Finding Community

Finding Community
By Salma Hasan Ali
■■The author, who
first came to America
from Pakistan as a
child nearly 35 years
ago, finds that her two
worlds blend as easily
as a tunic and jeans.
Pakistan on the Potomac
Being a cross-cultural parent in Washington can mean teaching your
children the Koran—and then carpooling them to hip-hop class.
Our flight touched down at Reagan National Airport three years ago, bringing
us back to Washington after 15 years in
Geneva, Bahrain, Paris, and Houston.
Diplomacy and law had taken us abroad;
the pull of family had brought us back.
As soon as my husband, son, daughter,
and I left the baggage area, a dozen family members engulfed us with hugs. My
heart smiled with the contentment you
feel when you know you’re home, really
home. As I settled into the back seat of my
in-laws’ car, nestled between our children,
all I could think of was how different it
had been when my family came to America nearly 35 years ago.
“Where you wanna go? Where you wanna go?” I don’t think my father understood a word the cab driver said.
“This is our first time in New York,” he
told the cabbie at JFK Airport in his heavily accented Indo-Pak-London English.
“Please take us to a neighborhood that
would be suitable for my family.”
The cabbie shrugged as he tossed our
suitcases into the trunk. We had left our
country, our home, our sense of belonging—and now our fate rested in the hands
of a New York cab driver from China.
We didn’t know anyone in New York.
We had little idea of life in America. All
of our belongings—some clothes, a few
books, a Rosenthal tea set my father had
bought in Germany—was in the twinetied trunk of a yellow cab.
“Which is a safe neighborhood for my
family? Where can I buy discounted furniture? What schools would you recommend for my children?” My father lobbed
question after question at the cabbie, trying to gain some understanding of where
to go and what to do.
My mother cried in the back seat. My
brother and I—too scared to cry, too intimidated to speak—looked out the window. For a seven-year-old girl more used
to seeing rickshaws than cars and who had
never seen a tall building, this place seemed
as far away from home as the moon.
Home had been Dhaka in East Pakistan, now Bangladesh, where I was born.
Our house, leased from the Coca-Cola
Company, where my father worked, was
cozy and inviting. Situated in the CocaCola compound, it didn’t have much
of a backyard. But I remember chickens
and ducks in the front garden and parrots
in round cages on the veranda. My days
were filled with walks with my aya (nanny), riding a tricycle around the grounds
with my brother, and getting my dolls
ready for adventures. My older brother
would spend his days chatting and playing with the workers at the Coca-Cola
factory, chugging bottles of Coke right
off the conveyor belt.
My parents had a circle of friends, an
active social life, and lots of family all
Photographs by Scott Suchman
December 2008 | Washingtonian | 43
»
■■Salma Ali’s children,
Zayd, 6, and Saanya,
12, take pride in their
heritage even as they
lead typical suburban
lives here, enjoying
everything from swim
team to Miley Cyrus.
around. It seemed like
an ideal childhood. It
would come to an end after my fourth birthday.
The beginnings of civil
war between East and
West Pakistan were evident in early 1971. Businesses would shut down
at noon; curfews were
imposed nightly; people
stayed behind locked
doors. My parents decided to leave Dhaka before
things got worse. We sold
our car, our furniture,
and most of our belongings to buy airline tickets.
The airport was closed
for days at a time, and the
number of people desperate to get out grew as
political unrest increased.
Months earlier, my father
had applied for a green
card to allow us to emigrate to the United States. Meanwhile, he
had an offer to work for Pepsi in Jeddah,
Saudi Arabia, so that’s where we headed
first. We were lucky. We had a way out.
My mother, brother, and I camped at the
airport for two days and two nights before
we got on a plane to Lahore, West Pakistan. My father stayed behind to sort out
our affairs and figure out what to do with
our new house, which he had designed and
which had just been finished—a labor of
love he’d planned to fill with the finest furniture, china, and linens from Europe.
