Nusrat
Naaz was born on the same day as her mother Nadira. However, the three decades that separated their birth day did make a lot of difference. As Nusrat, waited by her daughter’s writhing body, she let her mind go back to the moment 60 years ago when she had first held Nadira in her arms. Her pearly white skin nuzzling against her warm breast as she suckled tentatively at first and then with a new found gusto. It was a happy moment. The skies were ablaze with the colours of spring. The air they breathed was free, fresh and fragrant with the smell of summer flowers.
This was however a different time, a new country. A far cry away from those beautiful memories. Times were changed now. The beautiful colors of her homeland had been replaced with a depressive grey that rose from the devastation surrounding them and the cold air around them reeked only of gunpowder. The squeals of laughter rising from children running around each other were replaced with shrieks of panic. Yet she wondered at the stubbornness of life. Despite the ruthlessness with which it was threatened and throttled every moment, it persisted in its need to arrive. As she looked at Nadira’s heaving belly and at the little life within it that struggled to be out soon, Nusrat could not help but sigh with desperation.
As if she felt her mother’s despondency Nadira looked up at her, shifting uncomfortably in the small claustrophobic tent that was acting as her labour room. The camp, like all others, was equipped with limited medical facilities. At least they had a doctor to take care of their needs. Though it was the midwife who was with them now as the doctor had other more critical patients to attend.
It had rained last night and the temperature was freezing outside. The damp floor of the tent was covered with a plastic sheet to protect against the severe cold. However, it hardly helped. Nusrat could not be bothered with all that now. Her concern for Nadira was growing by the minute as she watched her daughter writhing in pain.
A winter storm was brewing and the wind howled in symphony with Nadira’s cries. She gripped Nusrat’s wrists tightly as another pain shot through her body. It had been 10 hours since she had gone into labour. The midwife was trying her best but the baby refused to come. For a brief moment, Nusrat thought it knew what awaited it in the World outside and refused to leave the safe shelter of the womb. Something made her wish it would never come out and remain inside, safe and protected.
Apalled at her thoughts, Nusrat chided herself and dabbed Nadira’s forehead with a damp towel. She murmured a prayer to the Almighty to atone for her sinful thinking and prayed that the baby come fast. She could see Nadira giving up. Her face had taken on an ashen pallor. Her hands were becoming cold. Nusrat quickly rubbed her palms and feet to help the blood flow into them.
“Ami” Nadira’s voice was a bare whisper.
Nusrat lowered her head to bring it close to her daughter’s head as she murmured soothingly into her ears “Hold on for a while longer, my dear. Don’t give up. It will be over soon.”
Nadira could not answer as her body shook with another contraction. This time it was a long one. Nadira shrieked in misery as the midwife coaxed her to go on pushing.
With a final cry Nadira collapsed back into Nusrat’s lap. Wilted with exhaustion. The midwife looked up with a wry smile as she handed the wrinkled bundle of mucus and gore to Nusrat.
“A girl!” she said drily.
Nusrat looked into the infant’s squinting eyes her tiny fingers and toes kicking in the air. Her fingers were clenched into a fist and her forehead was scrunched up in a scowl. She looked angry at having been pushed into a world she never wanted to come into. Nusrat smiled as tears blurred her vision. She knew she was in love once again and this time she would never come out of it.
As her mother placed the baby next to her, Nadira looked at her. The hooded eyes and the pale skin reminded her of her husband, Farid. It was the last thing she remembered of him before he had left for the war never to return. Nadira placed a weak hand slowly on the baby’s chest and whispered “Naaz”.
Nusrat nodded smiling. “Naaz. Our pride and glory.”
Naaz
The sun shone on the white sands of the desert surrounding the Camp. Its rays making the sand glisten and gleam. 12-year-old Naaz sat stooping over her notebook her brows drawn together in deep concentration as she focused on the math problem she was trying to solve. Her friends ran around the classroom creating a raucous. It was school day and the class was waiting for their new teacher. The ‘school’ was a canvas tent like everything else in the camp establishing the impermanence of their existence. There were about 10-15 kids all of varying ages who attended the school. The lack of adequate space made it difficult to arrange for separate classes. The tent was, however, fitted with desks and chairs and a blackboard. The students were also provided with textbooks, copies, pens and other stationeries for an undisturbed education. However, what it could not provide were good teachers. Every week, Naaz and her friends would have to study under a new teacher. The children were waiting for their new teacher. Naaz wondered who that would be. Would she be another refugee like the others who moved from one camp to the other to teach students?
