“I stopped mid-sentence, my mouth hanging wide open. Leaning against the wall behind Cairo, a boy had suddenly appeared. He seemed a few inches taller than me, but I couldn’t tell for sure because he was blurred. I could only barely make out the features on his face, but his toothy smile clearly stood out, despite the rest of him being, well, faded. He almost looked like an old photograph. I blinked once, trying to figure out if he was really there, and the boy started to wave. I blinked a second time and something about him seemed very familiar. Then I finally blinked a third time and he was gone.”

This is an excerpt from a book called “Faded.” “Faded” is written by fifteen-year-old Maha Hussain. She is a grade 10 student in the Region of Halton.

When she was authoring the book, many adults did not take her seriously, thinking that a 15-year-old cannot accomplish writing a 238-page novel, “but I’ve proven them all wrong and it’s all cool” Maha said talking to Generation Next. She started writing “Faded” at the age of 12.

One day Maha was sitting down with a friend when she came up with the idea of writing a novel. The story line runs on saving the world. Even though ‘Hope’ – the lead character of the novel – and her imaginary friend had a lot of bad blood among them, “they were able to work together to save the world,” Maha tells us. The story is somewhat reflective of global conflicts of our world.

Writing, however, is not on Maha’s mind for her future career. She loves Sciences and wants to be a doctor. “You’ve to be kinda realistic. Sometimes my [written] work might not sell at all..you have to do something that you love and make enough money to survive,” she says pragmatically..that’s why I am also thinking about being a doctor.”

Talking about issues of high school students, Maha said “a lot of people in my generation don’t take school seriously enough..and we need to take care of the environment..if we don’t try to save our planet today, we won’t have a planet to live in tomorrow.”

During the course of putting together the novel, Maha had full support from her parents. “Sometimes I thought my parents were even more excited than I was.”

Maha has noticed that South Asian parents are engaged with school in meetings and so on if one parent is not working. “If both parents are working, then I guess they don’t have enough time to be engaged with school boards,” she added.

Maha is member of the Student Council at her high school. She is also member of Free the Children, and a group called Ontario Students Against the Impaired Driving.

And her message to all of Generation Next’s readers is “Please read my book. I’ll really appreciate it,” Maha Hussain said laughing.

I hung up the phone, embarrassed, shocked, puzzled and without answers. My husband looked up at me, putting down his book on the dining table. I sat down quietly on the couch, still wiping my dry hands on the apron. He got up, sat at my feet and held my hands to stop me from rubbing them against the thick cloth. I looked him in the eyes, “Do you think we made a mistake?”

He had been hearing my conversation with my daughter’s high school teacher. He looked at me clueless, “I thought you would have the answers, you grew up here.”

“Grew up here?” I thought to myself. I was still split up between the so-called east and the modern west. High school from South Asia and then University and job here in Toronto. I was happy. Satisfied, sometimes. Busy in the daylight, confused, puzzled and uncertain in the darks of the night.  I would ask myself, “What more do you want?” I have my liberties, no more excuses to advocate my so-called feminism, a loving, understanding husband, a daughter, a son and a free mind to think. Why after twenty years of dwelling in those ideas was I questioning them again? Hadn’t I made the choice to settle in Canada? To call it Home? To build my nest here? Why was I questioning all my decisions today? Just after one phone call? Hadn’t I been a great mother, better than mine? Hadn’t I helped my kids settle down here better, to integrate, to feel it’s their own? Hadn’t I taught them the right lessons about racism and multiculturalism? Or had I gone too far in teaching them the art of questioning?

I sighed aloud, rested my head at the back of the couch and closed my eyes. I wanted some time to think.

My husband got up and started laying down the food on the table while I sat there torturing myself with my own confused thoughts. After fifteen minutes, we were sitting at our dining table, eating together like one happy North American family.

“Your teacher called today.” I addressed my 17-years old daughter.

She looked confused. “I haven’t done anything that would require my parents and teacher to meet and discuss it like a problem that needs a solution”

“Well, sweetheart, sometimes we do things that we are not aware of. Paid any attention to your body language lately?” I asked her calmly.

“Mom, you know I am a good kid. I wouldn’t offend anyone, even with my body language.” She replied with agitation.

“No dear, you haven’t offended anyone. But why aren’t you hanging out with Rebecca and Daniel? Have you had a fight with your friends?” I asked gently.

“No, why would I have a fight with them. They are nice girls. Asian and White.” She rolled her eyes while passing this as a sarcastic remark.

“Watch yourself young lady. I can sense a bit of racism there.” My husband rebuked her gently.

