Happy Fathers Day

I've written this piece many a times in my mind, but for reasons unknown to me I just haven't gotten around to putting it on paper.

Mr. Yusuf Raza, my father, was born December 12, 1952 to a very humble but proud family. The descendants of the Prophet Muhammad (SA) - Zaidis, from his great grandson Zain-ul-abideen. My grandfather, God bless his soul was a very smart man, had more intellect than all his sons (sorry dad and uncles), but having his own family of 7 plus extended family of about a dozen more to support, he had no choice but to work after the Indo-Pak partition. But he knew that the only way out for his family was through education so he worked and worked just so his kids could go to school.

Dad on his first vacation in years to attend my graduation @ Columbia

Unlike myself, who chose to leave home as a teenager for the "land of opportunity", my dad had no luxury at his disposal. His only option to survive was my making a 5k walk every day to school with often no lunch money just to have a shot at a better life. And because of what he'll tell you were the efforts of his mother, who stood guard at the doorstep watching her son walk over the horizon everyday as he made the journey to school, he did make it! 

He bought his dad who used to travel on a bicycle, his first motorcycle, he helped his siblings get married, he became one of the most senior Government officials, commanding thousands of employees at probably the most prestigious Government agency in the country. 

But this isn't about his achievements as a man or a son. Like most men in South Asia, transition from being a son to a husband wasn't easy for him (South Asian women you know what I mean) but the transition from being a son to a father was a seamless one. Saying that he was a great father, I feel doesn't do justice to it. I don't even know how to explain it, let's put it this way, I've never been able to relate to any issues that kids have with their dads because I've never had ANY issues.

My father never put anything ahead of my welfare, or happiness, ever. He enrolled me in schools which were way beyond what he could afford even if it meant that he could never enjoy anything for himself. He never bought a new watch or new shoes or went on vacation because after paying for me and my sister's private education there was nothing left for him or my mother. But never once, do I ever remember feeling that he was making any sacrifices. I just thought that's what dads do. They wear the same watch for 2 decades, they wear the same shoes, they have the same clothes for years, they don't have a favorite place to eat, or a hobby. I lived in a world where dads woke up every morning, drove you to school every day, picked you up, played cricket with you in the hallway after work, even when your mom would disapprove of it, sat at dinner with you every night, tucked you into bed, woke up in the middle of every night to see if the blanket was still over you, brought you a glass of water, woke you up every morning for prayer then for school and just endlessly repeated the cycle day, after day, after day without ever once saying that "my son, you are sucking the life out of me". To him I was his life, my welfare was the “be all, end all” of not only his physical being but even his soul.

He was never once pessimistic, never made any excuse for anything. He would always tell me when I'd complain about injustice towards me, "son, always prepare for playing against 12 players, 11 opponents and the referee". I guess he'd crawled his way out of the so many dark places as a child that the world being unfair was nothing to complain about. I think my belief that I can accomplish anything in this world must have come from watching him growing up. To him, there was always a solution for everything, if you worked hard enough and prayed hard enough, there was no stopping you, and it just became truer and truer for him as he got older.

I could on and on with dozens of stories that keep popping in the mind while I write this but I'll end with one that for whatever reasons I want to tell the most. My first paycheck as a teenager was for around $300, and I remember I was so excited to spend it on my parents because my dad gave most of the first years of his paychecks to my grandmother, so, I went to the mall in Mankato, Minnesota and bought my dad a $120 Kenneth Cole watch and my mom a necklace. He wore that cheap simple watch for almost 15 years of his life. He wore it to board meetings all over the world. Every time I'd see him I'd tell him to take it off cause it was ugly and all scratched up, and I'd buy him new watches but he'd just give them away and keep wearing that Kenneth Cole, maybe he’s still wearing it, simply because it was from my first ever paycheck. It was the first thing I ever gave him. It means the world to him no matter what anyone thinks of it. It reminds him of me every day. 

Growing up in a traditional South Asian family you never talk about your feelings especially with your father and I know I won't ever have such a conversation with him, at least any time soon, but I want him to know that I remember every little sacrifice he's ever made for me, I'll cherish them for rest of my life and if I can become half the father he is, I will die a very happy man.  

Visit to the Holocaust Museum in DC

The highlight of my trip to DC wasn't the wonderful company of my Columbia colleagues and alums, it wasn't visiting the breath taking monuments of DC, it wasn't even my interview at the World Bank, it was the emotional 3 hours that I spent at the Holocaust Museum.

