign lady come to their shop, the prices were always much higher for me. My husband had to do the haggling for me.
One of the first tasks, was to get some local clothes to blend in with society. I love clothing, so we went to the clothing shops. They are not the usual stores I’ve been accustomed to shop in, here they sell just the fabric. You pick out the cloth based on the season, and then take the cloth to a tailor shop. They have millions and millions of beautiful patterns in all sort of cloth types. Everything from chiffon to the simplest lightest of cotton, called “lawn”. The hot summer season the lawn is worn for easy breathing of the fabric. Temperatures here are around 110-120 degrees farenheit. You don’t want to wear synthetic non breathing material. So, I bought my first few suits and took them to the tailor shop. Within a few days, my clothes were ready. I was out in the local style clothes called, “shalwar kameez”. They were loose fitted pants with a long shirt down to the knee. And each suit comes with the matching long scarf. Here I chose to wear a scarf over my head. Blending in was not easy. Being a foreigner in a Muslim country is a challenge.
After a few weeks of living here, drinking the local “filtered” water I became more and more sick. I went from doctor to doctor trying to get some remedy for this “travelers diarrhea”. They all said similar advice, to eat the yogurt with the smecta powder medicine. This didn’t work for me. I was drinking every syrup, but nothing was working. I lost about 20 pounds, and spend a lot of time in the bathroom. In addition for my sickness, a doctor suspected and confirmed I was expecting our fourth child. I couldn't take the proper medicine until after my second trimester. Once I finished the first trimester, I was prescribed the drug Flagyl. That was my golden ticket. I started taking one pill, and that same day suddenly improved. I was so happy. It is very difficult having a continuously upset stomach. It took a combination of the flagyl and replacement fluids to feel stronger. I was feeling very weak, and spent most of my time in bed.
In the beginning, we were introduced to the lifestyle of the town. We went to many places from resteraunts to the shopping markets. I was pleasantly surprised to be enjoying myself, and the children were enjoying as well. The food here is very tasty. The spicy curries and wonderful bbqs, fresh tandoor breads, and wonderful rice dishes. The desserts are very fine, and street vendors having cold or hot sweets in the evenings were a delicassy.
A typical Sunday breakfast favorite of ours is the traditional Lahori breakfast. Bong, Chole with egg, and kulchas, halva (we call earwax) and an oily bread called puris. This is a Lahori breakfast. Bong is a wonderful lamb shank/feet in a delicious spicy gravy cooked till very tender. The Chole, is a nice spicy garbanzo curry with whole boiled eggs, served with warm sesame bagel like flat bread rounds. After this rich course, it is followed by the halva puri. This is the semolina cooked in a sweet syrup with nuts and coconut and eaten with the fried small thin bread. Very delicious. The children look forward to this every week. This is the alternative to waking up early and making a big special Sunday breakfast, it is ready made time consuming meal. Usually a good nap is needed after a rich heavy breakfast is a good start for the day.
My children were disappointed to learn, there aren’t any libraries-as compared to the American library system. There was one place called the Library Complex, designed like a library filled with books, movies, etc. however there was a catch. You were not allowed to bring anything home. So I took my kids there, and spent a few hours watching them read and explore. When it was time to leave, we dropped off our books at the desk and left. It was a very unusual unsatisfying library trip.
Chapter 3
The Eye Opener
While observing these relatives, I discovered something. They had an unusual evil agenda. We were properly fed, and over dinner one night, Nusarat asked if my husband could put the house in her name. She feared that, it being in his brither Zahid’s name, he could at any time evict her and her grown kids. So, he agreed to talk to his brother about the matter.
Now, the days were getting longer, and the relatives were quite antsy. They realize that they have no use for us. We can’t give them what they want-the house. So, they feel they don’t need to be nice anymore. The gloves were off, the hostilities began. They were looking for opportunities to make any misunderstanding into a large agreement. And the arguments and aggression began.
They had a servant family living there. Rizia, would do the laundry, and in the beginning, Rizia would do my family’s laundry as well. Her master instructed her not to do our laundry, So I had to do it myself. Coming from America, I was used to my own laundry, so this first step didn’t bother me, I was happy to wash our own laundry. I would Iron my own clothes as well, and they didn’t want to share, so they began to hide the iron. Then they decided to eat themselves, and for me to cook separately for my family. As I went shopping and purchased our own food, they didn’t like my presence in the kitchen. So, I worked around their schedule. Running into them in the kitchen Mary would be the most rude. While I stand at the sink washing my vegetables, she would yank the sink fountain away from me to wash what she needed done. I just stood there in awe.
I remember one day, I went to the kitchen to cook, and they locked the refrigerator door. In frustration I banged with one hand, and it accidently fell over. I was so frustrated and upset, I couldn’t cook for my children. I went to the freezer, and saw they put some of my groceries in there. They froze things like mayonnaise, yogurt, olives-just nuisances so I couldn’t cook. My husband would have to bring food from resteraunts on many many occasions to avoid tention.
In a fit of rage, I was so upset not to be able to use frozen mayo I threw it and it smashed on the floor. The frustration continued and a few more things were tossed as well. How do I cook like this? In the unbearable summer heat, I only wanted to make my children easy sandwiches like tuna or bologna.