“What racism Dad? Do you really think this so-called multiculturalism you guys advocate works in real life?” She sounded angry and frustrated.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. One of my nightmares was coming to life. My 17-year-old was speaking of ideas I was still uncertain about. I couldn’t distinguish whether it was she, or was it me who had fed her all those abstract ideas she shouldn’t have worried about. Still, I knew I had to have a rational conversation with her.

“What’s so wrong with multiculturalism? Should someone’s skin color decide their friends?” I knew I would lose this battle with her. I had always lost this with myself as well. How could I make my daughter believe in multiculturalism when I didn’t know myself? It was going to be hard to have this conversation.

“Well, for starters, you are mixing racism with multiculturalism. I am not racist. I don’t think anyone should be. But, it’s not the color of the skin that I am talking about. It’s the conflict of cultures, conflict of languages, morals, ethics, lifestyles. And hence, the choice of friends.” She gave her premises and conclusion, all in one sentence.

“What is at conflict in your life? You girls share the same school talk, same conversations about movies, T.V and what not. Same giggly remarks about boys. What’s at conflict?” I provoked her. I wanted to know more.

“Mom, this is putting me in a bad position. I am brown. Look at me if you need reassurance but brown kids at my school don’t consider me brown. I don’t laugh at their racist jokes, I can’t. But I can’t hang out with my Asian friends either, they speak Mandarin more than English and the only casual conversation we have is about anime. Too impersonal. My Arab friends are too religious for my taste, or even yours. And girls at my age are more into finding boyfriends than friends, so I am not even going to argue for other races. I don’t know, I am confused. I don’t see how people see multiculturalism working so well. I think it’s a crippled society, walking on the support of idealist ideas that we feed everyone everyday, on radio, in classrooms, in political talks. But none of it works.” She took a gulp of water.

“So what’s your point? Or rather your decision?” I didn’t want to give her more material to think, to be confused. I wanted a pragmatic daughter, not an idealist like myself.

“I think I am going to hang out with Ravi and Maha. We get along well. We can speak the same language, can talk about same things at home, can share problems and be understood automatically rather than me explaining why a certain thing can be a problem. You know, it’s easy.” She confidently gave her verdict.

“What about Rebecca and Daniel?” I asked her gently.

“We are good friends. I will hang out with them too but I don’t think we can be very close any more. We differ in more ways than I thought we would back in Middle school. Being kids we shared more than we do as teenagers. Maybe our morals conflict. I don’t know who is right and who is wrong, we are just different.”

“Does being different mean you guys can’t be close friends.”

“Maybe.” She replied sheepishly.

“How so?” My husband inquired.

“I think it’s very natural. We divide into groups according to race, culture, religion, what not. We want an identity. We want to know who we are. Where we come from. What our ideas and ideals are. And when we don’t agree, we no longer have a same goal, or same reasons to stick around and support each other. I don’t know how Mom’s we-are-all-human argument works for her. It doesn’t for me. I like identities, and I like saying it with actions that ‘Yes! This is me.” As Canadians, we all say we are one. But think about it, we just share a passport, and a somewhat similar lifestyle, a government and taxation system. But that is how the system works; its unity on the surface only. We differ and we are different in more ways than I can point out. And I think we are going to be this way unless we have universal morals, universal beliefs and universal ways to live lives.”

“ Well, yes we are different, but that doesn’t mean we can’t connect with each other. If Rebecca breaks up with her boy friend, you would understand her the same way Daniel would. Human emotions and ways to live life aren’t that different if you look deeply. Humans are same in more ways than we give each other credit for.” I still knew that somewhere somehow I believed that multiculturalism could work.

“As I said, I don’t know how your we-are-all-human-argument works for you. Mom multiculturalism works the same way the idea of ‘no wars’ work. It’s just an idea, doesn’t happen in real life. If Rebecca told me she broke up with her boy friend, I wouldn’t understand her concept of dating at this age to begin with. I won’t understand why they aren’t married after 8 years of dating, if it goes that long, or even her uncertainty when she would ask me ‘would he propose?’ You see we use same words but we mean different things. Dating for browns is different than dating in other cultures. It’s a cultural thing that has decided how we live our life. And don’t tell me your culture is wrong, if it were, you wouldn’t have taught me that just like you taught me racism is wrong.” She started sliding her chair back, an indication that she was done. I didn’t stop her either.

***

“Hurry up kids, we are getting late for the picnic!” I shouted to get my family in the car.

We arrived at the park a few minutes late to enjoy the summer sun and grilled chicken.

Our children ran for the grounds with their badminton gear while I grabbed my husband’s hand and went for a walk. It was a beautiful summer day. Everything was perfect except the wild thought running through my head. I looked around to escape the conversation I had had with my daughter but all in vain.