After two years in Jeddah, my father accepted a job with Bechtel Corporation, one
of the world’s largest construction companies, which brought us to America. Home
now became a two-bedroom apartment in
Flushing, Queens, the neighborhood our
Chinese cabbie had suggested on our ride
from JFK.
Flushing was an immigrant community, primarily Asians, with decent public
schools by New York standards and a direct
train into Manhattan. As with our decision
to live in Flushing, everything we did those
first months, such as apartment hunting,
was arbitrary. We would walk down Main
44 | Washingtonian | December 2008
Street in Flushing for hours, and if we happened to see people who looked like us—
women in saris, men with turbans—we
would follow them to see where they lived.
That’s how we found our first apartment.
With the one-month hotel allowance
from Bechtel that my father had saved, we
bought a sofa, three beds, a TV, and some
household items from Woolworth’s.
My father would take the train to work
in Manhattan. But five weeks into his job,
there was a stop order on the project he
was working on. Fearing being laid off, he
volunteered to take any assignment anywhere. For the next four years, he lived
and worked in Louisville, Boston, Memphis, and Irvine, California, coming home
one weekend a month. We would join him
during the summers.
During that time, my mother kept it all
together. She tells me now how disoriented
she felt. In Dhaka, she’d had a cook, a cleaning lady, a nanny, a gardener, and a big network of family and friends. In New York, she
did the household chores, worked full-time
in Manhattan as a bookkeeper, took care of
us, and didn’t know a soul.
Mom figured out the neighborhood,
where to buy Indian spices and halal meat
(meat slaughtered in a way prescribed by
Muslim law). She would prepare our favorite
traditional foods each night—chicken curry
for me and a meatball stew for my brother—
and somehow the smells and tastes of home
would take the edge off our difficult days.
My brother and I tried to negotiate the
public-school system. I didn’t speak English, looked different, was shy, dressed
oddly, and had no clue about American
culture. I started in second grade, my
brother in fourth, at PS 20 on Barclay Avenue, five blocks from our home. Before the
morning bell, each class would line up on
the blacktop enclosed by high wire fences.
And then it would start: “Hey, you . . . .”
You can fill in the blank with every taunt
known to street-hardened eight-year-olds.
Every morning I prayed to God to help
me get through another day; each night I
prayed to return home to Pakistan.
The classes were especially hard because
I had no idea what the teacher was saying.
I was determined to learn English if only
to understand all the things kids were saying. I asked my teacher to stay after school
to tutor me, and I was a quick study.
Every day that first month, my brother
would come home with bruises and a battered ego. While I decided to take the studious route, he quickly learned that his salvation lay in sports. Heavily built and with
an aptitude for anything involving a ball,
he got the hang of baseball and basketball.
He made friends easily, too, with his outgoing personality and quick wit.
But my brother wasn’t the bravest of
latchkey kids. Each day when we returned
home from school and waited for our
mother, he calmed his fears by watching
Gilligan’s Island, while I read the Koran
to keep us safe from the evils that he convinced me lurked outside. Apparently, God
listened to the prayers of girls faster than
those of boys—or so my brother told me.
Our family spent our Saturdays exploring the Big Apple. We took the subway all
over the city. Our big treat was seeing a
Broadway show. Because we couldn’t afford the $40 tickets, we would wait until
the show was just about to start and slip
the usher a $20 bill to allow us to stand in
the back of the theater.
Sundays were reser ved for religious
December 2008 | Washingtonian | 45
Finding the Flavors of Pakistan Around Washington
Spices and Such
To try your hand at Pakistani cooking, stock
up on spices, halal meat, basmati rice, all varieties of lentils, and other traditional ingredients.
Indus Food (15513 New Hampshire Ave,
Silver Spring; 301-989-9448) and Halalco Supermarket (155 Hillwood Ave., Falls Church;
703-532-3202) carry the tastes of Pakistan,
including Shan’s chutneys, National spices,
and Maaza mango juice. Try using Shan’s premixed spices for a shortcut to making everything from curries to kebabs. Many of these
stores also carry CDs, Indian and Pakistani
movies to rent, and henna.
