RASHIDABAD - THE PEACE PEOPLE GO TO WAR FOR

by Mehar Abbas (Pakistan)

I didn't expect to find Pakistan

I woke up early in the morning. After offering my Fajar prayers, camera in hand, I went in search of it. Two days later, I realized it could be found in every sparkling crook and dust-free cranny. It was there in the white geese frolicking under the bridge and the ducks swimming in the lake. It was there in the embrace two men shared before going to work in different directions. It was there in the cool marble of the Masjid Shahbazi as the sun rose in the sky, golden rays bathing the early morning joggers and laborers, the dense mist evaporating like a silken sheet slowly unveiling a masterpiece. A masterpiece painted by two artists who saw beauty in tragedy and chose to counter pain with service. On 13th December 1997, a young flight lieutenant of the Pakistan Air Force, Rashid Khan, lost his life in an airplane crash. One year later, his parents and a number of retired army officers used their pensions to buy 100 acres of land in his name. From the ashes and sparks of a fire of destruction and death arose a new dream, a new vision, a new life. Rashidabad was born. The people working in Rashidabad focus their synergy on three major sectors of socio-economic progress and upliftment; education, health and hygiene. In one of Rashidabad’s buildings live two sisters, Neha and Priya. Their mother works as a maid to finance their education. They study at YK academy. They are Hindus who pray five times a day. “I want to grow a doctor,” Neha told me. “And me a lawyer,” Priya proclaimed in broken English made whole by her utter conviction. As we played cards at the dinner table, our wrists came together in a brilliant display of shades of brown. The colors reflected different stories, some of pain, some of courage. In that dimly lit room, my own skin seemed to shine and smile at me. And for the first time since I could remember, I smiled back. We laughed and we played and when our eyes caught in the mirror across the room, they didn’t pair well with each other. Mine were jaded from years of living, theirs were clear and filled with the light of hope. They would gesture with their small hands and talk of big dreams. When they spoke of the future, they didn't factor in the pigmentation of their skin, they only spoke of their passion and their yearning for a better future. They used innocence and faith to tackle this sometimes tough but ultimately rewarding journey of life. I thought to myself, “They are so small, they don’t know the world like I do.” Yet, in some ways, they knew it better than me. For they believed in it more than I did. When Sunday rolled around, their parents called from Karachi, but the speed with which they ran to the phone was perplexedly slower than the speed with which they ran to the older woman living with them, chanting “Dadi! Dadi!” and finding solace in her warm embrace. When it was time to leave, standing at the gates waiting for the bus to arrive, I looked back with a heavy heart at this city of knowledge and safety, an utopia for the poor. Behind clusters of buildings, beneath layers of cement and plaster, buried in the clear, rippling waters of the lake, I saw it. The students, workers and residents of Rashidabad had created a beautiful community, but more than that, together they had created a family. I went there looking for a story to write, a tale to tell, but I didn’t expect to find something much deeper, more profound. It was a sense of identity. It was a feeling of belonging. It was peace.