My Thoughts

[sarahfazli]

Living With Type-I Diabetes: A Journey Of Resilience, Balance, And Well-being

I keep getting told about oranges and wonder why I never got any. Right in the middle of summer break from school, I was completing a short stint at the main Aga Khan University Hospital (AKUH) – after being given my diagnosis: childhood-onset of type-I diabetes.

A little background: the orange is central to how many type-I diabetics remember their diabetes diagnosis; where "patients" would be told by their nurses to practice sticking a syringe into the fruit. The orange was supposed to simulate respective injection sites, and the syringe would give them the insulin that they needed to live. I (obviously) wouldn’t know about this – because I didn’t get any oranges.

But that is where the (only) difference starts and ends. Everything else about our type-I diabetes illness remains constant and very similar. This is where nobody mentions the bruising from repeatedly injecting at the same spot or the little dots of blood from accidentally hitting a vein with the syringe.

Day in and day out. Time and time again. At least three times a day, for the rest of our lives. 

I have been a type-I diabetic for a little over 28 years as we now speak, and my new endocrinologist recently asked me to tell her my story of being a diabetic.

Like a sore thumb, some parts of my story stick out more than others; as an example: the dangerously high 950 mg/dl fasting blood sugar reading that brought me to the AKUH for more tests – the results of which would give me the (earlier mentioned) definitive diagnosis. Turned out that it wasn’t a freak reading, after all, that my mother originally took it for.

In 2021-2, 26.7% of adults in Pakistan were affected by diabetes making the total number of cases approximately 33 million. Of these, type-I diabetes constitutes less than 2% of the total diabetic population – where its incidence has been reported as being 1.02 persons, per 100,000 people, per year. 

Having type-I diabetes means that my body cannot and does not produce insulin: a hormone that moves glucose from our bloodstream into the body's cells to make energy. My pancreas (the organ that is responsible for producing insulin) is like a cellphone without a charge: being physically there, but not functional and (therefore) not usable.

Recall that the theme for World Diabetes Day 2023 was "Access to Diabetes Care" and the slogan was "Know your risk, know your response". On a personal level, I felt that access to diabetes care is as much intangible (mental health, social issues, amongst others), as it is tangible (availability of medication).

And only when patients strike a balance between the two, will they be able to talk about something that is the theme for World Diabetes Day 2024–2026: "Diabetes and well-being". The campaign focuses on the importance of physical, mental, and societal well-being for people with diabetes and those at risk. 

Questions. What caused my diabetes? Was it my environment? Genetics? Or Venus being in retrograde? I don’t know, and I won’t speculate – because research is in progress to give me these answers. 

Back when I originally got my diagnosis, I was told (amongst other things) that I could eat everything “in moderation"; it shouldn’t be a surprise then, that I thought being a diabetic would mean a regular diet and not a permanent lifestyle change. We had a family dinner the night after I got discharged from the hospital and I knew our hosts would have pizza on their menu; but moderation was key, right? I, hence, didn’t think much of the diagnosis at the time – mostly because I was very (and I mean: very, very) quickly introduced to Diet Coke and sugar-free syrup on pancakes.

I was due to start year 10 at school in another three weeks and little did I know just how much my life had changed; this realization hit me during my first three-monthly consult when I asked my endocrinologist if I could occasionally cheat and eat unhealthily. I didn’t get a definite answer; but what could she have said? Ha!

Thing is, you grow up quickly when you are told of the complications of diabetes. My doctors warned me that a high blood sugar average (called an A1C) could lead to other complications: like limb amputation, organ damage, or even blindness. In time, I learned how to handle the insulin injections and the finger pricking to test my blood sugar levels and how to figure out if I was dealing with high or low blood sugar. Being extra thirsty signaled potentially high blood sugar levels and with low blood sugar, there was a subtle disorientation. The biggest shock, though, was that no two carbohydrates are alike. The 38.3 grams of carbohydrate in the no-added-sugar caramel truffle ice cream at Baskin Robbins needed more insulin than the 38.3 grams of carbohydrate in the trail mix that I occasionally indulge in. The caramel in that "otherwise" no added sugar ice cream, always spikes my blood sugar. And no dietary book or nutritionist ever pointed out that footnote. The only way I figured this out was through experience and nothing else. 

Sometimes I overcorrect when injecting insulin, such as when eating fried foods. I often still think, “Surely those French fries will push my blood sugar into the 300s” but sometimes they would not. For reference, my post-meal target blood sugar reading is 150 mg/dl – stretched to 165 mg/dl. But then, because of low blood sugar, I would be left scrambling for the first high-carb item I can find — usually biscuits or a regular Coke.

If I sneaked a candy or didn’t test my blood sugar, there were consequences from elevated blood sugar. Indulging or not doing the right thing as a diabetic (even as the teenager that I was when I was diagnosed) was more than going against doctors' instructions; it hurt me in the process.

In retrospect: growing up as a type-I diabetic did make me feel quite "different" and I, hence, never really spoke about it. To be honest, this was another addition to the childhood equation we're all more than familiar with growing pains (being very much) in action. And nobody enjoyed those. 

But with age, over time and as I became somewhat cognizant of the person that I was apart from my type-I diabetes, I connected the hard part of my "condition" (availability of and access to medical supplies and health care) to the softer part of it (acceptance). 

And if I can be a little candid about it, I still don’t talk about my diabetes. I don’t hide it anymore; but when I don’t need to, I don’t mention it – either. I can work long hours, travel, and yes: eat anything, in moderation. I can have that blood sugar-spiking slice of my favorite margherita pizza; all apprehensions aside, I’ll "cover it up" immediately after. A red-eye flight? I’ve got to ensure that I have enough insulin to cover me through the night.

It’s hard, I know – I really do. But I am fortunate.

I can afford health care; many others cannot, especially with rising insulin costs. Diabetes remains a constantly moving target, despite the advancements in technology. Constantly pricking to check my blood glucose levels has calloused my fingers, just like how my insulin shots have made my regular injecting sites a little sensitive. 

But what about that first date? Telling him about my diabetes might be the easy part; but how do I handle the first-time insulin administering in front of him? And, what about any children I would have? Would they genetically get type-I diabetes? The odds of my future child getting type-I diabetes is 1 in 100. But if that happens, I think I’ll be completely adept (by then) at managing my child’s chronic illness.