“Refugee!”
She had heard the word for the first time when she was watching a News Show in the community television. It was showing camps like theirs and discussing the situation. That was when she realised that she and all the other people in the camp were different from the rest of the world. They belonged to a category of unknown and unwanted individuals which no country desired to call their own. Their own had disowned them and their adopted land had not yet considered them worthy of being included as their citizens. Hence, they were put into these camps, a temporary shelter and not permanent homes. They were only given a status that pushed them further into ignominy. Naaz had hated that word. Since then, she winced when anybody said it and her face clouded over with a repressed anger.
Every night when she went to bed and Nusrat, her grandmother, would narrate tales of their lost land, Naaz’s mouth would draw into a straight line and she would listen passively. She had a small heart shaped face with small hooded eyes and a sharp nose. However, her young face never lit up in a smile Her mother, who had never really recovered from the travails of childbirth, was always in bed. At times when she was feeling well, Naaz would see her sitting in a corner sewing or cooking. It was her grandmother who would do most of the house work.
In the evenings, all the women would sit around and sing the songs of spring that reminded them of the world that they had lost and would never see again. It would comfort them and somehow help to ward off the chill. Naaz and the other children of her age, who had never known a world beyond this camp, could never relate to these songs or the stories.
However, Naaz did know something. It was only when she sang these songs or told her the stories that a strange glow lit up Nusrat’s visage. Her face would take on a strange look and she would be transported into a different world, a different time. A world from which Naaz would be forever deprived. It was this strange feeling stirring within her grandmother’s heart, that despite everything was able to get those songs out of her. Naaz, her brows creased with concentration, would try her best to find out what brought about this change in her otherwise passive grandmother. She yearned to get a glimpse of what Nusrat saw. She wanted to feel what Nusrat experienced and maybe live another life than the one of humiliation she was forced to endure.
Nadira
Nadira stared desolately out of the tent as she stirred the ladle in the pot. It was one of her better days today and she had risen early to get the food ready for the three of them. She knew her mother and Naaz would be back soon with the ration. Their long walk would have made them hungry. Also, they must be cold due to the frosty winds that had been blowing since the past few days. The jug of hot refreshing Kammun, that she had prepared for them would surely warm them up.
Nadira knew she was of not much help most of the times but was happy that Naaz had stepped in despite her young age, to assist Nusrat. She sighed sadly thinking of the childhood she had enjoyed and the one her daughter was living.
She remembered the happy moment when she got married to Farid. However, it was just a week after that when they heard about the protests in the city of Daraa that had flared up into something more serious. They did not realise how serious until Farid was called away to join the forces and he had to leave. The war had changed everything. She never saw Farid again and did not even hear from him. She saw streets she had known since childhood turn into battlefields as government troops and rebels started a bloodbath.
She was eight-months pregnant when rebels barged into their house and forced them to vacate it. She still remembers the night. The streets were ablaze with flames as the shelling started. Nadira had stood petrified as Nusrat had somehow grabbed whatever she could and joined the others who had faced a similar fate. They ran blindly not sure where they were supposed to go. When they turned for a last glimpse of their house, the only remaining memory of her father, they saw it engulfed in roaring flames as a missile struck it. Her mother had tightened her grip on her hand. Nadira was hysterical. It was Nusrat who had consoled her and kept her going. If it wasn’t for her mother, Nadira would never have been able to make it to the camp.
Nadira knew her health was failing. There were days when she could hardly get up from bed. The cold was making it worse. The camp lacked in heating. They had to burn clothes to keep themselves warm. She rubbed her hands against her arms to stop the chill that seeped into her bones. The canvas walls of the tent were hardly enough to protect them from the ferocity of the cold waves that swept through these lands. Nadira hoped there would be some warm clothes in the donation box Naaz brings home.
Nusrat
Nusrat tucked in the folds of her headscarf as she waited patiently for the Aid workers to offload the boxes for distribution. She looked down at Naaz, who accompanied her and was watching the offloading process with concentration. The supplies were donations from people all over the world. A kind thought, an obligation, a house clean-up drive had all contributed in helping them get these supplies. Nevertheless, whatever the thought behind these donations it helped them survive for yet another week and then another.
Unlike most families in the camp, Nusrat was entirely dependent on Aid. With no male member in their family they could not open a shop in the Market place that had recently come up in the camp. Though she had discussed it several times with Nadira but both had decided against it.
