Teaching

My relationship with education has always verged on a love-hate one. Although I know that I love learning, and educating, there are times when I want to throw in the towel and do something, anything, other than just teach or read all day.

One of the reasons why I restarted my blog was so that I would have a reason to write. I vowed to post every single day but it’s not possibly when one is a teacher. It’s a twenty four job and a rather thankless one at times. It’s also very undervalued and under appreciated.

I often get told that I am a good teacher, and thus, for that reason alone, I should keep teaching and make a career in education. Frankly I think I’m not a great teacher at all, but one of the only ones in this town who actually does her job the way it’s meant to be done. Too many English teachers here do not even speak proper English; no wonder I seem better!

What people don’t realise is that teaching was always meant to be a temporary occupation for me. Although I do well in it, I am still not convinced that I want to pursue it as a profession. What frustrates me the most is the fact that people cannot understand why I teach. It is only because I can’t support myself as a writer yet. I’m also getting more and more drawn to music, and a career as a singer actually sounds more appealing to me than teaching for the rest of my life.

Education in Pakistan has too much dirty politics and the absence of a teacher’s union often leaves one exploited. I’ve had my pay cheque cut for no reason. I’ve been coerced into doing much more than I signed up for. No one (including my doctor) even considers the toll it takes on me. I miss reading. I haven’t read a book in over six months. I miss writing for many hours at a stretch instead of sporadically like I do now. The worst part is that I get very depressed because of teaching and trying to tell my bosses that is like banging my head against a wall. I often want to cry in school but hold it in until I get home. There are days when I just don’t want to get out of bed and get back to the same old bullshit. I detest the marking and wish I could dump it on someone else. I don’t mind the one on one tuitions, especially since there’s no marking involved, and I get paid very decently. Yet, even then, I often feel like I’m treating teaching like it’s just a job I have to get through. Teaching has done to me what nothing else ever had before. The trials and tribulations of my profession made me end up in the hospital with a panic attack. It takes away so much of my time that when I sit down with my ustaad to sing, I waste half the lesson yawning.

Yes, teaching can be rewarding but I’m beginning to question this regurgitated theory thrown at us over and over again to keep us motivated. The problem for me is that the bullshit outweighs the positives. Yes, teaching is indeed a profession that is both creative and makes one feel like one has made a difference. However, it is most definitely not for everyone. I’m beginning to think it’s time to throw in the towel before I begin to resent teaching and form a strong aversion to it.

Ridiculous!

Outside the Pearl Continental there is a banner saying: “Welcome all dealers!”

Hob Nob Defence

First of all, what the hell is up with shit service in DHA?

I went out for dinner to Hob Nob with Amina, of Gelato Affair fame, and Reza, with the bald head. When we got there, at 10 P.M., there wasn’t a table available so we waited for a while. Meanwhile, I constantly reminded all the waiters, and the manager, that we came before everyone else who was waiting. I also requested that since it was crowded, they ask the people who were done to leave.

Fifteen minutes later we found a place to sit. I say “found” because we were not informed; we saw a few people descending the stairs and assumed that they were leaving. We pounced on their empty table. Since we had managed to read the whole menu inside out while waiting, we knew what we wanted to order, and the manager did take our order rather promptly. Of course the smokers, Amina and Reza, requested an ashtray.

The ashtray and poutine arrived in about 10 minutes- not bad for Hob Nob since their service is always painfully slow. They operate at a snail’s pace. The poutine wasn’t up to mark though- it was dry and should have had more gravy. Nevertheless, we managed to eat the whole thing and waited for the rest of our food. The amount of time it was taking was getting on my nerves. When the waiter finally arrived with the soup, he brought the wrong one. We informed him of his mistake, and he got us two hot and sour soups- the very same one I sent back - even though we had ordered the chowder. Basically, he went back to the kitchen and picked up another one of the rejected soups and came back to our table!
“We ordered chowder!” I said to the manager in a frustrated tone.
“But there’s no bread bowls left,” he informed me.
“So bring it in a regular bowl then,” said Reza. “And use some common sense,” he muttered under his breath.
The muddled waiter and manager left.

