Another post from Fr. Simon.
May 8, 2010
Our friend offered to drive us up to a town just outside of Mingora , even though none of us had so much as a toothbrush in tow, we quickly said yes.
It was an intensely dramatic drive!!! People passing one another, speeding along a curvy mountain 2-lane highway, playing chicken with the person in the opposite lane. At times the 2-lane turned into a four lane, as people from both directions tried to pass cars, so that it seemed there was no escape. And our driver had the time of her life at the wheel, especially when she was the one passing the other cars on curves and twisting up and down the mountains.
And of course the ugliness of diesel fuel – spewing black especially from the lumbering trucks.
And a couple of emergency stops to put water in the overstrained engine. I had to do it, and the second time there was a real geyser, even though I had loosened the cap first. And I had to convince the driver to keep the engine running while we put the water in. At one stop we saw a family from Bajaur. They had to leave their home because of fighting there and were living in a tent somewhere.
Many, many military stations, but we were waved through the checkpoints. “Who is your protection?” the guard asked at one final checkpoint just before we entered the Swat Valley. “These people travel everywhere and they believe that if Allah wants to take them today then they will go.” The guard smiled. “Yes, good,” he said, and waved us on.
The town seemed bustling and tranquil. I was up at 4:00 a.m. to pray. Truthfully, I couldn’t sleep, so prayer seemed to be in order – looking up into the cloudy night sky, feeling the few drops of rain blow into the porch onto my open hands, and praying for the Spirit to touch me one more time.
Then our host got up at 4:30 for his prayers. Afterward he invited me out for a 5:00 a.m. walk. It was thoroughly enjoyable as we walked around the village. He started off by pointing out to me where his father and mother were buried – so near his home (and I tried to explain why my own parents were buried 1,000 miles away from me).
He showed me where his three small shops were. He had bought them with the money he had earned from the years he worked in Saudi. We walked around pretty much the whole village. “Here’s the mosque.” “This is a school.” “And when I was a little boy, I went to this school.” “Our power plant.” At one point, dawn broke over the sheerness of the mountains – the Hindu Kush mountains – and glinted off the snow on the highest peaks. Pretty stunning: colors above and flashes below. He didn’t know the English word but told me that they mined an expensive stone in the mountains around Swat. Then he took out a blue piece of paper. “Sapphires!” I said. “Yes, Simon, and rubies.” (I found out later that they mine seven colors (!) of sapphires from the mountains.) Then we crossed the Swat River. Muhammad had to grab my hand at one point as I teetered on a teetering rock. The original name for the valley, hundreds of years ago, was “Sootie,” which meant “Green Valley.” At one point I looked around, and we were entirely encircled by mountains.
After the river, a “development” with 6 new foundations for homes. Owned by one man. Who the heck could HE be?
Then we went back into the residential section. My friend explained that his relatives all lived near him – or his friends. “Is it all like that, through the village? Family here, another family here, another family here?” I was gesturing different places with my hands. “Yes, Simon, of course.”
We passed a wall with the name “Iksander” on it. “The great king; he came here, Simon.” “Alexander the GREAT?” “Yes.” Well that’s funny. I’ve seen his grave in Bablyon, and now some graffiti on a wall reminds me that once upon a long time ago, he passed this way, too.
“Look at the beautiful stonework on this wall, Simon.” “And this house? Why are there bricks piled up in front of the door.” “This man, he lost his money, he lost his sheep. He had to leave. The bricks are to keep the dogs and goats from coming in his house.” “This house, destroyed by the Taliban.” “This house, the army bombed, because it was the house of a Talib. But this one was a good Talib; he prayed and only wanted to help people get to heaven, he said.” “Was he in the house when they bombed it?” “No, he was away.” “What happened to him?” “When they destroyed his house, he ran away and joined the Taliban fighters and was killed.”
Then we returned and again were welcomed into a simple home, – welcomed warmly. They gave us a really sumptuous and delicious meal and we all had fun eating it. It was topped by bowls vanilla pudding for dessert, with the words “Welcome” written out in cocoanut shavings.
But early that morning word arrived that the brother of the my friend’s wife had died just after saying his prayers. The family had counted on him to tell us, in English, about experiences in Swat over the past year. They said he was eager to speak with us himself. Instead everyone got ready to go to funeral prayers. I asked him what was the proper thing to do at this time. He said only to pray. But the wonderful Kathy, when she saw his wife, went up to embrace her, and the two wept in each other’s arms for a while.
We then became the guests of an extended relative. Taliban militants destroyed sixteen homes, a mosque, a girls’ school – very picturesque spots (they showed us six of the homes) nestled in gorgeous mountains. We were given a guided tour that completely eclipsed any “other side.” It will be good to find a way to go back and also, later, to visit Swatis living in Karachi or perhaps develop contacts to visit with other people living in Swat.
Then the Hell-bent drive back to Suabi, our driver had lost none of her derring-do. When I woke up the next morning, I found that my neck and shoulders were stiff. Then I realized that I had been hunching against the absolutely inevitable head-on collisions that menaced, two inescapable trucks at a time, around every curve.
After breakfast (and a wonderful conversation on Qur’an and Islam), we left early the next morning. I said that if she were ever in the US, she must come to Milwaukee to visit us. She is an extremely generous woman, always pleasant it seems. And really religious about praying five times a day. I should learn from her: Periodically, she would leave a conversation and announce, “I have to pray now.”
