Art Malik - My pin-up Pakistani from my youth

What baggage am I packing with me on my trip to Pakistan?

I have been thinking about my visit to Pakistan for a few weeks now.  I have never been before – and I want to take a snapshot of my emotional response and limited perceptions of the country in advance.  Previous travel has revealed the how-wrong-I-was factor loud and clear.  So allow me to be ill-informed, naive, and for a moment – if only to pick apart my prejudice at a later date.

Although I haven’t been to Pakistan, I have been to Afghanistan and India and spent three years living in Sri Lanka, so I have had some experience of the region.  That said, living in Sri Lanka was as much preparation for India as Germany was for France.  Same same but different, one might say.

I know from books that Pakistan is a diverse land.  The Indus valley civilisation.  A busy commercial hub in Karachi. A Baluchistan that floods too often sweeping away cattle and livelihoods.  Devilish mountains bordering China that challenge its inhabitants and thrill European mountaineers. The notorious FATA region – much in the news of late, I imagine to be full of mountain peaks, hidden fortresses and secret tunnels.  And of romantic figures on horseback (not unlike 007’s friend Art Malik as a Mujahadeen Commander in The Living Daylights).  And everyone has an automatic weapon.

People are what gives a country it’s heart beat.  Having never been there my perceptions of the Pakistanis are cast by the diaspora community in Britain (including Mr Malik).  This diaspora was invited to the UK to work when Britain had a labour shortage in the 1950s.  This diaspora were offered refuge when the Mangla Dam flooded villages in Mirpur.  A community invited to settle. And increasingly the diaspora consists of professionals – doctors – offered a managed migration route to help the sick in Britain.   They number nearly a million in Britain – and yet how is it I know so little about Pakistan?

At the school I went to in Bristol, we never stopped to ask each other where we were from.  It’s only looking back and with greater knowledge of the world do I understand from given names that my school mates were likely Tamils or Muslims or Indian or African.  One of my first boyfriends was half Pakistani and half Scottish and equally proud of both – but this was unusual in inner city Britain in the 70’s and 80’s nobody seemed to wear their heritage on their sleeves.   Besides, we were raised not to question where someone was from, lest we view people as “the other” and offend, so of the many colleagues and friends I have spent time along side over the years, I have rarely asked them about their roots.  I feel slightly ashamed that I haven’t now.  Perhaps going to Pakistan will be a starting point for a deeper understanding of my diaspora friends.

Next week I will be tentatively dipping a toe in Pakistan.  It’ll be hand luggage only and I won’t go far, but it will be a starting point for what I hope will be the beginning of a beautiful relationship with a country that I have longed to visit for years – and often wonder why I didn’t.  I’m happy to share my first impressions and better informed emotional response with you on these pages (as I have with Iraq and Afghanistan and even France).

Peaceniks do it.       Charity workers do it.    Those who dedicate their lives to community do it. “Social” media-ites and community journalist junkies do it too.

They promote hatred and negativity and undermine their own beliefs on a daily basis.

Bad news spreads fast, and now that we are all able to tweet terror attacks, share photos of dismembered babies on Facebook, or reveal corruption on our blogs – the barrage of bad news is overwhelming. We blame main stream media for pushing a damaging, negative agenda – but we are just as much to blame.  This is our responsibility now – we chose whether to share or delete. Be careful what you say, and how you say it and ask yourself whether the “information” you are sharing will help the cause that moves you.  This is not about being unrealistic – it’s about balance.

If you tweet bad in order to shock people into action – I question the effectiveness.  Shock is not always the best incentive for change, and sometimes your actions may generate hopelessness or worse  still hatred or revenge. “The world needs to know” is noble, but can be naive.  Our voices thrown together can distort.  And the perception of a situation may become based on vulgarities rather than actualities.  Have a quick search on your phone or PC under the words “Iraq, Pakistan or Somalia” and tell me how much light and hope there is on a single page.  Does this reflect the 99.9% of the populations in these countries that strive for peace and have goodness in their hearts?

As a mother I know that to raise my children on fear and negativity would be unhealthy.  If you genuinely want to heal something (like a community in conflict) – there is nothing better than shining a bright spotlight on the good and being fair and balanced about the challenges.  Tabloid doesn’t nurture.

So before you share bad – at the very least think also about sharing good.  Seek out dramatic examples of cooperation and kindness (see this Gaza blog).  Teach yourself where cohesion exists as much as where conflict exists.  Know as much about interfaith marriages and unions as you do wars.  Spread word of the brave and the kind as much as you do about the mean and the murderous.  Share news of empowered women – not just about the abused.

