Peaceful Pakistan

 

The airport was crowded.

 

The most crowded one I'd ever seen. Strangely enough, most people were leaving. I sat on my suitcase, tired of standing up after a long time on that crazy flight. We had just flown from Seychelles, our home, to Islamabad. We still had a long way to go. We would rent a car, dad said, and drive to Abbottabad , to stay in a small hotel overnight. Then, in the morning, we would drive to Mingora. Personally, this wasn’t my kind of thing. At least I would be missing school. That was a good thing, right?

 

A man pushed past me, making my suitcase and I topple over. Mum was suddenly grabbing me, and before I knew it, she had me close.

 

“Stay close, Elise! You have to stay close to us,” she scolded, pulling my brother closer to us as well.

I stared at the man, who was wearing the strangest of clothes. He was wearing a large tunic, and very loose and baggy trousers. As I looked around me, I saw that nearly everyone was wearing the same thing, except a few women who were wearing either a scarf, which covered part of their face, or a long veil down to their feet, with a small net to see through. I made a mental note to check it out later on the internet, and find out more about Pakistan and Mingora…

 

When we rented the car, I was looking forward to seeing the beautiful villages of Swat. But instead, I saw ruins, bombed houses and schools, men walking around with guns, and women wearing dark clothes and covering their faces and hair. It looked like it was all one big funeral, and there was no joy or laughter in the air, only sadness and fear. I shuddered.

 

“Mama, what’s happening here?” asked my brother, echoing my worried thoughts. “ Yeah, and why did we have to come here?” I asked. “ You know why we have to. Daddy has an important meeting in the U.N.O. And as for what happened, the Taliban want to take over the country, and they banned girls from having a proper education- going to school, basically. They think that we are inferior to men, Elise,” she said. I stayed mute. Some kind of a nice stay this was going to be. My holiday (if you could call it that), had only just started and I was already scared out of my wits. And I was feeling selfish and guilty.

 

We got out of the car, and I gasped at the amazing sight before us. It was nearly sunset, and the leaves of the pine trees shone golden in the evening light. The sky was a peachy pink, and the clouds looked like fluffy, white sheep. I sighed happily. Maybe it wasn’t going to be so bad after all. But then I turned. I gaped, opening and closing my mouth like a goldfish. I stole a glance at my parents, who didn’t look any less shocked than I felt “This – This isn’t the place, is it?” I finally managed.

 

“I think so- Better check, though-This place looks more like a rubbish dump than a hotel,” stammered dad. “ Don’t bother dear, this is it. Look at the sign,” replied mum, pointing at the hanging sign. It read;

 

AYUBIA RESIDENCE HOTEL, ABBOTTABAD – FOUR STAR ****

 

I groaned. Why did I keep on giving myself false hopes?

 

Up in my tiny room, I flopped on the bed, exhausted. At least there was a window, where I could see the beautiful sights of below. I switched on my phone and tapped on INTERNET. “No Wi-Fi? Come on!” I cried in frustration. I tried again: I googled in “Pakistan Clothing”. Slowly, it loaded. I tapped on a website. Pakistani Clothing- Wikipidia. It said;

 

 

Pakistani National Dress

 

The shalwar kameez is the national dress of Pakistan, and is worn by men and women in all four provinces, Punjab, Sindh, Baluchistan, Khyber Pakhtoonkhwa and FATA, in the country and in Azad Kashmir. Each province has its own style of wearing the Shalwar Kameez.

 

That was it! A lot of people were wearing a Shalwar Kameez, but a few men and women weren’t. I wanted to find out more.

 

Men's Clothing

 

Men all over Pakistan prefer shalwar kameez with some additional accessories, which include Pakistani Waistcoat, Achkan and Sherwani, with the shalwar kameez or with Churidar Pajama. Jinnah Cap, also called Karakul, Fez ,also called Rumi Topi and Taqiyah (cap) is used with Shalwar Kameez.

 

Strange, I still didn’t see anyone with that type of clothes. I continued.

 

Khussa is a popular foot wear with shalwar kameez. Men like to wear traditional shawls made of Pashmina or other warm materials, especially in Northern part of the country. Modern clothing, i.e pants and shirts are also very common in Pakistan, especially in big cities.

 

There  weren’t many men wearing those kind of clothes, but at least I would be informed if I saw someone wearing them. I scrolled down. Women’s clothing! There we are. I settled down and started reading.

 

Women's clothing

 

Shalwar kameez

 

The most favorite dressing among Pakistani women is shalwar kameez which is worn in different styles, colors and designs especially the front part of kameez is decorated with different styles and designs of embroidery. It is worn with different sleeve length, shirt length, necklines and different types of shalwars like patiala salwar, churidar pajama and simple trouser. Dupatta is an essential part of shalwar kameez and considered a symbol of woman's respect.It is used with different embroidery designs of Kamdani .