That night the fridge fell over, they came home and saw the mess. They banged on my bedroom door that I had locked. They screamed calling me all sorts of names, and threatened our lives many times. Mary invited me to physically fight her. When my husband came home that night, Nusarat started yelling and screaming and the bastards were yelling as well. She slapped his face and ripped my husband’s shirt off. The children and I stayed in our room just horrified.
CHAPTER 4
GRANDFATHER’S FALL
Grandfather was a nice man. He had just recovered from a stroke before we arrived. One day, he slipped and fell in his bathroom. He complained a lot about his pain. He was in his bed and we visited him that night in his private room. Out of concern, he was taken to the doctor’s for xrays and evaluation. He had broken his hip bone and needed corrective surgery. Grandather told us to let these relatives pay for the surgery, because they have the money. So, we let them make the arrangements. We visited him at the hospital, and halfway during the surgery they needed another part to repair the bone. The doctor sedated him and had him temporarily stitched, pending the purchase of the parts to continue the surgery. He looked awful awaiting the conclusion of the surgery. We went home, and the next day we visited him in recovery. There was a lot of tension among the relatives during the visits. Finally he was released to come home. He was in good spirits, other relatives coming to pay their respects for his ordeal. He was on prescriptions for his recovery with antibiotics and pain medicines. Shortly after within days, he was moved from his room into the room shared by Nusrat family. He was put there to be more comfortable in the air conditioned room. However they kept the room locked. We weren’t allowed to visit him. Nusrat family were keeping Hussain's father hostage, unable to have visits from Hussain family.
With all this intentional hostility, their intent was for us to go live upstairs separately. We loved the idea for some space, so we had to buy out the tenants already there. The downstairs people took the deposit of the renters, and insisted my husband to come up with the money to buy them out. Nusrat was always there to cheat and pocket money. They left, and we started cleaning up the place, and I packed our belongings happily. On July 9, 2004 the day we were moving, Mary and Nusrat were just glaring at us, watching us very carefully. Nusrat finally allowed us to take the bed upstairs for us to sleep on.
Later that same day, Cameron said to my husband that grandfather isn’t looking very well. He and I were allowed to visit him. I saw him there breathing very hard in and out. His urine tube, the color of the urine was red. He had a serious infection and was struggling to breathe. It was clearly a life or death situation. We asked how long has this been going on, and he said since last night.
What a terrible crime, to let a man suffer struggling to breathe. Suffering, unable to speak. Not able to defend himself from these monsters hiding him in seclusion. So, my husband said to call the ambulance, he needs to be rushed to the hospital for treatment. Cameron called, and the ambulance came. The paramedics took him away and Cameron took his motorbike and followed him there. I was in my room, when all of a sudden I head Nusrat and Mary loudly crying as if they cared. They couldn’t stand this man. They finally got what they wanted. They watched him die all night long, just waiting. I came out from my room, and was very emotionally upset. We grieved, and grieved. I was really grieving, and they were faking feelings.
Shortly, the ambulance came to the house, and backed in the garage. Out came grandfather, and they law his body in the living room for the family to arrange his burial. All the extended family showed up. For the sake of grandfather, Nusrat pretended to be our friends, and made over all the guests, and hosted the guests during and after his services. Nusrat loved to entertain and put on a show.
After the guest left, we went upstairs to live our separate lives. It was nice, being able to cook in peace for my children. We enjoyed our privacy, and children were more comfortable to be free to roam around upstairs.
The homes in Pakistan are designed a little differently than in America. Usually, when coming to visit someone’s home, they are seated in a “drawing room”. This is a guest living room, separate from the rest of the family so the family can continue on with the daily life. Families generally keep servants to keep up the homes. The cleaning is done differently. Water is poured over the marble floors, and squeegeed outside and out the driveways. The bathrooms are washed with the acid and watered down into the drains on the floors. Water is not recycled here, it never gets used twice.
Daily living was like living back in time. There was the milkman. The man delivered the milk every morning to our door. I would send down Mustafa with a pot. He would receive the milk by ladle pouring from his large metal tank into our pot. He would bring it upstairs, and I would boil the raw buffalo milk. It was very delicious and rich. Just enough milk for the day.
For fun, we thought to get the children a pet. A pet for the children, with low maintance- without disturbing the downstairs. We did not want to see the downstairs people, so a dog wouldn’t be a good choice. While out one day buying some groceries, I found an abandoned little kitty. I had the store man pick her up and put her in a bag. She was the luckiest street kitty to come to a nice place with lovely children to take care of her. We named her kitty. We soon learned however, in spite of our 100% attention and love, she was unable to be litter trained. She was just a street cat. Sadly we had to let her go. She was very eager to go back to the street and eat garbage. It is unfortunate for the animals of Pakistan. They are just wild cats and dogs everywhere highly infected with lice and disease . They are mistreated or ignored, and have learned how to cross busy streets. They have this sense to stay away from humans. They were odd to me, not friendly like the domesticated animals of other parts of the world.
After sometime, we decided to get the children a different pet. This pet couldn’t be a dog or cat, so we picked parrots. The were sold with the understanding that they would talk. As it turned out through my looking online, I discovered they were not the type of parrot that talked, they were local parrots called the "rose ringed parakeet" which have a red ring around the male’s neck. So after that we were excited to bring something special. We brought them a few chickens. Boy were they a hit. The kids loved them. We let them occupy the drawing room”. This was a first for all of us, raising chickens. I would cut up some vegetables, and the children would throw them the food. Then shortly the kids would spend time petting them and bonding. We later got a few more chickens, one we named Martha. She was a very special chicken. She had a lovely personality and came right up to the veggie bowl, and the hand feeding began. She came with a rooster and soon Martha laid the first of many eggs. Before you knew it, we acquired about 20 chickens laying eggs, and making a lot of noise, and it was very normal. Nobody objects.