The park was full of people, of every race and culture, but sadly enough they gave me every reason to think that they came from different races and cultures. Small groups of similar looking people, hanging around each other, laughing, playing, enjoying their own world, oblivious to the existence of others; different races, different cultures, same place yet unspoken, unidentified boundaries, erecting walls among us, dividing us all. Our multiculturalism ended there.

Maybe it’s just another idea.

Author: Saniya Zahid

At 99 years of age, Fauja Singh is one of the oldest Marathon runners in the world. He has run in over 10 marathons, and has broken 12 UK, European, Commonwealth, and World Records. He had set the British senior records for the 400 meters, 800m, 1 mile, and 3000m. You’re probably thinking, “Hey Billal, I could do that”, well you got a lot of nerve punk! Not only did he break these records, he did it all in one afternoon over the span of 94 minutes.

A bright eyed baby faced Fauja Singh began his running career at the tender age of 81. He soon redeveloped a flare for running and became well noticed when in 2003, he set the marathon world record for the 90-year-old+ category, completing the Toronto Waterfront Marathon in 5 hours and 40 minutes. Eventually Fauja was asked to appear with David Beckham in the Adidias “Impossible is Nothing” campaign to which Fauja commented, “Who is this David Beckham?” Personally it would have been even funnier if when Fauja met David Beckham he handed him the keys to a Toyota Camry and said, “When you’re parking it, try not to get it scratched, and no joy rides!” Adidas eventually named a shoe-range in Fauja’s honour, while Beckham went onto model underwear. OH! I get it, suddenly a 99 year old Punjabi man from Jalandhar isn’t good enough to model CK underwear; YOU RACISTS!

When asked how he manages to stay in such great shape, Fauja answered, “a daily eight-mile walk and run, no smoking or drinking, plenty of smiling, and lashings of ginger curry.” Fauja also muttered something about the lungs of a Cheetah and radioactivity, but no one was really listening. As you probably already guessed, Fauja gives every penny that he raises from running to charity. Essentially, he gives more away than Lindsay Lohan after 2 Bacardi Breezers. Against popular belief, the number “10999” on Fauja Singh’s shirt is not the year he was born; this is an obvious fallacy as it does not end with letters “BC”. In reality the “10999” is the number of people Fauja Singh has Punjabi-kicked out cold for making fun of his age. So the next time you see Fauja he’s probably going to be wearing the number 11000, while I’ll be wearing a full body. Please don’t hurt me sir. I have a young sister who is very sick…you can go after her instead.

Fauja has also run as one of the torch-bearers for the Athens Olympics in 2004, and has personally been invited by former Pakistani President Parvez Musharraf to run in the Lahore Marathon. Ironically, the last thing Musharraf can ever do is “run” in Pakistan. When asked how he felt about all the attention he was getting, Fauja replied, “It makes me happy. Elderly people are like little children, they like attention.” Now if that didn’t bring a smile to your face, than its fair to say you’re probably a bastard. Finally, when asked when he would stop running, Fauja Singh replied, “When I die”.

Now I’m pretty sure Fauja Singh is never going to read this article. But, if he does, I would just like to say that on behalf of the entire South Asian community, thank you for showing us that it’s never too late to find and do something that you love, and thank you for inspiring us to carry on even in the face of adversity.

Author: Billal Sarwar

I think, I live, I remember. Remembrance of pain and love. Of loving and not loving. Memory is like a maze. I run in all directions to find a way out. A labyrinth of past dreams. False memories. False desires…. I try to find pebbles that I recognize. Fragments of my own thoughts. But my own memory deceives me.

Sometimes I feel that I carry my dreams with my being. I walk with their burden and I melt with the heat of pain… Pain oozing through my own failures.. Slight redundant forgotten pain… But hot like a glass out of furnace ready to be shaped into a vase…

In those moments I am not me. I transform into an ancient monster of my older self. In those seldom minutes I try to shrink into my older self and wear the cloak of forgotten values. I knock on the doors of silent chambers to speak the obsolete words eaten by my present world. And then I remember her.

She is still here, in present, in my world. But she is no more what she used to be. The tale is before we ceased to forget the ties. Before we became what we are today. Before the hate and the malice. The fight and the anger. The story belongs to the age where laughter resembled the bells in the old temples of desire. In those days she was still magical, still her, still charming..

We would sit in redundant moments to nibble crumbs of knowledge. She would paint and I would watch. I would talk and she would listen. Stories of unknown lands.

She grew up in another age. Age where repression had a definition. Age where things were still black and white . Not like those colored lines on her canvas merging into indefinable colors. Colors without names and words. Shapes that cease to be shapes, senseless like water moving around a body still waiting to be formed. In those days painting was a crime. Painting what she paints. She paints desire on the canvas. Nude, alive desire. Now, we don’t sentence artists we just move them more towards the edge of the society.