So Inspire.  And put the “social” back into social media.

Check out @thegoodbalance on Twitter

I’ve been sooo excited preparing to take my 4Nomadic travel blog readers  on a trip to Pakistan in the next few weeks, that I totally neglected to blog about perhaps the most crucial bit of travel in my life at the moment.

Considering many of you are off-shore readers (IE investing your time outside of the British Isles) I realise that my daily trips to London town may be worth sharing as something of a foreign commodity for you.

Over the past month I have travelled over 1,500 miles (2,414 km) making regular, sometimes agonizingly early treks from my sleepy village home on the Cambridgeshire/Hertfordshire borders into the heart of the city of London.  Since the clock change, I invariably tip toe out of my home under the cover of darkness (only once waking neighbours as my wing mirror hooked a forgotten wheelie bin and dragged it noisily down the drive way).  My children, in various states of awakeness suffer my departure with sleepy kisses, “can I borrow your hair dryer” or by pulling a duvet back over their heads.  My other half usually keeps me plied with green tea and kind words and then deposits me at the station (perhaps better he drives given the wheelie bin incident).

The trains run to several an hour and are generally on time (if they are delayed, early morning commuters tend to tut quietly – is all).  The ticket itself is bloody expensive – to buy an annual pass to cover my train miles costs £3400 ($5400, EURO 3780, 37,800 CNY, 262800 INR).  I know this is more than some of you earn in a year, let alone spend on trains.

Aside from the occasional tut, my fellow fare payers are generally wrapped up in their Blackberries, books, work papers or if it’s really really early are fast asleep (see picture taken this morning).  They travel alone and avoid eye contact and small talk.  occasionally work colleagues will travel together, generating passive aggressive sighs from fellow commuters as they break the dull silence by daring to talk.  And if it happens to be school holidays and you should decide to use rail travel with your talkative young, expect people to blatantly move seats to be at a distance from you or huffily plug their ears with headphones.  If you are American, it’s strongly advised that you remain mute, less you should offend – something about the tone of voice that carries and will disturb this sacred silent time.

The journey home on the same train is a little more animated.  A similar group of commuters, but this time wrestling under a sea of free newspapers handed out by low paid masses who thrust said paper in your face at every  train and tube station in London.  I sometimes can’t resist and after a hard days strategizing with government, I find myself drawn to  know more about Jude’s relationship with his illegitimate child, a Winehouse breast falling out at a party or Paris’s British Best Friend.  Actually I cheat, I pick up discarded papers from seats not from touts and consider my actions one of ethical recycling.  Besides I feel very uncomfortable with myself  straining to read tabloid filth over someones shoulder.

Sometimes when I arrive at King’s Cross in the morning I decide to walk all the way to the office.  Like I did this morning, taking far too long (50 mins) and generating bloody blisters on the backs of each heel.  Sometimes I wear proper shoes, fit for purpose – like many a suited officer walker, and can manage the distance in a 35 minute march.  The journey clears my head and I love to glimpse shop owners preparing for the day, and get wafts of Great British fry-ups from cafes, or encounter jet-lagged tourists awake far too early for anything to be open.  It reminds me of early mornings in Sri Lanka where people stretch and stand in the street brushing their teeth from a communal tap.  Seeing a place wake up is an intimacy not to be taken for granted.

Not far from the British museum I usually come across groups of labourers gathered over steaming polystyrene cups and cigarettes.  Their laughter makes me envious, as my own work colleagues aren’t as colourful or at ease with one another.  Walking through Convent garden, which seems entirely recession-free and littered with stupid boutiques selling quirky things that nobody needs, and onto Trafalgar Square where I quietly nod  a hello to an alledged relation on top of his column and head down towards Big Ben and the powerhouses of British Government.

Sometimes I don’t walk, I get the tube (subway), which unless I time it right involves some very close bodily contact with complete strangers (who still manage to maintain the silent no eye contact thing despite being an inch away from your face).  It’s a fear of loosing dignity thing I think – we simply pretend not to be there.

The good thing about the commute is the amount I read.  As  a mother of three with a full-time job, reading is an absolute luxury, so to have been able to fill  my heads with the mountains of the Hindu Kush and Britain’s immigrant community in the east end of London, as well as Winehouse, Jude and Paris as the shadows of British countryside flash past in the dusk and dawn light has been a thrill indeed.