This country is a country to have farm animals as pets and means of food. Many homes own buffalos, goats, chickens, donkeys. These are their means of income. Many men milk the buffaloes, put the milk into large metal containers, and have regular customers for delivery. Goats are herded well in advance for the Eid celebrations every year. They are sold for meat.
Donkeys work hard here. There are donkey carts all over the country, working. They pull the carts for fruit and vegetable dealers. They donkey and horse carts carry all sorts of products and around town for construction, garbage pickup, even delivering furniture.
Chapter 5
The Daily Battle
It wasn’t long that there were disputes as to the utility bills. They demanded half of the bills, while they were using 75% of the gas. We were one family upstairs and downstairs were two families, the Nusrat family and the whole servant Rizia family too. As a result of the dispute, they took a stand. One cold night coming home, we tried to light the heater, and discovered there was no gas supply. We weren’t able to cook . The next morning we shopped and brought home electic heaters and an electric grill to cook. Being independent was important, and we thought we could be happy and not upset the downstairs people. We wanted to avoid confrontations at all costs. After the downstairs realized that we went electric, they were still upset over the bill. What did they do…they started closing our water supply. The plumbing is as such, that a flip of a handle, and the water supply to the upstairs is shut. I wasn’t able to boil water to drink, I wasn’t able to wash clothes. Going to the bathroom was a disaster, as well as no showering. We managed by using water in the overnight, and filling up tall buckets for the day supply. I would have to wait for my husband to come home every night, to put the handle up for water to flow.
This continued for some time. I remember many days when the water supply was closed, I sent down my two children with a bucket. They would go downstairs to the garden valve to fill the bucket, and carry it upstairs. All this struggle to have water.
During all these hostilities, I discovered I was expecting my fourth baby. We were all excited, something pleasant in our lives. I went to a local lady doctor, and she was a very kind woman. She knew her profession very well, and gave me very nice prenatal care. We would take the family car, and go to her clinic every month for checkups. The downstairs people found out about the pregnancy, and thought of a way to complicate it. One day we got in the car to go for a check up, and the car wouldn’t start. So, we went upstairs and called for the local taxi, rickshaw. As we were walking past the car to the gate to get into our ride, the downstairs people got in the car and started it. They learned the trick of reversing or disconnecting the wires under the hood, so the car wouldn’t start. That was their way saying, they didn’t want to share the car. That was a very big inconvenience for us, becauise I was expecting a baby.
I thought, what would I do, if the contractions start in the middle of the night, and the car won’t start? The local taxis don’t operate in the over night hours. How would I get to my doctor? So, I thought of the birthing plan. The plan was a home birth. Despite this being an old poor country, where home births were very common, these days, women go to the hospitals or far away villages and have their babies with a doctor or midwife. So, my doctor agreed under the circumstances, to come anytime I go into labor.
It was Sunday Jan 9, 2005 my water broke. The children were very excited for their new baby sister was going to arrive. The kids I sent to watch movies in the other room. I called the doctor, and she came over with her assistant. I had my room all prepared ahead of time. There were 2 examination tables next to each other. We put the doctor’s unopened draped sterile equipment on one table, and I was on the other table. I had a new bucket, and the room was wiped down with bleach. The labor went on for just a couple of hours, and baby Aizza was born right in my bedroom. It was a beautiful birth, no complications. The doctor was happy everything went smoothly. I was already home in my bedroom with my new baby next to me sleeping. All this worrying about any complications and not having transportation finally resolved.
Some relatives came over the next couple of days, welcoming the new baby into the family. It was nice. The releif of a hostile environment with a well thought out birthing plans gave some calmness that the hurtle has been overcome.
The downstairs continued to harrass. I would go out with the family shopping and running errands. Everytime I came home, this feeling of sadness would come. I hated to come home.
Just to make sure, the downstairs people hired some local gas man, to barbarically hit hard and break every gas pipe connection from downstairs –downstairs. There was pounding in each and every room in the house, till each pipe connection fell to the floor. Very poor taste.
Another thing they did, was to have their friend in the phone company come and continuously cut our phone lines. They wanted for me to feel trapped without communication. They wanted me to feel like their victim. I was only homeschooling my young children, and they were trying to make us so uncomfortable, hoping we would just pack up and leave. We had to have the repair department of the phone company come and repair that line several times. It was a joke for these downstairs people, they thought it was their entertainment.
For over 5 years we had such an awful time at home. Every week there was a problem. Many days they would lock the gate to come into the garage before my husband was due to come home. They changed the lock so we would have to ring their bell and ask to come inside. Anytime we went to out, there was this constant pleading to be let back into our home.