She married well. Her husband was rich and ugly. Old money. He had an ugliness about him. A protruding stomach and a black soul. She abhorred both . His soul as well as his body. He was unable to fulfill the word desire. So she would sit and paint. She would paint those shapeless shapes. Before she painted me..

You are not Klimnt I had joked before she asked me to remove the last piece of clothing. I sat there in front of her aisle. Naked ..shameful and conscious. It was the first time that I noticed the black mole on the side of my hip. She painted it.That day I found a new me. A different me. It was like a golden revealing light that enters your own darkness. And you can look at yourself with another eye.

Shame .Guilt. Anger….

I felt cold, exposed and weak.. As if I were the glass doll and she would crack me with one stroke of her brush. I looked and smiled.

Her studio was our escape. She painted me red, she painted me pink and she painted me black..

I was mother, daughter and lover all at one time, she would remove each piece, paint me and bathe me..

Like a newborn still waiting to be shaped…

Before.. just before … that kiss…

It was still dawn. I was still covered. She moved looked into my eyes and pressed her lips against mine.

And then at that moment I broke into a thousand small pieces of glass on her studio floor.

Now she exists in present as only her and I exist in memory as me..

I lost myself that morning…Me ..I … Her…

I melted into some one else… Another being another person. Another life. I became her… And Then I became no one…

Now …nothing exist .. Except the persistence of our memories…

Author: Sarah Zahid

“Homosexuality is a very touchy subject, one that is especially taboo in the South Asian community.”- Really? I didn’t know that! Thank you for opening my eyes to this new and interesting fact Captain Obvious! Hey Billal, I just wanted to return the favor and let you know that the sky is blue, the sun is yellow, and Old Navy has great deals going on right now on all summer clothing. (I bought some really nice V-necks only $6.00).

ALRITE! I get it; maybe my point is a bit obvious, but I can assure you the rest of my article won’t be as predictable…BANANA! (It’s a start).  A great number of people think that homosexuality doesn’t exist, or that it’s some kind of disease. Many Republicans assume homosexuality is apart of a communist plot to destabilize America so Obama and the Arabs can take over. Well I’m here to debunk and dissect the false notions people hold about homosexuals, and homosexuality.

My friend Jasdeep uses the word “gay” as a negative synonym all the time, “that test was so gay”, “this pop-corn tastes gay”, “I wear glasses because my eyes are gay”, “I think that dude kissing that other dude might be gay”. Well, he might have a point on the last one, but you see the pattern. If I went to an online Thesaurus, typed in “gay” and hit search, here is what I would NOT find:

“Main Entry: gay

Part of Speech: adjective

Definition: homosexual

Synonyms: difficulty (usually with tests), myopia (near sightedness), hyperopia (far sightedness), salty/unsalted (usually pertaining to popcorn)”

It’s so saddening how some people lack the intellectual capacity to use the appropriate word(s) to express their distaste. I swear to god, those people are so RETARDED!

Many people are under the impression that homosexuality is unnatural and thus should not be common in nature. There are many gay animals in the animal kingdom; I know what your thinking, the PEACOCK! And the FLAMINGO! You would think so, but apparently not. The dolphin (aka the gay shark) has been reported to participate in homosexual sex as well was non-reproductive sex. Many apes, including the famed Bonobo also regularly engage in homosexual sex. I bring up the example of animals because the same people who used to argue, “It doesn’t happen in nature” are now saying, “Well, we’re not animals”. That is completely untrue, we are animals, in fact we are the smartest animals on this planet. We as humans are so smart that we have the ability to make the irrational, rational. Tell me, when is the last time you heard of a homophobic dolphin?

Many also believe that homosexuality is a disease or sickness; these people are known collectively as “idiots”. To prove my point you can run a very simple test. Here’s one method; you miss a really big exam, and then you tell your Professor that the day prior to the exam you fell terribly Gay. While at the YMCA, Steven (a homosexual) sneezed on you, and his gay germs entered your straight body thus making you gay as well (temporarily of course). You spent the entire night prior to the exam walking a small dog, getting a $60.00 hair cut, and watching Lipstick Jungle (I did a google search, apparently they love it). But after 2 days, presumably the regular healing period, you feel fine. You then hand your Professor a Doctor’s note saying: Please excuse your name here; he/she was unable to write their exam due to “temporary acute homosexualitis” the main symptom of which is being fabulous (obviously). Now, if I was the Professor, I would pat you on the back and express my admiration for your courage, and bravery. There are indeed very few people in this world that would dare to publicly prove their stupidity in such concrete terms. To be fair, I say all this as a man who’s missed an exam, and has had to have a very long and awkward talk with the University councilor and the Dean.