 

Religious Clothing

 

By women's religious clothing we mean the dressing in which they try to cover all their body parts (except face and hands) while going outside from their home. Mostly women cover their heads with Dupatta or Chadar in outdoors, but religious women prefer to wear Scarf, Burqa or Hijab and wear lose, long and full sleeve shirts.

 

That was it.  A lot of women were wearing a long scarf, now I recognized as a Burqa or a Hijab!

 

Later that afternoon, I told mum about the Shalwar Kameez, Burqas, and Hijabs. She agreed immediately. Mum was always keen to carry on traditions, especially new ones. We went to the market right after lunch, mum, Max, and me. Max, who was only six, started moaning almost immediately. He hated shopping.

 

“No mum, let’s go home, I want to go home!” he squealed. We stopped at a stall selling cheap clothes. A young woman greeted us cheerfully.

 

“Hello! Salam,” she said, waving. “ Good morning.” Answered mum. “ Za ta sara  sanga mrasta kawalay sham?” We stared at her, our faces blank. She laughed and translated. “ How can I help you? Za ta sara  sanga mrasta kawalay sham?”  Mum laughed too, and said, “ We’re looking for some Shal- Shalwir…” she stopped and looked down at me for help. “ Shalwar Kameez,” I said promptly. The lady smiled and waved us into the shop. There were clothes hanging all over the walls, every different size and colour you could imagine.  I spotted a bright purple shalwar Kameez, with small grey and blue elephants in a pattern across the front of the Kameez. I whooped in delight. Purple was my favorite colour and elephants were lovely! That was meant to be for me, I knew it. I tugged at mum’s sleeve, pointing up at the clothing. She smiled down at me and told the lady we wanted to try it. I went in the changing room and tore my clothes off. With a bit of difficulty I managed to get it on. It fit! I overheard mum asking Max which one he wanted. I wondered what colour he would choose. I came out, and mum put the Shalwar Kameez on the counter. Then she went to check on Max, and came out holding the hand of a very happy little boy. I must admit he did look cute, wearing that light orange shalwar kameez. His was also patterned with elephants,but only grey ones, and on the shalwar there were bright yellow bananas. In difference from mine though, his had a small yellow cap, Taqiyah, the lady called it. Meanwhile, mum was having a hard time choosing between a lovely green and purple Sari( indian clothing) or a brown and yellow shalwar kameez, patterned with small tilted black and white squares. She decided to try them both, and at the end she chose the Sari. The woman suggested a light green Burqa to match. Mum agreed and bought me a purple one too! We paid and went out of the shop, now really looking our parts.

 

At the hotel, mum told me she had done a bit of research on Pakistan, and she said that this name Malala, kept on coming up.

 

I nodded and suddenly remembered it had happened to me too! I went to my room, thinking about doing some research on this Malala, whoever that was. Much to my disappointment, I found out there had been a blackout. I went to sleep with only one word, or rather, one name in my head.

Malala.

 

I woke up and I stared around me in amazement.  I was in a huge room, with clean white walls and a lovely  wooden closet. My bed was also huge, king size, and I had a wooden bedside table painted white. There was a window on my right, exactly like the old hotel, and there was a bunch of fresh flowers on the windowsill. I gazed outside, and, to my surprise, the sight was exactly the same as the one of the Ayubia Residence Hotel. I gasped.  I got up and went to my closet. I opened it, and inside there were quite a few Shalwar Kameez, including the one that I had bought yesterday. I quickly changed out of my pijamas and threw the Shalwar Kameez on. I then opened the mini fridge in the corner of my room. I took out a bottle of milk and poured it into a glass, and gulped that down. I brushed my teeth, clumsily platted my long hair, and put my Burqa on. I pushed my cold toes in my trainers and took a deep breath.  I Was trying to act normally, but inside my heart wouldn’t hear of slowing down!!! I pushed open the door and walked to the next room, hoping that Max and my parents were there. I knocked and waited. Nothing. I tried again. Nothing.  I didn’t give up. On the fourth knock, I heard grumbling and the door handle turned. An old man was standing sleepily in his nightgown, his hair and beard sticking out all over the place messily. I thought about running away before he realised who had woken him up, but with a rub on his eyes, he seemed to wake up. He looked down at me.