So, just a glimpse at my daily travels.  I realise that if I had travelled 1500 in a straight line would have reached Azerbaijan by now.  But I like it this way, close to home for now.  See you in Pakistan in a few weeks!

Well……two Nomadic blogs was getting a bit silly.  So I have invited my rambling inner self aka “Nomadic-Wisdom” (The free-flowing thoughts of a 21st Century Nomad – Politics, Religion, Conflict, Global- interconnectivity) to join me over here on 4nomadic, where the REAL action happens.  For anyone who missed it here are a few nomadic-wisdom ramblings of the past:

September 2009:  Britian IS NOT BROKEN!

September 2009: Contemplating Loss at Ramadan

July 2009: Keep you hair on! (About wearing a hijab)

January 2009: Obama and the Skinhead

November 2008: A Change or a Shift (mentioned Obama AGAIN sorry)

September 2008: Rev. Nomadic discussed Ramadan

June 2008: Freedom of Expression: Where to draw the line?

May 2008: One Thing you would Change?

I realise I kinda left you hanging – as I ventured up north, all morose like.  I think it was perhaps a little over-ambitious to be travel blogging not very soon after the loss of a very good friend.  I tend to look inside myself perhaps a little more than you want to know about sometimes – so I left it a while before getting back to this.

So anyway, Scotland was good if not brief.  Easyjet delivered us to Inverness airport effortlessly (after a sweaty-pants run to the gate) and we met our beaming colleague in the terminal, who had flown up from Bristol.  A rather bearded, shaded, overly inquisitive taxi driver took us to the meeting point (picture in first post) and we immediately commenced with a business meeting that went on all afternoon….over a rather nice supper…..through after-supper whiskeys back at Gordon’s……across the breakfast table the next day…….all morning….through lunch (home made soup, yum)…..on the way to the airport…..on the plane back home……phew!

Apart from the business meeting, the absolute highlight was arriving at Gordon’s house in the dark and walking up the next morning to the most spectacular view across the Firth.  The crappy photos (above) taken on my iPhone do not do it justice at all.  Scotland – I will be back.  Minus the business meeting next time.

Just a quick one liner and a link.  For those interested in what I was actually DOING in Iraq in August- some clues on my Albany blog http://blog.albanyassociates.com/?p=414

Meeting location in Inverness

The Nomad is on the move again.  This time on a journey north – the MOST north I have been in fact.  All the way up to Inverness, Scotland.  Shame it’s business not pleasure and all to short – but the company will no doubt be good and the views out the window interesting.

So my journey begins at the lovely London Luton airport (some ways from London in fact).  Why are airports so packed full of eateries?  And nothing really appropriate for my fussy tummy.  As a vegetarian who avoids bread I am usually stumped.  I settled for an Italian sounding folded mushroom and cheese thing, which looked lovely in the cabinet until it was presented to me on a plate that melted better than the cheese.  I cast my mind back to other travelling meals – Green Door Pizza in Jerusalem in the 1980s; Dinner at Turquiose Mountain with Rory in Kabul; Kormaran Restaurant in Bratislava (complete with Hungarian gypsy fiddlers) – and I feel like a bit of a fake.  My lunch tastes of the plastic it’s presented on and the plastic that paid for it.

You are charged money to drop someone off at the airport these days, so my other half hastily urged me out of the vehicle as we drew close, leaving me to navigate roundabouts and trolley piles in a bizarre state of mind.  Perhaps best explained by my contemplations on nomadic-wisdom site (“wise” is of course open for debate).  Point is this – what a nomad does best is think.

I’m glad I arrived early in advance of my eager business partner (who is an uber-nomad himself with three continents on the cards in the next couple of weeks).  As I wrote in the aforementioned blog, despite my avoidance of fasting, this month really is a time for contemplation.  I very recently lost someone very close to me and it has thrown all sorts of issues up in my mind.  I find myself thinking WWLD (what would Lisa do) and frequently hear her judging internal decisions – “what the fuck, Mrs CJ?” .  I love her and I miss her, but what this Nomad feels most keenly is the realisation that life can be stolen from you at any moment – so you better fucking get it right (there she is again).  I REALLY don’t want to waste my time doing anything half-heartedly.  I don’t want to do anything without purpose.  And I really don’t want to deny my creativity.

So why am I going to Scotland?  To discuss some big business decisions with my business partner and with another company.  Given my frame of mind I am not sure what future I will carve out for myself in all this.  It could be anything from chief blogger to bottlewasher.  Perhaps not the best time for bid decisions, but it’s all part of the web that EVERYONE weaves.