I could have continued dwelling on the difficulties of being a childhood-onset type-I diabetic, but I chose not to. And in all honesty, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

So, today if life gave me the orange that I didn’t get at the time of my diagnosis, I’d use it as a zest or garnish. Or, if I’m feeling a little adventurous – I'll use it to make an orange cake. Because moderation will always be the name of my game.

[sarahfazli]

What 6th September Means to Us

September 6 marks the 56th Defence Day of Pakistan – a day we commemorate our historic ‘victory’ against India in the 1965 war. Precursors to and the actual celebrations include military parades, fly-pasts, wartime songs dominating the airwaves, media being abuzz with stories of the heroic sacrifices rendered during the war. Every year, vows are renewed to rekindle the ‘spirit of 1965’, as the country faces old and new internal and external threats.

Back in 2018, I spent some time asking what the 1965 meant to the current generation of Pakistanis: whether they knew why the war was fought or what lessons they learnt from that conflict?

Since then, I revisited the “official narrative” of the war that I grew up: this account forms the crux of the euphoria and celebration behind all Defence Day celebrations. I believe all of us are familiar with this narrative: on the fateful night of September 6, 1965, whilst crossing the international border and launching an attack on the Lahore front, India unilaterally imposed a war on Pakistan without a formal declaration. Despite being taken by surprise, the Pakistani military put up a valiant defense – forcing the enemy to halt its advance by inflicting heavy losses. Pakistan’s victory in the face of heavy odds (numerical inferiority, absent forewarning of an attack) marks the exemplary courage and sacrifices made during the war: commemorated and remembered today.

This is the only narrative churned out in official documents, publications, speeches, broadcasts and memorised by students as part of their official curricula. Becoming ingrained in our national 'folklore’, it is difficult to imagine anything different transpiring between India and Pakistan in the fateful year of 1965.  Ironically, any alternate narrative is considered an attempt to undermine Pakistan’s ‘justified claim’ to victory; or worse, an endorsement of India’s accounts – that talks about their victory.

And last year, I spent some time researching the “actual” precursors to the 1965 war and a lot of what I realised and learnt during this entire discourse was both surprising and sad.

A lot of people I spoke to hadn’t heard of the army’s failed ‘Operation Gibraltar’ – that was an attempt to ‘liberate’ Kashmir. Operation Grand Slam was next to follow and is often cited as being virtually synonymous with the 1965 War; it was launched in order to relieve pressure from the Line of Control (then called the Ceasefire Line) as the Indian army captured the strategic Kargil heights and the Haji Pir Pass. Unfortunately, many people haven’t heard of Operation Grand Slam, either.  Any 1965 war story is incomplete and inconclusive without discussing Operations Gibraltar and Grand Slam – making this oblivion unsurprising, since there is little (if any) mention of or reference to these events in our “official” narrative – despite us living in the age of information.

And this is where the irony lies.

There is a significant amount of literature available which both presents the complete picture and debunks all distorted narratives – whilst simultaneously establishes that the war ended in a clear victory for neither side.

Yet, what proportion of our masses are aware of any of these accounts? Almost 90% of Pakistan’s population falls under the “less than 55 years old” slot, according to the Pakistan Demographics Profile 2019, issued by Index Mundi. This clearly means that most of today’s Pakistanis weren’t even born in 1965. Their knowledge of the war would, hence, be based on narratives that were taught as part of school curriculums or whatever is (annually) relayed on Defence Day. And interestingly, official narratives on either side of the border are skewed and one sided; both attempt to highlight their respective successes and omit their blunders and setbacks.

September 6th will always mark the ultimate sacrifice of our military – through whose sacrifices it was ensured that a superior invading force was decisively stopped from taking key cities like Lahore. That Pakistan could hold India to a standoff during the 22-day war was miraculous, brought about by the indomitable will of our forces, of the time.

Yet as Pakistanis, we owe it to our dead to revisit the entirety of the war: to fully understand both the causes and the repercussions.

The 22-day war had left Pakistan in bad shape – where a continued conflict would have surely resulted in total defeat.

Admittedly, the 1965 war is when Pakistan and India “officially” became enemies. Till before the war, there were relatively amicable relations between Pakistan and India. There were disagreements on history and partition, but Pakistanis and Indians had not seen themselves as eternal enemies till then. My taayi (paternal aunt) recalls the pre 1965 war era, with a story of a book she couldn’t find in Lahore’s Urdu Bazaar. To procure the book, she took a bus to Amritsar with her mother and bought it from there.

So evidently, camaraderie and neighborliness did exist between the two countries – at some point in time and the 1965 war poisoned the well. But was the war worth it? Is Pakistan a stronger country today or did it resolve the outstanding Kashmir issue?

I think we all know the answer to that.

More than 50 years after the 1965 war, all of us would agree that today’s Pakistan cannot afford wars. I am sure there are surviving family members and several war veterans, who would be able to give us first-hand accounts of the 1965 war – but these generations are fading away, and we cannot allow ourselves to sensationalise the era. While September 6th memorializes the heroics of our military during the 1965 war, realism dictates that we fully understand both the precursors and the aftereffects of the war.

And only then, will we able replicate the solidarity shown by our people in 1965 – to preserve our independence, as a nation.

[sarahfazli]

Where the Irony Lies

Self-described: I am your average girl next-door, from Pakistan. Most people know me as being very vocally opinionated about my country and that, of course, isn’t taken too positively. The most common response I receive is doubt: “What are you talking about?”; critics ask: “where does this happen?”; or, I am accused of being overly westernized, with no idea of how things work in Pakistan.

The strangest of comments are encountered when I talk about women in Pakistan and the things we deal with: patriarchy, absent freedom, gender inequality, domestic violence, squashed ambitions amongst other things. First world problems, I am told – because in our part of the world, these (otherwise) basics are what dreams are made of.

But in the larger picture, do any of these things truly matter – when the reality we face (as women) in Pakistan is unique, by all definitions of the word.

This, I say in the backdrop of #justicefornoor. As I write, I am sure all of us know what happened this past Eid ul Azha in Islamabad. Daughter of Pakistani Diplomat to Kazakhstan and South Korea, Noor Mukadam was slaughtered after being shot at. There are reports of there being some rift between the victim and her assassin; there was also said to have been a breakup causing the said rift; it was even said that Noor was abducted before ending up where she died.

Remember, this happened the day before Eid Ul Azha 2021.

