Courage to Say No

by Raana Mahmood

  He was so insulted he began shaking. His friends stood silently by.

  “I need you to sign this now,” I demanded. “This is my fourth visit here. I don’t have time to come again.”

  He took it from me and signed it. In the next week, I received my check from the Social Welfare Department.

  When I returned to seek additional funding for the Geriatric Clinic, I was turned down. I was told that someone had submitted a request for funds using my name, and the NGO and had taken the funds set aside for geriatric care. I pursued an investigation and found out that some corrupt individuals had conspired with the staff in the Social Welfare Office to receive a grant of funds by using my name and documents to impersonate me. Like so many other stories of misuse of social welfare funds, it was disgusting and sad to hear this.

  I began to seek other sources of funding and remuneration. At a gathering in Karachi, I met Mr. Abdul Sattar Edhi, a renowned social activist. He was aware of my work, and was kind enough to sit and talk with me. I told him about my work, and the tremendous financial pressures on me to keep the doors open.

  “Do you have the courage to beg for funding?” he asked.

  I must have had a tortured expression on my face.

  “I see it in your face that begging is very hard for you. Most of the time it is the only option to continue operating your programs.”

  “Begging is difficult for me.”

  “Sometimes it gets down to standing on the street pleading for money.”

  I couldn’t imagine this man having to stoop to standing on a street corner, but he was serious. I knew that I would have to do everything in my power to expand my network of contacts. There had to alternatives to becoming as desperate as Mr. Edhi had described.

  In June 2003, I attended a two-week conference on the elderly hosted by Dr. Grace Clark at Catholic University in Washington, DC. Shaukat Tahir, joint secretary of Ministry of Women’s Development and Special Education, included me in the official Pakistani delegation. I had initially decided not to go, but then he repeatedly called me from Islamabad, inquiring why I didn’t want to attend. I told him I didn’t want to take funds from the operation of the clinic to travel. He didn’t offer to pay my way through government funds. Instead, he said I should sell my jewels, and fund it that way because it would be a great learning experience. I agreed and sold some valuables.

  We stayed at the university. In between sessions, he asked me several times to go sightseeing with him. He offered to purchase some lovely gifts and meals. I told him that I had come here to learn, not to shop. He was disappointed, but I didn’t see much of him after that. He took his shopping and having fun very seriously.

  On the last day of the conference, senior government officials from the international delegations were scheduled to deliver speeches as closing remarks. Each government official was to announce what policies they were adopting in their country. The social welfare minister from India had arrived specifically to hear the last day of speeches. Joint Secretary Tahir was scheduled to give the closing remarks for the conference from the Pakistani delegation but chose to go shopping instead.

  Early the next morning, I woke up to Dr. Clark knocking on my door in a panic. The joint secretary was nowhere to be found. Did I know where he was? I smirked, but didn’t say anything. She asked if I could prepare a speech and deliver it that morning. I immediately said yes, and quickly pulled my notes together. I had been close to this topic for years now, and I had paid close attention to the conference, and I had a lot to address. Dr. Clark was relieved at my willingness to help, especially because I was the first speaker that morning. In my talk, I laid out the measures Pakistani society and government would need to adopt and the lack of a government support system for them. Then I injected some hope, speaking of the changes that were taking place because of the ongoing work by others and myself. My talk was very well received.

  During my stay in Washington, DC, I received an email from Dr. Nizam, inviting me to attend a conference at Columbia University, which would be held later that month. I decided since I was already in the US, that I would stay and attend. I contacted Beth Lamont, whom I had met the year before on my first trip to New York, and told her that I was coming again to the city. She invited me to stay at her beautiful apartment in Battery Park. When the conference began, I moved into quarters provided by Columbia University.

  Since I had time in New York, I visited all the offices I had gone to the year before to renew friendships and to learn. I returned to the NGO resource center at the UN to follow up on my NGO registration application. No one could find my file, and that caused me great disappointment. Then I met with Meena Suie, a very helpful Indian officer. She searched for my paperwork, but it evidently had vanished. I protested that it wasn’t right for me to travel all this way at my own expense, and not be taken seriously. I set an appointment up with Ms. Hanifa Mazoui, and I told her everything. She suggested I go to the Pakistan Mission to the United Nations, and obtain a signature from a Pakistani representative. With a signature from a mission official, it would get more attention. But it would still take a year to complete the process.

  I went to the Pakistan Mission, and I was ushered into the office of a man whom I immediately recognized: Mansoor Suhail. He invited me to sit. We had met nearly nineteen years before in Islamabad when I was in medical school, and again when he had come to Karachi seven years ago, and I had asked him not to contact me again. Those were dark days for me, but many good things had taken place since then. He remembered me instantly and didn’t bring up our conversation in Karachi. I asked him to follow up on my application for recognition by the UN. He gladly agreed to do that for me.

  Then he asked me a personal question. He wanted to know why I looked so sad. I smiled; I didn’t think I was sad or quiet.

  “When we first met, you smiled and laughed. Now you hardly smile at all.”

