I Visited the Remains of Holocaust in Poland

By Shah Alam Siddiqui

It was mid-summer of 1986 when I decided to go to Karakow and Oswiecm (Auschwitz) with my family for sightseeing and also to explore the history of the Nazi extermination camp and salt mine of Weiliczka in Karakow. Karakow was only 191 miles away, or a three and a half hour drive from Warsaw, where I resided briefly in my years of traveling the world for work.
We reached our hotel in Karakow on a Saturday around noon and began our excursion shortly after, descending 300 stair steps into the depths of the Weiliczka, an incredible salt mine to see. I shall write more about this tiring yet captivating venture in a future reflection.
The next morning we woke up at eight o’clock in the morning, and after getting ready, we started for Oswiecm (Auschwitz) extermination camp, which was only 42 miles away from the hotel. It took us about an hour and fifteen minutes to arrive at the camp.
It was a cool, refreshing morning in Auschwitz-Birkenau but the place we were about to visit was full of sadness and depression, where millions of innocent people were murdered. This extermination/concentration/labor camp was established by German Nazi forces in 1940 and remained till January 1945. According to various sources, the German chain of command carried out the mass extermination of approximately six million Jews, and between five to twelve million individuals of other nationalities. Of the six million prisoners at this camp, over an estimate of one million were put to death.
At the tourist office we paid an entrance fee of about 5,000 Polish Zloty for each ticket. Prior to beginning the tour of the camp, we watched a mandatory fifteen minute documentary. It had been filmed by Soviet soldiers at the first moments of liberation from the camps on January 27th, 1945.
At the entrance gate of the camp was an overhead sign made by prisoners, about 5 meters (16 feet long), with the slogan, “arbeit macht frei” which is a German phrase meaning “Labor makes you free.” This sign was a kind of fake hope for the prisoners.
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The guide started our tour from Block # 26, where the prisoners were brought and forced to undress, have their heads shaved, and then shoved by abusive soldiers into an overcrowded bathroom. Next, regardless of the season, scorching hot or frigid ice water showered the captives, who were then driven, still naked, into the yard and given nothing but filthy prison attire to dress their bodies.
The guide then took us to the next barrack, with a large room in which four to five hundred men and women would be executed by gas. Many gas chambers had been taken apart near the end of the war, and only a few still remained at Dachau, Sachsenhausen, and Majdanek. The gas chamber in which I stood had been reconstructed as a memorial after World War II, although with some variations to the doorway and walls.
The guide explained that in rooms such as this with fake showerheads, around five hundred men, women, and children were made to remove all their clothing and then enter, filled with dread and fear. Then, the doors would shut, and a Nazi soldier would pour Zyklon-B pellets through an opening. This chemical would then turn into a toxic gas upon combining with air, while the helpless people inside the chamber breathed in their last gasps of poison. I learned that women who were pregnant at the time of deportation to the camps would be among the first sent to gas chambers. I shuddered as I learned of the cargo trains full of people just like me and my own family being faced with their untimely deaths in such a manner.
I explored the room, reading the information posted on the walls of the chamber, and learned many more appalling details. From throughout German occupied Europe, three million human beings met their ends in camps such as this. The estimates are that two and a half million were killed in gas chambers, while another half million died of starvation, diseases, forced labor, medical experimentation, and firing squads. Those killed included mostly Jews, but also Poles, Romanians, prisoners of war, and various other nationalities. Within these groups, the handicapped, elderly, scholars, artists, educators, members of political party and anyone else considered “undesirable,” were indiscriminately executed.
Besides the gas chambers, I also saw the crematorium which is located outside the main fence of the camp. This building still had a few large brick ovens, inside which prisoners’ bodies or some who were sentenced to death, would be thrown in and cremated.