Fashion Finds
There are several stores where you can buy
traditional Pakistani clothes as well as the latest
46 | Washingtonian | December 2008
Cultural Experiences
■■Ravi Kabob House is a favorite for
Pakistani fare such as samosas, above,
and bone-in chicken tikkas.
South Asian–inspired trends such as kurtis (tunics), khussas (embroidered or beaded leather
shoes), and pashminas.
Ruby’s Collection (8032 Leesburg Pike,
Vienna; 703-288-3541) has clothes for the
whole family. Sonia Jewelry (418 Elden St.,
Herndon, 703-742-0700; other locations in
Arlington, 703-538-5941, and Springfield,
703-912-5600) offers a wide selection of saris,
gold jewelry, and bangles as well as a tailor and
eyebrow threading.
In April, the Embassy of Pakistan hosts a
Pakistani musical program as part of the National Cherry Blossom Festival. In May, the
embassy hosted an open house to introduce
Washingtonians to Pakistani culture, food,
crafts, music, art, and fashion, which it hopes
to make into an annual event.
Pakistan Independence Day is celebrated in
August with food, handicrafts, jewelry, clothes,
bangles, and live music. For many years it took
place on the Mall, drawing crowds of up to
50,000 and attracting interesting personalities from Pakistan. Last year it was held at the
Maryland SoccerPlex in Boyds.
Chand Raat, the night before the most festive Muslim holiday, Eid al-Fitr, will be in September next year. The celebration includes traditional food, music, stalls for clothing, bangles
and crafts, and lots of mehndi (henna), the evening’s most popular tradition, in which women
and girls decorate their hands in beautiful patterns. Families, dressed in traditional costumes
from all over the world, gather to meet friends
and introduce their kids to the magic of Eid.
For a wonderful new children’s book about
Ramadan and Eid, check out Night of the Moon
by Rockville resident Hena Khan.
For fans of cricket, the most popular sport
among Pakistanis, there’s a local league, the
Washington Cricket League (wclinc.com/
cricket.php).
Please Pass the Chapatis
The mainstays of a Pakistani meal:
Curries. Typically made with beef or
goat and combined with vegetables such
as spinach, cauliflower, or potatoes.
Karahi. Mutton or chicken slow-cooked
in tomato sauce in a cast-iron pot.
Dal. Split peas, beans, and lentils prepared into a thick, soupy stew and served
over rice. Dal is considered simple fare,
but haleem—made from dal, wheat, and
meat and slow-cooked for several hours—
is served on special occasions, particularly
during the month of Ramadan.
Kebabs. Seekh kebab is a long skewer
of beef or lamb mixed with herbs and
seasonings. Shami kebab is a small patty
of minced beef or chicken and ground
lentils and spices.
Vegetables. Spinach, okra, eggplant,
or potatoes sautéed with onion, garlic,
cumin, and green chilies.
Breads. Chapatis are thin and unleav-
ened, often made of whole-wheat flour.
Puris are deep-fried and typically eaten
with halwa, a sweet confection made
with semolina, sugar, and butter. Naans
are thicker, made with white flour, and
usually leavened with yeast.
Rice. Long-grain, fragrant basmati rice
is the preferred choice for Pakistani dishes.
Pullao is rice browned in oil with dry spices
and cooked in a seasoned broth with peas,
potatoes or chicken. Biryani is a special-occasion dish made with beef, chicken, goat,
or lamb and other ingredients, including
cloves, cardamom, cinnamon, bay leaves,
and saffron.
Desserts. Kheer, pudding made of
vermicelli or rice; gulab jamun, dumplings made of reduced milk and soaked
in rose-flavored sugar syrup; and my
favorite, rasmalai, sugary balls made
from ricotta cheese soaked in sweetened milk.