  I did smile, but most of the time I had to fake appearing calm and happy. The crush of trying to make my NGO work, and of navigating the bureaucracies of organizations that didn’t seem intent on helping people, wore on me. And then there was the constant harassment and reluctance of my own countrymen to look beyond their own pleasures and appetites. All of those realizations made me aware that every day was a battle against the ineptitude and carelessness of people in responsible positions.

  I did talk less, laugh less, and even smile less than I used to as a carefree student.

  Then he asked, “I’ve often wondered, what do you think of me?”

  My feelings regarding him had changed over the years, from infatuation when I first met him, to disappointment when I found out he was engaged, to utter disregard when he showed up on my doorstep. What could I say without causing injury or insult?

  “You are a good human being.”

  He laughed. “That’s what you are thinking, seriously? I was expecting more.”

  “This is a great compliment coming from me.”

  He had liked me since we first met years ago in Islamabad. He had wanted to marry me. I knew this already, but my trauma from Sui Gas had not entirely passed. My memory was still foggy and I had all the symptoms of post-traumatic stress. If he had shown up with a sincere heart earlier in my life, things might have been different between us.

  Now his situation has changed. His wife was not mentally well, and they had filed for divorce. He opened a drawer and showed me several birthday cards that he had written to me, but had never mailed. He kept them in his drawer for the past seven years.

  “I hoped one day you might change your mind. So every year I wrote to you and kept them in the drawer.”

  We reminisced for a while. When I needed to leave, he signed the papers I had brought, and he handed them to me. Mixed in with the returned UN paperwork were two envelopes addressed to Mansoor. The return addresses were from two different American women, but there were no letters inside. I returned both to him. He seemed embarrassed, saying that I didn’t want to know
about those women. They were no longer his girlfriends. His drawer was probably full of letters to and from women. He eyed me as if trying to figure out my reaction.

  “It is your life,” I said.

  “You’re different, you know that?”

  “Oh!”

  “Most Pakistani women would get hysterical at this point, crying and making a fuss. But you are so calm.”

  “I’m not the one who should be crying. Your wife should be the one crying.”

  When I handed in the paperwork to the appropriate staffer back at the UN, I asked her please to not lose it this time. She smiled at me, as she laid the folder on a stack of similar manila folders. All I could do was hope for the best, and keep following up.

  After our meeting, Mansoor began calling me. He made marriage proposal after marriage proposal. I put him off; he was already married, and I didn’t have any interest in a married man. He insisted his divorce would be finalized soon. He wanted me to rush into a decision, suggesting we could go to a nearby mosque for Nikah as soon as his divorce was finalized.

  I told him to call me back when he has the divorce papers in hand so I could see them. But I would not consider a marriage proposal as serious until he traveled to Pakistan and spoke with my father. If we did marry, I told him, we will do so in Pakistan in front of both of our families. He frowned and became silent. I could tell he had not expected that answer.

  One day we met for coffee, and he wanted to know why I had left my job. I told him the entire story, and he thought it was unfortunate I was forced to resign. He was employed in a bureaucracy, and he was familiar with how management can make false allegations to target someone they didn’t want. He claimed to know about my situation, and who the people were in Islamabad who didn’t help me when I went to them. They all wanted Dr. Sheela to be successful. He recited names and ministries, and seemed to be aware of details I hadn’t mentioned.

  Out of nowhere, he asked, “Did the oil minister, Ch. Nisar, propose to you?”

  I held my peace.

  “I know everything.”

  How did he know all of this? He said he had called his contacts in Islamabad and they told him the entire story.

  “I can help you get your job back.”

  “I’m not interested. They’ve turned the place into a brothel. I’m much happier running my own clinic.”

  “If I help you return, the situation will be different. No one could say anything to you.”

  I didn’t need his help, except to get my NGO recognized by the UN.

  “Help me with the recognition for my NGO. That is what I need most.”

  “Yes, anything.”

  I also applied for the registration with the Department of Economic and Social Council at the UN. During my stay, I attended the UN general sessions and various meetings with other organizations. I was thrilled to be here in the building, watching and learning how everything worked. I also attended a reception for the World Love and Peace Society. I delivered a small speech on peace during the reception.

  Mansoor called me afterward. He complimented me on the dress I wore to the reception. He said I looked glamorous. I’d worn an ordinary dress, one I’d worn many times in Karachi. But how did he know what I wore? Did he have someone spying on me? Or just a lot of friends?

  He said he had a friend looking out for me, for my own protection, and that I shouldn’t worry. That bothered me. I had traveled internationally alone several times. I knew how to take care of myself. I asked him to stop following me and spying on me.

  Finally, the time came for the conference at Columbia University hosted by Dr. Nizamuddin, Chief of the Aging Program at the UN. I also met Professor Steve Albert, Chairman of the Public Health program at Columbia University. He was extremely knowledgeable about geriatric issues and the current trends in program development to address the problems. The conference expanded my understanding of what could be accomplished with the people I served. My presentation at the conference was well received. Dr. Larry Gell, Director of the International Agency for Economic Development had taken my interview and it was aired on a local New York TV channel. I didn’t see it, but I was told that it was quite popular. Dr. Gell also wanted to collaborate with me to organize an international conference on aging in Pakistan, an event we’d never had before. I agreed, as it would be a great opportunity to highlight the geriatric needs in Pakistan.