Now take a minute to recall several similar stories that went viral in our media during July-2021 alone. July 4th: two men beat up their mother and sister over a property row; July 6th: Domestic Violence Bill halted; July 17th: Umar Khalid Memon tortured his wife Qurut ul Ain for hours before eventually murdering her; July 18th: Raza Ali shot his wife Saima dead and injured his children in the process.

Wow. One month; one story (repeatedly) and the same question – yet again: is there really anything left to say? Are women not safe anywhere; do they need to watch what they wear; or should we put children in armour – because well, men will be men?

In all honesty, these aren’t outliers; these are men we see, men we know and are possibly men we are otherwise friends with.

Somehow these aren’t isolated events; as I write, I recall #justiceforzainab, the Asma Rani case and the Khadija stabbing case in Lahore. Each story left the nation in shock; some stories made headlines abroad and there were protests demanding justice and immediate and effective measures to end this violence. But to what avail – since there are countless other stories that silently get swept away, for reasons everyone is very well aware of: stigma.

So what do we do; publicly hang the accused offenders? Possibly invite the victims’ families to the hanging? Intensify nationwide protests? But would these truly be viable solutions? Simply put, such short-term solutions temporarily address public anger, by painting the perpetrators as monsters who are considered anomalies, rather than products of the system. Because in all honesty, there is most definitely a structure or a setup in place that allows such crimes to continue happening.

Note that when such incidents of abuse make headlines, conversations on social media somehow move to #NotAllMen: implying that only “some” men commit such crimes.

And that is precisely where the irony lies. Not all men partake in such crimes, but it somehow happens to all women. If fully understood, this powerfully explains the severity of the issue of “abuse” in Pakistan.

Let’s take a moment to figure out where all of this stems from. How many females in Pakistan can say they’ve never encountered “street harassment”? To explain, street harassment includes staring, catcalling, inappropriate gestures, wolf-whistling. Ironically, the fact that a lot of us don’t consider any of this as harassment is indicative of how rampant the issue is. This is where the problem starts from, but I don’t recall any efforts (whatsoever) to make Pakistan’s roads safe for the vulnerable - including children and the elderly, apart from women.

Returning to Noor Mukaddam’s case, I will not be surprised if at some point in time the questions start coming – if not already started. Did she allow him to enter her house, while her parents were away? Did they have a formal relationship that preceded the alleged breakup? Did her family allow her to meet men alone? Already, unverified and unsubstantiated details have started making the rounds. This unfortunately says a lot about the kind of society that we live in, wherein women grow up knowing that “just safely existing” is a privilege.

Recently, a friend based in Johannesburg in South Africa asked how these occurrences made me feel. To anyone based abroad, what or how could I have explained it? Fear? Insecurity? Stress? Heartbreak?  

I honestly could not think of a reply. Yes, I feel safer outside of Pakistan; but Pakistan is home and is my country where I live – despite everything. And I will continue to live in Pakistan – with a constant prayer, that I will not be another victim in the counting.

[sarahfazli]

Eid: For the Conflicted Muslim that I am

Growing up, I remember my mother’s students referring to the shalwars she wore to work as MC Hammer Pants. Having a lighter complexion than my other Pakistani classmates, made it a little easier for me to dodge being called (an otherwise very derogatory) “Paki”. But it was upsetting, nonetheless; because it felt like the “locals” didn’t see us for who or what were. Rather, it felt like all they could see was yet another brown or yellow somebody – lumped into a demeaning generalization driven by ignorance.

Then, September 11 happened and I realized how different it was to be the subject of active hate.

As far as insults went, “Paki” was downright mean. But it would cut right through me, to be advised to careful at airports and on the streets while travelling abroad, so as to avoid being told to “go back to where I came from”. And so, standing at the end of Ramzan in anticipation of the upcoming Eid Al-Fitr, I am grappling with the faith that I born into and was raised with. This has been going on for several years now.

My parents are devout and from the very onset, I was made to understand that straying from Islam was not an option. There was no explanation per se, of what that meant, what other religions meant, or what the repercussions of not believing in a higher power could potentially mean – as a Muslim. I learnt my obligatory prayers; with time, I kept my fasts during Ramzan and I made sure to keep up with my due charity donations. But it was all too stifling.

Question: did I really want to be Muslim; would I be more enamored with another religion? I wanted a chance to find out for myself, but doing so was never a question.

Over time, I had more and more reservations about Islam. Things like having to dress up in the clichéd “modest attire” (a.k.a., not being able to wear shorts in public), to knowing women in Saudi Arabia cannot try on clothes before buying them were very hard to reconcile with my views on being an “independent woman”.

As an adolescent, I worked on developing myself independent (and / or liberal) of what I “perceived” my religion meant. Given my western appearance (coloured eyes and a light complexion) and how I carried myself through life, it was easy; how many times I recall the looks I would attract at work, when somebody would see me get up to pray. “You don’t seem like the sort who ever prays”, they would say. And I worked hard to establish the logic behind how I conducted my life; in a way, if something did not make sense, it would be disregarded immediately. To simplify: I knew enough to know that the sky is blue because of scattering light and tiny molecules, not because Allah said so.

But that all changed in the not too distant past.

Recall the atrocities Al Qaeda and the Taliban executed in the name of Islam and what ISIS claims to represent – again in the name of religion. Islam needs real allies in the face of barbaric acts that we saw in the November 2020 Vienna  shootings, the Mozambique attacks in March 2021 or the attack on the Abdullah Shah Ghazi shrine back in 2010.

 So, within the last five years I doubled down on Islam – my faith. I am making an attempt to learn about the role of Islam in politics, race and feminism; I know I will probably will never wear a niqab and I still have a lot to learn about Islam and myself. And that is completely ok, because by all accounts I cannot truly imagine abandoning Islam – I just have to find a way to practice.

And I know it might be tough – but not impossible. This is because I essentially never disavowed my religion in its entirety – even though, I regularly felt that the overtly religious were either or both of ignorant and narrow-minded. Truth be told, I never really stopped believing in God; and I never abandoned rituals like my regular prayers, or reciting the Bismillah before eating or absentmindedly asking the Higher Orders for guidance when lost.

Like any other religion, there is spectrum of belief for Muslims. As a child, I never had progressive Muslim role models growing up, but that thankfully changed over time. I see minority groups at work speaking up, using their experiences to relentlessly rally on behalf of inclusion. And I use those interactions as my “aha moments” – making me realize that my being independent or liberal is by no means ever mutually exclusive or disjoint of what it truly means to identify as a Muslim. So when Bella Hadid said she was proud of being Muslim, DJ Khaled owned his faith, Mayor Sadiq Khan wrote a cheeky essay on fasting and Mike Tyson responded to Trump’s call to ban Muslims from entering the US – I knew thigs are changing. The “Muslim experience” is no longer a monolith.