I remember we told some of my husband's relatives about the awful attrocities the downstairs people were doing. With all the gossiping, downstairs people would hear about it. They would get angry and lash out at us. One time when I was alone with my young children, one of the young men banged so loud and hard on the seperating door. That door is like a connecting door at a hotel when there are joining rooms, seperated by only a door. Well hearing the pounding on the door, while the young man yelled my husbands name over and over made me nervous. I called the local police to come and help. After about 10 minutes, my doorbell rang. It was the policeman asking for my husband. Here they just take the men from both sides to the police station. I said he's not here, and I came downstairs. I heard the downstairs yelling how these "Americans" this and "Americans" that. Soon after they paid the policeman to go away. Later my husband came home, and of course both men from downstairs came out and hit my husband repeatedly. They beat him up because I called the police station.
These days of arguments and lots of tension continues for months and years. Meantime my husband called his brother Zahid. This was the brother my husband gave money in his hand, to construct the house. He had given some money to the builder and contruction took place. Zahid put the house in his name and never changed it to Hussain's. He had no right to keep it as his own asset, when it was Hussain's money that built the house. Hussain called his brother and told him what these downstair people were doing. He told Zahid to put the house in Hussain's name to evict the downstairs people. After all, they were guests in the house, not their right. But Zahid was clever, he purposely stalled and stalled so the house was still his. Meantime Hussain and I had no legal rights to the house either, we just stayed to maintain the occupancy.
My husband, Hussain, asked for advice from his lawyer. He looked for any options to take to stay here and have downstairs removed. He was advised only the owner can file. Zahid then asked Hussain to make it formal that Zahid is the real owner of the house and he will evict downstairs. Hussain argued to have the house transferred to his name and Hussain can evict them in the courts. But Zahid wouldn't let go of the ownership. With the recession, he got greedy and kept the house for his own purpose. Frustrated with that we just continued on with our daily lives.
Soon after these talks, we received eviction notices by Zahid to evict the house, and downstais received the same notice. For the months to come it was a ridiculous time. We both filed stay orders and continued on with staying there with all the daily problems.
During these trying days, I wrote a letter to the "Foreign Secretary" Salman Bashir, informing them of what has been happening. From the cutting the gas supply, to shutting the water, to the death threats to the Americans, and constant harassment, harassment of any visitors, etc. They wrote me a letter, which said they will forward my letter to various departments and will take care of the matter. They never came. These illegal occupiers are still there.
I emailed a few people asking for some kind of help or advice. I got no response. My oldest daughter wrote to President Bush, President Obama, Hilary Clinton. My husband went to the police station many times asking for help, for protection, and filed the police reports. They said they will look into this matter. They were just bribed, and were no help. I asked my family for advise or help to get back, but they advised me to keep quiet and stay safe. Nobody was able to help me, or get me out of this situation. Where do I go? Where do I take the children?
The harassment just continued. We had no choice but to leave the house my husband made after five years. We rented a house nearby, and left one night. It was a very exciting time, to be rid of the hostilities. However it didn’t make any sense to walk away from your own asset. Zahid cleverly stole a house right under our noses, and we couldn't do anything about it. It has been observed that he had been plotting all along to keep the house in his name and have it as a retirement home.
Departure from America
It was the end of 2003 that the economy was getting tougher and tougher. We had a very difficult time financially. I was married with three children just moved back to Washington from Las Vegas. My husband Hussain was trying to set up some kind of business. He was introduced to a doctor that welcomed the opportunity for a business relationship. They had just started working together on a project, when a problem was discovered. An investigation started, and wild accusations began. With all the publicity, my husband came to Pakistan to visit his ailing father.
I found myself all alone, with three small children. I wondered how would I support myself, with a van that was not very reliable. My family on the east coast was not able to support us or take us in, I had to do something. But what do I do? I asked my husband’s brother and his wife. They couldn’t advise me, and suggested I go to Pakistan to reunite my children with their father. In all this chaos of an investigation, I panicked. Was the advice to join my husband in Pakistan a good option? Or should I put my kids in daycare and work and try to make ends meet? What to do? I called my dad, who was in the Philipines. He advised me to relax, I didn’t do anything wrong. Come to the Philipines, and we will figure out what to do.
So, I went and had my childrens' traveling documents prepared and planned out the journey. I packed up my personal possessions, and sent them to the Philipines. I gave my house key to my sister in law, to put our furniture in storage till I get back. In the desperation, I worked hard to get things organized for our trip. One cold morning came in January 2004, I woke up the children and put them into the van. I had the suitcases all packed and loaded the night before. We drove to Seatac Airport and parked the van close to the doorways. I left the van, managed all six suitcases and three sleepy small children onto the airplane. It was a very difficult task, the hardest task of my life. Inside I was so full of fear and anxiety, but found the strength in the fight or flight response. We arrived in Manila, and the next morning in the island Dumagheti. I was very relieved to be received by my father, for much needed relaxing and regrouping. I had to make some hard decisions.
After a few months, it was time for us to go. There wasn’t any future for us in Dumagheti, it was a matter of going back to America, or go join my husband. I spoke to my husband, and he convinced me we should stay together, and shortly in time, go back to America as a family. With that in mind, we flew from Philippines to Lahore.
Chapter 2
In the Beginning
We arrived in Lahore in April 2004. We were greeted by the in-law family. There was Nusrat, the widow of my husband’s late brother, Munir. Then her children Gul “Mary”, Cameron, Sunila and husband Imran, and Ali. They all came with hugs to greet the children and I. After gathering ourselves, we went into the dark roads in the middle of the night, and drove up to the house my husband made. The house was where his father stayed in. Hussain requested his deceased brother's family stay and look after his father, Mohammud Suleman. Nusrat received an allowance from Hussain to feed and care for Mohammud.
