Courage to Say No

by Raana Mahmood

  The leader considered the man’s words. “We won’t harm you. But you must close this center.”

  I looked around at all the seniors waiting to be treated. What would they do if I closed the clinic? What would they do if I was killed? Neither of the options were good, but I could work from my apartment—if I were alive. I knew these men were serious. The thugs were well-known for extorting both businessmen and doctors. Occasionally they would drag a doctor or businessman who refused to pay their bribes into the street and execute him in cold blood, leaving the body in the middle of the road as a warning to pay their protection. The government did nothing to protect the neighborhood.

  “I will close the clinic. But I need some time to get everyone out.” The men made everyone leave, shouting and screaming while waving their weapons as people ran for the exits. I left the clinic with a heavy heart. What was happening to our country that criminals wouldn’t even leave the sick in peace?

  A few hours later, I walked through my office and clinic for the last time, packed up some papers, and then locked the door.

  My heart was broken thinking of all of the seniors who would not receive help. I couldn’t sit at home and do nothing. I decided I would begin operating underground. I needed a place to treat patients where these criminals could not find me. I spoke to my father, and he agreed to let me use one of his empty offices as an impromptu clinic. One of the board members also allowed me to use one of his offices to see patients. We operated on a very small scale, but I was able to continue to serve.

  After a couple of weeks, I was in my father’s office when he received a disturbing phone call. I knew it was a disagreeable conversation because of the tone of his voice. I asked him about the call that troubled him.

  “Someone threatened that if I didn’t stop helping you, they would kidnap Rafhan [my youngest brother] and kill him. They said I would find his dead body in small pieces. I told them I would never stop supporting you.” He looked troubled, but firm in his resolve. “Don’t worry, you can continue here.” My brother confirmed I didn’t need to worry about him.

  I decided in my heart that I couldn’t put my brother and father in such a dangerous position. The terrorists were determined to push me out of my practice. I feared they would not hesitate to follow through with their threats.

  Rafhan had always helped me in my organization’s activities, and I loved him very much. So after the threats, I told him I no longer needed his assistance. I knew that if I hadn’t been present when my father received that phone call, neither of them would have mentioned it. I loved them too much to put them in any danger, so I no longer saw patients in their office.

  Day by day, my activities diminished. The major TV stations that had regularly invited me to speak as a guest on a show would no longer invite me. I began contacting the smaller local channels, newer channels, and talk shows. I knew Mansoor was using his influence to cut me off from the media.

  I had an offer to host entertainment programs, but I refused. Despite the fact that my personal finances were diminishing rapidly, I didn’t believe that that was the right direction for me to go in. I wanted to stay focused on what I did best. I decided to search for a medical position and to get back on my feet financially. I was very disappointed to have to cease my NGO work, but I was glad both my son and I were safe.

  I spent my free time with Taimoor. I knew God would give me strength. I wasn’t greedy; I just needed a decent job to take care of my son and me. But after a few weeks of not working, the isolation became intolerable. I knew I had to find a way to continue seeing seniors in their homes while I looked for a job.

  Despite the risk, I began visiting senior citizens in their homes. I held meetings in volunteers’ houses. I lived a life that I didn’t want to live. I lived underground, a secret life of scratching every day to survive. I lived in constant financial stress, which was very strange for me. But I was happy with Taimoor’s company.

  Traveling through my neighborhood, which had once been peaceful and safe, had become dangerous. In the past few years, the surrounding residential neighborhoods had changed. On one side of my Chapal apartment was the residential area of Pashtuns, and the other side was a Sindhi community. Each of them favored different political parties that were at war with each other. They didn’t argue and debate as in Western countries; they took their disagreements to the streets and would shoot each other, killing innocent citizens who happened to get in the way. Stores, shops, and shopping malls were forced to close after the streets became too dangerous. What once had been a peaceful neighborhood now had become a war zone.

  One day, Taimoor came home very agitated. “God just saved me now!”

  My heart almost stopped while listening to his story. A group of Pashtuns had stopped him and his friends on the way home from school and threatened to kill him. One of his friends, whose father was a member of their party, vouched for him, saying that he was a good boy. So they let him go. But he was shaking he was so frightened. That he would come this close to death on our own street, made me fear to live in my own country.

  My once-peaceful neighborhood had been turned into a battleground. MQM party members were breaking into the empty homes and apartments on the streets and taking them over. Families began to leave our street. I wanted to move, but I couldn’t afford to live anywhere else. I didn’t have the money to buy another house or to rent one, nor did I want to return to my father’s house. So Taimoor and I stayed, despite my growing fears.

  Once, Karachi was known as the “City of Lights,” but now it had been turned into a dark, gritty, violent metropolis. No one knew who would be killed that day through the random acts of terror that had become commonplace.

  Leaving my apartment to see a patient or to interview for a job had become a form of torture. Terrorism gripped my beloved Karachi by the throat. Now, I had to hide in my own country while trying to help the most vulnerable citizens.