I must take a minute here to diverge: Why on earth would you switch soup orders without asking? Who the hell does that without asking the customer?

A good 20 minutes later we were wondering what the hell was taking them so long.
“They’ve gone to buy the chickens,” Amina thought aloud.
“Yes, and then they’re going to slaughter them, pluck their feathers, and then cook them.” I said in response.

Finally, our soups arrived- in bread bowls- which they had run out of… We reminded the waiter to get the drinks and he nodded and ran off. Meanwhile, we sipped on our chicken chowder which, for some odd reason, tasted like aniseed. Also it was too thick and had way too much cream in it. The food arrived while we were halfway through our cream of aniseed chowder. It was an interesting theory: bring the soup right before the main course so that your customer doesn’t have time to finish it. Also, make sure you don’t ask the customers in question if they’ve finished or not.

It was past 11 and we gobbled down our food since we had waited for a freaking long time! While we were eating, the drinks managed to arrive. The chicken with mushroom and thyme sauce was mediocre at best.

Once we finished, the smokers lit up. The ashtray, however, was missing. We beckoned the waiter, yet again, and asked for an ashtray and a coke. The coke came and it was hot. Reza asked for some ice. The waiter arrived with an ice bucket which didn’t have any ice in it. Reza kept putting a spoon in and he kept getting water with a few tiny particles of ice. Amina, meanwhile, helpfully managed to take out a tiny amount and put it in his glass.
“This place is just ridiculous!” I said, wanting to scream at the manager. I think I would have if my friends hadn’t stopped me.
“Let’s just ask for the cheque and leave,” Reza said. Both of us concurred.

Before we asked for the cheque, I got the stopwatch on my phone ready so that I could time just how long it would take. We all predicted it would take no time.
“Can we please have the cheque and an ashtray,” said the exasperated Reza to the manager.
As predicted, it took only two minutes for him to get an ashtray (from the neighbouring table which had people who were smoking) and the bill. It was now 11:30 P.M. and we were really quite sick and tired of the place.
“You should start a restaurant review website.” Reza said to me.
“I write about this stuff on my blog.” I told him.
“No, I mean a proper website. Lahore has a million restaurants. Surely there should be a review website.”
“Then you make it and I’ll write.”
“No you do it. I can’t make websites!” Reza, the computer whiz, lied and killed the idea outright.

We left at 11:35 P.M. feeling full but aggravated at our ordeal. As soon as we stepped outside, we saw a waiter merrily chatting away on his cell phone. I guess the mystery of the slow service at Hob Nob has finally been solved.

Postscript: It is now 3 A.M. I’ve thrown up twice- quite violently- and my stomach is royally upset. Thank you Hob Nob!

Hijras – The Third Sex

The word hijra is an Urdu word meaning eunuch or hermaphrodite. However, in reality, hijras are very diverse and most join the community as young boys. Hijras consist of hermaphrodites, as well as women who are unable to menstruate and lead the “normal” female life which consists of getting married and producing children. However, a great number of hijras are men who identify themselves as more feminine than masculine, mostly because their sexual desire is for men and not women.

The hijras are an ancient community in the Indian subcontinent with members in Pakistan and Bangladesh. They are classified as the third sex and have their own gender role. Serena Nanda describes them as “man minus maleness” and “man plus woman”. They are not considered either because of their inability to reproduce. In the Indian subcontinent, great emphasis is placed on one’s ability to have children. Someone who is unable to have children is not considered a true man or woman. Therefore, hijras are a separate identity, who fit into neither category, with aspects of both genders.

The population of hijras in India is estimated to be between 50,000 and 1.2 million. There is a huge disparity in the numbers because population censuses only give space to define either males or females. There are no reliable statistics.

