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Corrupted by Western individualism

Shabana Mir

Between my Lahore and Chicago lives, it’s feast or famine. I am either constantly being told to eat almonds and report on my sleep and diet, – or nothing. I have all the space in the world, or none. If I complain about one, I am told to be grateful because the other state also exists. Is a moderate state not possible at all?

The sound of her anxiety about me is deafening. I am sick: I have some kind of bronchial issue now. Yes, I had perfect health for a whole month as I traveled Chicago-Istanbul-Makkah-Madinah-Lahore, and now, with 3 days left for return, I have a bronchial thing. An ugly voice. Cough.

My mother sits and watches me with her eyes clouded. Every few minutes she wants to know why I don’t do X or Y which would solve all my problems, why did I did X or Y, which caused all my problems.

I snap, and then I am left with the crushing boulder of guilt – BECAUSE THERE ARE 3 DAYS LEFT. I am only human. I am irritable. I am anxious about travel too, and the best I can do is push it aside, but not if my 87 year old mother is constantly needing to know a) if I am OK b) if I am lying that I am OK and c) what ways I am not OK.

The doctors tell me to rest my voice. At some point, I am going to tell the family to “Talk amongst yourselves.” I just want to be sad and anxious all by myself. I just want to deal with it by myself and not reveal it to my 87 year old mother who will soon be alone, and who is visibly fading.

My grief makes me furious. I’m glad my grief doesn’t make me teary because that would hurt her. But I wish I was less anxious myself and was capable of laughing and graciously accepting her concern. Decades of living with so much space, out in the cold West, have made me unused to so much constant concern. It rattles me. I can handle Ghost – sitting across from me in the room and watching me tenderly, then hopping to his feet when I pat my lap – but I can’t seem to handle real humans. Not humans with a real investment in my wellbeing. If they were just *professionals*- just Business Class stewards or spa staff, that would be perfect. This shows how the West has ruined my natural self. I am now an individual, truly alone, incapable of even handling my MOTHER’s tender CARE. What an unfortunate person. What a shitty person I am.

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Unused to love

Shabana Mir

Today in Lahore was a slow day. I didn’t do anything. The sun wasn’t shining. My knee was a mess. A lot of pain, which I didn’t have either during umrah or after. An internet outage. That, and the monotony of the day got me depressed.
I had to hurry upstairs and cry secretly so ammi wouldn’t see. She gets really worried when she sees me sad or in pain.
Back in Chicago, no one has their laser gaze trained on me with so much focus and love. (Of course my family loves me, but ammi is different). Sometimes I don’t know what to do with the love. I feel like, living abroad, I kind of lost the habit of wallowing in the love. When she worries, I have to keep lying that “no, I’m not in pain” or “my knee is fine.”
She was the strongest rock, always, and now is fragile. The anxiety in her eyes breaks my heart. I feel a desperate need to be the BEST DAUGHTER, the most cheerful woman, spreading joy in my wake. And I am snappish! I am tired! I have a tummy upset! I will worry her! It makes me so angry with myself in such an irrational way.

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Sit with the love and with the pain

Shabana Mir

Spending time with an aging parent is punctuated by recurrent stabs of pain. Because you’re made constantly aware of how your mother used to be, and how changed she is. Every time she forgets, or limps, or you catch her gazing at you sadly, you are suddenly shocked by how much has been lost.

It’s not just me: she also has “past me” in her vision. She often doesn’t quite recall that I am now in my late 50s. When I’m with her, she frequently is reminded of how I have chronic conditions, and is upset by these reminders. We missed a lot of time together.

So I stay upbeat to spare her pain. She says I bring raunaq to the home. Liveliness. I am jokester, for sure: I put up a show for people. Now especially, I allow no melancholy to seep into my time with her. I am diligently upbeat. Though I am naturally melancholy, I force myself to be cheerful all day.

When the sun is shining brightly, and I’m reading Qur’an outside by the orange tree, and the birds are singing, it’s easier to be cheerful. When the light dims, it’s harder.

It doesn’t help that I don’t have my routine. My stuff. My cereal and oatmilk. My couch. My TV shows.

I haven’t watched any of my usual shows since I left Chicago. I don’t even eat my usual food. My body is confused: when I try to enjoy a treat like some Skittles or Starburst – my mouth doesn’t enjoy them. I force them down, and it doesn’t work. I eat only home food and boiled water but traveler’s diarrhea continues. My body and mind and heart are between my different lives.

I almost chickened out and thought, maybe I should return early. After all, my family misses me (I think?) Thank God for a friend who reminded me to hold it. To stay the course. To drink in the love even if it comes with pain.

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You get your daughter, – only for a month per year

Shabana Mir
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This blog has become a Visits to the Homeland blog. I arrived in Lahore a couple of weeks ago, stayed for 6 days, then left for umrah.

When I returned to Lahore from umrah, ammi was so happy. She said the house was so quiet without me, and now it’s lively again. I hang out with her all day. We chat. We pray. We watch Jama Taqseem on my laptop.

In the evening, she watches about 45 minutes of the drama serial before she nods off on my shoulder. “Jama Taqseem is your lullaby,” I tell her and she agrees.

And over us, at all times, looms the shadow of parting.

I wait until she gets in bed, her body so small now.

I kiss her good night, we both smile too-big smiles, forcing ourselves to be cheerful. This is the lesson I have learned from her. Frail and mobility impaired, she is strong as ever.

I tell her she is the most beautiful Ammi of all, and I switch off the light – and I hurry upstairs — my face falling as soon as I leave the room, allowing myself the luxury of grief. Anticipated grief of parting when I return to the US, and of when we part ultimately.

