by You Jin
“This is my mother.”
Without question, her mother must have been quite a beauty in her youth. Now, though the skin around her eyes was lined with wrinkles marring her complexion, her facial features were beautiful and her profile sharp.
“Where are you from?” she asked as she held my hand warmly.
“Singapore.”
“Oh!” Her eyes lit up. “That’s a lovely place.”
“You’ve been there?”
“Yes. Last year I went for a week with my husband. Next year, if we have the chance, I will bring Inan there with me.”
Inan glanced at her mother and said, laughing, “When my mum and dad go for their honeymoon, how could I tag along?”
“Look at this child! No respect!” She looked at her daughter and laughed, her eyes full of love.
“Ma’am, how many children do you have?” I asked, smiling.
“I wanted to have twelve, but I only had half that number,” she said humorously. “Three boys and three girls.”
From our conversation, I learnt that Inan’s father was the president of an airline, so the family often had the opportunity to travel. Because of this, their speech and their mindset was much more open than other Arab women.
That night, we had quite a pleasant conversation. After the wedding, Inan said earnestly, “If you are free next Friday, why don’t you come to my house for a visit?”
I readily agreed.
“Wait for me at the Empress Shopping Mall at noon. I’ll pick you up there.”
That Friday, I stood and waited at the appointed place. The Empress Shopping Mall was on the busy King Abdullah Street, and was one of biggest shopping centres there. Before I’d waited long, a large American-made limousine pulled up in front of me. A driver in uniform walked toward me and said very courteously, “Ma’am, Ms Inan is waiting for you in the car.”
Inan sat inside the car, bound in a heavy black burkha. From under it, her gentle, sweet voice said, “Did you wait long?”
“No, I just arrived,” I said. I looked at her burkha and asked in surprise, “Why do you have to wear a burkha when you’re in the car?”
“To be blunt, I don’t like it either.” She tugged at the cumbersome burkha and said, “But my father insists that, except when we are at home, we have to wear it. And Father’s word is law, so I have no choice.”
“Do you go out often?”
“Not at all. Aside from going to class at the university every day, I am usually at home.”
“Isn’t that boring?”
“No! I have lots of diversions. I read, paint and listen to music, and the time passes very quickly.”
We chatted, and before long the car had left the crowded downtown district, turning into a quiet residential area. Inan pointed to a mansion surrounded by a high beige wall in the distance and said, “Oh, that’s my home.”
It was a shockingly huge private compound. Within the wall, there were six two-storey villas. The drive was lined on both sides by pine trees and many brightly coloured flowers of various species. The car stopped in front of one of the buildings.
Inan led me inside. As soon as the door was closed, she took off the veil, baring her face before me. It was an astoundingly beautiful face, even without make-up. Her dark hair was pulled behind her head in a charming bun. Her face was bright, shining and beautiful. It also exuded a subtle sharpness.
“Have a seat. I’ll go upstairs and change.”
I looked around. It was a spacious, luxurious room, its walls painted light green. An enormous oil painting was hanging on the wall, the brushwork very fine, but unrestrained and soft in a lucid way. Whether seen from far or near, it was quite special. Whilst I was admiring the painting closely, Inan came downstairs, now wearing a black and white checked long skirt, with a white chiffon blouse and lotus leaf sleeves, looking fresh and elegant.
“Do you have any comments about this painting?” she asked, smiling.
I am an amateur when it comes to paintings, only knowing what I do and don’t like. So I did not dare to offer any comments. I simply said, “It seems to have captured the atmosphere. Is it by an Arab painter?”
“Yes. Me.”
“Oh?” I looked at it afresh. I did not recognise the place. It did not seem to be a scene from Jeddah. She seemed to read my thoughts, so she explained, “I painted the scenery in Lebanon.”
“You’ve been to Lebanon?”
“Oh, I lived in Lebanon longer than I’ve lived in Saudi Arabia.”