Photograph by Matthew Worden
To get a taste of Pakistani culture, start with
the food. While nothing in Washington comes
close to my mom’s tamatar gosht (tomatoand-lamb curry), there are good places to find
kebabs and curries.
Aabshaar Sweet & Kabob House (6550
Backlick Rd., Springfield; 703-866-1155).
Try the halwa puri.
Chutney Restaurant (7081–83 Brookfield
Plaza, Springfield; 703-569-7700). My family
and I like the seekh kebabs and sesame naan as
well as the colorful pouches of paan masala
that top each meal.
East West Grill (2721 Wilson Blvd., Arlington; 703-312-4888). The Grill has the market
cornered for halal (meaning “lawful” or “permitted”) hamburgers and cheeseburgers.
Kabob Palace (2315 S. Eads St., Arlington;
703-486-3535). Thanksgiving at our house is
not complete without a platter of this restaurant’s lamb chops alongside our halal turkey.
Ravi Kabob House (305 N. Glebe Rd., Arlington, 703-522-6666; 250 N. Glebe Rd.,
Arlington, 703-816-0222).These Arlington
dives top everyone’s best list. The bone-in
chicken tikkas, kebab karahi, and chicken
karahi are popular.
Shiney’s Sweets (4231 Markham St., Annandale; 703-642-0460). The best Pakistani
desserts in town.
Silver Spoon (18530 Woodfield Rd., Gaithersburg; 301-990-6868). Try a kebab roll and
mango lassi for lunch.
Tabeer Restaurant (1401 University Blvd.
E., Hyattsville; 301-434-2121). A good catering option.
Tandoori Village (7607 Centreville Rd.,
Manassas; 703-369-6526). A Punjabi village
in the middle of Manassas. The chicken curry
is delicious.
school. My parents felt that my brother
and I should maintain our Pakistani and
Muslim identity and that the best way to do
that was to interact with other Pakistanis.
Every Sunday morning, we took a bus to a
rundown office building on College Point
Boulevard where Pakistani families would
gather to socialize and teach their children
about their religion and culture.
My parents made some of their best
friends during those Sunday get-togethers:
the Ahmads, the Amanats, the Bezaars,
and the Usmans. These families became
a support network as they all struggled to
raise children in a foreign culture.
While we adopted many American customs, we also held onto Pakistani traditions. My mother insisted that we have dinner together each night. Some days we ate
in silence, but we were there. Because my
brother and I both chose to live at home
and commute to college, the tradition
continued until the day I got married.
We slowly settled into a comfortable American groove. After four years in the city, we
bought our first house in suburban Tenafly,
New Jersey. By then, my father had landed a
good job with a large multinational in Connecticut. My mother commuted to Manhattan to work for an electronics company. We
had a Chevy station wagon, an active social
life, and a growing savings account. We were
living the American dream.
It has been more than three decades since
we landed at JFK. Now my children are
about the ages my brother and I were
when we arrived in America. Saanya, 12,
and Zayd, 6, are happily ensconced in our
Bethesda/Potomac community. They
have many friends, a cat, play dates, too
many activities, a trampoline—but not a
Nintendo DS yet.
I spoke Urdu as a child; they know more
words in Spanish than in our family’s native
tongue. I grew up watching my parents pray
five times a day; though it’s my goal, I fall
short some days. For me, Eid—the day of
celebration at the end of Ramadan—was the
biggest thing since naan bread; our son still
wonders why Santa doesn’t visit our house.
I never learned to swim because the idea
of wearing a bathing suit in public didn’t sit
right with me; our daughter lives in her River Falls swim-team one-piece all summer.
For my brother and me, a vacation meant
driving to Syracuse to visit our aunt and uncle; our kids have visited some of the most
exotic locales in the world. My brother and
I started out attending some pretty rough
public schools; our daughter goes to an allgirls private school, our son one of the best
public schools in Maryland.