For a moment, I closed my eyes and thought, what if I had been one of those killed in the gas chamber? What if I was considered unfit and undeserving of life and forced into these ovens to burn alive? I praised Allah and thanked Him that I was not born at that time and place in history, otherwise, the same fate would surely have been my own. Even forty-two years after the end of World War II, the Auschwitz extermination camp wreaked of death and felt haunted by a dark shroud of pain. One could still feel anguish of those who were murdered in such inhumane ways by Adolf Hitler’s totalitarian Nazi regime.
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In front of the entrance, where the building of the Gestapo once stood, I saw the gallows used on April 16, 1947 to hang the first Camp Commandant Rudolf Hoss, the ruthless Nazi General also responsible, along with so many others, for such inhumanity. The wooden and metal bars of that gallows are still there and telling the story of the end of the Nazi era.
After passing by these points of interest, the group was directed to walk towards Block 11 of Auschwitz. This block was full of punishment cells and many who were sent there did not come out alive. This block was the "prison within the prison", where many were sent as punishment for breaking any of the rules. Some were made to spend nights in what were called “standing cells.” In this small space, up to four men would be forced inside, with no room for anything but standing, only to return to toil and labor during the day. In
the basement of this building were the “starvation cells.” I felt trapped and claustrophobic thinking of being inside such a cell, with no ventilation, no sunlight, and no food or
water. I imagined that I would only survive in such conditions for an hour or so at best. Yet after a twenty hour day of working in horrendous conditions, many would be sent back to cells such as this. How any human being could survive and want to fight for life in such situations was difficult for me to imagine.
This Block 11 also had what is known as a “death wall” in the yard that was used by firing squads to execute anyone guilty of breaking some law. The wall still had signs of bullets fired years ago to take away so many lives. This wall was now a memorial, adorned with mountains of flowers from visitors and delegations around the world. As I stood with my family in the very place where so many had been killed by the firing squads, I paid tribute and my respects.
In one room of Block # 6 the museum has a display of the daily food ration of a prisoner. A prisoner was given food three times a day. On average, for breakfast the prisoners would get ½ liter of black coffee or herbal tea with 5 grams of sugar at the very most, and one small bread about 55-60 grams. For lunch, they would be served a potato, turnip, and cabbage soup, with minimal meats or fats. It was not unusual to find buttons, papers, and other objects inside the soup. The number of calories in the food ranged from a mere 1,300 to 1,700. With the atrocious working conditions and other physical demands made on the prisoners, the body would quickly enter a state of starvation. After the body’s stores had been used up, one would face inevitable death. It’s hard to believe that these death camps, from the buildings to the roads and railroad tracks, were built on the backs of starving, malnourished, and sickly prisoners.
In one room of this museum I saw a mountain of eye glasses confiscated from the prisoners upon their arrival to the camp. In another room I witnessed the materials made by human hairs like hand weave rugs and different things. The museum contains many men's, women's and children's shoes taken from victims; also suitcases, which the deportees were encouraged to bring with them, and many household utensils. One display case, around thirty meters long, is filled with human hair which the Nazis gathered from people before they were sent to labor or before and after they were killed.
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This death camp of Auschwitz has lot of sad stories of the prisoners whether Polish,
Jewish, Romanian or Soviets and all other nationalities that were brutally killed.
There has never been such a large scale murder or genocide of humans in world history.
The Extermination Camp tour gave me much valuable information about the Nazi camp, along with what I heard and read in the books in school. I feel fortunate that I had a chance to witness so much of the Auschwitz extermination camp, the largest Nazi camp in the world. My. Most of the information I mentioned in the write up, I gathered from the tour guide and from the information available in the museum.
I feel that I am very fortunate and blessed to have had the opportunity to explore the world during different assignments in Foreign Service. I have visited and served in the countries for which a person can only dream. I started my foreign assignment from New