My awkward life aside, many people (not just idiots) feel homosexuality is unnatural, and conversely many feel the same way about homophobia. It is very easy to demonize something you don’t fully understand, particularly something, which you feel, is so different, it borders on deviancy. Now I’m not here to preach at you, or force you to accept homosexuality as a norm. But what I would like to say to you is be a free thinker and don’t blindly accept the views of others as your own. Think independently, look at the facts, use your brain, and remember at the end of the day, these are human beings. As my friend Jasdeep would say, “Man, sometimes homophobia can be so gay.”

Email: bms041788@hotmail.com

Where you can criticize, criticize, criticize, or compliment Billal. (That should be about the right ratio)

If you are a homosexual and you are going through a hard time, this site may help:

http://www.glnh.org/

Author: Billal Sarwar

http://dictionary.reference.com/ defines “diversity” as the state or fact of being…blah, blah, blah. Who cares! I mean really! What kind of Canadian, especially a Torontonian goes to an online dictionary to find out the meaning of diversity? Scratch that, what kind of person in general starts anything off with, “The dictionary defines_______ as…” How little must these people know about their topics? I don’t need a dictionary to define diversity, in the same way I don’t need a dictionary to define a wedding or funeral. I know what these things are, I’ve experienced them, and some ten-word entry in an online dictionary isn’t going to change the way I feel. So I say f*** the mechanical definitions of the online dictionary, because this is what diversity means to me.

One of my friends asked me something interesting the other day, “YO B-LAL, is diversity a positive or negative thing?” Well, I replied, firstly it’s pronounced “bil-al”, and secondly, I’m not sure. It’s a strange question, sort of like asking if a chair is a positive or negative thing. Well, I guess sitting on a chair is quite nice, but getting beaten with one isn’t too much fun. Essentially, that means that the answer is your choice, the glass can be half empty or half full. Of course many people feel that their native culture is being diluted, and slowly slipping out of their grasp. They struggle to hold on to their traditions, and a way of life that was once familiar. What some of these people don’t understand is that even culture is time sensitive. The country you left 20 years ago is not the same country you will find today; things change, people change, and the world changes. And now I’m changing paragraphs.

So, am I saying that the people who stringently try to preserve their culture are doing wrong? Of course not, there is nothing wrong with trying to preserve your native culture. It’s the closest thing you have to being back home, or rather I should say the place you grew up. It’s something you want to show your children, “This is where I came from, this is a tiny bit of the life I used to have before I came to this country”. In a world that I feel is slowly becoming homogenized by globalization, it’s nice to know we have people who are fighting back against the Coco-Cola takeover. It’s because of people like this we have places like Chinatown, Kensington Market, and of course Little India (also my hip-hop name). These people, inadvertently (or not) contributed greatly to the diversity of Toronto, and Canada by first serving a community that was a home away from home.

Unlike the people I’ve discussed above, I’m not really a “conserver” of the culture; I’m the product of a new one. As the title of the paper suggests, I’m the “generation next.” I’m the Pakistani with chopsticks dipping samosas into wasabi. I grew up in diversity referring to it as normality, as is often the case. I guess the greatest advantage of this upbringing is that you begin to forget about the ethnicity of other people; it’s simply not something you consciously think about. To someone who was raised in diversity, race is simply subtext. One of my best friends is a Vietnamese guy named Tinh. When ever we go to lunch or visit each other I never think “this guy is Asian” even though he is. In my head, he’s just my friend Tinh. Of course this isn’t to say race is invisible, it stares you right in the face. From time to time Tinh and I will ask each other about our cultural customs, or practices. But for the most part we throw jokes at each other that acknowledge our ethnic minority-ism.  For example, yesterday I went to chill with Tinh and we ate some pizza.

Tinh: Why are you people always late? What happened this time, did you get a hole in the magic flying carpet?

Billal: Why are you always so early? This is two friends having lunch, not a corporate Japanese business meeting. Also, I’m not sure an Asian guy should be making driving jokes, no matter what the vehicle.

And then we laugh, unless someone takes it too far in which case we continue to eat in awkward, racist silence.

Ethnicity is what we commonly associate with diversity, which is of course true, but not all encompassing. While exploring Toronto I visited Church and Wellesley which is Toronto’s LGBT-oriented community. If you’re still not sure what I’m talking about, this neighborhood is also known as: the Gay Ghetto, the Gay village (which makes the residents village people), and my personal favorite, the Gaybourhood. Not to stereotype homosexuals, but the place looked fabulous. Also, I’ve never felt so attractive in my life, granted I was hit on by men and I’m straight, but hey, it’s the thought that counts, right? It’s like the old saying goes; all the good ones are either taken, gay, or write for the South Asian Generation Next.