As the men from the Aid organization began handing down the boxes, Nusrat walked forward in the queue. When it was their turn, she took one box and motioned Naaz to take another. She watched with concern as the man wished Naaz with a friendly greeting but she responded with a grim smile that did not reach her eyes. In fact, that was something that had been worrying Nusrat. She had observed that the young girl always had a grim look clouding her little face. She never saw her playing with the other kids or laughing at their jokes. She would always walk around with a seriousness not desirable in a child of her age. She thought back to the days in her youth when children would laugh and play. She sighed sadly knowing full well that they belonged to a different time and era. It was sad indeed that Naaz and her generation would never experience that life.
Nusrat had always felt, Naaz was different. She was a thoughtful and observant child. She was more aware of her surroundings than any other child her age. Nusrat only wished she would voice her thoughts more often.
Naaz
“Why do we have to stand in the queue every week Jada?” Naaz asked her grandmother, looking down as they walked back home.
“Oh it is easier don’t you think? That way we will get things faster without having to push and shove”
“No I mean why do we stand in the queue? Can’t we do without the aid?”
Nusrat looked at her granddaughter surprised.
“How do you think we will survive otherwise, tafli?”
“Why can’t we do something else?”
“And what do you suggest doing?” asked Nusrat sounding amused.
“Open a shop”
Nusrat burst out laughing “And sell what?”
“Things that people need for their everyday use.”
“And where will you get these?” asked Nusrat beginning to get the feeling that Naaz was serious.
“We will make them”
Nusrat stopped in her tracks, putting the heavy box down for a while to rest. She looked at her grandaughter.
“Make them? With what?”
“With discarded things. Things that people do not need. I have seen people make such wonderful things with things that we usually throw away.”
“Where did you see all this?” asked Nusrat surprised.
“In Miss Laila’s phone. She shows us such wonderful things. There are so many things happening in the world, you cannot even imagine”
“Who is Miss Laila?” asked Nusrat curiously
“Our new teacher. She is better than anybody we have ever got earlier.”
“Well I would not say so? Putting all sorts of ideas in young minds” said Nusrat sounding irked as she picked up the box and started walking again.
“Oh Please jada. Why can’t we do it too?”
They had reached their tent and Nadira had come out hearing their voices. She stood listening to the two with a slight smile.
“Because it is simply a very wrong idea that you have got into your little head,” continued Nusrat, “and besides, where do you think you will get the material to make such things?” asked Nusrat exasperated.
“We will use these boxes, jada” said Naaz pointing at the boxes they had been carrying “ Everybody gets these boxes from the Aid organization. They usually throw them away. Why can’t we use them?”
“Use them as what young lady? What can we make out of them? And who will make them?” said Nusrat beginning to get angry.
“I will” said Naaz stubbornly.
“You!” said Nusrat looking surprised. “What do you know about making things out of cardboard boxes?”
“I will learn.” said Naaz in an insisting tone “Miss Laila says there is nothing that you cannot do if you learn it properly.”
As Nusrat looked at her aghast, Naaz walked inside the tent lifting her chin determinedly.
Nadira walked up to her mother and said softly. “Let her do it Mama. It will help to keep her mind off things. And you never know, it might turn out to be a good idea after all”
Nusrat just shook her head in exasperation and walked inside without a word.
Naaz was determined to make her idea work. She started on the boxes they had with them. Nusrat and Nadira watched anxiously as Naaz worked furiously for two days. When she finished, they were forced to admit that she had done a good job. She had made beautiful shopping baskets with some discarded fabric to cover the box and used a belt thrown away by a neighbour, as the handle. It was unique but also a good utility product. People usually carried cloth bags which would sag once it was filled. Once that happened it became uncomfortably heavy and extremely difficult to carry around. The basket would help them carry more things and provide a sturdy support without sagging.
Nusrat and Nadira stared at the thing as Naaz beamed.
“This is beautiful said Nusrat. “But how will you sell it?”
“I will not.” said Naaz shaking her head thoughtfully. Both the older women looked at her in surprise. “Atleast not now. Not before you test it yourself. Take it to the market tomorrow. Let us check how useable it is.”
When Nusrat walked into the market with Naaz, towing the new shopping basket, they did manage to garner a few curious stares. Some people even came closer to look at it more closely and enquired where they had got it from. When they returned, Naaz decided it was a productive day indeed.