The traditional occupation for hijras consists of begging for alms when bestowing blessings on male babies and at weddings. They are notorious for knowing when a baby boy is born and arriving at the right house to sing and dance and demand alms. Most of their songs are about pregnancy and their dances are mostly parodies of pregnant women. They also demand to inspect the baby to check if he is a “normal” boy or an intersexed baby, in which case they might start demanding that the child be handed over to them as it is a hijra. It seems ironic that the hijras, who are unable to reproduce, have the power to bestow fertility blessings on brides. The power to do so comes to them through Bahuchara Mata who is a version of the Mother Goddess. The Mother Goddess plays the role of the mother, who is the creator and nurturer, as well as the destroyer. Hence, she has the power to grant fertility or take it away. However, because of increasing westernization, the traditional roles of hijras are no longer in as much demand as they used to be. Hijras have a hard time accessing houses and apartment buildings because of security, and with an increasing middle class that has access to other forms of entertainment such as cinemas, hijras are no longer required for diversions. A great number of hijras are turning to prostitution which goes against the hijra ideal of asceticism. Ideally hijras are meant to renounce sex and be the devotees of Bahuchara Mata.

All “true” hijras are required to undergo an emasculation operation called nirvan. Nirvan means rebirth and most hijras see this operation as their rebirth into the hijra form from the male. It consists of the complete removal of the penis and testes and is essential in transforming them from men to women. Only after this are they granted their special powers of blessings and curses. The operation consists of three stages: the preparation, the operation and the recovery. All stages consist of various complex rituals. The preparation stage involves praying to Bahuchara Mata and waiting for a good signal from her. One such gesture is the breaking of a coconut, and unless the coconut is broken in half, the hijra-to-be does not go through with the operation because it is seen as a sign that Bahuchara Mata does not want this person to be a hijra just yet. Once the operation has been granted to a hijra, she is given a period of rest where she is not allowed to work or be involved in any sexual activity. This can vary from a week to a month. The actual operation is done by a hijra called a dai ma who is granted the power to do the operation by Bahuchara Mata. On the day of the operation, the dai ma lets herself into the room of the hijra to be operated on and prays to Bahuchara Mata. Then she awakens the hijra to be operated on and encourages her to pray and repeatedly chant Mata, so that she falls into a trance like state. Then the assistant holds the hijra back and encourages her to bite on her hair while the dai ma ties up the penis and testes, makes two diagonal cuts in them and pulls them out. The severed genitals are then buried under a tree and a tube is placed in the urethra. The blood coming out is allowed to flow because it is seen as the bad “male” blood and getting rid of it will get rid of the male inside the hijra. This is one of the reasons why hijras do not get proper doctors to operate upon them since they would stop the blood flow. The time when the blood is flowing is considered the most important time where the hijra, who has just been operated upon, is battling between life and death. Many prayers are said for her, but the blood is never stopped. The recovery period also involves many rituals which include forty days of rest (similar to that for a woman who has just given birth) and vomit inducing foods to get rid of the “maleness”. This operation is against the law in India; therefore, it is done behind closed doors.

Although most hijras dress as women, they engage in activities that would be considered inappropriate for Indian women such as dancing in public. They almost seem to be a caricature of women because hijras wear their hair long and wear saris and other traditional female dresses, whereas, in modern subcontinental society, the upper and middle class women cut their hair and wear western “male” clothes. Hijras also sing and dance and sway their hips in public, which women do not do.

All hijras are part of one community. The community consists of households where all the members contribute to run it like an Indian subcontinental joint family system. All hijras are part of one of seven houses which function as a family unit. Each house has a chief who represents them at meetings with all the other houses in order to discuss important issues. Being part of any specific house does not mean having an advantage or disadvantage over anything. They came into being in order to organize the community. Anyone wishing to join the hijra community must be sponsored by a guru whose house she will join. The guru functions as a teacher, as well as a mother. In fact, hijras refer to their guru’s guru and other members of their household with feminine relative names such as grandmother (nani for the guru’s guru) and aunt (khala for their guru’s sisters). Hijras, whose gurus have more than one disciple, refer to each other as their sisters.