Delhi and ended up in Mozambique. Poland, Czechoslovakia, Soviet Union, Germany, East Berlin, Holland, Bangladesh, South Africa, Namibia, Swaziland and India are the countries; I explored as a tourist and worked as a diplomat on different assignments. The reason I mentioned about my visits of these countries are just to let my readers know that in every city where I went I visited the historical places and museums to get knowledge as one of my interesting subject. But when I visited Auschwitz extermination camp in Poland it made me sad and heart broken. I don’t care if there was one death in the camp or one million or six million. The life of human beings is always precious.
After spending over seven hours at the Auschwitz camp, my family and I headed back to Warsaw. All the way during my drive back, I thought about the atrocities committed by the German Nazis on innocent men, women, and children. From the very same day when I finished my trip to the camp I started on my quest to learn more about the Holocaust. I read different books on history of the Holocaust by different writers but there was not much research at that time on this subject. My curiosity did not stop and from time to time I kept searching for more information. During the last 26 years after my visit of Auschwitz and completing my stay in the beautiful country of Poland, I have read different books and watched videos and end up with this conclusion that the Holocaust certainly happened in human history. But what I remain unsure of is the extent of the loss of human life during the period.
There are hundreds of scholars, researchers and revisionist who don’t agree with the number of dead in the holocaust. One French Jewish Professor Dr. R. Dommerque Polacco de Menasce, said in an interview to Ernst Zundel, President of Voice of Freedom Broadcast based in Canada, that the “figures are completely fake. It is a simple technical arithmetic problem and could be solved by a high school child. There were 3 million and 3 thousand Jews in occupied Europe in 1942 so I don’t see how one can kill 6 million Jews while there were only 3 million Jews.” In a letter on September 18, 2011 to Steven Spielberg, a prominent film maker and seven Academy Awards winner for the film “Schindler's List” Professor Dr. Dommerque mentioned to him
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that“ These laws are, accordingly, the absolute proof of the fake before we study its arithmetical and technical ineptitude. No Sir, you will not find ONE witness who saw 6 millions Jews slaughtered. You will not find ONE witness of Zyclon- B- gas chambers to exterminate 1000 or 2000 people at a time, close to the crematoria. See my 'Shoa Sherlockholmised' herewith: it is the summary of 20 years study on the subject. The'6-million-gas-chambers myth’ is an arithmetic and technical nonsense.”
I have a disagreement with Professor Dr. Dommerque about the holocaust “truth” what he intended to publicize before the world. There are thousands of survivors from the holocaust, and their interviews which reveal the painful stories of Auschwitz and other
Nazi camps around Europe. I have watched several interviews of survivors with heart breaking stories which can make anyone burst into tears.
I am no historian, but I have developed interest to go deep into the history of Holocaust to find out more facts about the most gruesome genocide in human history. Since 1986 after my visit to Auschwitz I started to find out books in libraries about Auschwitz death camp and found some interesting information. There were no videos or YouTube facilities for research purpose available at that time, nor was there enough research that was carried out on the subject of holocaust at that time. After 1990 when the electronic media started growing and computer became accessible to people, the research work became easier for students like me.
The write up on the subject took me few years to finish. I started writing on Holocaust just after couple of months of my visit the camp but stop writing due to lack of information and research material on the subject. Also I was scared to write any thing on the holocaust because of double standard on “free speech” policy in Europe. Whatever I have mentioned in this article, is my opinion based on my personal experience at the Auschwitz camp, my study and research on the subject. I don’t see any thing against holocaust in this article.
I would like to conclude my finding on Auschwitz extermination camp that “yes” the holocaust occurred in Second World War and European Jews were the most among all those diverse nationalities who brutally gassed in chambers, killed by firing squad, by starvation and by disease. However the contradiction is still there in the number of dead - which not six million Jews were killed in the holocaust as the latest research reveals the facts, and as time passes more facts will come before the world.
My diplomatic assignment in Poland was one of the best of my career, keeping in view the best country, best people and the history of Poland. Above all, my youngest son was born in Warsaw, Poland. I will always remember that place.