In essence, a true Canadian knows that diversity is the act of simultaneously being different, equal, and united. Diversity isn’t just watching both Hollywood and Bollywood movies. Diversity is Chinese lesbians wearing saris, and South Asians eating with chopsticks. It’s about making pizzas out of roti (don’t pretend like you haven’t tried), and dipping samosas into wasabi. It’s about participating, while allowing others to participate, and conserving, while at the same time changing. It’s about knowing that we are all Canadians and privileged to be so. Happy Birthday Canada!

Email: bms041788@hotmail.com where you can send a diversity of compliments and complaints.

Author:Billal M. Sarwar

It’s that time of year again, when the city fills with so many flags you would think we had just turned into our very own UN. But don’t worry, this article isn’t about the boring UN, it’s about soccer, a much more admired international institution. Many people have said that if women ruled the world, there would be no wars. Opposingly, if I ruled the world there WOULD be wars. These wars would be fought on a soccer pitch, not a battlefield, using players instead of soldiers, and ball instead of bombs and guns.

And you know what? It seems that the world is catching up to my humanitarian level of conflict resolution; sort of… We haven’t stopped battling globally, BUT it does seem that FIFA is taking into account global turmoil/economics when devising which teams may face each other.

If you notice Japan and South Korea have been separated from North Korea possibly due to their conflicting pasts, and sadly present. However, the dispersal of the Asian teams may also reflect a need to keep the Asian Fifa market running. Kim Jong Il, the North Korean dictator/crazy person had announced that prior to the world cup he would only inform his citizens (prisoners) of Korea’s victories. If you’re a little bit confused about what I just said then you may not know that outside communication (internet, international newspapers) are banned in North Korea. It’s a shame North Korea ended up in the hardest group possible. It looks like Kim Jong Il will just have to tell his people that the World Cup was cancelled this year.

Also notice that all the African countries have been dispersed so they do not face one another. The logic behind this move is more economical than political. The host nation is African (South Africa), therefore Fifa wants to make sure all African teams have an edge in making in to the round of sixteen. Since inter-African travel is obviously cheaper than international travel, you are bound to make a higher profit from the Africans; this would be on top of other sales.  And let me tell you there definitely will be an African team in the round of sixteen; South Africa (host nation). As far as I know, in the history of Fifa the host nation has NEVER failed to advance to the round of sixteen (gamblers tip). Obviously this is another way to not only make sure local excitement for the cup stays high, but also to turn a higher profit and obviously boost the economy, although I’m sure how much Fifa cares about that.

But it looks like as South Asian’s we have been left out of all the fun; we’re on the sidelines and not in the arena where we belong. So, since there are no South Asian teams, which countries do we as South Asians support? The answer, as I have found is pretty eclectic. I support England, my cousin supports Germany, my brother likes Nigeria, and my friends would prefer South Africa, Cameroon or Ghana to win the cup. But let’s say, hypothetically, that a South Asian team did make it into the world cup. How would the rest of us feel? Would we support them, feel indifference, or want them to fail? As an Indian how would you feel if Pakistan got into the world cup and started parading around with their flags and honking their horns every time they won a match? Now my guess is you would say you’re indifferent. But come on, your only human, after you hear a car horn paired with a Pakistani flag enough times classical condition sets in, and you get annoyed. And really, why shouldn’t you? The countries of South Asia have a moderately conflicting past to say the least. But in the world cup “South Asia” doesn’t exist, it’s all about the individual country. No one ever cheers for the country right beside their own. Ireland won’t support England, Canada won’t support the USA, and India wouldn’t support Pakistan. To an extent the World cup is about National pride, and there is no way any country would ever support their biggest rival; and that’s fine.

In war, and in soccer, the only way you will ever unite two conflicting forces is to find a common enemy. And to that extent I hope one day that every single South Asian team does make it into the world cup. I would go a step further and say I would like us all to play as one team; “South-Asia United”. But most of all, it would be my preference to solve our problems on a field without guns and bombs. South Asia is 20% of the world’s population and 0% represented the world cup; that needs to change. Let’s put down the cricket bats, and use them as goal posts. It’s our time to take the stage.

Author: : BIlal Sarwer ,bms041788@hotmail.com. I like compliments and complaints; maybe you can combine the 2 and tell me how good I am at being terrible.

Ali and John have been best friends ever since college. Five years later Ali met Zarah and they decided to get married. John was asked by Ali to give a speech at this Pakistani wedding. John doesn’t bother doing his research or preparing because he figures he’s got this thing on lock down. What ensues is the worst best man speech ever given at a Desi wedding. Enjoy.