“Really?”
“My father wanted me to learn English, so when I was six, he sent me there and I stayed for all of my primary and secondary school. The year before last, I came back from Lebanon to start university.”
“What are you studying?”
“Business administration.”
From what I knew, Saudi Arabian women only had two career choices—teaching (at a girls’ school) and nursing (for female patients). After studying business administration, what could she do?
“Of course I want to work, but—” a cloud came over her expression. “My father doesn’t agree. He thinks it’s shameful for a woman to work outside the home.”
“Then—what is the motivation for a woman to pursue higher education here?” This question had been on my mind for a long time.
“To support my husband and educate my children.” She laughed, but there was no mirth in it.
From Inan’s situation, I could see the troubling mindset of the younger generation of Saudi Arabian women. Higher education gave them an opportunity to think more independently, but the old customs kept them locked in an oppressive system. They were empowered in one sense, but then never given a chance to stand on their own two feet.
As we chatted, the servant girl brought us coffee and snacks. The coffee was strong and fragrant, but the snacks were too sweet, making me feel full after I had eaten only a couple of pieces.
She had many questions to ask about life in Singapore, especially about the freedom and status women enjoyed there. She was very surprised, and I could see that she was envious.
We talked until 3pm. She asked me to stay for dinner, but I apologised, saying I had to get home because someone was babysitting my child. She asked her driver to take me home.
From then on, we often talked on the phone but I only got to see her again more than a month later. I received a large box of snacks from my family in Singapore. I planned to give her some to taste, so I called and invited her to my house for dinner, but she said, “My father doesn’t like me to go out on my own to visit friends. Maybe it would be better for you to come here again?”
I went. She was charming as always, though her eyes had more of a gentle, dreamy brightness about them. After chatting for a short while, she revealed the source of her happiness to me. “I will get engaged next month.”
“Oh?” Surprised, I looked at her pleased expression. I asked, “Who’s the lucky man?”
“A neighbour of mine. His name is Rushdi. We’ve known each other since we were small.”
“So you’re childhood sweethearts?” I teased her.
“Um, before I went to Lebanon when I was six, we often played together. But since I came back, we’ve not seen each other. A few days ago, he and his parents came to propose marriage, and that was when I had a chance to see him again.”
“Does that mean it is a marriage arranged by your parents?”
“You could say that. But if I didn’t like him they would not force me. In fact, a few days ago the son of my father’s old family friend came to talk about marriage too. I didn’t think he was suitable for me, so my father rejected him.”
“If you never dated him, how do you know he wasn’t suitable?” I asked, mystified.
“From the way he talked.” She laughed. “I rejected him because he was too conservative and too reserved. My own thinking is more open, so when I spoke to him, I had a feeling it wouldn’t work.”
“Then—Rushdi? How did he win you
over?” I was really curious about this.
A small smile swept over her lips. After a moment, she said, “He is a progressive young man, and very sincere. Do you want to see his photo?”
Saying this, she took a colour photo from a black wooden box and handed it to me. The fellow in the photo was not what you would call handsome, but he looked refreshing, coming off as pure and heroic.
“Inan, congratulations.” I handed the photo back to her and clasped her hand earnestly. “I am very happy for you. How long after your engagement will it be before you get married?”
“Maybe about two months.”
“What? So fast!” I was startled. “You’re only in your second year of university. You’ve still got another year of studies to go. How will you manage?”
“I don’t plan to continue my studies. When we’re married, Rushdi plans to go to the US to study for a PhD in engineering. I’ll go with him and learn interior design. Then, when I come back to Saudi Arabia, I can work from home and not waste my knowledge.”
Inan was a smart woman. She would not be a typical housewife, but society would not allow her to work outside the home. So she could only find some other way to live according to her own wishes.