When you’ve spent most of your life as a confused Muslim, days like Eid genuinely come hard – and this has now made commemorating such days a political act, of sorts. I guess this is an inevitable part of growing up and taking into account perspectives. So while Eid days are hard for me, I will understand if somebody else’s version of Eid (and, hence, Islam) is full of merriment. And this, I believe is the most inclusive way to celebrate.

Now, with every terrorist attack that is somehow wrongfully attached to Islam, we need to understand the sentiment when Jarrah Sheikh (in East Jerusalem) is forcefully evicted, or why Muslims in India live with a continuous internal turmoil – triggered by an ongoing political climate that challenges the secular principle that India’s nation concept was built on. Unfortunately, I cannot do much to stop any of that.

But what I can do, is celebrate Eid with a conviction – showing by example what it means to be Muslim: that it can be as varied as it is to be human.

[sarahfazli]

The Promise

If it is not dead already, then it surely is dying fast. Ask the 11 Hazara miners who were mercilessly assassinated – in a continuous wave of ethnic cleansing. This was the same community, who refused to bury their dead after a brutal attack on their people back in 2013. Ask the long persecuted Ahmadi community, who was excluded a government commission aimed at safeguarding the rights of the country’s minorities. Ask Uzma, who was beaten for taking a bite from the plate of the youngest daughter of the household; she ultimately succumbed to her injuries and her body was very callously disposed of in some random drainage system. Ask Dr. Ali Haider and his twelve-year-old son Murtaza, who were gunned down in Lahore because of their Shia faith. There are countless others you could ask. Ask the beggar on the street every day, or the person who collects your trash. Look at the woman (at your neighborhood bus stop) selling 14th August flags, that you oh so proudly wave, every Independence Day. Ask them whether this was their dream. How could it have been? The promise must be dead.

Every Pakistan Day is a reminder of a dream – that became a resolution on March 23, 1940: committing every life to one of freedom, dignity, self-respect, prosperity and ownership.

“That it is the considered view of this Session of the All India Muslim League that no constitutional plan would be workable in this country or acceptable to Muslims unless it is designed on the following basic principle, namely that geographically contiguous units are demarcated into regions which should be so constituted, with such territorial readjustments as may be necessary, that the areas in which the Muslims are numerically in a majority as in the North-Western and Eastern Zones of India, should be grouped o constitute “Independent States” in which the constituent units shall be autonomous and sovereign.”

"That adequate, effective and mandatory safeguards shall be specifically provided in the constitution for minorities in the units and in the regions for the protection of their religious, cultural, economic, political, administrative and other rights of the minorities, with their consultation.”

And this is what made the resolve so strong – that any price to make it a reality was acceptable. Families were separated to inhabit this land, lives were uprooted to make this country, and countless other sacrifices were a part of the reality that ultimately brought our Pakistan into existence.

But with our claim on it, came a sacred responsibility: to make the sacrifices of our forefathers count, to fulfill that commitment. Resolution Day is a reminder of a commitment that has yet to be fulfilled.

That is where an irony comes into action. Because you see, when those 11 coal miners died in Mach, the promise was broken – yet again. We seem to have become so “possessive” about Pakistan, that no space exists in it for anyone “not amongst us”. And as our definition of the “us” becomes increasingly narrow, our own space tightens herein, as we snatch the rights of ownership from anyone outside our ethnicity, religion, caste or creed. In a sense, this questions the certainty of tomorrow and the recognition of our own significance – or not.

Desperate, we look for either straws to hang on to, or reasons to leave.

And this is exactly where the story of our creation awakens with inspiration. Pakistan was made in the face of unfathomable odds – where the Quaid-e-Azam tapped into the hopes and dreams his people held. He famously spoke English while they understood only Urdu, yet he spoke to them and for them. And it was because he spoke to and for them, that they heard and were heard. It was because our forefathers refused to give up on their dream, that they succeeded. They offered their own blood, certain that their struggles would result in a country, that would make the world a freer place for generations to come. Their toil taught us one simple lesson, against whose validity Pakistan stands testament: never give up and you shall succeed.

Standing at almost 74 strong years of independence, we must reclaim our country and its promise. On the one hand, maybe it’s unfair that this should be asked of us or that we pay for the callousness of “other” people. We have a choice: to either run away from it all or own and end it. We cannot undo the years of intolerance and violence we’ve faced. But we can refuse to fear it, refuse to succumb to the temptation of retaliatory intolerance, and refuse to forsake our courage in the face of it all.

Admittedly, we cannot “control z” a lot of things. But we have a choice. By giving up on Pakistan and / or leaving, we can ensure that our forefathers’ “sacrifices” were stepping-stones on the way to completely destruct Pakistan. Or we can own their dreams and earmark their struggles in an attempt to construct the exact Pakistan that they had laid down their lives for. It may not be what we want, but we must ensure that their sacrifices counted towards making this country better.

The choice is ours – where even the idea of Pakistan was premised entirely on ownership: that it equally belongs to everyone who inhabits (or ever inhabited) it. Save the dream, save the promise, save the resolve. Because: the sacrifices of our forefathers could either represent the death of the resolve; or its enduring strength and inspiration.  And none of this will die, until it is given up on. So, continue to persist until one Pakistan Day we can lay wreaths on the names of all of our national heroes and tell them: we built the country that you died for, we fulfilled the promise.

[sarahfazli]

Merry Christmas, Pakistan!

December in Pakistan tends to be bittersweet. As the weather changes across the country, there is a positive energy in the air and everyone seems to be optimistic, passionate and blessed. Maybe this is because our patriotic sense is stimulated with the Quaid’s birthday on the 25th of the month. This coincides with Christmas and the holiday spirit sets in, bringing along a pleasant change in people’s outlook. But since 2014, this is in the backdrop of the APS, Peshawar attack, also marked in December.

As a nation, Pakistan tends to be complicated and things aren’t always that great. To date, media restrictions, absent freedom of religion / belief, terrorism / law enforcement abuses (amongst other issues) are a large part of our society. We’ve dealt with earthquakes, urban flooding, a reeling official economy, low ratings on human development indices and the mother of all wars: the war on terrorism.