  Before I left, Dr. Nizam told me he would soon be settled at a university in Pakistan and would begin a research and education project on aging.

  One day during the session, a mild rain started. An American colleague noticed I didn’t have an umbrella, and I told her that I’d never used one. In Karachi, we never needed one. She insisted I take her umbrella because she had an extra. I thanked her and took it. As I began walking, the rain was light, but then suddenly it turned into a severe thunderstorm, breaking right over my head. I struggled with the umbrella, trying to figure out how to open it. The device was foreign to me. A well-dressed African American man watched me for a moment, then stepped in. I asked him to help me open the umbrella. He unbuttoned it, and flopped it open and said, “Like this,” and we both laughed.

  That evening Mansoor called me. We chatted, and then he said, “I know you were laughing on the street with an African American.”

  I thought it strange. Was he following me again? “Do you have someone following me?”

  He brushed off my questions. “Why do you laugh with a stranger, but not with me?”

  “Try just talking normally, instead of always prying into my personal life.” I was beginning to distrust him for so many reasons.

  Upon returning to Pakistan, I received a harsh email from Shaukat Tahir, the Joint Secretary, who didn’t show up for his speech. He accused me of disrespecting Pakistan. This made me very angry. The audacity of the man, shirking his duty, trying to entice me into playing hooky, was astounding. I dashed off a very terse email, setting him straight on who did the defaming. I reminded him I attended the conference at my own cost, and that he went as the representative of the Pakistani government, at the government’s expense. Instead of speaking as scheduled, he went shopping. I threatened to complain about him to the ministry. “You are the one who defamed Pakistan.” After that, he left me alone.

  The next year, Mansoor came to Karachi for a few days and visited my father. He never spoke to my father about marriage. Yet every time I spoke to Mansoor, he wanted to marry me. His behavior seemed odd, as if he had other things in mind besides a happy married life.

  I continued to run my Geriatric Clinic, seeing dozens of patients a day who had little money to spend on their care. I had so many plans to reach more of the nation’s elderly but little funds, and seeking funding from the nation’s social welfare ministries, even the European Union, would require significant compromise on my part. I knew I lived in a corrupt society whose leaders were concerned about themselves, and not the welfare of the people they claimed to serve, but there were some true-hearted people. I had met so many who did care and were supportive of what I was attempting to accomplish. But raising funds had become like begging, and I despised that. So I came up with some alternatives.

  A producer of ARY Digital TV channel contacted me, asking if I would be interested in hosting a regular health program focused on the elderly. I agreed, and I scripted and hosted a weekly show centered on offering advice on staying healthy, avoiding and treating common diseases, and other health topics. I started different programs on other TV channels, in which I interviewed guests—experts, patients, and others—who could speak on issues surrounding aging. They became quite popular, and attracted some significant sponsors, including pharmaceutical companies, banks, and prominent medical groups. I used the fees I earned to operate my clinic and support myself.

  I was invited to write articles for Global Watch magazine, a periodical published by the United Nations, and Geriatrics, published in Malta. I believed I was making a difference and that my NGO was producing
positive results for the seniors.

  In 2004, I received an Ashoka Fellowship. They recognized me for social entrepreneurship advocating for the elderly. Ashoka International searches out activists all over the world who are engaged in pioneering work and awards them fellowships to meet their personal needs. Ashoka supplied an ongoing scholarship that met my personal needs for several years. With those funds, I had the peace of mind that I didn’t have to worry about how I was going to eat. I was very excited and honored by this accolade, and I attended the induction ceremony in Mumbai, and Kolkata, India.

  One of the Ashoka Fellows I met at the awards ceremony was Abdul Waheed Khan. He had started an organization that worked to reform the Madrassas, the religious schools for teaching Islam. He developed resources to modernize their curricula to include more subjects, such as math, reading, English language, and computers. Opposition to his work was intense, and when he returned to Pakistan after the award, he was brutally murdered on the streets of Karachi. It was a sad moment for all those children of Pakistan who deserved a better education.

  CHAPTER 18

  Forced Underground

  MANSOOR SEEMED INTERESTED IN MY passion for the elderly. One day he called me from New York to tell me about Dr. Amna Buttar, a Pakistani social activist, geriatrician, and physician living in the US. She was protesting the treatment of Mukhtar Mai (a village girl, who was raped by a group of men at the command of the village council in retaliation for an accusation against her brother). The Pakistani prime minister was in New York at the mission, and Dr. Buttar and her fellow protesters rallied in front of Pakistan mission office. He offered to go outside and speak to her about my situation. I was surprised, but I said no to the opportunity. Mukhtar Mai’s case was widely known because she forced the police to prosecute the men who raped her, a rare occurrence in Pakistan.