Aslamalakium you terrorists and women of oppression, haha, only kidding. I’m John, Ali’s best friend, and I will be your white infidel speaker for this evening. I would ask that you all please hold your applause and celebratory AK47 gunfire until after I’ve finished my speech. Remember to switch off your cell phones and detonators; we don’t want either going off and interrupting the wedding; I’m looking at you guy in the turban [points at the Imam]. Now when Ali told me he was marrying Zarah I was surprised. I thought these things were usually arranged, or at least there was some exchange of cattle and spices, but apparently not. Ali and Zarah have chosen to marry each other under the modern western principles of compatible income and similar attractiveness; “love” as they call it. When Ali first met Zarah he told me that she had the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen. [Crowd goes “awwww”] Ali must be a true gentleman, because I’m looking at Zarah right now, and the 2 spherical objects that pop out to me are definitely not her eyes. [The crowd gasps, except for one uncle who nods his head]

To be honest, I always thought that Ali might be a gay, or as you people would say, “someone who is a bachelor after 30” But then on June 8th, 2005 Ali started dating the most beautiful, funny, intelligent, and charming woman that I have ever met. [Zarah blushes and smiles]. But after Ali dumped that chick, he hooked up with Zarah! [Zarah’s jaw drops].

But enough about the bride, lets talk about the groom. You may not know this but Ali used to be a little bi-curious. But don’t worry Aunties and Uncles, from what I hear he’s satisfied that curiosity [Ali buries his face in his hands.] Now I know that Ali has a certain image in all our eyes. He’s the perfect son, the perfect gentleman, and a devout Muslim. But did you know Ali has a dark side? I’ve seen Ali eat bacon sandwiches, take the prophets name in vein, and do a line of cocaine off an Engineering text book. And let me tell you, that was one of the craziest bachelor parties ever! [Tries to hi5 Ali, who does not respond]

I would just like to say to Ali and Zara, may your marriage last longer than the national average of 7 years, and may your subsequent divorce be quick and painless without the need major legal intervention. Although if things do turn ugly during the settlement, I happen to know a guy who’s really good [Hands a business card to Ali].

Thank you, and stay classy Baghdad!

Author: Billal. M,Email: bms041788@hotmail.com (I will respond to any questions, comments or proposals of marriage)

I head out of my lonely apartment. The plant on my dining table is the only other sign of life in that enclosed space, but I like it that way. It’s a shoot dipped in a bottle of water, freeing me of the mundane worry of watering it every day. It just grows and gives me solace when I need it. I leave it there and think of ‘shopping therapy.’

The downtown streets in Toronto are quieter than expected. It’s middle of the afternoon and I love shopping at this hour, very few customers and no waiting lines. I keep on walking down Bloor Street until that Cashmere sweater catches my eye.

I stand outside that window staring at that thin waist, the long neck, and perfect curves, the touch of a smile, that small kissable mouth and those long fingers resting just above the hip. She is just perfect. A perfect doll staring right at me. She doesn’t move and I can admire her for as long as I like. And that Cashmere sweater, white and soft. Reminds me of the clouds that you stare at when flying in an airplane. I want to touch that sweater, or even better, I want it to hug my body.

I step inside the small boutique. The sales girl smiles at me, “Do you need help with anything?”

I want to shout, “Yes, I need help with fixing men. They are all damaged but I don’t know which shop to return them at” but I hold my thoughts back and force to smile as well, “I want that sweater,” I point at the manikin in the window.

“Oh, that’s the last piece left. We are going to have another shipment in about 2 days…” she starts explaining but I am not listening.

“I want THAT sweater,” I point at it again, “Not another one like that but EXACTLY that one.”

She stares at me speechless; scared of the fierce look I have on my face. She moves towards the manikin and after a few minutes of struggle, she hands me the sweater.

I hold it between my fingers. Feeling the soft cashmere, the cable design running from shoulders to the bottom. I admire the perfect cut and the V neckline that would define my shoulders and nicely caress my collarbones. I bring it close to my cheeks and close my eyes while lightly rubbing it across my face. I would have moaned with pleasure when her voice interrupted my thoughts, “The change rooms are that way.”

I follow her to the change rooms and in a few seconds I am staring at this stranger in the mirror wrapped in cashmere. The waist is not thin, the hips are not narrow and the neck is not long. This stranger is voluptuous and round. Curvy but not perfect. I turn slightly trying to have a glimpse of the back. The white cashmere is not hugging this body, it’s suffocating it. The cable design on this cashmere is tying her down, making her a prisoner. I stare at the slight love handles at the top of her hips, and think of the loveless life this stranger has.