The next morning we visited Mohammud. He was so happy to see his favorite son, Hussain. I met Mohammud in America when we received him from the airport some time ago. He was very delighted to see us again, and the newest family member Batooli. He already met Jenna and Mustafa. They were the apple of his eye. He spoke with them and called Mustafa "Navab Saab", which meant little soldeir. He adored Jenna and spoke with her in Urdu. She had no idea what he was saying, yet at five years old, a kind voice is a pleasant voice. He even labeled me as his favorite sister in law. Nusrat was not pleased to hear that.
The days and nights passed quickly. I was learning to adjust to the local routine of daily tasking while minding the children. The children and I were so at peace to be reunited with their father. We ate our breakfast with their grandfather, and he thoroughly enjoyed us. We had a room to ourselves, my husband and I with our three children. The weather turned hot very quickly, and we had the air conditioner installed. Summer months from May through October are unbearably hot with temperatures over one hundred degrees. I realized how terrible it was to have the electricity shut off by the government all throughout the day and night. The temperatures rise without the air conditioner running or fan during these regularly scheduled power outages. I found them quite annoying.
Later on, my husband started about looking to earn a living. The widow was very clever and observing. She expected and enjoyed any and all money for food and costs my husband gave her. She was used to her monthly allowance my husband sent after her husband died. My husband was very kind and generous for more than twenty years, sending money so she wouldn’t have to work. She was able to live very well in this poor country, nothing but the best. Children were well fed, and had plenty money for private education.
In addition to the house my husband made, he sent money for the purchase of a car. The family car was rather small, yet practical. We took the car out and explored all over Lahore. Hussain grew up here as a child. When he was twenty one years old, he left to go to America. After twenty five years living in America, coming back to Pakistan had changed and he had to learn his way around town. Not knowing which shops to go to, the town was foreign to us both.
The driving is on the left side of the road, and the traffic laws are not practiced. The driving makes New York seem like easy going traffic. Here the horns are always honking, cars driving down the wrong side of the road all the time. Lots of motorbikes, everywhere zig zagging carelessly.
Shopping was a whole new experience. Some shops are fixed pricing, where the other half or more are negotiated sales. Learning the art of haggling was an uphill battle. When the locals saw a white foreign lady come to their shop, the prices were always much higher for me. My husband had to do the haggling for me.
One of the first tasks, was to get some local clothes to blend in with society. I love clothing, so we went to the clothing shops. They are not the usual stores I’ve been accustomed to shop in, here they sell just the fabric. You pick out the cloth based on the season, and then take the cloth to a tailor shop. They have millions and millions of beautiful patterns in all sort of cloth types. Everything from chiffon to the simplest lightest of cotton, called “lawn”. The hot summer season the lawn is worn for easy breathing of the fabric. Temperatures here are around 110-120 degrees farenheit. You don’t want to wear synthetic non breathing material. So, I bought my first few suits and took them to the tailor shop. Within a few days, my clothes were ready. I was out in the local style clothes called, “shalwar kameez”. They were loose fitted pants with a long shirt down to the knee. And each suit comes with the matching long scarf. Here I chose to wear a scarf over my head. Blending in was not easy. Being a foreigner in a Muslim country is a challenge.
After a few weeks of living here, drinking the local “filtered” water I became more and more sick. I went from doctor to doctor trying to get some remedy for this “travelers diarrhea”. They all said similar advice, to eat the yogurt with the smecta powder medicine. This didn’t work for me. I was drinking every syrup, but nothing was working. I lost about 20 pounds, and spend a lot of time in the bathroom. In addition for my sickness, a doctor suspected and confirmed I was expecting our fourth child. I couldn't take the proper medicine until after my second trimester. Once I finished the first trimester, I was prescribed the drug Flagyl. That was my golden ticket. I started taking one pill, and that same day suddenly improved. I was so happy. It is very difficult having a continuously upset stomach. It took a combination of the flagyl and replacement fluids to feel stronger. I was feeling very weak, and spent most of my time in bed.
In the beginning, we were introduced to the lifestyle of the town. We went to many places from resteraunts to the shopping markets. I was pleasantly surprised to be enjoying myself, and the children were enjoying as well. The food here is very tasty. The spicy curries and wonderful bbqs, fresh tandoor breads, and wonderful rice dishes. The desserts are very fine, and street vendors having cold or hot sweets in the evenings were a delicassy.
A typical Sunday breakfast favorite of ours is the traditional Lahori breakfast. Bong, Chole with egg, and kulchas, halva (we call earwax) and an oily bread called puris. This is a Lahori breakfast. Bong is a wonderful lamb shank/feet in a delicious spicy gravy cooked till very tender. The Chole, is a nice spicy garbanzo curry with whole boiled eggs, served with warm sesame bagel like flat bread rounds. After this rich course, it is followed by the halva puri. This is the semolina cooked in a sweet syrup with nuts and coconut and eaten with the fried small thin bread. Very delicious. The children look forward to this every week. This is the alternative to waking up early and making a big special Sunday breakfast, it is ready made time consuming meal. Usually a good nap is needed after a rich heavy breakfast is a good start for the day.