Auschwitz-gates-"Work will make you free." Auschwitz-Birkenau

Entrance to the infamous Auschwitz-Birkenau death camp

The ovens at Auschwitz cremated the bodies of those who died in the camp.

The gas chamber at Majdanek, a Nazi concentration camp in Poland, the walls were stained                                                                blue by Zyklon B.
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By Shah A Siddiqui: Critique Writer, Columnist, Freelance Journalist.

LOVE IS...... DEAF

by Urooj Grundmann

“I’ll give my matchmaker friend a call,” offered my aunt. Arguing had proven futile many a time over the last three weeks of our stay in Karachi. A humid and dusty city close to the southern coast of Pakistan, Karachi is where all of my extended family resides. I hadn’t seen them for over twelve years and it astonished me to see all of my cousins grown up. Some were married, some had children, and the rest, still a bit young to be hitched, waited in line for their turns. In Pakistan, finding a spouse is a family affair. It is not out of the ordinary for Pakistani families to marry off their daughters to a successful, not necessarily handsome man soon after they graduate high school.

Therefore, although my parents and I were just visiting for six weeks, my aunt eagerly wanted to help me find a husband too- now that I was twenty-one and apparently, running out of time. Mama and I, out of sheer curiosity and amusement, agreed to let her try.  My aunt, enthusiastic and zealous, had already gone through numerous potential suitors; however, none of them piqued my interest. To be quite honest, I knew it was impossible. I did not like Pakistani men. Period.  

Call me ignorant and closed-minded. Go ahead. I was not going to change my mind. The biggest reason for my aversion? Simple. Their accent when they speak English. I’m not saying I’m perfect when it comes to grammar and pronunciation, but I could not, for the life of me, imagine myself with a man who had a Pakistani or Indian accent. You know the one- Apu from The Simpsons. Or better yet, when you call tech support if your computer is acting up and they tell you their name is Robert from Kansas, but really it’s something more along the lines of Rajan Anush Patel from Mumbai, India, and you have no idea what they’re saying most of the time because they confuse their W’s for V’s and wice wersa… The harsh D, R, and T sounds that originate from a different place in the mouth in the Pakistani version of English chafed my eardrums. Plus, the way they say schedule like shed-dool just pushed me over the edge. Nope. I knew I could not live with hearing that for the rest of my life, and I was just as certain that this hypothetical husband of mine would get fed-up rather quickly with my constant correcting, or at the very least, seeing me wince whenever he opened his mouth to speak.

            The pedestal fan oscillated hot soggy air around the small living room of my aunt’s humble second floor apartment. The three of us sat there conversing, reminiscing, laughing, and contemplating about men, all over a cup of hot, sweet chai on that sweltering summer evening of July. Though my aunt didn’t give up the hope of finding me a husband, she was forced to put her mission on hold while my parents and I began packing that night for our one and a half week visit to Islamabad, the capital of Pakistan, the city where I was born.

            Once on the 20 hour train ride, I listened quietly from the top bunk as my parents wondered what Islamabad would look like now, how the weather would be, and most importantly, what it would be like to reunite with one of Papa’s closest friends, Reyaz, or Uncle Reyaz, as my brothers and I lovingly called him according to Pakistani custom, even though we weren’t at all related. Their friendship began in the early days of working for the Pakistani Embassies, and they kept in touch over the years through letters and brief long-distance phone calls. To our knowledge, Uncle Reyaz still lived in the same house with his two sons, Kamran and Rehan, and daughter, Anila. Uncle Reyaz had remarried after his first wife, a cherished friend to my mother, succumbed to breast cancer. We hadn’t seen any of them, not even pictures of them, for nearly twelve years. We did, however, possess a photo album filled with faded pictures of the last time we visited Islamabad, with one photo particular that still stands out in my mind. In this picture, taken in Uncle Reyaz’s living room, all the children were sitting on the couch, staring in amazement as my older brother blew a giant pink bubble the size of his face.  We all looked as adorable as chipmunks, with our full cheeks, big eyes, little hands, and tiny bodies. I, too, was as curious as my parents and could not wait to see them all again.