The parenting challenges my mother
December 2008 | Washingtonian | 47
48 | Washingtonian | December 2008
Photograph courtesy of Salma Hasan Ali
Growing up, my brother and I
and father confronted as new immiwould be dropped off at the local
grants were, in many respects, more
mosque, where a maulana made
straightforward than those my husus read and memorize the Koran—
band and I face today. They were
no questions asked, no explanaguided by a cultural and religious
tions given. While I could read the
compass set by their upbringing in
Koran in Arabic by the time I was
a uniformly Muslim and predomisix, it was only when I took a class
nantly Pakistani society.
on Islam in college that I underIn the United States, they created
stood what I’d been reading.
their own little Pakistan. Outside of
office parties, they socialized only
Now when I hear Saanya telewith Pakistanis. Vacations involved
phoning her grandparents to ask
visiting family or traveling back to
them to pray extra hard before an
Pakistan. Weekends meant watchimportant test or when Zayd reing Pakistani dramas. Even now,
minds me to say our nightly prayers
their favorite programs are broadtogether, I realize that our children
cast by satellite from Pakistan.
get the same sense of comfort, secu■■The author, shown as a child with her parents and
My husband and I have spent most grandparents, says her family created its own little Pakistan in
rity, and peace saying their prayers as
of our lives in the United States and America. That’s very unlike her experience in Washington today.
I did growing up.
Europe; have traveled around the
world; have friends from every part
In the aftermath of September 11,
the Kennedy Center, and discussions about
of the globe; eat Italian, Thai, or Malaysian
it has become more important to my husPakistan’s political future at the Johns
food as frequently as we do Pakistani; and ofband and me that our children understand
Hopkins School of Advanced International
ten have to read the subtitles to enjoy a good
what it means to be an American Muslim.
Studies and the Brookings Institution.
desi (South Asian) movie.
When I was growing up, my brother and
Our children experience a variety of culThe way we are raising our children is
I tried to blend in and not call attention to
tures. At Holton-Arms School, where alnot as clear-cut. Saanya, who had visited
ourselves. This is no longer an option. As
most 40 percent of the girls are students of
nearly 20 countries by the time she was
a friend of mine studying at Georgetown
color, Saanya says it’s exciting to share her
five, loves listening to Native Deen, a MusUniversity says, “September 11 put our
lim hip-hop group, but also Miley Cyrus. customs with friends and learn about their
lives into overdrive. I went from being a
traditions.
She can do the traditional luddi dance with
nameless, peculiar student to center-stage
At Carderock Springs Elementary, Zayd
as much rhythm as she can the latest WestIslamic poster child.”
has enjoyed performances by African
ern dance craze.
My cousin and I were recently talking
Maasai villagers, Maori dancers, and ChiZayd craves satays, dumplings, mac and
about the impact that 9/11 has had on
nese opera singers. During “mosaic” and
cheese, and his grandmothers’ traditional
raising our children—how we brace ourinternational nights at their schools, sturecipes. His favorite movie is Cars, closely
selves for questions that come up during
dents have dressed in traditional clothes
followed by the Bollywood-style films
school presentations on the connection
and showcased their culture while learnLagaan and Bride and Prejudice.
between Islam and terrorism, how we fear
ing about those of classmates from Senthat classmates may associate our children
egal, Russia, Ecuador, Italy, Korea, and
It takes little effort to be a cross-cultural
with what they hear on the news about
parent in the Washington area. There’s a elsewhere.