My children were disappointed to learn, there aren’t any libraries-as compared to the American library system. There was one place called the Library Complex, designed like a library filled with books, movies, etc. however there was a catch. You were not allowed to bring anything home. So I took my kids there, and spent a few hours watching them read and explore. When it was time to leave, we dropped off our books at the desk and left. It was a very unusual unsatisfying library trip.
Chapter 3
The Eye Opener
While observing these relatives, I discovered something. They had an unusual evil agenda. We were properly fed, and over dinner one night, Nusarat asked if my husband could put the house in her name. She feared that, it being in his brither Zahid’s name, he could at any time evict her and her grown kids. So, he agreed to talk to his brother about the matter.
Now, the days were getting longer, and the relatives were quite antsy. They realize that they have no use for us. We can’t give them what they want-the house. So, they feel they don’t need to be nice anymore. The gloves were off, the hostilities began. They were looking for opportunities to make any misunderstanding into a large agreement. And the arguments and aggression began.
They had a servant family living there. Rizia, would do the laundry, and in the beginning, Rizia would do my family’s laundry as well. Her master instructed her not to do our laundry, So I had to do it myself. Coming from America, I was used to my own laundry, so this first step didn’t bother me, I was happy to wash our own laundry. I would Iron my own clothes as well, and they didn’t want to share, so they began to hide the iron. Then they decided to eat themselves, and for me to cook separately for my family. As I went shopping and purchased our own food, they didn’t like my presence in the kitchen. So, I worked around their schedule. Running into them in the kitchen Mary would be the most rude. While I stand at the sink washing my vegetables, she would yank the sink fountain away from me to wash what she needed done. I just stood there in awe.
I remember one day, I went to the kitchen to cook, and they locked the refrigerator door. In frustration I banged with one hand, and it accidently fell over. I was so frustrated and upset, I couldn’t cook for my children. I went to the freezer, and saw they put some of my groceries in there. They froze things like mayonnaise, yogurt, olives-just nuisances so I couldn’t cook. My husband would have to bring food from resteraunts on many many occasions to avoid tention.
In a fit of rage, I was so upset not to be able to use frozen mayo I threw it and it smashed on the floor. The frustration continued and a few more things were tossed as well. How do I cook like this? In the unbearable summer heat, I only wanted to make my children easy sandwiches like tuna or bologna.
That night the fridge fell over, they came home and saw the mess. They banged on my bedroom door that I had locked. They screamed calling me all sorts of names, and threatened our lives many times. Mary invited me to physically fight her. When my husband came home that night, Nusarat started yelling and screaming and the bastards were yelling as well. She slapped his face and ripped my husband’s shirt off. The children and I stayed in our room just horrified.
CHAPTER 4
GRANDFATHER’S FALL
Grandfather was a nice man. He had just recovered from a stroke before we arrived. One day, he slipped and fell in his bathroom. He complained a lot about his pain. He was in his bed and we visited him that night in his private room. Out of concern, he was taken to the doctor’s for xrays and evaluation. He had broken his hip bone and needed corrective surgery. Grandather told us to let these relatives pay for the surgery, because they have the money. So, we let them make the arrangements. We visited him at the hospital, and halfway during the surgery they needed another part to repair the bone. The doctor sedated him and had him temporarily stitched, pending the purchase of the parts to continue the surgery. He looked awful awaiting the conclusion of the surgery. We went home, and the next day we visited him in recovery. There was a lot of tension among the relatives during the visits. Finally he was released to come home. He was in good spirits, other relatives coming to pay their respects for his ordeal. He was on prescriptions for his recovery with antibiotics and pain medicines. Shortly after within days, he was moved from his room into the room shared by Nusrat family. He was put there to be more comfortable in the air conditioned room. However they kept the room locked. We weren’t allowed to visit him. Nusrat family were keeping Hussain's father hostage, unable to have visits from Hussain family.
With all this intentional hostility, their intent was for us to go live upstairs separately. We loved the idea for some space, so we had to buy out the tenants already there. The downstairs people took the deposit of the renters, and insisted my husband to come up with the money to buy them out. Nusrat was always there to cheat and pocket money. They left, and we started cleaning up the place, and I packed our belongings happily. On July 9, 2004 the day we were moving, Mary and Nusrat were just glaring at us, watching us very carefully. Nusrat finally allowed us to take the bed upstairs for us to sleep on.
Later that same day, Cameron said to my husband that grandfather isn’t looking very well. He and I were allowed to visit him. I saw him there breathing very hard in and out. His urine tube, the color of the urine was red. He had a serious infection and was struggling to breathe. It was clearly a life or death situation. We asked how long has this been going on, and he said since last night.
What a terrible crime, to let a man suffer struggling to breathe. Suffering, unable to speak. Not able to defend himself from these monsters hiding him in seclusion. So, my husband said to call the ambulance, he needs to be rushed to the hospital for treatment. Cameron called, and the ambulance came. The paramedics took him away and Cameron took his motorbike and followed him there. I was in my room, when all of a sudden I head Nusrat and Mary loudly crying as if they cared. They couldn’t stand this man. They finally got what they wanted. They watched him die all night long, just waiting. I came out from my room, and was very emotionally upset. We grieved, and grieved. I was really grieving, and they were faking feelings.
