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Tuesday, March 14, 2006

Love In the Time of Orthodoxy

I assembled my first harem in Pakistan. I was in junior high. Sunbaked rooftop made of mud in a desert city in Punjab. I used to put two cots on their sides facing each other. Threw a sheet over the middle and invited local girls to pay me a visit. They loved my red hued palace. I loved having them visit. I talked them out of their clothes.

Twelve years later; twelve long years in America. I went back to Pakistan. To the city where I left my harem. But the desert city of my youth was not what I remembered. Every house was cement; and so were the people. The roads were paved; and the people were asphalt. The rooftops were now closed; the open ones had walls ten feet high. You could no longer climb to your neighbor's house and tease his daughters. The city of my youth had turned into a fortress inspired by the thinking of Taliban Islam. I could find nowhere the naughty soul of the city because there were no more women.

In the house they were separated from us by heavy woolen drapes. In the streets, not a single female to be seen. I had to stare at unruly donkeys while drinking my sherbert. Sometimes in the house I caught the sight of a toe from under the curtain; a hand extending out from behind the screen. Sometimes I heard laughter from the women's side. But I could not participate in it. A life without women? I knew I wouldn't survive. The desert that once housed my innocence was a sea of black beards. I had no opportunity to take my childhood 'concubines' out of their clothes. I lived with the echo of a laughter I couldn't touch. The rest -- all the romanticism of youth separated from my soul and died. When I left I felt as if I had been killed.

Today I'm a reformist. I echoe against the thick woolen curtains of theocracy. Really though! Really, I'm just intoxicated. I'm drunk upon a memory that wishes it could be realized.

Here's to the laughter of those that play harem as children!

Here's to those that kiss their neighbors' daughters upon sunbaked rooftops!

Here's to talking a woman into undressing!

My name is Ali Eteraz and tonight I'm pouring the wine.

Here, then, a drink to Love!

7 comments:

  1. Welcome, my friend. We have the same dreams, you and I.

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  2. Good to see you here, eteraz !

    No women in the streets sounds...PARCHING

    I missed the Harem as a child. Is it too late to revisit and dream?

    The last time I saw where I grew up in the South Bronx it looked like a picture of Richmond in April 1865

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  3. You paint a vivid picture that conveys what was lost and how sad & suffocating life has become in your old home town.

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  4. A. Eteraz that was quite moving, thanks for sharing your sweet memories.

    Women do not need to be veiled and segregated, seems emotionally inferior men really believe this crap though.

    Just can't imagine life without feeling the wind in my hair or warm breezes caressing my skin ...

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  5. Looks like finally there is some improvement in some part of Muslim World.
    The kind of rhetoric in your essay isn't that uncommon nowadays.

    Darwesh

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