Thinking back to the extremely extravagant wedding I had attended in Jeddah not long before, I asked Inan whether or not she planned to have a similarly elaborate ceremony. She shook her head and said, “I’m really not used to the frivolous way people spend their money here. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with having money, but we don’t need to spend it like that. Marriage is between two people. I just want a lively gathering of family and close friends.”
For a woman who had grown up amid such wealth and never tasted poverty to think like this was actually quite astounding.
The day of her engagement, unfortunately, I was in bed sick, so I could not attend the ceremony, and could only send someone over with my gift. After I recovered, I was busy packing to return to Singapore for a holiday, after which I went on a tour in New Zealand. When I returned to Jeddah two months later, I phoned her house, only to find that the newlyweds had already gone to the US.
When I put down the phone, I whispered a blessing for her. This woman had been born into an old world, but was not willing to be bound by the old traditions. Though we had only had the briefest of contact, I never forgot the brightness of this precious gem.
Love in the Shadow of a Gun
IN MOST PEOPLE’S minds, the Khyber Pass is a dangerous place. After much hesitation and deliberation, we finally decided we would go.
Going on tours itself involved a certain element of risk. That is to say, many people think that visiting Pakistan without going to the Khyber Pass is like going to India but not seeing the Taj Mahal, something to be regretted for one’s whole life.
After making the decision to go, we rushed to apply for all the necessary documents. When we finally received our entry permits, they came with the following instructions:
1. Before sunrise and after sundown, tourists may not enter Khyber Pass.
2. Do not take photos without permission.
3. Always engage a security guard for your travels.
With visas in hand, we immediately hired the services of an armed security guard and a driver and, for the first time ever, a guide. Then, with some trepidation, we set out on our journey.
The Khyber Pass, situated in the northernmost part of Pakistan, was an indigenous special self-governing administrative region. It was Pakistan’s most important mountain pass, having long been a combat site in the country. In the past, it had been a strategic location in British-controlled Afghanistan. Because of its treacherous ground and unique location, it was a smugglers’ “paradise”, a centre for many criminal activities such as brewing illegal alcohol, drug smuggling and counterfeiting. Being so close to the often warembroiled Afghanistan, the local people frequently engaged in intense skirmishes with Afghani refugees, causing a huge disruption of public order.
But upon entering the Khyber Pass, I saw with my own eyes the terrible reality of the local scene, and I realised why it was seen as such a dangerous place. Here, gun regulations were not strict at all. Anyone over the age of eighteen could apply for a permit to carry a gun, but there were so many channels for buying guns that all you really needed was money and you could get anything. So I saw people carrying guns. Everyone had one, strapped to the back, in a hip holster, or carried in the hand, as if they were just toys. The pretty sunlight fell like broken diamonds, sparkling on the earth, but the constant threat of death sent chills down my spine.
Most of the people living in the Khyber Pass are of the brave warrior tribe, the Pathans, the largest indigenous tribe in Pakistan, a fierce, independent, tough people. In the past, they were mostly farmers and shepherds, but now, most make their living from trading and shipping.
Mazur, the guide we hired, was a Pathan. He was an extraordinary character. He was a doctor who had come from a wealthy family, and he had established a World Welfare Association in Pakistan opposing the drug trade, child labour and other illegal activities. He also fervently promoted education, culture, physical exercise, art and tourism in northwestern Pakistan. In order to make as many friends from around the world as possible, he served as tour guide when he was not practising medicine.
His large eyes were set deep into his sunken face, making him seem not only unattractive, but even suggesting a certain degree of deviousness. His black moustache and his swarthy skin made him look shifty and slovenly. To tell the truth, he did not make a good first impression on me, but after we talked for a while, his deep thinking changed my mind completely. What most moved me was that he often went into the poor villages in remote areas in the north, offering free vaccinations against epidemics amongst the children there and distributing large amounts of vitamins. He said, “People who practise medicine should not just offer cures. Honestly, prevention is more important for the people.”