Shortly, the ambulance came to the house, and backed in the garage. Out came grandfather, and they law his body in the living room for the family to arrange his burial. All the extended family showed up. For the sake of grandfather, Nusrat pretended to be our friends, and made over all the guests, and hosted the guests during and after his services. Nusrat loved to entertain and put on a show.
After the guest left, we went upstairs to live our separate lives. It was nice, being able to cook in peace for my children. We enjoyed our privacy, and children were more comfortable to be free to roam around upstairs.
The homes in Pakistan are designed a little differently than in America. Usually, when coming to visit someone’s home, they are seated in a “drawing room”. This is a guest living room, separate from the rest of the family so the family can continue on with the daily life. Families generally keep servants to keep up the homes. The cleaning is done differently. Water is poured over the marble floors, and squeegeed outside and out the driveways. The bathrooms are washed with the acid and watered down into the drains on the floors. Water is not recycled here, it never gets used twice.
Daily living was like living back in time. There was the milkman. The man delivered the milk every morning to our door. I would send down Mustafa with a pot. He would receive the milk by ladle pouring from his large metal tank into our pot. He would bring it upstairs, and I would boil the raw buffalo milk. It was very delicious and rich. Just enough milk for the day.
For fun, we thought to get the children a pet. A pet for the children, with low maintance- without disturbing the downstairs. We did not want to see the downstairs people, so a dog wouldn’t be a good choice. While out one day buying some groceries, I found an abandoned little kitty. I had the store man pick her up and put her in a bag. She was the luckiest street kitty to come to a nice place with lovely children to take care of her. We named her kitty. We soon learned however, in spite of our 100% attention and love, she was unable to be litter trained. She was just a street cat. Sadly we had to let her go. She was very eager to go back to the street and eat garbage. It is unfortunate for the animals of Pakistan. They are just wild cats and dogs everywhere highly infected with lice and disease . They are mistreated or ignored, and have learned how to cross busy streets. They have this sense to stay away from humans. They were odd to me, not friendly like the domesticated animals of other parts of the world.
After sometime, we decided to get the children a different pet. This pet couldn’t be a dog or cat, so we picked parrots. The were sold with the understanding that they would talk. As it turned out through my looking online, I discovered they were not the type of parrot that talked, they were local parrots called the "rose ringed parakeet" which have a red ring around the male’s neck. So after that we were excited to bring something special. We brought them a few chickens. Boy were they a hit. The kids loved them. We let them occupy the drawing room”. This was a first for all of us, raising chickens. I would cut up some vegetables, and the children would throw them the food. Then shortly the kids would spend time petting them and bonding. We later got a few more chickens, one we named Martha. She was a very special chicken. She had a lovely personality and came right up to the veggie bowl, and the hand feeding began. She came with a rooster and soon Martha laid the first of many eggs. Before you knew it, we acquired about 20 chickens laying eggs, and making a lot of noise, and it was very normal. Nobody objects.
This country is a country to have farm animals as pets and means of food. Many homes own buffalos, goats, chickens, donkeys. These are their means of income. Many men milk the buffaloes, put the milk into large metal containers, and have regular customers for delivery. Goats are herded well in advance for the Eid celebrations every year. They are sold for meat.
Donkeys work hard here. There are donkey carts all over the country, working. They pull the carts for fruit and vegetable dealers. They donkey and horse carts carry all sorts of products and around town for construction, garbage pickup, even delivering furniture.
Chapter 5
The Daily Battle
It wasn’t long that there were disputes as to the utility bills. They demanded half of the bills, while they were using 75% of the gas. We were one family upstairs and downstairs were two families, the Nusrat family and the whole servant Rizia family too. As a result of the dispute, they took a stand. One cold night coming home, we tried to light the heater, and discovered there was no gas supply. We weren’t able to cook . The next morning we shopped and brought home electic heaters and an electric grill to cook. Being independent was important, and we thought we could be happy and not upset the downstairs people. We wanted to avoid confrontations at all costs. After the downstairs realized that we went electric, they were still upset over the bill. What did they do…they started closing our water supply. The plumbing is as such, that a flip of a handle, and the water supply to the upstairs is shut. I wasn’t able to boil water to drink, I wasn’t able to wash clothes. Going to the bathroom was a disaster, as well as no showering. We managed by using water in the overnight, and filling up tall buckets for the day supply. I would have to wait for my husband to come home every night, to put the handle up for water to flow.
This continued for some time. I remember many days when the water supply was closed, I sent down my two children with a bucket. They would go downstairs to the garden valve to fill the bucket, and carry it upstairs. All this struggle to have water.
During all these hostilities, I discovered I was expecting my fourth baby. We were all excited, something pleasant in our lives. I went to a local lady doctor, and she was a very kind woman. She knew her profession very well, and gave me very nice prenatal care. We would take the family car, and go to her clinic every month for checkups. The downstairs people found out about the pregnancy, and thought of a way to complicate it. One day we got in the car to go for a check up, and the car wouldn’t start. So, we went upstairs and called for the local taxi, rickshaw. As we were walking past the car to the gate to get into our ride, the downstairs people got in the car and started it. They learned the trick of reversing or disconnecting the wires under the hood, so the car wouldn’t start. That was their way saying, they didn’t want to share the car. That was a very big inconvenience for us, becauise I was expecting a baby.