Uncle Reyaz had informed us that Kamran, his older son, would pick us up from the train station in Lahore and accompany us on the bus and taxi ride to Islamabad. At last, our train came to a halt. We gathered our luggage and took our first few steps onto the platform. The air felt slightly cooler and sweeter than it had in Karachi. I took in a deep breath and closed my eyes, letting the sounds of people hustling off the train dissipate into nothingness. When I opened my eyes, in the distance I saw a face that was familiar and different all at once. It was Kamran.

            He was much taller than I remembered him, and with his short-sleeve button down, I could see his strong, toned biceps, which were also a change from the scrawny, twig of-a-boy I had pictured. He still had the same coal black hair and large, almond brown eyes. The broad smile upon his face looked exactly the same as before. He was, by definition, tall, dark, and handsome.

            Papa, overjoyed to see Kamran, embraced him like a long lost son and they seemed to slow dance in place for a moment. Kamran released Papa then greeted Mama. I tried not to stare at him. He gave me a quick glance and a nod, neither of us sure how to address each other.

            With a few swift motions, Kamran now carried just about all of our luggage. He and Papa walked ahead while Mama and I hung back a few paces. I looked at Mama, and she looked at me. From the smile on her face I knew we were thinking the same thing. “He looks good, huh?” Mama proposed, as though she was implying that I was interested. I nodded and smiled in concurrence.

Whoa.

Hold it.

Stop.

Did I just agree that I found him… dashing?

At that very instant, it hit me. The fluttering in my chest, the butterflies in my stomach, and the hotness of my cheeks were the unmistakable combination of feelings that in high school are called, “having a crush.” In a matter of seconds, I had an unexpected, unbelievable crush on a down right, straight up, Pakistani man.

            After a bus ride that seemed to last forever and a taxi ride over dirt and gravel roads that was so bumpy it made my rear end sore, we finally arrived at Uncle Reyaz’s home. It was just as I remembered with its plain gray exterior, rusty red gate, uneven driveway, and most of all, its hospitality.

            After a tearful reunion, we settled into one of the air conditioned bedrooms. Over the next few days, as the Reyaz family took us anywhere and everywhere that mattered in the city of Islamabad, I realized that my feelings for Kamran were slowly creeping and settling into my heart. I strategically kept placing myself close to him whenever I could- at the dinner table, in the car, in the living room, on a walk… I couldn’t deny it any longer. I had feelings for Kamran despite some very strong turn-offs that I had discovered. Not only did he have that accent I cringed upon hearing, but he also smoked about a pack a day, and I realized that all that smoking had damaged his otherwise perfect smile. Still, I couldn’t help but admire so many other qualities besides his rugged good looks. He was extremely responsible, running the home mainly on his income, respectful to his father and stepmother, gracious and generous as a host, hilarious with all the stories he told, and charismatic in a way that I hadn’t seen before.

I was certainly drawn to him, but I wondered if he thought of me at all. My strongest clue came one afternoon at the mountainous Chattar Park as we all waited in line to get onto the chair lifts that would take us from one mountain peak to another. Kamran was on the phone with a friend when I overheard him say, in a tone that sounded like a guilty confession, “I’ve caught love-aria.”

“Love-aria,” which purposely rhymes with malaria, was a term used in an old Bollywood movie and basically means you are in love. I didn’t know for a fact if he was talking about me, but I was almost certain.

            Mama, excited that I was actually head-over-heels for a Pakistani man, didn’t miss the first chance she found to notify Papa, who in turn, couldn’t wait to spill the beans and have “the talk” with Uncle Reyaz. I tried, though not very sincerely, to dissuade him. The truth was, however, that I wanted to see what would happen. Papa agreed to take the conversation very slowly, just making inquiries, without hinting at my feelings at all.

            It was time for their evening cup of chai, when all the parents would go out into the backyard and enjoy the sunset, and the perfect time for their conversation to take place. Kamran still hadn’t returned from work and Anila and Rehan were watching TV in another room. I waited anxiously in our room.