  One day my youngest brother Rafhan came to me, he looked scared and was shivering. Furqan had met him outside his office. He claimed he was performing very strong magic to convince me to marry him. When he explained the bizarre ritual the man was doing, I began to shake inside.

  I realized it was too dangerous for me to live in Pakistan. I had no strong political connections, and I had no inclinations to become involved in politics. I knew politics wasn’t meant for honest people. But without political connections, I had no protection.

  Early one morning, I drove to the Canadian embassy and filled out emigration paperwork. In those days, the process was quick and usually only took three to six months. A few of my friends from medical college had completed their entire Canadian emigration process within six months, so I was hopeful.

  After I received the receipt from the embassy for my application, I left the building hopeful that our lives, Taimoor’s and mine, would soon change. Canada was a safe place to live and practice my profession. Months later, I followed up at the embassy, and they said my file had just disappeared. I showed them my receipt. They could still not find my file. They had no clue what had happened. Something had happened to the file.

  My disappointment was tempered by a call from a colleague, Dr. Nizam. I had met him in New York and again at an international conference in Islamabad a few years prior. He had moved to Pakistan, and he wanted to begin his work with seniors in Punjab. I was excited to speak with him. We had worked together on legislation that was presented to the government to provide geriatric services. It was later passed and signed into law by the president.

  I invited Professor Nizam to Karachi. When he visited, I organized small meetings in a board member’s office, and invited university students, journalists, and doctors to take advantage of his research. On his last visit, he tried to encourage me. “You are doing good work here in Karachi, all by yourself.”

  All by myself in so many ways. I had no one at my back. I had no financial resources, and I had growing doubts that it was safe for me to live in the only co
untry I knew as home.

  CHAPTER 19

  A Narrow Escape

  WITH MY STIPEND FROM ASHOKA depleted, my financial situation became cloudy. I still had some savings, but it meant we would have to live very frugally until I felt strong enough to return to work. I still suffered from debilitating migraines every time I thought about the pressures of returning to work and thugs wanting to kill me. Mansoor had ceased his perverse calls, but the effects of his filthy mouth and evil intentions for our relationship still lingered. But I took comfort in my faith in God. He knew my struggle, and I encouraged myself that there was a reward for the righteous, for not succumbing to corruption. And I did feel his barkat (blessing)—we were living peacefully; God had returned my son from his dangers, and we both were in good health. At the right time, I would return to work.

  I was at home later that year, when I received a panicked call from my brother Rehan.

  “Where are you, Raana Baji?”

  “At home. Why?”

  “Benazir Bhutto, the former prime minister, has been murdered.” He knew I lived in my own world these days, and that I needed to pay attention to what had just happened.

  “Call Taimoor. Instruct him to come home immediately. There are riots everywhere, and it will only get worse.”

  He suggested that we both stay inside for a few days until the violence settled down. As soon as I got off the line with him, I dialed Taimoor’s cell. He was attending an evening class and didn’t answer. I tried several more times, but still no answer. About three hours later, he limped in through the front door. His Sindhi friends had rescued him from a mob that threatened to kill him and carried him home. He was hurt, but safe.

  Late into the night, I treated my son’s wounds and reminisced on a chance meeting with the slain politician. We crossed paths in the Dubai airport on my return from the US. As soon as I recognized her, I turned and greeted her, “Ms. Benazir Sahiba.”

  She stopped and scrutinized me. “I don’t recognize you. Are you a member of People’s Party?”

  “No, I am not in politics. But I admire you and your father, Mr. Z. A. Bhutto.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m a doctor.” I briefly told her about my social work and the geriatric foundation in Karachi, and my activities at the UN.

  “You live in Pakistan! You must join us. The PPP needs educated women like you.”

  “I will consider it.”

  She was warm and passionate, and I could tell that she cared about what she was doing. Before I left her, she gave me her assistant’s contact information, and reaffirmed that she was eager to have me become involved. Then we both had to run our separate ways to catch our flights. We spoke only a few moments, but I remember her face, voice, and her kindness as if we had just met yesterday. She knew that returning to Pakistan would jeopardize her life, but she went anyway.

  After the public settled down from the shock of her death, I began receiving emails and phone calls from media outlets asking for interviews. Professionals from different parts of the world that I’d discussed geriatric issues with over the years also reached out to me. Some were interested in joint projects, while others tried to motivate me to return to the struggle for justice for the elderly. In particular, Dr. Erdman B. Palmore, professor emeritus of sociology at Duke University, wrote to me. He was an early pioneer and visionary in research and education regarding institutional and social biases toward the elderly. He wanted me to write a chapter on aging in Pakistan for his book, The International Handbook on Aging. He wanted a chapter on programs and issues facing the Pakistani elderly, and he insisted I was the only one qualified to write it.

  The chapter would require more research. Just compiling what I had already published in magazines and journals wouldn’t do. I resisted the opportunity, fearing my mental fatigue would hamper my effectiveness, and my ability to meet his deadline. But Dr. Palmore was persistent. I finally agreed, and I was able to complete the work on time. The book was published in October 2009.