 

“What are you doing here, kid?” he shouted angrily. “Scoot off, come on, shoo!” and to himself, “Kids, nowadays. They have no respect for their elders,” and with that, he turned and slammed the door, still grumbling. I was confused, and I was trying hard not to cry, but I knew that sooner or later I was bound to overflow. I dragged myself back to my room. I pushed on the door. It wouldn’t open! I pushed and pushed, I heaved and heaved, but still the door wouldn’t budge. I gave up and scrunched myself into a ball in the corner. I was locked out, and I didn’t even know where I was! I started crying nonstop.  I didn’t hear a door being opened, nor did I notice a lady standing behind me. She bent over me and her pretty face creased in worry.

 

“Are you all right, dear?” her dark, brown eyes searched mine. “Oh, what am I saying? Of course you’re not. Come on in, and I’ll make you a nice warm cup of tea.” I nodded. I had to admit, that did sound inviting.

 

I sat down on a red velvet chair, around a round, white table of polished wood. I looked around me. The room was a lot like mine, except hers had a full kitchen. She came back carrying two cups. She offered me one, and I took it gratefully. “Earl Grey tea. My favourite,” she said. I took a sip. It tasted bitter, but I didn’t comment. Instead, I gulped all of it down, enjoying the burning feeling it gave me as it slid down my throat. Once I had calmed down, the lady told me her name. “Moniba Sakawa. I come from Swat,” she said. Then she asked me, “What’s your name, and what happened?”

 

I closed my eyes, and said “I’m Elise. Oh, and thank you,” I said, managing a small smile. “really. For everything,”  

 

 “It’s nothing. You poor little thing. Where are your parents?”

 

I faltered. Should I tell her the truth? “I- I… They’re probably around here somewhere,” 

 

“Oh. Well, shall we go outside for a walk?” Moniba  suggested. I looked at her, horrified. “Are you crazy? I haven’t got anything to cover myself apart from my burqa! And for the Taliban that is not enough. They will probably shoot me,” I continued.

 

Moniba laughed. “This is no laughing matter-” Moniba was frowning at me. “ I thought you were joking earlier. But you aren’t, are you? All of that happened about... 30 years ago.”

 

I looked at her, puzzled, confused, and horrified. “Slow down. I think we need to talk. 30 years ago? That is just not possible! Yesterday I was in the car with my parents and all that stuff was happening! Yesterday,” I repeated, forcing myself to keep calm.

 

We sat down at the table again, and Moniba started to explain. “Have you ever heard of Mrs. Yousafzai?” she asked me. “Who, Malala’s mum? I always thought that Malala was the famous one, not her mum. But don’t mind me. Continue.” I said carelessly. “No. Malala Yousafzai,”  “Oh, her. You’re so formal here in Pakistan. Anyways, I heard that this Malala is a great kid. She’s done all sorts of brave things, hasn’t she?” I said, proud of my knowledge. “Elise, please, watch your words with the president. I don’t think you could call her a kid – she’s about… 47!” Moniba scolded sternly. “47! B- but she was 17 yesterday! How is that even possible?” I shouted, my face as white as a sheet. “Listen, I don’t know what happened with you, but I want to explain a few things about my country,” I nodded, speechless. I really needed some fresh air. I was lost for words. I was never lost for words! And this was the third time it happened in just a few hours! I was going mad, I tell you. We walked out of the door, and into the elevator. Inside, Moniba pressed the button with the letters GF. GROUND FLOOR. As we walked out, I noticed that no women were covered in cloth from head to toe apart from their traditional colourful Hijab. Everyone was smiling and laughing. As Moniba pushed open the huge glass double doors of the hotel, a plump lady with rosy cheeks and a round face came over to us.

 

“Hi Moniba!” she said. And to me, “Hello darling, and who are you?” and, without waiting for an answer, she went off to talk to Moniba. Moniba beckoned for me to come and join them. I shyly walked over. “She’s Elise. I was just about to take her  in town and to see the Malala Plaza. You see, she has never come here. It’s her first time,” concluded Moniba. “Wait, there’s a place called the Malala Plaza?” I asked. “Course there is, darling. You just wait and see. It’s beautiful,” replied the lady. “well then, Moniba, take this young lady to our wonderful sights. Bye! And enjoy your trip, darling!!!” she shouted, heartily. We walked through the crowded streets. I was surprised when, instead of ruins, I saw brand new buildings. And no more men walking around with guns, no more frightened people. Then I saw a bunch of people gathering around something. I pushed through the crowd, every few seconds looking behind me, making sure that Moniba was still there. I stopped in front of a statue. I gasped at its beauty. It was made entirely of marble by the looks of it, the whole huge thing. It represented a girl wearing a long Shalwar Kameez, and a long Hijab, a scarf, although that was pushed back over her head, so you could see her face. It seemed that she was carrying some exercise books. She looked like a very keen schoolgirl. Underneath the statue, on a brass plate, were the words:

 

Malala Yousafzai- The Girl Who Changed The World

 

I marvelled at the beautiful statue and the brave girl. “It was her that I wanted to talk to you about,” Moniba’s voice interrupted my thoughts.