            At times I felt giddy, my heart seeming to skip a beat or two every now and then when the excitement was too much to bear. Then, just as suddenly, all those feelings would skid to a stop when I realized that a future with Kamran meant the possibility of returning to Pakistan for good. Was I ready for that? The two ideas competed in my head. I simultaneously felt burning hot and icy cold. My hands were moist with sweat yet freezing at the same time. I strained to hear any words from their conversation but they were too far away. Instead, I heard the sputtering of motorcycles and rickshaws passing by outside, the soft hum of the air conditioner, and the pesky song of a mosquito dancing around my head. Then, I heard shuffling steps walking towards the room.

I sprang into action, grabbing a random book and hopping onto the bed, and pretended that I had been reading. I attempted to appear as nonchalant as possible, turning a page. “Why are you reading that upside down?” asked Mama, and then added, “You can’t even read Urdu right side up.” I didn’t have an answer. My parents closed the door and I knew there was something they had to tell me.

They had this awkward smile on their faces- the kind that people get when they have something to tell you but they don’t really want to, the kind that tries to reassure but only ends up looking silly, except you know there’s going to be some bad news so you don’t feel like laughing, the kind when they know that what they’re about to say may break your heart.

            “Kamran’s engaged,” Mama finally declared. He was to be married within a year. And that was it. The words fell like bricks on my chest but I didn’t- I couldn’t let the words affect me. This wasn’t supposed to happen in the first place. I wasn’t supposed to fall for a Pakistani man. I practically couldn’t stand the sound of them. I never even imagined that I could have feelings for one let alone want to marry one and spend the rest of my life with one!

            The very next day was the last of our stay in Islamabad; we were to return to Karachi for the remainder of our stay in Pakistan. We packed our bags solemnly, not really wanting to leave the Reyaz family, but knowing that it was inevitable. To me, nothing seemed to matter any more. I didn’t cry. I just wondered why. Why did I want him so badly? Why did I want him to leave her, whoever she was, and be with me? Why did I keep thinking about never seeing him again? Why did I start to miss him when we hadn’t even left yet? Maybe it was because I knew that it was the end but I didn’t want it to be, like when you eat a lollipop and you get down to the very end, when there are just a few shards of sweetness left on the little paper stick, and you just chew on it, hoping to make it last a little longer- even if it scratches your tongue or gets stuck in your teeth.  I didn’t want to let go.

            I only got over the disappointment once we returned to the states and the reality of my world slammed into my face. I was back to getting ready for school, catching up with my college friends, going out for dinners and coffee, and driving my car down the open Texas highways. I loved being back, loved my freedom, my independence, my home. But I will never forget that trip when I realized that love isn’t just about accents or the lack thereof; it’s about much more than that. It’s about character, generosity, values, and respect. It’s about being there for your loved ones and supporting them in times of need. It’s about seeing and listening beyond the exterior.

Love is blind; love is deaf.

           

Much to my aunt’s relief, I did get married a few years later. She even designed my wedding dress and had it tailor-made for me in Pakistan. When I received it, here in Texas, it was for my nuptials with Scott from New Orleans, my wonderful husband who possesses all the qualities I admire in a man. And even though he says ambu-LANCE and BOO-fay (buffet), in his Louisiana accent, I love him dearly.

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A Matter of Pride-Mona Kazim Shah