I thought, what would I do, if the contractions start in the middle of the night, and the car won’t start? The local taxis don’t operate in the over night hours. How would I get to my doctor? So, I thought of the birthing plan. The plan was a home birth. Despite this being an old poor country, where home births were very common, these days, women go to the hospitals or far away villages and have their babies with a doctor or midwife. So, my doctor agreed under the circumstances, to come anytime I go into labor.
It was Sunday Jan 9, 2005 my water broke. The children were very excited for their new baby sister was going to arrive. The kids I sent to watch movies in the other room. I called the doctor, and she came over with her assistant. I had my room all prepared ahead of time. There were 2 examination tables next to each other. We put the doctor’s unopened draped sterile equipment on one table, and I was on the other table. I had a new bucket, and the room was wiped down with bleach. The labor went on for just a couple of hours, and baby Aizza was born right in my bedroom. It was a beautiful birth, no complications. The doctor was happy everything went smoothly. I was already home in my bedroom with my new baby next to me sleeping. All this worrying about any complications and not having transportation finally resolved.
Some relatives came over the next couple of days, welcoming the new baby into the family. It was nice. The releif of a hostile environment with a well thought out birthing plans gave some calmness that the hurtle has been overcome.
The downstairs continued to harrass. I would go out with the family shopping and running errands. Everytime I came home, this feeling of sadness would come. I hated to come home.
Just to make sure, the downstairs people hired some local gas man, to barbarically hit hard and break every gas pipe connection from downstairs –downstairs. There was pounding in each and every room in the house, till each pipe connection fell to the floor. Very poor taste.
Another thing they did, was to have their friend in the phone company come and continuously cut our phone lines. They wanted for me to feel trapped without communication. They wanted me to feel like their victim. I was only homeschooling my young children, and they were trying to make us so uncomfortable, hoping we would just pack up and leave. We had to have the repair department of the phone company come and repair that line several times. It was a joke for these downstairs people, they thought it was their entertainment.
For over 5 years we had such an awful time at home. Every week there was a problem. Many days they would lock the gate to come into the garage before my husband was due to come home. They changed the lock so we would have to ring their bell and ask to come inside. Anytime we went to out, there was this constant pleading to be let back into our home.
I remember we told some of my husband's relatives about the awful attrocities the downstairs people were doing. With all the gossiping, downstairs people would hear about it. They would get angry and lash out at us. One time when I was alone with my young children, one of the young men banged so loud and hard on the seperating door. That door is like a connecting door at a hotel when there are joining rooms, seperated by only a door. Well hearing the pounding on the door, while the young man yelled my husbands name over and over made me nervous. I called the local police to come and help. After about 10 minutes, my doorbell rang. It was the policeman asking for my husband. Here they just take the men from both sides to the police station. I said he's not here, and I came downstairs. I heard the downstairs yelling how these "Americans" this and "Americans" that. Soon after they paid the policeman to go away. Later my husband came home, and of course both men from downstairs came out and hit my husband repeatedly. They beat him up because I called the police station.
These days of arguments and lots of tension continues for months and years. Meantime my husband called his brother Zahid. This was the brother my husband gave money in his hand, to construct the house. He had given some money to the builder and contruction took place. Zahid put the house in his name and never changed it to Hussain's. He had no right to keep it as his own asset, when it was Hussain's money that built the house. Hussain called his brother and told him what these downstair people were doing. He told Zahid to put the house in Hussain's name to evict the downstairs people. After all, they were guests in the house, not their right. But Zahid was clever, he purposely stalled and stalled so the house was still his. Meantime Hussain and I had no legal rights to the house either, we just stayed to maintain the occupancy.
My husband, Hussain, asked for advice from his lawyer. He looked for any options to take to stay here and have downstairs removed. He was advised only the owner can file. Zahid then asked Hussain to make it formal that Zahid is the real owner of the house and he will evict downstairs. Hussain argued to have the house transferred to his name and Hussain can evict them in the courts. But Zahid wouldn't let go of the ownership. With the recession, he got greedy and kept the house for his own purpose. Frustrated with that we just continued on with our daily lives.
Soon after these talks, we received eviction notices by Zahid to evict the house, and downstais received the same notice. For the months to come it was a ridiculous time. We both filed stay orders and continued on with staying there with all the daily problems.
During these trying days, I wrote a letter to the "Foreign Secretary" Salman Bashir, informing them of what has been happening. From the cutting the gas supply, to shutting the water, to the death threats to the Americans, and constant harassment, harassment of any visitors, etc. They wrote me a letter, which said they will forward my letter to various departments and will take care of the matter. They never came. These illegal occupiers are still there.
I emailed a few people asking for some kind of help or advice. I got no response. My oldest daughter wrote to President Bush, President Obama, Hilary Clinton. My husband went to the police station many times asking for help, for protection, and filed the police reports. They said they will look into this matter. They were just bribed, and were no help. I asked my family for advise or help to get back, but they advised me to keep quiet and stay safe. Nobody was able to help me, or get me out of this situation. Where do I go? Where do I take the children?
The harassment just continued. We had no choice but to leave the house my husband made after five years. We rented a house nearby, and left one night. It was a very exciting time, to be rid of the hostilities. However it didn’t make any sense to walk away from your own asset. Zahid cleverly stole a house right under our noses, and we couldn't do anything about it. It has been observed that he had been plotting all along to keep the house in his name and have it as a retirement home.
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