He was already thirty, but still a bachelor. His reason for not marrying was not that he had any misgivings about marriage. Rather, it was because he felt there was too much work to be done—work that had to be done and could be done, and that he wished to do in his country. He had no time to think about romance.
Because public security in the Khyber Pass was not very good, our driver made arrangements to stop at only a few scenic spots along the way, allowing us to get out of the car and look around. At each stop, our security guard would always follow closely behind us, as if afraid we would carelessly wander off to some deserted place and fall into trouble.
What I found most horrifying was something I saw whilst wandering in a crowded open-air market. A number of men shopping with their wives and children all carried guns strapped to their backs. The worst sight was a man carrying a child of about two, sweet as an angel as she slept against her father’s shoulder. Her white chubby little hand unconsciously held tightly the strap of her father’s gun. The rifle, faintly exuding the smell of blood, was just a short distance from the child’s face. Innocence and evil, gentleness and brutality, beauty and ugliness, peace and violence all sat inches apart, a truly discordant image.
When the vehicle was driving through the Khyber Pass, there were numerous stops along the way for police inspections and passport checks. Later, when we had stopped for yet another check on a small peak, an officer and Mazur greeted each other warmly as old friends. Mazur hugged his friend’s shoulder and whispered a few words to him. After that, he turned and looked at us, smiled, and asked, “Hey, would you like to see what it feels like to load and fire a real gun?”
I stared at him in surprise, unable to think of anything to say. He went on, “If you give him forty rupees (about one dollar thirty cents Singapore currency) and buy a bullet, you can fire the gun.”
I quickly dug out forty rupees and gave it to him. I stood on the vast cliff, the rifle in my hands very heavy, as if I held the weight of the world. Mazur stood beside me, teaching me a few simple techniqu
es. The butt of the rifle should rest as close to the body as possible to reduce the effects of recoil. The hand needed to be steady and firm. I aimed at a large jagged boulder beneath the hill, steadied myself, breathed deeply, and then squeezed the trigger. There was a bang, shattering the earth and sky. The loudness and the force numbed my heart for several seconds.
There were many gun shops in the Khyber Pass. Pistols were cheaper, at three thousand rupees (about one hundred Singapore dollars), whilst rifles cost about five thousand (a hundred and sixty Singapore dollars). Branded guns cost more than ten thousand.
“In the Khyber Pass, guns are not only for protection, but they are seen as a collector’s item for some rich people, just like collecting stamps or old coins.” Mazur said casually, “At joyous occasions or wedding banquets, the local people love to fire their guns in celebration.”
The vehicle continued on its way, eventually arriving at a stream. The scenery was beautiful. There, we met another car that had been exploring remote areas. There were five husky Pathan fellows, all carrying guns and black market liquor. They talked boisterously, sang and, when they heard Risheng and I were from Singapore, pointed their guns at the sky and fired three times, crying, “Welcome!” Guns almost seemed to have become a sort of accessory worn by the local people, and firing guns was entertainment.
Mazur pointed out that the local gun regulations stipulated that one had to be eighteen to apply to buy a gun, but in the Khyber Pass, many tribal children no more than ten years old had already obtained illegal weapons.
At midday, we stopped at an old teahouse for tea. The old man boiling the tea treated it as a craft, slowly brewing it over the fire that danced merrily on the stove, then serving us the fragrant Pakistani milk tea. We drank cup after cup. On the street, those selling fake precious stones, waited quietly like fishermen, for customers to take the bait. Those selling all sorts of herbs I did not recognise acted like miracle healers, waiting proudly. The lamb seller tied the lambs in twos and threes to wooden crates, and sat looking troubled as he waited to bid them farewell. The only one who seemed to be busy was the one who trimmed beards (nearly everyone in Pakistan wore a beard). He spread the customers’ beards out like a cloth, trimmed here, cut there, then he moistened the hair and brushed it out into a lather. There was also the ear-digger, who was focused on the whole ear-cleaning process.