A Matter of Pride-Dr. Mona Kazim Shah

By Shah A Siddiqui

I was sitting with my friend Ahmad in a local Indo-Pak restaurant in Plano and we were both busy talking about Pakistani politics and media. My friend pointed out on a table where two ladies were enjoying eating their food with their hands. My friend Ahmad and myself were also busy eating Haleem.  My friend is very mischievous and open minded person who does not hesitate to start conversation with any stranger whatsoever.  He told me “ yar Shah ji haath se khane ka jo maza hay who spoon aur fork se nahi ata”  I replied’ yes it is true but it depends from person to person”.  All of a sudden Ahmad started a conversation after Salam Alaikum, and asked, “how are you doing madam”, she hesitantly said “I am doing great!” She was surprised when Ahmed asked her that “how do you feel when you eat rice and fish with your hands?” she replied that “I am eating throughout all my life with my hands  and you get more taste when eating with your hands.” We were both delighted to hear her resposne and the next question was from her. She asked us what country we belong to. My friend responded that we both belong to Pakistan and in return she introduced herself that she and her mother belong to Bangladesh. Mother and daughter was over 65 and 50s. She (daughter) is working in the sales department of Verizon.

She asked us if we know Mona Kazim Shah, if we are Pakistani, I was surprised and dazed to hear this question from a Bengali woman. My friend answered her that yes, I knew her and a couple of weeks ago I saw her in a community function.“She is a wonderful radio programmer and I enjoy her radio show “Politics Today” she pronounced. ‘Do you understand her political program in Urdu’ oh yes, I understand Urdu, she replied with a smile. I started conversation in Bengali with this lady  and to her surprise, “Oh my God you are from Pakistan but how you speak Bengali” I answered her that if a Bengali can speak Urdu and understand Urdu then why I can't speak Bengali. For the information of my readers, I would like to let him know that I can write, read and speak Bengali, Hindi and can speak and understand Punjabi as well aside from some knowledge of understanding and speaking  Spanish too. I can also understand and speak Polish.  

Unfortunately, I did not ask her name, it is my fault and I am sure she would have no problem telling us her name but she also did not ask us for our names but we just had a useful and interesting  conversation on the school children massacre in Peshawar, Pakistan. These two Bangladeshi ladies are also very distressing about the killing of children in Peshawar by a terrorist group TTP. She has an eye on the current situation in Pakistan. We also talked about the radio personality of Fun Asia, Mona Kazim Shah.

I am, yet thinking that why a Bangladeshi lady wanted to judge our affiliation with Mona Kazim Shah just because we are from Pakistan. The Pakistani community who is in Dallas/Fort Worth area should feel proud that a Broadcast Journalist, an anchorperson, a social activist became a symbol of Pakistan in the United States.

I got very excited at that fourth dimension of our conversation with Bangladeshi lady and her sentiment about one of our Pakistani Radio Journalist. I could not wait till I see Mona Kazim Shah to convey the full wishes of Bengali lady and I called Mona right away, only she was not available on the phone. Later she called me back and I conveyed the message to her.

I am very much proud of Mona Shah that she is not only popular within the Pakistani community, but most of other  South Asian community as well.

Mona Kazim Shah, you are doing an excellent job as a Pakistani woman, as a Journalist, anchorperson, and an activist. Our prayers go out to you and that Allah gives you more strength to work for the South Asian community . YOU ARE A SYMBOL OF PRIDE FOR US-MONA KAZIM SHAH

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 Shah A Siddiqui, is a poet, freelance journalist, columnist, critique writer and Bureau Chief of ‘Pakistan Times’ and ‘South Asia Gazette’ being published from USA and Canada every week.

A MEETING WITH AMRITA PRITAM

I feel I am a very fortunate person who was blessed by God to achieve every essence of a good life in this world.  During my diplomatic life I often had a chance to see and meet with different personalities of the political world to arts & culture and religious figures.

I remember my meeting with Amrita Pritam in New Delhi. She was an Indian writer and poet, considered the first prominent female Punjabi poet, novelist, and essayist, and she was also considered the leading 20th-century poet of the Punjabi language. Amrita is equally loved on both sides of the border of the Indian subcontinent. She is most remembered for her poignant poem, Aj Aakhaan Waris Shah Nu (Today I invoke Waris Shah - \"Ode to Waris Shah\"), an elegy to the 18th-century Punjabi poet, and an expression of her anguish over massacres during the partition of India. But I was inspired after reading her autobiography “The Revenue Stamp,” English version of “Raseedi Ticket.” This book became very popular just after its publication, I believe in 1976.  Since I am very fond of reading books on different topics, I had a chance to buy the book in New Delhi, and read this book twice. The reason, I found the writer of this book deeply involved in love with Pakistan, its heritage and friends from Pakistan. It might be the reason that Pakistan is her birth place and she was born and raised in Gujranwala and Lahore.