But Pakistan is resilient and has seen the worst and darkest of times – where when all seems to be lost, we somehow manage to pull through. I do believe that this is our innate strength and may just be the harbinger of a great future.

With this in mind, I recently sat down to recount our peculiar strengths and my list comprised: the spirit of giving; intelligence and resourcefulness; courage in the face of adversity; strong faith despite not very overt religiosity; ingenuity and the beauty of jugaad (hacks, in local terms); resilience to maintain an informal economy. The list is endless. And I did not include other tangibles like our nuclear capability, armed forces and younger demographics. Summed up, Pakistan and Pakistanis have a strong inclination towards being a giving nation.

Ironically, I undertook this activity close to Christmas – an event whose message tends to be a game changer, if fully understood. While Christmas is celebrated as the day of the Birth of Christ, it also symbolizes significant truths of divine life. This is where Jesus Christ worked to transform the lives of people: replacing ignorance, superstition, greed, hatred with purity, spirituality, morality and chastity.

Growing up, my parents enrolled me in a missionary school – St Michael’s Convent School (or Michael’s, as us alumni call it), where nuns and friars were involved in its administration. Michael’s had a semester system with exams taking place early December and come Christmas time, we would prepare for celebrations before officially going off for winter holidays. Christmas at Michael’s also meant carols which we learned in the music class. And as I entered O Levels, Christmas became an occasion to visit my Catholic friends, with cake and presents. This is, thankfully, still a tradition with me.

I’m cognizant of the fact that (as we speak) Christmas in Pakistan is now mostly a Christian concern. Over time, Pakistan has changed – but not entirely for the better. I don’t know if caroling still happens or if Victoria carriages continue to cart people across the city to see the festivities. However, I can still count on friends at work to bring me some Christmas cheer in the form of sweets, which remind my mother of her undergraduate days at St Joseph’s Convent. Over the years, sectarian, ethnic and communal gaps widened, and Christmas and Christians today stand as an isolated community finding it difficult to face and fight the upheavals of time. I do believe everyone must have heard of child bride, Arzoo?

For a minute, let’s look at the white part of our national flag and remember that it represents the minorities of our country. Let’s also recall Jinnah’s August 11, 1947 speech:

“We are starting with this fundamental principle: that we are all citizens, and equal citizens, of one State.”

It appears that things kind of worked out otherwise. Where Christians continue to be ostracized, Hindu temples are vandalized and anti-Shiite sentiments are on the rise, how much longer will our resilience prevail?

Pakistan is a glaringly sectioned society where the “dominant religion” is accompanied with excessive cultural taboos. Maybe taking a minute to communicate, or possibly just listening to each other might be a starting point. Maybe an inter community dialogue can be kicked off to see how they can be brought together. The desire to change must come from within, because in all honesty – no external power can fix the situation for us. At the end of everything, the only thing that will matter will be our ability to be strong willed enough to force a change that will bring the good times back.

Studying at Michael’s completed my academic multiculturalism. Where Feast Day was regularly observed at school, I recall milads also being held. A lot of us probably also remember indulging in after school Holi fun, alongside our friends who observed the festival. In all honesty, I (thankfully) don’t remember restrictions on any groups attending these events. Maybe times were just different back then or our younger selves possibly found it easier to accommodate unbiased perspectives - using our hearts. I guess that is what made all the difference.

Looking back, I realize that we celebrated these religious festivals without emotionally investing ourselves in their specific organized faith. For a split-second right now, try understanding that Eid, Christmas, Holi and Diwali (among others) are signs of a vibrant society that acknowledges the existence of God in more ways than one. And for another split-second, understand that we are all human beings created by God – who at the end of the day, only look for belonging. It is possible to acknowledge these “signs”, if only we tried and sometimes it takes nothing more than a small perspective shift.

So just like any other festival, Christmas can be used as an occasion to forgive and seek God’s mercy. In the same spirit, Pakistanis can start clearing the clutter by joining hands with their Christian brethren and start a tradition to celebrate an age-old festival.

Is it too much to ask or can we say Amen to that?

[sarahfazli]

The Promise

If it is not dead already, then it surely is dying fast. Ask Uzma, who was beaten for taking a bite from the plate of the youngest daughter of the household; she ultimately succumbed to her injuries and her body was very callously disposed of in some random drainage system. Ask Dr. Ali Haider and his twelve-year-old son Murtaza, who were gunned down in Lahore because of their Shia faith. There are countless others you could ask. Ask the hordes who sat with their dead in Quetta, refusing to bury them – their only demand was to at least reflect upon the militancy against their community, at large . Ask Lieutenant Yasir Abbas (shaheed)who sacrificed his life defending the Navy Mehran Base four months before he was to get married. Ask the beggar on the street every day, or the person who collects your trash. Look at the woman selling 14th August flags, that you oh so proudly wave, every Independence Day. Ask them whether this was their dream. How could it have been? The promise must be dead.

Every Pakistan Day is a reminder of a dream – that became a resolution on March 23, 1940: committing to a life of freedom, dignity, self-respect, prosperity and ownership. The resolve was so strong, and so intensely believed that any price to make this a reality was acceptable. Families were separated to inhabit this land, lives were uprooted to make this country, and countless other sacrifices were a part of the reality that ultimately brought Pakistan into existence. Pakistan is our country, our place in the world – and forms the core of our identity. 

But with our claim on it, came a sacred responsibility: to make the sacrifices of our forefathers count, to fulfill that commitment. Every Pakistan Day is a reminder of a commitment that has yet to be fulfilled. And that is where it seems an irony comes into action. We seem to have become so “possessive” about Pakistan, that no space exists in it for anyone who is not “us”. And as our definition of the “us”becomes increasingly narrow, our own space tightens herein, as we snatch the rights of ownership from anyone outside our ethnicity, religion, caste or creed.

So, when twelve-year-old Murtaza died, the promise was broken; and there are only so many more repeated broken promises my heart can take. What does one do when they are faced with the magnitude of the task, on hand?We seem to be in the clutches of a never-widening madness, the uncertainty of tomorrow, and the recognition of our own insignificance. Desperate, we look for either straws to hang on to, or reasons to leave. 

But this is exactly where the story of our creation awakens with inspiration. Pakistan was made in the face of unfathomable odds – where the Quaid-e-Azam tapped into the hopes and dreams his people held. He famously spoke English while they understood only Urdu, yet he spoke to them and for them. And it was because he spoke to and for them, that they heard and were heard. It was because our forefathers refused to give up on their dream, that they succeeded. When hordes of people were massacred, they ploughed yet more hordes. Our forefathers offered their own blood, certain that their struggles would result in a country, that would make the world a freer place for generations to come. Their toil taught us one simple lesson, against whose validity Pakistan stands testament: never give up and you shall succeed.