 

“Malala was born on 12 July 1997, in Mingora, the Swat District of north west Pakistan. She was named Malala, after Malalai, the famous Pashtun Heroine.” She started. “Malala’s father, Ziauddin Yousafzai was a poet, and was running a public school. He was a leading educational advocate himself. In 2009, Malala began writing an anonymous blog for the BBC expressing her views on education and life under the threat of the Taliban taking over her valley.

 

“During this period, the Taliban’s military hold on the area intensified. As the Taliban took control of the area, they issued edicts banning television, music, and banning women from going shopping, and limiting women’s education.

 

“A climate of fear prevailed, and Malala and her father began to receive death threats for their outspoken views. As a consequence, Malala and her father began to fear for their safety. After the BBC blog ended, Malala was featured in a documentary made for The New York Times. She also received greater international coverage and was revealed as the author of the BBC blog.

 

“ In 2011, she received Pakistan’s first National Youth Peace Prize and she was nominated by Archbishop Desmond Tutu for the International Children’s Peace Prize. Her increased profile and strident criticism of the Taliban caused Taliban leaders to meet, and in2012, they voted to kill her.

 

“On 9 October, 2012, a masked gunman entered her school bus and asked for Malala by name.

 Malala was shot with a single bullet which went through her head, neck and shoulder. Two of her friends were also injured in the attack.

Malala survived the initial shooting, but was in a critical condition.

 

“She was later moved to Birmingham in the United Kingdom for further treatment at a specialist hospital for treating military injuries. She was discharged on January 3, 2013, and moved with her family to a temporary home in the West Midlands. It was a miracle she was alive.

 

“Ehsanullah Ehsan, chief spokesman for the Pakistani Taliban, claimed responsibility for the attack, saying that Yousafzai was a symbol of the infidels and obscenity. However, other Islamic clerics in Pakistan issued a fatwa against the Taliban leaders and said there was no religious justification for shooting a schoolgirl.

 

“Her assassination attempt received worldwide condemnation and protests across Pakistan. Over 2 million people signed the Right to Education campaign. The petition helped lead to the ratification of Pakistan’s first right to education bill.

 

“Her shooting, and her refusal to stand down from what she believed was right, brought to light the plight of millions of children around the world who are denied an education today.

 

“Malala became a global advocate for the millions of girls being denied a formal education because of social, economic, legal and political factors.

 

“She started the Malala Fund to bring awareness to the social and economic impact of girls’ education and to empower girls to raise their voices, to unlock their potential, and to demand change. In 2014, Malala was the youngest Nobel Prize winner.”

 

I was crying by now. But Moniba wasn’t finished. She took a deep breath and continued.

 

“Later on, in 2024, she was elected president. She became the second woman president in Pakistan.”

 

That girl was so brave! I was determined to be like her. I couldn’t do any of the amazing things that she did, of course, but I could try to as brave as she was. I would show them! I suddenly didn’t feel scared anymore, about my parents, or about this strange version of Pakistan. But when I saw the newspaper of the man standing next to me, I still freaked out. On the newspaper, was the date: 9 October 2044. Strangely enough, I didn’t feel surprised. By now, I guess that I kind of expected this kind of thing. But still, as I looked at that impossible date, fear kept on trying to break through me, and I had to try to keep it down, to tame it. Now, we walked to Moniba’s room in silence, each of us thinking our own thoughts.

 

After I thanked Moniba, I hugged her. She was the only friend I’d had in this first short, crazy, adventure. When I walked back to the elevator, I felt a strange sense of peace. As I pushed the button GB, I realised that I didn’t really know where to go. But I smiled and decided to think about this problem later, when I got to it.

 

I stepped out of the elevator and into the shabby old hotel. Mum and dad were sitting at the small table, playing cards. Max was on mum’s lap, playing his DS. I laughed and ran over to them. I hugged them, and said; “Boy, have I ever been so happy to see you!” then, noticing that they didn’t seem in the least bit worried, I added; “ Didn’t you miss me?”  “What do you mean, miss you? I saw you about 5 minutes ago!” mum laughed. “Yeah, and why would I miss you anyways?” said cheeky little Max, sticking his toung out and wiggling it. I stuck mine out too, but laughed. It had all been my imagination, but it made me hope about the future of Pakistan, and all the girls and boys of Swat, Mingora, and everywhere else. Think about how lucky you are of being able to go to school, while there are so many girls and boys in the world that are denied proper education today!!!

 

The End!