I was posted at the Pakistan Embassy in New Delhi from January 1978.  I knew a couple of local embassy staff who were familiar with the New Delhi area, and also with Amrita Pritam.  I planned to meet her with the help of one of my local staff, Aziz Khan. After a week of communication she gave us a time to meet her at her Safdar Jang Enclave, Hauz Khas residence in New Delhi. It was mid August 1979, about 7:00 pm, I rang the door bell and a young man, perhaps her aide, opened the gate and took us inside the drawing room. The house was built in stone with tall windows, trailing with bougainvillaea and different flowers like haarsinghar tree. The lawn was well maintained and strewn with tiny flowers.

After a while Amrita Pritam entered into the drawing room and greeted  us with enthusiasm,  She was 60 yrs old but one could feel that she was still energetic and a gorgeous lady. After greeting us with folded hands she took her seat in the front sofa. Her Urdu or Hindi was mixed with a Punjabi accent.

In her sixties she still had a lot of memories from her native land of Gujranwala and Lahore, where she grew up, till her migration to India, in 1947.  Her mind was still in the past, and remembered each and every one of her friends from Pakistan, like Sajjad Haider, Faiz Ahmed Faiz, and many others. Amrita Pritam still remembered each little alley way and street from Lahore, where she spent her blossoming life and was married to Pritam Singh, a prominent businessman’s son. But it was not a long married life. Amrita was a very modern type woman until her death. She was from a religious Sikh family and her father was a religious preacher. Even though she went against her Sikh tradition and cut her hair when she fell in love with Imroz, she did not change her religion. Imroz was also from a Sikh family, but unlike traditional and religious custom, he did not have a beard. Unfortunately, at that evening he was not at home due to a prior commitment somewhere else. Imroz was her life time companion till her death in 2005. 

She was a very broad minded lady and did not hesitate to disclose her love affairs with    laureate personalities such as Sahir Ludhyanvi, and Imroz. She also mentioned about her deep feelings toward Sahir in her biography. She remembered Sajjad Haider, her very best real friend from Pakistan. In her autobiography “The Revenue Stamp”  she writes

     “Sajjad was in Delhi for a good eighteen days. Nights he spent at Marina Hotel, days at      my house. This was the first time in my life I realized I had a friend in the world, a friend in every sense of the word. For the first time ever it dawned on me that a poem does not need to be created out of the passion of love. It can waft across the calm seas of friendship. At parting, I wrote:  and live with me

              Buy me a pair of wings, Stranger—

              Or come and live with me”

In a  remarkable sentimental statement  she mentioned about a cultural get together in London, where she met with Fehmida Riaz,  Shahab Qizilbash, Saqi Farooqi, , Abdullah Hussain  and prominent classical singers Nazakat Ali and Salamat Ali.

She also mentioned Faiz Ahmed Faiz and Ahmed Nadeem Qasmi during conversation.

 One could see in her eyes the emotions and love of friends and land, which she left due to geographical conditions and politics.

She was very hospitable and courteous by nature, and she proved it by talking with me for more than an hour, serving us delicious desserts, samosa, and coffee. I looked at my watch and it was around 8:30pm, when I thought it was time to thank her for being so courteous and friendly with us, and spent more time than she had originally given to us for the appointment. She walked us to the gate to say good bye and shook hands.

It was one of the best times I ever spent with any laureate person of the Indo-Pak subcontinent, who was very rich in bagging so many higher Indian literature awards to her credit. When I heard about her death in the news in October 2010, I was shocked, and had a sort of flashback about all her conversations during a meeting in Hauz Khas, New Delhi, about 26 years back.