Growing up as Shia Muslims, repentance and mourning becomes part of our DNA as two months every year we mourn the injustices perpetrated on the family of Muhammad A.S. 1400 years ago. Maybe that is why I felt at peace crying for the plight of millions of Jewish men, women and children who where shot, gassed,burnt alive and starved to death for no crime that they committed other than being born Jewish and no one dared to come their help until is was too late for most. The stench of their burnt and blackened shoes will always stay with me, as a reminder that I will never, till my last breath on this earth, remain silent or stop working to fight injustice wherever I see it. That I will not be sucked into turning my life into a pursuit of mere worldly comforts, that I will not be blinded by the lights that make you forget what is actually happening to the majority of people on this planet. I may never succeed at achieving anything, but I will be content knowing that I died trying.

"Only take care, and keep your soul diligently, lest you forget the things that your eyes have seen, and lest they depart from your heart all the days of your life. Make them known to your children and your children's children" Deuteronomy 4:9

I had recently posted an article on the bombings in Quetta, Pakistan targeting Shia Muslims that killed and injured hundreds. The BBC article addressed the fact that organizations such and Lashkar-e-Jhangvi, Lashar-e-Taiba and Tehrik-e-Taliban Pakistan, who have always accepted responsibilty for the attacks on minority shia Muslims were backed by the Pakistan Government in the past  who used them as proxy forces to nuetralize the threat of India in Kashmir and Iran in Afghanistan. It also explained that countries in the Middle East are a big funding source for these organizations as these organizations follow a strict interpretation of the type of Islam practiced in Saudi Arabia (wahabism). 

I lived in Pakistan through most of my teens and I can assure you first hand that most of my friends who went to Madrassas (religious schools) were preached a strict variant of wahabi Islam, where tolerance towards other Muslims or human beings was not part of the curriculum. By now almost every person whose done research on this topic will tell you that most, if not all such madrassas are funded by SAUDI money not only in Pakistan but all over Africa (where I work now). 

We all also have an idea that the west uses a lot of Saudi Oil - 10 million barrels of them are used in the US every day. We all criticize the US and the west to be part of this "Islamic Terrorism" problem. We argue vehemently that fighting wars in Afghanistan and Iraq against "Islamic extremists" are like putting a small bandage on a gun-shot wound of someone that you shot yourself. "They just don't connect the dots" we say.  "They buy oil from Saudi Arabia, Saudi Arabia funds terrorists, and then they go fight the terrorists". I've had many of my friends over the years say "well 19 out of the 22 terrorists on 9/11 were Saudi, why doesn't the US go bomb Saudi Arabia". 

Well I agree with what they are saying, and I also understand the argument that the US can't just stop using Saudi oil because the entire economy will crumble if that happens etc etc. What I CANNOT understand is the fact that all my, or I should say most of my Shia Muslim friends in America criticize the US governments actions all the time but fail to see their actions as being part of this problem. 

EVERY SINGLE one of my Shia friends in America criticizes Saudi Arabia, yet ALMOST EVERY SINGLE one of them drives a car that uses crude oil bought from Saudi Arabia. Hence they are paying the Saudi oil field owner money that he then uses to fund Laskhar-e-Jhangvi, members of which then go and blow up Shias in Pakistan. And they feel that they are absolved of any wrong doing and that criticizing the US and Saudi Arabia and marching on the street a few times a year is what will do the trick. 

I am by no means against protesting and criticizing, I believe those are brave and noble acts but at the same time I have a problem with hypocrisy and stupidity. 

Now coming to what I feel CAN actually be done in the long run to lessen the influence of Saudi Arabia on further funding terrorism. 

1. Support all Government and Non-Government initiatives that help the west move away from Middle East oil dependence. 

2. Vote for officials who do care about alternative energy sources and want to move away from fossil fuels. 

3. Call, write, do whatever to put pressure on your elected officials to vote for alternative energy initiatives. 

3. Research into what Oil companies do not use Saudi Oil and start filling your cars at their pumps (Almost all big ones do except for a very few select ones that use Canadian Oil only - Sinclair and Sunoco don't use Saudi oil. I can give references if anyone likes.

4. Sell your Gasoline Car and buy a Prius if you're really interested in not paying the Saudi's any part of your hard earned, Halal, Shia loving money. 

And if you can't do that, it's okay, there are other ways in which you might be doing your part and you should continue to do but for the love of God don't JUST be a hypocrite, look into your actions before opening your mouth. 