Muslim extremists, how we feel it is our
Saanya and Zayd take pride in their idenlarge Pakistani-American population here,
obligation to represent Pakistan at school
tity, something that friends and family in
providing not only a social network but also
international nights to teach our neighbors
other parts of the United States tell us is
restaurants, shops, and services that cater
about the country’s culture and counter
harder to do in their communities.
to the community. You can eat kebabs and
the images they see on television.
biryani, buy halal meat and every variety of
“When the only reference to your reIt also has been easy to continue with our
spice and lentil, get your eyebrows threadligion in the media is negative, you canchildren’s religious education. We started
ed and your hands decorated with henna,
not avoid being affected,” says my cousin.
at the All Dulles Area Muslim Society Sunand buy an entire wedding trousseau, all
“This is a burden our kids have that we did
day School in Sterling, where our children
within 20 minutes of downtown DC.
not. I feel I have to censor the news that
learned the basic tenets of Islam, read stoYou can even throw an eight-day,
my children listen to. We listen to music
ries of the prophets, and memorized verses
12-event, Pakistani-style wedding—with a
rather than NPR, and I quickly recycle
from the Koran. We later decided to take a
Punjabi dhol player, a Muslim comedian,
newspapers with articles on Guantánamo
break from Sunday school and hire a Kositar and tabla musicians, and rice pudding
and suicide bombings on the cover before
ran teacher who could come to our house.
in traditional clay pots—like the one we rethe kids see them.”
Our Koran teacher, a warm and friendly
cently attended.
Many Muslims returned home after
woman who grew up in Syria, works as a tax
In the past several months, we’ve at9/11, fearing reprisals. Others stayed but
accountant by day and an Arabic teacher in
tended a performance by a Pakistani dancer
did all they could to hide their Muslim
the afternoons. Every Tuesday, Saanya reads
at the Shakespeare Theatre Company, a
identity. The majority, for whom America
the Koran with her in Arabic, pausing after
National Geographic–sponsored concert
has become home, recognized that taking
a few sentences so she can ask questions and
by Pakistan’s biggest rock star—known as
part in the mainstream of life culturally, sounderstand what she has just read, a differthe Bono of Asia, he’s also one of the guys
cially, religiously, and politically was the best
ent approach from the way I learned to read
I went to Sunday school with in New Jerway to overcome negative stereotyping.
the Koran.
sey—a play about Pakistan’s kite festival at
So now there are book groups, business
organizations, and networking opportunities that help connect Muslims and provide
support; there are cultural and social events
that showcase aspects of Muslim culture.
And there are Muslims running for and
getting elected to political office, such as
Minnesota representative Keith Ellison and
Maryland delegate Saqib Ali from Pakistan.
I know that bigger parenting challenges lie
around the corner. Ranking high on the
list: dating and marriage. While all parents
worry about the pressures of the teenage
years, the anxiety is especially acute in traditional Muslim families where dating is
not part of the culture, drinking is forbidden by the religion—I’ve never tasted alcohol and pray that our children never do,
either—and drugs are an absolute taboo.
Some families reject any mingling before
marriage. In other families, teenagers are
free to date. Most parents fall somewhere in
between—allowing their children to meet
in groups or chaperoned environments or
trying to make the first introductions and
then encouraging the young people to get
to know one another through phone calls
and e-mails.
For one of my Pakistani friends, dating is
out of the question: “I have told my chil-
I doubt we’ll allow
one-on-one dating, but
I could envision letting
our children go to
dances and socials in
group settings.
dren that they are not allowed to date. Period.” Another family has a more nuanced
approach: “A date at the local pizza parlor
is acceptable. There are plenty of people
around, so there’s little chance that anything inappropriate will happen.”
“While they’re living in our house,
they’re not allowed to date,” says another
Pakistani friend. “What they do in college
is up to them.”
A few of my friends’ children defy their
parents, but most abide by their family’s
traditions, with some kids even more conservative than their parents.
I don’t remember my mother talking
to me in great detail about dating or marriage. But it was clear that dating was not
part of our culture, and I accepted that.
My parents had an arranged marriage—
they saw each other for the first time on
their wedding day. I knew this wouldn’t be
the case for me. Beyond that, I tried not to
focus on it too much.
It wasn’t always easy. I remember not
being able to go to my high-school prom.