Standing at 72 strong years of independence, we must reclaim our country and its promise. On the one hand, maybe it is unfair that this should be asked of us or that we should pay for the callousness of“other” people. We have a choice: to either run away from it all or own and end it. We cannot undo the years of intolerance and violence we’ve faced. But we can refuse to give in to the fear of it, refuse to succumb to the temptation of retaliatory intolerance, and refuse to forsake our courage in the face of it all.

Admittedly, we cannot bring the dead back. But we have a choice. We can let their deaths go in vain. By giving up on Pakistan or by leaving, we can ensure that their deaths were stepping-stones on the way to completely destruct the country. Or we can consider their deaths as sacrifices along the same beat as that of our forefathers. We can own their dreams, mark their deaths as events that turned our hearts and fortified our courage. It may not be what we wanted, but we must ensure that although they died unjustly, their sacrifices made this country better.

Their deaths could either represent the death of the promise; or its enduring strength and inspiration. It is up to us to choose which. Alone we may be insignificant but united we could be invincible. Today, we face strong external threats, and our defiance could be their strength. But the point is to take a stand on one simple fact – that Pakistan was premised on ownership, it equally belongs to everyone who inhabits(or ever inhabited) it. Speak up for those who spoke up for others and hope that one day, people will fight for you too. Like our forefathers, never give up. Save the dream, save the promise, save the resolve. None of this will die, until it is given up on. So, continue to persist until one Pakistan Day we can lay wreaths on the names of those who have died and tell them: we built the country that you died for, we fulfilled the promise. 

Pakistan Zindabad!

[sarahfazli]

“You are unbelievably beautiful!”

These are words I often get to hear. Although their content is quite flattering, their delivery somehow implies that the speaker is not being entirely honest. There is a hint, possibly a tinge of sarcasm or even irony.

Such comments are then followed up with something to the effect of “You don’t think / feel / believe it yourself, do you?” My forever response that I really don’t – but keep getting told that I am, is then met with either an awkward laugh, or a walk out, depending on the person and the circumstances.

What, then, is it to be beautiful? How does one measure their beauty? Is it the eyes and that killer complexion? If so, then I would probably qualify. Or is it being dainty, with the ability to doll oneself up – to the point of going beyond recognition? People have preconceived notions of their ideal, not the ideal, of beauty. Their idea of the perfect being is probably someone who possesses a flawless catwalk, has mathematically drawn body proportions and a face that the camera absolutely loves. Admittedly, all of us have at some point or the other attempted to emulate these utopist ideals – whether or not successfully is an entirely different story. 

People can come off as absolutely stunning: the kind of iconic beauties that exemplify the Miss or Mr. Universe. Body sizes will be comparable to those that walk the red carpet and celebrity bodies will be idolized. Unblemished complexions and things like large eyes, a small nose and fuller lips might be considered in assessing beauty. This is the kind of beauty that may get you to a secluded island. You know, the type with two palm trees on the beach, where the water is calm and martinis can be enjoyed – while luxuriously lazing around on a hammock. That said, this kind of beauty is almost anonymous, something transient that is generated with a swoosh of the Photoshop brush or the scalpel of a plastic surgeon.

Failing that, beauty must be expressive. All things aside, the face is a manifestation – a revelation, of sorts: both of which come through expression, through the subject, and not the object. The point lies entirely in the ability to express – where some people are just more expressive than others. And their expression illuminates charm, humour, intelligence – qualities which, in my very humble opinion are inherently beautiful qualities.

Moving on, there is yet another mode of beauty that goes beyond any kind of pleasurable (read: plastic) or expressive beauty. Here, the admirer’s gaze goes beyond the form and the charm – to absorb the presence of a being. This is not to say that there is any scorn for either of the form or charm: perhaps the symmetry lacks and wrinkles aplenty; and the expression is indecipherable. It truly doesn’t matter – because the focus is on the person: a living presence, which leaves you spellbound. So the wrinkles are embraced and narrated. And the asymmetry becomes beauty because it is their story: the beauty of being them, that person that stands before me. 

In my final analyses, there is what I call the hidden beauty – that is veiled not by wrinkles or lack of symmetry. The veil I am referring to is a scar, a deformity, or just that they were born that way. The beauty herein points to the person being absolutely unique – their light shines strong, because it is otherwise not visible for public viewing. Such people embrace this glory and are filled with a certain exuberance that can only come from leading a truly spiritual life.

So what, then, is it to be beautiful? Is it someone who possesses the proverbial “plastic beauty”? Or is it somebody who is a “charmer”? Better yet – is it somebody with a larger than life personality, who leaves their mark any and everywhere they go? I am inclined to think that it is more like all of the above. Or rather, any of the above. So the next time someone crosses their arms at you, taps their foot, and tells you in a stern tone that you are oh so beautiful, accept the “compliment” in its spirit. Smile, nod in a germane manner, and thank them for the same. For you truly are beautiful, in some way or another.

[thequotejournals]

Damaged people are dangerous. They know they can survive.

Josephine Hart, Damage (via thequotejournals)

[sarahfazli]

Muharram & Me: Now & Then

Approaching Ashoora, I asked her how she would spend her Muharram. Wanting to go on a spiritual cleansing, she quoted Hazrat Ali (RA):

“Let go of your pride, put down your arrogance, and remember your grave”

These lines have, somehow, always resonated with me. And then sparing no detail, she narrated what Muharram meant to her.

“The first ten days of Muharram rituals were one of the most important religious rites I eagerly participated in as a child; I still do – as we speak today, although for altered reasons. There are several ways in which we memorialize the Karbala events that occured in 680 A.D. Muharram is accompanied with an ambiance of genuine sorrow, centered on the martyrdom of Imam Hussain and his family. Rituals undertaken include memorial services (majalis al-ta'ziya), flagellation (tatbir), visiting Imam Hussain's tomb in Karbala – particularly on the tenth of Ashura and the fortieth day after the battle (Ziyarat Ashura and Arba'in), public mourning processions (al-mawakib al-husayniyya) or re-enacting the battle of Karbala in the form of a play (the shabih).