It was only two days later when the first order came in. A neighbour who lived two tents away came over to enquire about the basket and asked whether Naaz could make one for her too. Naaz was elated. She readily agreed only if the neighbour could supply her with more boxes. She also added a pair of wheels to the box so that it could be pulled around and need not be lifted. The neighbour was ecstatic. She was so happy that she recommended Naaz’s shopping basket to some of her friends which resulted in more orders flowing in for Naaz. Soon, the “Bag on wheels” as it came to be known in the camp became quite a rage. Naaz worked day and night making shopping baskets and attaching wheels to them. Nadira and Nusrat too pitched in with their support. She had also expanded her creativity by making storage spaces, toys and even jewellery with the discarded boxes.
Finally, one day Naaz barged into the tent, her face glowing and her breath coming in short excited gasps.
Nusrat looked at her worried “What’s wrong tafli?”
“Miss Laila said the WorldAid Organization has liked my work so much that they have placed a large order. She said they will be selling the bags in the cities.”
Nadira clapped her hands in excitement as Nusrat smiled broadly. “That is wonderful news. But how did they hear about you?”
“Miss Laila said using recyclable products is quite a popular thing nowadays. All who can do this are greatly valued. Maybe that is how they have heard about it. I don’t know. But I need to get to work right away.
“We will help you” said Nusrat hugging her granddaughter warmly.
WorldAid provided them with the supplies as Naaz worked on tirelessly to make the baskets. She made each one look different. No two baskets had the same cloth or the same kind of handle. She hated monotony and wanted her creativity to display that.
Finally, the baskets were ready. The people from WorldAid who came to collect them looked pleasantly surprised at the uniqueness of each basket.
Several days passed and Naaz did not hear from the organization. She would wait patiently for some news. She was beginning to get worried.
Did they not sell as well in the cities? She wondered as she painted the new toy she was making.
Nusrat felt sorry for her. Her enthusiasm was infectious and it had caught on to them as well. After all these years of despondency, their life had taken a different and exciting turn. Even Nadira looked much better now. With all the excitement in the house, she rarely felt sick anymore.
Will all their hopes be dashed to the ground again?
It was almost two months since the WorldAid organization had contacted Naaz about delivering the baskets. They had not heard from them since then. Life was beginning to look bleak once again like the dull grey winter sky.
On one such cold winter morning, Naaz had just stepped out with her morning tea. Her hands wrapped around the cup to keep them warm. She tightened the folds of her shawl around her to ward off the chill. When a commotion in the distance caught her attention. She squinted to focus her eyes on what was causing the hubbub at such an early hour. She saw several people walking towards their tent. There was a woman with something long in her hand. From the distance Naaz could not make out what it was. There was a man following her with something that looked like a camera slung around his shoulders. A large van with a huge round disc attached to its roof was driving slowly behind them. A crowd was following them. Someone was talking to the woman and excitedly pointing towards their tent.
Naaz straightened up as she realized they were moving towards their tent. As the group drew closer, the noise grew louder causing Nusrat and Nadira to step out and stare at the approaching entourage.
“Naaz Farid?” the woman asked as she approached . Naaz nodded her head uncertainly.
“I am Anna Maria. We are from the World International News Agency. We have heard raving reviews about the beautiful recyclable crafts that you produce on your own and would like to take your interview.
“Interview?” asked Naaz looking surprised. Nusrat and Nadira looked at each other uncertainly. This was all so sudden.
“Yes.” said the woman smiling at her encouragingly “Because we want the world to know about the wonderful work that you are doing”
“You mean the whole world will listen to my voice?” asked Naaz incredulously
“Not only your voice, they will see you on their television screens. They will see your home, your family and know about you” said Anna Maria.
“So they will know I exist” said Naaz almost in a whisper.
Anna Maria stared at her quizzically. Not understanding what Naaz meant, she posed the first question.
“So how does it feel Naaz Farid to know that your work is being appreciated?”
“It makes me happy” said Naaz with a distant look.
“I am sure it does” said Anna Maria patiently “but any special feelings?”
Naaz looked at the woman standing before her “I was born in this camp as a refugee’s child. Another number in an unwanted list. Till today the World was unaware of my existence. If my voice reaches the World, it means at least I will not die as another unknown refugee. Don’t you think that is special enough?”
As she spoke, Nusrat saw the child’s face light up with a brilliant smile. She felt tears prickling at the corner of her eyes. For a moment, she felt she was back on the rolling hills of her homeland singing the song of spring and felt light, joyful and rejuvenated. Naaz, by making them sing the song anew, had helped them seek out their forgotten identities from the shadows of ignominy.
Photo by Sergey Shmidt on Unsplash