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Immigrant splinching

Shabana Mir

The days before I travel to Pakistan, I’m half here, half there. I’m worried about my family here. I’m anxious about leaving.

Then, the days before I return to Chicago, I’m worried about my mother. Sad about returning. Happy to see my family, but struggling to feel like Chicago is real.

I get splinched. Part here, part there, it hurts like hell.

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Punch up, not down

Shabana Mir

I need to say this.

A few years ago, I created a funded workshop on the teaching of Islam and gender. It was an attempt to reinvent my late stage career post-cancer (2x) survival after I’d taken major hits in the racist and Islamophobic workplace.

Organizing academics is famously like herding cats, but this was an event that I, and many others, had been dreaming of for some years. I’d been planning the workshop for months. But when its time rolled around, big political events happened, making it difficult to focus.

1 young attendee in a small workshop of 20+ interrupted the proceedings to ask that the group pivot to discussing the protests, expressing angry dissatisfaction with the disciplinary focus of the workshop at that time. I wanted to honor the schedule of Muslim women speakers.

Since only one person was making the demand, I could not derail the event and disrespect those who had prepared talks. So we continued with the schedule. But the damage was done, worsened by another participant, who piled on. Others watched in puzzlement. The workshop fizzled.

I wept for days. I felt like I would never amount to anything again.

I’ve held the heartbreak over that shattered effort for years now.

I got angry emails. One from the pile-on attendee, who felt called upon to match the dissatisfaction of the original disruptor with fury. Until I told her to back her white a** the f*** up. Then she realized she was in the wrong.

I emailed the original disruptor. She reiterated how she thought I was at fault and showed zero awareness of the damage she had done to what could have been a new continuing career. She now has tenure and awards in her Research I institution.

I hope she flourishes.

I do not have tenure. I have no retirement. I will likely work till I drop. People like me, burned out and kicked to the curb by the academy — we try things – gigs, fellowships, training workshops, – hoping something will take.

Here’s what I want to leave you with: When you show up to events to stun people with your righteous fury, be sure that you’re punching up, rather than down.

Have some awareness of the muck that others live in.

Have some humility. When you think of yourself as a fiery hero, take a look at yourself in the mirror: it might surprise you.

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Returning to Hazrat Mian Mir’s darbar

Shabana Mir
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I’m visiting Lahore this December. As I usually do, I visited the Sufi saint Hazrat Mian Mir’s darbar. Spent some precious minutes meditating with open heart here. It was quiet and not crowded, except for electrical work going on, but all of that was meant to be in the experience.

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Prayed the maghrib prayer in the mosque on the compound.

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An interfaith harmony conference had recently been held at the mausoleum. Given Hazrat Mian Mir’s solidarity in the 16th c., this would be a fitting location.

When we left, there was a queue for the langar (free food) outside.

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How to be a Visiting Auntie From Abroad

Shabana Mir
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The key to being a Visiting Auntie From Abroad is to not get involved in local issues. Do not be a Western NGO: do not fly in to solve problems. Be a shaikh on a flying carpet: fly in, deliver ideas and insights through cryptic stories, radiate love into every heart, and fly out.

Most expats want a foot in each boat simultaneously. Maybe you can lay claims – if you’re moneyed enough to visit frequently and stay long enough. But then, to be honest, you’re a moneyed minority in a poor country.

In 2024, I conclude my 30th year 😭 as an expat. I’ve already lived longer in the West than I have in Pakistan. Questionable in my current home, questionable in my homeland. The only sense I can make of it is in a broader perspective that includes mortality. i.e. What is home anyway?

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Movie Review: The Unfamiliar (2020)

Shabana Mir

Horror movies have no excuse being shills for liberal whiteness. None. ZERO. spoiler In “The Unfamiliar” a British army doctor returns from Afghanistan with touch of PTSD. Her husband admires that all her scars on the front of her because she never shied away from ‘danger.’

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Doc had left for Afghanistan like a white savior, saying she wanted a save a country that was bleeding. Her husband had warned her that the blood would taint her hands.

Could the movie had taken this seriously? Yes. Does it? ABSOLUTELY NOT.

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Now. There is the small matter of how Doc shot dead a little Afghan girl wearing an armed vest. It’s unsaid, but viewers are supposed to assume that the little girl was a savage and ready to do big damage to Good White People. That’s the only mention made of that girl. She literally never comes up again. But doc has PTSD: her suffering is central.

Have I mentioned the movie director is a white South African?

Well, army doc then discovers her husband and daughter have been replaced by demonic beings. Good thing a Hawaiian shaman Auntie Mae is ready at hand to rescue the little white family – nay, to SACRIFICE her brown self so army doc can take care of her little blond family.

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Having saved her family, army doc reminds her husband of how he’d said Afghan blood would taint her. Nah, he says, you’re a hero. “Even though I ended up actually becoming a soldier [unsaid: and KILLED a kid]?” she asks. He says, ehhh, it’s all good since you’re back with us now. Excuse me??

And that’s it! Mommy is a hero. She didn’t need to be redeemed, but she’s been redeemed anyway, by saving HER OWN family – having sacrificed a Hawaiian shaman lady to it. Just as she sacrificed a kid who would be alive if NATO hadn’t fucked Afghanistan over so bad.

The Battle of Marjah (15,000 Afghan and NATO soldiers besieged a town) is likely the inspiration for this story, and the movie whitewashes the British presence by reducing the whole operation to a British army doctor. You know, a nice lady who’s a doctor. Who killed a child.

Horror movies are a place where all of the questions, the problems, the spiritual rot can flourish. Don’t tidy it up. Let them run rampant and unpack all of them. What’s the point of making a horror movie if you’re not going to examine the horror?? What is the good of you if you’re just going to whitewash the horror??