As a very aware youngster, I remember my daadi crying, as the zakira recounted the brutality with which the Prophet’s (sw) family was slaughtered during Muharram. And because she wept, I wept too – unaware at the time of the reasons behind her tears. In retrospect, any spirituality was illusive, at best – despite the tears being present.

Growing up, my parents ensured I was completely conversational with, “Ya Allah, Ya Nabi, Ya Ali, Ya Fatima, Ya Hasan, Ya Hussain”. With time, I began preparing for Muharram long before the new years’ crescent was sighted. I’d attend majlis with my parents and participate in the zikr. This was when niyaz and nazr would become a regular feature at home and somberness was observed. As is characteristic of being in mourning, sober attire replaced regular (read: colourful / bright) every-day wear. I was taught very young that Muharram was one of the four most sacred months in the Islamic calendar – the other three being Rajab, Dhū al-Qa'dah, Dhu al-Ḥijjah: the seventh, eleventh and twelfth months respectively. The importance of righteousness during these months cannot be overstated:

“The number of months in the sight of Allah is twelve (in a year) – so ordained by Him the day He created the heavens and the earth; of them four are sacred; that is the straight usage. So wrong not yourselves therein and fight the pagans all together as they fight you all together. But know that Allah is with those who restrain themselves.” (Surah Tawba, verse 36)

None of this really sits well with you, when you live in an environment fraught with ethnic, political and sectarian marginalization. You know it’s a thing when children talk about the goats eating the last ten juz of “their quran”, when our Shias brethren are declared kaafir and are considered wajib e qatal. For people like me, the sting is very real. We tend to go on the back-foot: hiding our beliefs, becoming indifferent and apathetic.

But life has a way of showing us that perspectives can change. And it’s unbelievable – how vastly they change. Muharram 2017 saw me travel to Iraq for Ashoora – something I had never thought possible, even in my wildest dreams. Talking to people before I was due to travel, I realized this pilgrimage takes on a mythical, unreachable status for so many of us. Through teary eyes, they told me it was “Jannat on earth” and that this journey would be the proverbial “once in a lifetime trip”. Others requested prayers at Ruza Abbas (as) and Ruza Hussain (as) and asked that I take their names while I prayed.

Having spent a week between Karbala and Najaf, I can safely describe it as one of the most surreal experiences of my life. On my first day in Karbala, I recall watching a little girl urging her mother to kiss the entrance to Imam Hussain Mosque in respect. Her mother dutifully pressed her lips against the huge wooden doors of the mosque, before entering; I couldn’t help but follow suit. We spent 8th Muharram in Najaf; having fallen asleep on the way, I was not entirely sure of what to expect when we reached. Najaf is where the house of Hazrat Ali (RA) is – adjacent to Masjid Koofa. Standing outside the structure, I was unable to overcome its simplicity – despite the stature of its occupants. I had initially feared not having any emotion; but it was instant and I don’t recall when the first snuffle gave way to a flood of tears that I had tried so hard to control. It is indescribable, how small I felt the moment I realized where I was standing. Back in Karbala for Ashoora, I remember another young mother requesting me to help her, with her daughter outside the Masjid Hussain on the night of tenth Muharram. They say only a selected few are tasked with helping others, on such occasions; I couldn’t help but smile up to the heavens above.”

Completely engrossed in her narrative, life suddenly dealt me a sixer – which could very aptly be described as an epiphany, of sorts. She was reciting the durood shareef and it suddenly hit me.

As Muslims, we know that the Durood Ibrahimi starts with “Allahumma salli ala Muhammadiw wa ala aale Muhammad”. Recall that the “ala Muhammadiw wa ala aale Muhammad” refers to the family of Prophet Muhammad (sw). So in sending salutations to Prophet Muhammad (sw), we are also conveying our respects to His family – making them central to all of our faiths, regardless of us being either or.

And as a significant part of Islam, this is the true message of Muharram: that connecting with the rest of humanity – in its truest sense is a divine obligation. And this can happen, only after we change both our individual and collective mindsets. It is time we revisit and reassume the basic principles of thinking before acting; of connecting to people’s hearts before connecting to their minds; and purifying one’s intention before attempting to reform.

So ponder, plan or simply perish. The choice is entirely yours.

[sarahfazli]

Partition. Independence. & Everything In Between..

Partition. Independence. Simple words used to capture the tumultuous events of August 1947.

Words that seem devoid of any emotion whatsoever: concealing atrocities committed, and the thousands slaughtered in the name of religion – as boundaries were rashly drawn by the British, their colonial country left ravaged by war.

How aware were these higher orders that communities, families, friendships would be so ruthlessly ripped apart? Or were they?

They say that desperate times lead to desperate measures, but the chaos leading up to independence of India and birth of Pakistan negates all sanity and completely defies belief. While it made sense for India to achieve independence, its conceiving seems that those involved – the British, Congress and the Muslim League – made their decisions with their heads buried in the sand. Because, in all honesty, “Partition” fails to justify the displacement of over 14 million people.

Anyone from either side of the boundaries will have their own tales of experiencing Partition. How many times my own daadi and naani (paternal and maternal grandmothers) gave me their accounts of Pre-Partition India, Partition, and ultimately Post-Partition Pakistan.

They recall their house called Karamat Manzil in Dibaii (undivided India) and would tell us about seemingly mansion sized havelis that they and everyone they knew, lived in. There were endless stories about friendships that to date, seem to be etched into their memories. They told us about good natured neighbours who had no qualm whatsoever in randomly dropping by. Surreal as these stories sounded, we got the feeling that everyone just blended in – regardless of their faith, caste, colour or creed.

And then 1947 happened. My tayii (aunt) recently told us about how the girls of the house would be ushered into hiding after dark – to be camouflaged from any unsolicited attention and hence danger. Both my daadi and naani lost a brother in the ensuing disturbances; he was due to appear for some exam and never came back home thereafter. Quoting an elderly gentleman from work, “Before partition we were like one family Muslim, Sikh and Hindu. Nobody ever thought there would be a partition. My mind is still confused why people changed so quickly.” My daadi told us about the train ride from Dilli (New Dehli) to Lahore – and the immeasurable terror she carried in her heart throughout the trip. Maybe it was the obvious danger she was all too aware of; maybe she was frightened for the children who accompanied her; or maybe it was a fear of the unknown: what, who, where, how. And most importantly: why?