My classmates questioned my school spirit,
particularly because as a class officer I was
expected to go. My mother said I could go
with my brother. I preferred to stay home.
During my senior year in high school,
my parents started getting inquiries from
friends asking about their intentions regarding my marriage. I remember hearing
about a Stanford graduate with a Porsche
and the younger brother of a family friend
who was a doctor. My family hadn’t met
any of these young men or their families, but the families had heard about us
through the grapevine.
This is typically how it works in Pakistani
culture. Once you reach a certain age, usually in your late teens or early twenties, the
network of aunties and family friends gets
to work. If both parties agree, a meeting
is arranged, typically a tea, at the home of
a mutual friend or family member. These
get-togethers are usually awkward. The
girl and boy get only a few minutes to chat
and decide whether they want to pursue
things further. →
December 2008 | Washingtonian | 49
My aunt has been arranging such “tea parties” in and around Washington for many
years. “My role is just to introduce; then it’s
up to them to see if there’s any chemistry,”
she says. “After all, it’s all in God’s hands.”
50 | Washingtonian | December 2008
■■Salma and her husband, Arif, met at Columbia University and decided to take matters
into their own hands, even though in Pakistani culture, meetings between a young man and
woman are arranged by family or friends. The Alis know they’ll have to make decisions about
how much freedom to allow their children when it comes to dating and marriage.
allow Zayd more leeway than Saanya? Will
we allow Saanya to go to the prom? I doubt
we’ll allow one-on-one dating, but I could
envision letting our children go to dances
and socials in group settings. I think the most
important thing we can do is keep the lines
of communication open and instill in our
children the values and traditions that will
enable them to make good decisions—and
pray really hard. I also have a trump card: 21
members of our immediate family dispersed
throughout the Washington area.
■■Salma and Arif married in New York in
1989 in a traditional Pakistani wedding that
stretched over five days, including nights of
music and dance.
with Shell International, his maternal grandfather’s appointment as chief justice of the
Pakistan Supreme Court, his paternal grandfather’s role as a prominent Indian politician
and Muslim scholar. I put my head on my
mother’s shoulder and cried. She cradled
my head with her hand and smiled. We both
knew a new chapter was about to begin.
In a twist that only seems possible in Indian movies, it turned out that our mothers knew each other. They had attended
the same school in Dhaka and had been
friends. The marriage might as well have
been arranged. My husband and I sometimes wonder whether it might have been.
How are we going to navigate the delicate
courtship dance for our children? Will we
Raising children with so much family around
is a blessing. Family and close friends are central to Pakistani culture. My parents, who
live three hours away in New Jersey, visit us
frequently and stay for weeks at a time. “You
can come over anytime you need a break,”
my non-Pakistani friends tell me, imagining
that such a long time with parents could only
be burdensome. My in-laws, who live 35
minutes away in Leesburg, never come just
for the day. They usually spend the weekend
and always have clothes and essentials in their
room in our home.
It’s during these visits that our children
absorb aspects of our culture that can’t easily be explained—for example, the respect
for grandparents and elders. When my
parents, in-laws, or aunts and uncles come
to visit, our children know they must stop
whatever they are doing to greet them at
the door with “Assalamalaikum,” make
sure they’re comfortable in our home, and
stay and chat with them respectfully. (“Assalamalaikum” has become such a customary greeting for our son that even the
pizza delivery person and telemarketer are
greeted respectfully in Arabic.)
Top photograph by Scott Suchman; wedding photograph courtesy of Salma Hasan Ali
I met my husband in college. We decided
to “arrange” things ourselves and avoid all
the drama. We met at a dinner organized
by Columbia University’s Organization of
Pakistani Students. I was not outgoing—I
was much more comfortable around books
than around boys. But because I was new
on campus, I went to the dinner hoping I
might meet a Pakistani woman to befriend.