Although most hijras identify with Islam, they do not seem to have a conflict with being part of a community that worships the Mother Goddess instead of Allah. Most of them fast during the Muslim holy month of Ramzan, get buried instead of cremated, and if they get married, they have a Muslim wedding called a nikkah. Some hijras do get married and live with their husbands, but by doing so, they are not cut off from their community. They live apart from them but still work with them. Most of them also adopt Muslim female names.

The hijras acceptance into Indian society is due to Hinduism more than Islam. Many Hindu deities are linked to the hijras such as Arjun (who lives for a year as eunuch), Vishnu (who transformed himself in to the most beautiful woman in the world in order to defeat a demon by seducing him), Shiva (who is both male and female and whose image is represented by a phallus in a vagina), and Krishna’s son Samba (who was a homosexual and cross dresser). “What is noteworthy about the hijras is that the role is so deeply rooted in Indian culture that it can accommodate a wide variety of temperaments, personalities, sexual needs, gender identities, cross-gender behaviours, and levels of commitment without losing its cultural meaning.” (Nanda, Neither Man nor Woman: The Hijras of India 19-20). Because hijras are able to identify with different figures in Indian mythology, they are tolerated and were traditionally much respected as the third sex. Also, as Serena Nanda points out, hijras do not have to conform to one set of norms since they are a very diverse group and have room for such diversity in their community.

The British rulers in India stripped the hijras of the laws that granted them the protection they received under Muslim rulers and regarded them as a menace to society. Because the hijras did not fit the category of male or female, the British passed laws that required the hijras to wear turbans in order to distinguish them from women.

Hijras in India are actively involved with raising awareness on issues, such as the problems related to discrimination against hiring hijras for certain jobs because of who they are. All official documents require that the sex of the individual be stated as either male or female, leaving no space for hijras. Hijras are not allowed in most restaurants, even when they have the money to eat. The treatment of hijras in hospitals is an issue of great concern because whenever a hijra is admitted in to a hospital, the doctors never knows whether to place her in the male ward or female ward. Some hijras are actively involved in raising awareness about AIDS because it is estimated that one in three hijras in Bombay is HIV positive.

Q: Do the hijras leave the penis and take out the testes only?
A: In order to become a “true” hijra they have to remove both so that they are as close to being a woman a possible.

Q: Hasn’t hijra prostitution been around for a very long time?
A: Not to the extent it is today. Earlier, hijras used to sell sex at certain temples for religious purposes. However, today some gurus encourage young hijras to become prostitutes because that brings them more money than other jobs do.

Q: Are hijras incapable of reproducing biologically?
A: Yes. One of the most important tests for joining the hijra community last century was proof of impotence. Potential hijras were made to sleep next to a prostitute for a number of days.

Q: Do hijras marry within the hijra community, or do they marry men or women?
A: They marry men and refer to them as their husbands.

Q: How are hijras treated in Pakistan and India?
A: They are viewed with different attitudes. Some people regard them as a menace whereas others feel sorry for them. Because Pakistan is a Muslim country, hijras do not have the same kind of respect as they would get under Hinduism. They are harassed and do not have much protection.

Q: Did the concept of hijras come to the Indian sub-continent from the Muslims?
A: They probably brought a different attitude with them which must have merged with what the hijras are today, especially since most of them identify with Islam. However, the concept of hijras is in Hindu literature and is part of the Hindu religion.