Did I mention that I am an artist?

Nuff said.  I can hear her laughing again.  She was too.

I am surrounded by blank faced travellers lugging their belongings behind them in wheeled suitcases .    Time to by-pass Food Village, Simply Food, Fucking Food and head for WHSmith to buy a copy of Private Eye – need to catch up on the weeks politics in a cynical way.

Ah.  The eager man has arrived.  More from me later.

Ten minute Turkey. Or instant Istanbul. I have only JUST come down to earth. Literally.

My last day in Baghdad was a blast as you will have seen. The training course ended prematurely, so we didn’t get a chance to review and reflect on much save the days tragic events. Nevertheless, some fascinating insight and frank discussion and my passion for Iraq is re-ignited – I plan to return to this place and commit more of my energy to development, not least of the communications skills of the Human Rights Ministry.

So…. on with the travel blog [more analysis no doubt in other online frequented haunts which will be linked here]. I left low-profile style to the airport like a cat slinking off the savannah. Are you saying I’m fat? No. It’s body armour, cunningly disguised under an old shirt. The bombings had produced traffic jams and road blocks and we inched our way towards our target with trepidation as the departure time grew close.

With no air conditioning at Baghdad airport and no real method of communicating gate numbers, my stay was brief and unpleasant. Back in economy class this time I was seated next to two chirpy mercenaries who having been dry for 9 weeks drank eight cans of beer each for breakfast. Class. The whole group were vaguely entertaining, but rude about Iraqis, disrespectful of Islam, and over-emotional about how close “the lads” were. Bodily function and chest shaving was a popular topic of conversation, as was cheating on the Mrs back home by pretending they had been stranded in Istanbul. Quite a lot of oppressed homosexuality going on there I would wager.

Of major concern during my flight, apart from sleeping and tending to my own bodily functions (VERY sorry gut), was the lack of check-in for the Istanbul-London leg of my journey. By the time our delayed flight touched Turkish land there was a mere 20 minutes to check-in and board the next flight. The majority of the mercenaries loitered, delighted that the turn of events meant a company paid enforced piss-up Ottoman style. But one of the more shaven and drunk members of their team was as adamant as I to catch the next flight.

The pair of us sped through Istanbul airport flashing our passports like Interpol officers. We used his superior body strength to gain ground, and my diplomatic skills to push through queues. The Turkish Airlines check-in clerk wished us good luck and told us to “run fast” as we left his desk. We arrived at the gate literally AS the doors were closing. We were red-faced and panting as our fellow passengers tutted us on board. In my mind it was a scene from a movie. A Bond movie perhaps – Bourne Identity or Mission Impossible. In reality I think it was more of a classic British Comedy. Clockwise maybe.

I’m back home now. A cool summers breeze whispers through the room. I am spending the day in bed trying to shake the afore-mentioned gut issue and the nicotine habit. Two days of rich food and alcohol haven’t off course helped. Nor has opening our house to guests this weekend to help us celebrate our wedding. But I wouldn’t have had it any other way, and it was an utter joy to spend time in such splendid company (and I did try not to bore guests too much with travellers tales). Although we got married on Twitter, I think it’s fair to say we know how to play in real life too – we are still clearing up several days later.

So, I will be back to Iraq as I said, and I will write about it here. But worth noting that this kind of travel experience wouldn’t be possible at all without the wonderful support of my new husband. So here’s to you, J. I love you, mate.

Also with thanks J’s family, my own family and to all our friends. Particularly A&B in Bristol. Thanks too to Albany Associates, the United Nations, Blogcatalog bloggers, My Security Team, my colleagues at imediate.org and the Ministry of Human Rights in Iraq for making the experience possible. Lastly thanks to near two thousand of you who read my blog whilst I was in Baghdad and for all the messages of support I have received for my writing.

Ramadan Kareem – May Peace be Upon You all! (which I tried Tweeting in Arabic earlier and totally f*cked up, so I’m sticking to English here)

Yesterday I took a drive around the green zone, snapping photographs like a tourist.   The Crossing Swords, July 14^th Bridge, the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, some smiling footballers all imprinted onto my memory card and shared with the world on my blog.  Today I sit pondering the images, shaken but not stirred. 