I turn around and pull that white cashmere sweater off. I don’t deserve white or do I still? I question my pious nature. I stare at the blue marks on my exposed breasts. Sign of love, remnants of passion, marks of torture or self inflicted punishment? Reminder of a sweet dream or a beautiful nightmare? I just stare and run my fingertips over them. They still ache but not as bad as the heart does, yet I am not dead.

I cover myself, step out and hand that cashmere sweater to the sales girl. “Don’t you want it?” she asks me with a tempting tone.

“Do I?” I ask myself.

I stare at the sweater and I stare at myself. We both look perfect in our own space. I reply in negative, thinking about the image in the mirror.

On my way out, I slightly pause in front of the naked manikin. Her smile doesn’t seem real now. Her eyes are crying and not staring at me. They are staring at those three little child manikins in the window. She is sad, alone and worried. She wants her place in that window back and only the white cashmere can get her that.

I have stripped her naked. Her prefect figure is not admirable without the white cashmere sweater. I can sense her loss and I feel a pang of guilt. I turn slightly and whisper to the manikin, “He’s all yours.”

I step out of the shop and stare at the shining sun and the cloudless blue sky. I am happy that I am not a doll, and I don’t want the cables of that white cashmere to tie me down.

I don’t belong in that window and You are not my white cashmere sweater.

Author:Saniya Zahid

She left his cave silently. As silently as he had brought her in. She couldn’t figure out the reasons for entering into that enclosure. ‘Claustrophobic,’ she remembered that about herself, yet she had walked into that small space, suffocating, closing in, sucking the life out of her.

She felt humiliation, anger, guilt, no desire, and certainly not love; or was it really love and expectations that had stirred those emotions in her soul and made her world go upside down?

She kept on walking, brisk walking, or was she running? In the darks of the night, hiding away from the world or running from her own questioning mind?

She took off her shoulder bag and threw it in no particular direction. It landed at the far end of the road with a thump. She didn’t care; she wanted to get rid of the weight. But was the backpack heavy or was it her conscience weighing heavily down on her?

Stuck.

Dead end.

Heavy breathing, her hands on her knees, bending down, trying to draw the air in, fearing that her life had come to an end.

All her mind could see was the mild street light, elongated shadows, her own sobs, sweat beads dropping on the rough road pavement, the smell of tar, construction, renovation, heavy machine sounds and her desperate tries to draw the air in. Was she drowning?

Her life needed reconstruction like those decade old roads, with potholes and grooves, she needed a touch of tar as well, to fill up those gaps, to reconstruct her damaged self.

She finally looked up, threw her head back, feeling helpless, she shouted out loud, “O Lord! Help this helpless soul!”

Then she laughed, the laugh of a madman. Was there even a god that cared, that listened? She didn’t believe in one.

Alone.

Desperate.

Desolated.

No path to follow. No road to travel.

Carefree. Wasn’t that how the world referred to the confused like her?

To the ones who had no answers and just questions?

The ones who knew that knowledge was a curse.
The ones who knew that there was no definition of knowing.

The ones who searched for the truth while laughing at the irony of not even knowing what really describes ‘truth.’

What really was ‘reality’? The laws of nature, the physical world or just a mere rational thinking mind? The mind that Descartes argued for.

Confusion.

Desperation.

Churning wheels of the rusted philosophical mind.

Creaking sounds, squeaking louder and louder, production yet no produce.

Isn’t that what a philosophical mind is all about?

It’s active, always, yet there are no apparent results for the world to see, for the capitalists to make money from, for the politicians to chart out rules to follow.

There are no results, for this mind knows not that what results it seeks.

It’s a continuous journey, a never-ending road, with loneliness, no companion and no destination to arrive at.

Her legs gave in, she fell down, and she lied on her back. Staring at the starless night, trying to search for those stars hidden far away, dependent on the light to be visible. The stars that people once believed hold your destiny. If only she believed in one, if only her mind didn’t question ‘determinism’ and ‘free will.’ If only she was ignorant and could follow those black and white rules. If only she could.

She closed her eyes, hoping desperately for the sleep to take over.

Humming away in the middle of the night, begging the wind to bring simplicity back and take away the complexities. She lied there, humming sweetly, dissolving her voice, her spirit, her soul, away in the darks of the night. The darkness she believed would take over everything one day.

If only she knew if time was real or was time another illusion like her philosophy books argued.

If only she could simply feel and not think of the contradictions that drove her to madness.

If only she could know what love was.

If only she didn’t analyze what his touch meant.

If only she wouldn’t have run away, or was it inevitable after all.

If only she could simplify those things or accept them in their complexity.

If only she could…

Author: Saniya Zahid