Theory on transgenderism in Pakistan

Hijras have historically been accepted as an integral part of South Asian culture. They are not eunuchs, but the third sex/third gender as coined by Serena Nanda. We do, however, view them as men who choose to live as women.
What I find interesting about the Shumail and Shazina case is that Shumail is, in effect, a variation of the hijra. Hijras go through a rather elaborate procedure to remove their genitals. They ensure that none of their maleness is left behind, to the extent that bleeding out the “male” blood after removing the penis and testes is mandatory.
Shumail was a woman who identified with the male gender. He can no longer be considered a woman, just as a hijra can no longer be considered a man. So why is so much hullabaloo being generated by this case? I propose the following theory:
The subcontinent is deeply rooted in patriarchy, to the extent that women’s bodies are the sole site of family honour. Male bodies are not at all fundamental to their family honour; a male may do as he pleases with any woman other than his own.

Hijras voluntarily remove themselves from the community of the powerful patriarchs and, in essence, choose to become the oppressed. What Shumail has done is the exact opposite. He has chosen to leave the domain of the oppressed and enter, or intrude on, the domain of the oppressor. This seems almost unfathomable in a culture which controls women’s bodies in order to maintain honour. Honour killings almost always target women and not men. Shumail can now no longer be controlled. Shumail is now a threat to women. Shumail is now an antithesis of the woman he is “supposed” to be. This has not only shattered cultural conceptions on the role of women, it has also created a sense of fear. If Shumail sets a precedent, he will be a threat to the patriarchy. Since my country people love slipper slope arguments, they could argue that he may set a precedent. Perhaps more and more women will want to become male, and if they do, who will be in control?
This is, obviously, just a theory. I cannot understand anything unless I theorize it to infinity. I just wanted to put this forward to see if this makes sense to anyone other than me. I realise it’ll seem absurd to most people, but try to think of it as a theory only.

Gelato Affair Defence

My nephew, Ali; my friend, Amina; and I, decided to go to the new Gelato Affair in DHA. We thought, rightfully so, that we could expect the same quality and service as the Gelato Affair in Gulberg. However, the service there was so pathetic that we only left a 5 rupee tip to show our discontent.

When we walked in, we instantly remarked how much nicer the Gulberg one was. Had I been a believer in “signs”, I would have left. Alas! I am too pragmatic.

We walked upstairs and took a seat. A waiter came and gave us menus and Amina asked for an ashtray. 5 minutes passed, 10 minutes passed… we had already decided what we wanted and Amina was anxiously awaiting her ashtray, desperate for a smoke. Finally, I saw a lone waiter standing bewildered by the stairs. I called to him and asked him to take our order. “I can’t do that,” he said, which prompted me to instantly react with a confused, “Why?”
“I’m new you see,” he explained. “I’ll call someone for you.”
“Well at least tell us if this is a smoking section, and get me an ashtray.” Amina said.
“Ummm… I don’t know,” he replied in his confused manner and walked off.
“Well that was weird!” Amina said to us. Ali and I both nodded our heads in agreement. We were beginning to feel a little bewildered ourselves.

15 minutes had passed and I was beginning to get a little irritated and Ali, who’s always chilled out, also grunted a few words of discontent.
“What the hell is going on here?” Amina exclaimed. “I see waiters going upstairs and downstairs, yet they don’t come take our order.”
Finally, I beckoned the first waiter I saw. He came over and took our rather belated order. We also asked him to get us a large bottle of water and the bloody ashtray we felt we were now begging for.
“What do you want an ashtray for?” the waiter asked me. “Do you want to spit out chewing gum or do you want to smoke?” He was looking at me like I was a little child asking for steak knives to stab her little brother with.
“We want to smoke of course,” I replied, truly perplexed by the behaviour of the waiters.
“No, sorry. This is a no smoking section,” he said as he walked off to the next table, leaving us bemused at the chewing gum remark. Why on earth would I ask for an ashtray to discard gum? Yes, if an ashtray was present in front of me, and I had a piece of gum I wanted to spit out, I might have utilised it. I don’t think people ask for ashtrays to get rid of gum!

