Children of Dust_ A Memoir of Pakistan - Ali Eteraz [83]
After some memory work in that book, I also pulled out Muhammad Asad’s memoir, The Road to Mecca. It told the story of how Leopold Weiss, an Austrian Jew, converted to Islam after living with Saudi Bedouins and King Abdul Aziz at the beginning of the century. As I ruminated on the book, I recalled that Asad had eventually left Arabia and moved to Pakistan, where he became its first ambassador to the United Nations. Asad believed that Islam was the greatest force mankind had ever experienced. He thought that if Muslims could live their life guided by the “spark of flame which burned in the Companions of the Prophet,” they would always be successful.
Getting up again to stretch, I walked up and down the aisles and thought about the idea of Pakistan. There was something empowering about it. In a world where there were so few examples of Muslims making anything, the creation of a nation-state, yanked from the smoldering ruins of colonialism and two world wars, snatched from the British Empire and the Hindu majority of India, established in the name of Islam and then sanctified by a migration that was comparable to the Prophet Muhammad’s flight to Medina, seemed like a massive accomplishment. Pakistan was an act of sovereignty carried out so that Muslims could pursue the purpose of life: worshipping God. Suddenly I felt honored to be a Muslim and honored to be going to Pakistan.
As the plane approached Karachi’s Jinnah Airport, I hurried toward to my seat to buckle up. As I zoomed past the bathroom, I met up with the gaggle of immodest girls that had been sitting in front of me, recognizing them by their giggles. I instinctively drew away from them—even the slightest touch against them would have to be burned off by hellfire—before noticing that they’d switched into modest shalwar kameezes with full dupattas covering their chests.
I was pleased by their change. It was a testament to the positive influence that an Islamic state had upon misguided believers.
We stepped onto the tarmac and wilted in the heat. Karachi’s brownish pollution was palpable against my face. It singed the nose hair when inhaled and left an unpleasant taste on the back of the tongue. Despite the smog, old men—home at last!—puffed out their chests and inhaled deeply as they tumbled down the steps.
Inside the terminal we were greeted by my paternal Uncle Saad. He was a high-ranking officer in the military, which meant that he had an army of pages, servants, butlers, bodyguards, and drivers. At the airport he was able to press every porter, customs agent, visa inspection officer, and street urchin into service.
“Give your passports to me,” he said to Ammi. Then he turned to one of his servants: “Get these stamped! Hurry up, you slow sonofabitch!” He ordered another servant to intercept our luggage before it made its way to the baggage carts. As the servant ran off, one of the bodyguards made a backhand and pretended to slap him. Uncle Saad saw the soldier’s gesture and lashed out. “You fool! You think you’re big time? Go bring drinks. Pepsi. Don’t bring uncapped bottles like you did last time.”
Uncle Saad led us past long lines winding into the customs office and herded us toward a special corridor for families with “connections.” As we passed the people we’d flown in with, now pushing against each other in congested lines, cursing and swearing, or sweet-talking the self-important officers, I felt a sense of superiority. I didn’t have to go through all that headache because I was connected to the military.
As I thought about it, though, that privilege made me uneasy; it filled me with guilt. Privilege was un-Islamic. I had read that the great Caliphs Umar al-Khattab and Harun al-Rashid used to dress up as common people and go through the city streets to feel part of the crowd. Similarly, one