  That October brought to an end to three years of recovery and peace. I had been able to pray five times a day, and I had a routine that made me feel safe. It was time for me to return to work when troubling phone calls started again.

  Someone called from New York and introduced himself as Khalid. He stated that he was an admirer of my work with the elderly and asked me if I was available to collaborate with him on a project. He mentioned several ideas—a home for the elderly, a clinic, and other ideas. Since the project would be in Pakistan, I told him that the next time he visited the country we could meet and discuss what he had in mind. He regularly visited Islamabad and Lahore to see his family. On his next trip, he promised to come to Karachi.

  After a week, he called again. This time he gave me more information about himself. He was the CEO of a large hotel chain in New York. His full name was Raja Ki Punge, but most Pakistani knew him as Raja Khalid. Americans called him Mr. Punge. He claimed to have friends in influential circles in Pakistan. He offered to help me if I wished to get one of the seats in Parliament reserved for women. I thanked him, but declined his offer. I had no inclination to become a politician. He then complimented me on my work, and while I didn’t think much of his political connections, I did appreciate his respect for my work and his kind manners.

  Khalid regularly called over the next month. While he was always respectful and complimentary, he didn’t make any commitments to come to Karachi, but he kept up his compliments. He had seen me interviewed on Pakistani TV shows and seemed very well informed about elderly issues. It was pleasant to hear someone talk so kindly about my efforts, but I wasn’t entirely convinced of his intentions. His calls were always very short, and often were very strange. He said he was visiting Karachi in the next week, and we planned on meeting at my father’s office.

  This date he had set to meet arrived, and he didn’t appear. A few days later, he called from Islamabad, claiming his delay in coming was because of all the interviews he’d been conducting for positions at his hotel in New York. I easily heard several women’s voices in the background.

  The next time we spoke, he called from the airport in Islamabad. He had to return to New York, and he’d promised his nieces they could visit him in America. I began to wonder if all those women’s voices I’d heard in the background on the previous call were his nieces. But they did not sound like the relatives of an educated and wealthy man, but girls from the villages. So far he’d kept none of the promises he’d made to meet me, and this made me suspicious. I did a simple search of Pakistani newspapers online, and his name appeared, connected to two women. A Pakistani politician, Dr. Ms. Tawan, and a Pakistani dancer, who later married his son Nange Punge.

  I needed to be very careful with this man. It would be best for me if I stayed away from him.

  Then I received a phone call from Mansoor. I had stopped worrying about his calls, so I didn’t hesitate to pick up the phone.

  “So you were waiting for Khalid, and he didn’t come to Karachi?”

  I was not only surprised to hear his voice, but that he knew of Khalid.

  I tried to play dumb. “Who is Khalid?”

  He laughed. “Don’t think I’m a fool. I know everything.”

  My voice caught in my throat. Maybe I was the fool, thinking this man would leave me alone. But how did he know about Khalid?

  “You know why he didn’t visit Karachi? I met with him, and advised him not to.”

  “Why would you do something like that?”

  “He’s too rich and influential. I don’t want you meeting a man like that. He’ll want to marry you, and then you’ll be happy. I can’t allow that.”

  “What’s my life to you? I decide whom I’m friends with, not you. Besides we were discussing a project for the elderly, one he wants to help me build.”

  He laughed hard. “Project for the elderly!” Then he disconnected the call.

  Later, I spoke with Taimoor. “I think someone is listening t
o our phone calls.”

  “Mom, to tap someone’s phone is very difficult. Only intelligence agencies do that. You are not a criminal or spy. You are just an ordinary doctor. Why would someone listen to your phone?”

  What he said made sense, but he didn’t know what I knew. If you knew the right people or were willing to pay a bribe, then it was very easy to listen to anyone’s phone calls.

  Khalid continuously called, promising to travel to Karachi to discuss building a home for the elderly. He would fly to Islamabad for a few days, call me from the airport with another excuse why he couldn’t come to Karachi, and travel back to New York with more nieces and girls from the family. It was apparent he wasn’t a man I could trust. On his last call, I asked him not to call me any longer. I had all the help I needed.

  One weekend, I drove to visit my brother at the Naval Colony. I stopped for gas along the road. I spotted a crowd across the way. A group of men had surrounded a woman, they were pushing and touching her, and she was screaming for help. Near me, a group of people had gathered to watch, so I asked a man what was going on.

  “I don’t know exactly, but I think they are trying to kidnap that woman.”

  “Why you don’t go and help her?”

  “No, I can’t. It could be their personal matter.”

  It didn’t look and sound personal to me. Her shouting became frantic. Whether she knew the men or not, she did not want to go with them.

  “At least call the police.” My cell was dead, or I would have done it.

  “You go help her.” He stood there watching unhelpfully. I refused to watch this happen right in front of me.

  One man turned. “Don’t put your life in danger for her. She’s dressed like a prostitute. Look at her dress.”

  I spoke louder so they all could hear. “You’re not helping her just because you don’t think her a decent woman? That’s disgraceful.”

  I crossed the road to the men circled around her. “All of you,” I shouted. “Stay away from her.”