The year I entered Columbia was the
first year that the college admitted women,
so there was a disproportionate number of
guys to girls. The other Pakistani women at
the dinner were happily enjoying the odds.
I stood in a corner sipping a Coke. Arif approached me immediately—and stuck. In
his blue blazer, bow tie, and spectacles, he
looked like he was straight off the set of Dead
Poets Society or Chariots of Fire; all of the other
guys were in jeans and university-logo sweatshirts. He had just arrived from London and
had not figured out American college attire.
He was as talkative as I was quiet and
spent the evening trying to impress me
with his views on world politics, his travels
around the world, and his ambitious plans. I
wasn’t the least bit interested, but I listened
and nodded and excused myself as soon as
it seemed polite. He called his mother, in
Holland, that night to announce that he
had met the girl he would marry.
Over the next two years, Arif and I ended up in several classes together. We shared
interests in international relations and
political theory—or so I thought. I later
learned that he switched majors when he
found out I was studying political science.
Because I wouldn’t go out with him, he
figured the only way he could get to know
me was if we were in classes together. Conversations revolved around politics and paper topics. We sometimes shared a Perrier
and a bagel on the steps of Low Library,
and our friendship developed over game
theory and macroeconomics.
Two years later, he asked and I agreed.
But the appropriate protocols had to be
followed. A letter arrived from his parents
addressed to mine. My mother and I were
sitting on the top step of our staircase when
she read the letter to me: “In the name of
God Almighty, I am writing on a very happy but delicate matter, with high hopes,”
wrote my father-in-law-to-be. “May I and
my wife kindly request you for the hand of
Salma in marriage for Arif.”
The letter included Arif’s family résumé:
his father’s employment as a senior executive
During these family times, our children learn about their heritage—about
their great-grandmother and her legendary bir­yani; about their great-grandfather,
once the mayor of Calcutta, who marched
alongside Mahatma Gandhi in the struggle
for India’s freedom; about their grandparents who survived three civil wars, lived in
more than a dozen countries, and finally
made America their home.
On the occasion of her first fast during
Ramadan, Saanya received an heirloom
pendant that had belonged to her greatgrandmother’s grandfather, a pearl-anddiamond merchant in Rangoon in the late
1800s. The American “melting pot” is
richer by virtue of our knowing who we
are and where we come from.
A recent Saturday night was typical of life in
our family. My parents, brother, sister-in-law,
and nephews were visiting from New Jersey,
and my cousin and her husband joined us
for dinner. We sat around a table in the sunroom chatting—eight adults around a table
more suited for four. Conversation ranged
from the crisis of democracy in Pakistan and
strategies for empowering women in highconflict areas to guessing what cheeses were
in the stuffed shells we were eating.
Then came a knock on the door—my
aunt, uncle, and cousin from Fairfax stopping by for a visit. It was around 7:30. We
moved to the family room. Half an hour later, another knock—my cousin and his wife
in town for the weekend from Boston. We
put the tea on, grabbed some floor cushions, and continued our chatter. Then another knock—two more cousins stopping
by because they had heard everyone else
was here. We pulled up some chairs, passed
around a bowl of tangerines, and discussed
preparations for an upcoming family wedding. Then another knock—my cousin and
her family and her visiting parents.
By 11:30, there were 23 of us, ranging
in age from 3 to almost 80, sitting on armrests, along the fireplace ledge, on pulledup dining-room chairs, and strewn across
the Bahraini carpet. The kids vied for our
attention, the dads opined on politics in
Pakistan, the cousins debated the US elections, the moms exchanged news about
family health issues, and I mixed another
bowl of my famous Asian salad.
No planning get-togethers weeks in advance, no “Is it okay if . . . ?” In a word, no
takalluf (formality). At most, a call from a
cell phone as you pull up in the driveway
and a sense that the chai is always on. W
Salma Hasan Ali is a Washington writer and
communications consultant. She can be reached
at [email protected].
December 2008 | Washingtonian | 51