We waited another 15 minutes, pondering how long it could possibly take to scoop ice cream, pour juice in a glass and pick up a bottle of water. Apparently it takes around 20 minutes for Gelato Affair to make one sundae, one quarter piece of waffle with chocolate gelato, and one pina colada. Apparently all this is much too difficult; so much so that a bottle of water cannot be added to the process. Nevertheless, we were so grateful that our order had arrived that we didn’t even notice that the bottle of water was missing until after we had eaten. I probably wouldn’t have realised at all because I was drinking the pina colada, which by the way, has way too much pineapple juice, but is white… it is deceptive!

After devouring their chocolaty deserts, Amina and Ali were quite thirsty. As expected, it took us a while to find the waiter. When he finally arrived, he ignored us and went straight to an empty table to pick up the plates etc. I was annoyed, yet amused. I asked him to get us a bottle of water, and reminded him that he had forgotten. He giggled. Amina also asked him to get another scoop of ice-cream and looking at the way he hurriedly ran off, we began to naively believe that he might, just might, get our order quickly…

I must say I was surprised when he arrived in only 10 minutes with the gelato and water. We then asked him for the cheque, and it arrived promptly. So did the change. Feeling rather aggravated with him, we left the 5 rupee coin as his tip and exited the ice cream parlour, grateful that it was all over.

I’m quite livid today.

5 A.M. I attempt to go to sleep, but no avail, despite the fact that my new medication is supposed to make me sleepy… Right…
Finally fall asleep at 5:45 and wake up at 6:00 covered in sweat. Must have been due to the stress that’s been fuelling me for the last two weeks.

7:15 A.M. Head to the car and drive to work, happy that it’s all over. It’s hard to concentrate while driving. The sun felt like it was burning holes in my cornea. Put on loud rock and sang along so that I wouldn’t fall asleep. (Apparently I shouldn’t be driving when “up” but I can’t help it.)
Got to school around 8 and calculated all the grades. Tons of students failed. I’ve stopped feeling bad for them. If they choose not to hand in assignments, if they choose not to re-sit their tests, if they choose not to attend class, and if they choose to do their exams really badly, then I don’t care anymore. In my opinion, they deserve to fail.

10 A.M. Meeting with the high school coordinator and homeroom teacher for grade 12. The vast majority were not just failing, they were bombing. 30%, 25%, 3%… Shockingly, they just added on grades instead of curving the grades. They decided to bring everyone up to 60% so that no one would fail. “By the time they get to grade 12, their parents have already spent millions on their education. How can we not let them graduate?” said the homeroom teacher. I was appalled to hear this; even more appalled to see that they desperately wanted everyone to graduate, despite the fact that they hadn’t done an ounce of work the whole year.

I decided to let the issue rest and went to collect my final pay cheque. Here’s where I start to feel the anger consume me. I was only being paid half my salary. Apparently I hadn’t been to school… during the exams… when I didn’t have classes… after all my classes had ended. Didn’t make any sense to me. I’m a part time teacher, who comes in for classes and leaves right after they end. I don’t understand how they could assume I wasn’t working. I was slaving my butt off to mark assignments and papers. How can I be penalised for it?

I refused to stick around for the meeting. I will not be attending graduation tomorrow. And I will also not return the exam papers until I get the money, in cash, delivered to me. I refuse to be exploited. I refuse to let this pass. I refuse to become the victim of a corrupt woman’s spend thriftiness. The woman in question is perhaps the only employer who asks for her teachers to cut their salaries. When she asked me come in again for the next academic year, she said that she’d like me to charge ten thousand less. Doesn’t make sense! Why on earth would I want to work for someone who doesn’t want to raise my pay every now and then, and instead, wants to decrease it? I’m glad I’ve left that pathetic excuse of a school. I’m glad it’s over. I can finally move on and work with decent and professional people.