Ahmed and I had popped out of the classroom this morning to have a cigarette when a huge explosion shook the ground.  It was the biggest one I have heard (and I have heard a few) and rattled every porta-kabin on the whole compound and left my ears ringing for a while afterwards.  We kept hold of our fags and joined three others as we did a heads-down scuttle into a bomb shelter [There is something so undignified about seeing non-sporty adults running].  We began to speculate straight away.  Was it a mortar?  No, too loud.  Why hadn’t the alarms gone off?  A car?  A person?  We stayed in our sweaty hole for a while (the shrapnel from a bomb can continue to land up to three minutes after an explosion). 

The story quickly began to emerge from our security team and from Iraqi news channels as they sprung into action and broadcast the carnage live into our classroom.  Mobiles started buzzing around the room and humorous ring tones  took on a sense of the macabre – as the Iraqis I was with unravelled the whereabouts of loved ones.  I tweeted a message of safety to loved ones and spoke to my husband briefly to let him know I was ok.  I thought better of explaining the networking opportunities afforded by Twitter  to my students – for I know in those moments I stopped being teacher and started being a good friend.  Then my phone started buzzing.  Other Iraqi friends checking I was safe.  I was touched.

The attack was very close to the Green Zone and there were reports that “a barrage of mortars” had been fired into this supposedly safe area.  We heard none however.  The five coordinated bombs struck on the 6^th anniversary of the bombing of the UN Headquarters.  Truck bombs used again.  The target – Iraqi institutions, not international ones this time.   The crater left behind by one of the bombs is 10 foot deep.   My friend J, although safe, was even closer than I was – in that plush Rashid Hotel I was bragging about earlier this week – now minus a few windows I’ll wager.  And my favourite blogger’s home has been wrecked.

I wonder how they are over at the UN camp today?  I was there last night – bizarrely committing Murder on the Dance Floor to the tunes of “I will survive” with a merry bunch from all around the world (ok…. as one would expect from the United-Nations).  The UN bar (wittily named “UNdercover”) is nestled amidst sandbags and twelve foot tall Maori security guards at the heart of their compound.  Their DFAC (dining room) served air-conditioned international delicacies to a bustling, lively staff.  We passed neat gardens edged by white picket fences, sipping Mexican beer as we breathed in the sweet night air, it was an idyllic evening.  It even crossed my mind as I starred up at the blackness, how nice it was to be outside at night in Iraq and not to be afraid of the sky as I was in Basra several years hence.  Today I imagine the scene was a little more glum. 

You might think that this experience would lead me to stray from my mission of recording some of the recovery here in this country.  As a friend in Basra used to say (with irksome frequency) – “I remain a stubborn optimist”.  No-one has stepped forward yet to claim responsibility for the worst terrorist attack for months.  Speculation is flying around the city.  Was it Iran? (unlikely as the Iranian Embassy was damaged).  Was it “other neighbours” ? (said in a whisper).  Iraqis have told me that this doesn’t have the hallmarks of an Al Qaeda attack (actually they said “thumb nail, not hallmark, which made me inappropriately smile).  The mortars, the trucks, the coordination many have said means this is an inside job.  Political infighting.  The people behind it, some say are those in opposition to Maliki – wanting his government to fail and for Iraq not to flourish.  With the election not due until maybe February, it seems a little early to be pre-election violence (unless they got the country wrong – god bless Afghanistan tomorrow as it goes to the polls).

But someone made a good point to me this afternoon.  Despite many saying the infrastructure is weak, Iraq is Iraq is Iraq.  No-one can take that away.   Bombs go off in Spain, in London, in India and it doesn’t stop the government from operating.  These bombs will only really make a difference to the poor innocent souls caught up in the nonsense.  And without an ideological declaration – it’s just cold blooded murder, with no purpose.

Iraq WILL recover.  Just as other countries have (Nazi Germany springing to mind here).  It is full of sensitive, poetic, clever, peace-loving people.  And by the power of Greyskull (and the mass media) they will overcome.  These past few days have revealed to me, not just barbarism, but resilience, strength, good humour and initiative.  And although I climbed the look-out tower to snap a photo of the rising plume of smoke from the bomb, I chose to illustrate this post with my favourite photo from yesterday’s photo-shoot to remind me.  Take another look at all the pictures.  This is Iraq.

sunset in the green zone

double swords

iraqi footballers

dome

wall

hand of sadam

hospital road

former government building

razor flower

tomb of unknown soldier

july 14th bridge

my dinner

More on FlickR here http://www.flickr.com/photos/4imediate/sets/72157621956896569/