But there are other stories, too – that people may have experienced or even known about, but not have had the heart to share, for fear of reliving the anguish. There are stories of refugee camps: overcrowded and overrun with disease. A friend talks about her aunt, who would go mute when others recalled the horrors she was trying hard to forget. How many of us have read accounts of youngsters who jumped over dead bodies to get to school? I recall my elderly Taaya (uncle) admitting that each episode of Dastaan on Hum TV made him relive the times of Partition.

With time, settlers on either side of the borders eventually adjusted to their “new” lives. But how often did their thoughts go back to people who risked their own lives to save others’, and to friends – with whose lives, their own were intertwined?

With 14th August having just passed, I recalled the “suitcase of memories” section in Sharmeen Obaid Chinoy’s Home 1947 exhibition last year. This section had preserved several suitcases that contained belongings of people who had escaped in a hurry – their only aim being to escape the riots and rioters. I recall thinking that those suitcases were insignificant considering everything that these people were probably experiencing at the time. But they said so much about the thought (or lack of) given, when figuring out what to carry along when trying to escape the impending threat of ruthless insurgents. On a softer note, I felt that those “suitcases of memories” showed just how unprepared and unwilling these people were to leave behind their homes and belongings.

From studying for my GCSE Pakistan Studies exam, to random reading over time, and countless 14th Augusts to date – I know that the migration was massive. Historians claim that the 1947 Partition was history’s greatest and bloodiest mass movement of people. Until they reached their respective destinations, I doubt anyone believed that they would make it alive.

Let’s talk about those who wanted to leave but couldn’t or didn’t – for whatever reason. Age, ill health, insecurity, denial. Did they survive; did they perish? What were their stories? Either way, everyone had to forge a new life.

Independence of India and the birth of Pakistan probably reinforced the feeling that they had left their hearts behind. Both were infant states, struggling with migrants, displaced and refugees. Other than carving out their lives and homes in their new countries – what else threaded people to their surroundings?

Like how Partition weaved through my grandparents’ generations, I am sure other families across India and Pakistan can relate. Sadly, though – these generations are fading away, and we cannot allow ourselves to sensationalize that era.

While 14th August should be commemorated as the birth date of Pakistan and be celebrated likewise, the atrocities committed during the partition period should not be discounted. Partition and independence were the result of bloodshed – where they were not all martyrs; they did not always knowingly lay down their lives for a greater good.

For a minute, let the 1947 struggle sink in – because only by understanding the “people” element involved, can we comprehend the sacrifice element. And while we are at it, let’s give a thought to what they left behind and how their worlds suddenly changed, never to be the same again.

[sarahfazli]

#thesecretintheireyes #bestmovie #keepthefaith #keepitreal #keepgoing #dontlookback #noregretsjustlessonslearned #needtolearn

[sarahfazli]

#edgeofseventeen #bestmovie #thestruggleisreal #mylifesomedays #dudeplease #randommusings #beingsarah #thelattercategory #🙈🙈🙈

[sarahfazli]

#denial2016 #conqueryourfears #conscience #dotherightthing #keepthefaith #keepitreal

[sarahfazli]

#yes #findyourself #finditliveit #thestruggleisreal #morepowertoyou #keepthefaith #keepitreal

[sarahfazli]

#yes #deathyourway #deathdoesntdiscriminate

[sarahfazli]

Unfinished Business: The Things You Left Behind, Last Year

At the end of last year, I tried assimilating a common theme in to my routine: leave it in 2016. It was as though I was making two sets of my whole life – where I decided to stuff all of the good stuff in my life into a bag called “2017” and then board a plane bound for the New Year. Back at the gate, in the soon-to-expire 2016, were all the things that somehow didn’t make the cut. Insufferable relationships, friendships, emotions, stresses – any and every thing deemed dead weight, was left behind.

I wish I knew why and simultaneously hating to be the bearer of bad news, but it ain’t always that easy.

This is something I realized late last week – you know, the complexities of leaving things behind. Facebook has a feature that allows you to “see your memories”. Going back seven years, I saw a conversation on my wall – with a friend – somebody with whom I’d had a nasty falling out. Harsh words were exchanged, egos were bruised, and an old friendship seemed to have been ruined. And out of the blue, this “memory” triggered so many flashbacks.

What was it about this conversation made me so happy? Maybe it was that nobody assumes that something so minor, could set off so many memories. Or it could be due to the fact that neither of had spoken in years. Reading the conversation over and over again, I wanted to come back with so many things to say – but couldn’t, for reasons I myself am unsure of. Maybe it was the distance that came in between us – a distance measured literally by only a few years apart, but light years in terms of perspective. In my haste to move on in life, I failed to ensure that I moved on with all the “important things” in life. Years later, I’m still realizing that I made some pretty amazing memories over time – stored somewhere in the back of my mind and which needed the gentlest of tugs to make their presence felt. While I thought I had made way for the new, there were a lot of good things in the dump that I forfeited because I didn’t take inventory of everything that was associated with my life.

I would fully endorse people’s plans to leave behind the bad and ugly stuff in 2016, but I hope you don’t throw any babies out with the bath water.  If you’re not sure, I encourage you to take a second look at what you have decided to leave behind.  Are there any good pieces that can be salvaged?  I would hate for you to wind up like me by spring, wondering what happened to certain valuable things that were swept away during your move into 2017.

As you work on eliminating toxic people, broken dreams and failed relationships, are you taking time to reflect on what you learned, so that you can take those lessons with you?  Along the same lines, in working on 2017’s bad habits, did you consider how and why you adopted them in the first place? 

Another challenge with leaving things behind is the tendency to unknowingly carry around useless or harmful baggage.  So I reconnected with this same friend. And among other things, both of us apologized to each other. Trust deficits were brought up and we’re working on gradually rebuilding that. Old wounds were reopened. But we spoke. And we are slowly mending bridges –that both of us had earlier burnt. I told him that I was working on trying to be a better person – one kind act (big or small), at a time. A month or so into this project, I realized that we often shun other people without fully processing our own hurt.  We walk away – without realizing that we can’t actually move on because we have not completely forgiven either them or ourselves.  When you choose to leave behind certain relationships into the soon to be old year, make sure that you’re not unintentionally carrying along the residue of it.

“Leave it in 2016” was bold, brave, and very catchy.  Let’s make an attempt at “leave it in 2017”. If you want some things to stay in 2017 and not show up on your doorstep halfway through 2018, there is a lot more thought and planning involved. Congratulations to anyone who left something behind in 2016.  You made a difficult move.  Now for the hard part: making sure you’re taking the necessary precautions to ensure it stays there.