We are the Kufians of Today

"Deed ki gar talaash hai,sar ko jhuka namaaz mein
Dil se khudi ko bhool kar, khud ko mita namaaz mein
Aaiega tujh ko tab nazar rooh-e-khuda namaz mein
Pahle Hussain ki tarah sar ko kata namaaz mein"

If your quest is to find (see) God, then bow your head in prayer (prostration)
Remove "you" (your desires) from your heart, immerse yourself completely in prayer such that there is no "you" left.
You will only see the "spirit of God" in your prayer, when you are prepared to like Hussain (a.s) have your head cut off during prostration

Its that time of the year again, when all shia Muslims and many non-shias will wear black, flock to mosques and imam-bargahs and pay homage to the great sacrifice of Imam Hussain and his family in the battle of Karbala, which is called a battle but was 72 (approx) men on Hussain's side versus over 10,000 soldiers on Ubaydullah ibn Ziyad's side.

The next 10 days and beyond we will hear fervent sermons by scholars on how the Imam was betrayed by the people of Kufa who had written 150 letters (Ayati, ch.3) to the Imam asking for him to come lead a revolution against the tyrannical and unjust rule of Yazid. Most scholars will do a great job of laying out how these people and their leaders were despicable human beings nothing short of satan himself.

Growing up, listening to these sermons I used to feel a lot of anger and hatred towards the people of Kufa and the army of Umar ibn Saad and who fought against the Imam. What I couldn't understand then was that WHY in the world would you go against someone as pious and honorable as the Imam and support tyrants like (Ziyad and Yazid) whom most of Kufians even despised, after all it is their fellow citymen who wrote the letters asking for the imam to come to their aid in the first place.
But by reading more about the actual history of the events that took place pre, during and post Karbala (A good source is "A probe into the history of Ashura" its on Al-Islam.org for free) I came to realize that the people of Kufa 12,000 of whom vowed to support the Imam upon his arrival were just like you and I. They were as satanic as most of us, nothing more, nothing less. To them this wasn't about what was right and what was wrong. They knew that the Imam was right, to them the question was simply whether or not they would go out of their comfort zone and actually do something about  supporting the Imam? We all know the answer to that. They didn't. They all turned back on their lofty proclamations of support, many of them even using the Quran to support their new stance "Do not subject your lives to destruction with your own hands. (Surah al-Baqarah, 2:195)".

They all had the same excuses we would make today; the responsibility to support the life and well-being of their families, their being under the burden of debt from the state and for a lot of them being in the army meant that the fire in their homes kept burning and food reached the bellies of their kids. They ALL did what would be considered today as a RATIONAL decision. They knew that supporting the Imam was a losing bet. They knew supporting the truth wouldn't pay their bills or put their kids through school. DON'T most of us make the same excuse today? What are we doing today to support the innocent or any just causes? What are we doing to combat extremism in Islam which is corroding us from within? Imam Hussain didn't take up arms against the Romans or the Persians, he stood up against the biggest threat to Islam which came from within the followers of Islam. What are we, as so called "followers of the Imam" doing today to make ourselves worthy of that claim?

Nobody but you alone can answer that question. This note is not to point out the flaws in others but to get us to look at nobody but ourselves in the mirror and ask the question, "Would we truly be able to sacrifice all our comforts to support someone who we knew to be just in their cause but had nothing worldly to offer in return?". And if the answer is NO! like it is in my case then lets vow to be better, lets promise ourselves that our lives won't be just about getting a big house in the suburbs with 65 inch TV screens, but will be more about doing something to support the innocent, and change the lives of ones less fortunate than us.

I truly believe that to be the message of Karbala.

A one in a million Sister!

My time in South Sudan is up, for now! and I will write a lot about it in the coming weeks as now I'm officially unemployed till I start school again in the fall inshallah! Today, I will tell you a story that will touch your heart like it did mine. The story is about none other than my very own sister.

Before I begin the story let me just say that one of the sins that I despised the most since I was a child was hypocrisy, which unfortunately is something extremely prevalent especially amongst Muslims of this world (its okay for me to say it, I am one, a Muslim that is). As a kid I would hear countless Muslims mourn the sacrifices of the grandson of the prophet at the battle of Karbala but I always wondered how many of them would put their and their families life at risk for the sake of God, or for a just cause. The answer unfortunately is: a handful, maaaybe.

My favorite person from Karbala is Zaineb, the grand-daughter of the prophet who sacrificed everything, yet never bowed down in front of tyranny and protected not only her family but Islam as we know it.

Today's story is not about how much I think Islam owes Zaineb but about another woman I love, my sister, Mariam, who works for Unicef in Pakistan. These days she's working on the Polio Eradication Campaign (23 cases this year in Pakistan so far http://www.polioeradication.org/Dataandmonitoring/Poliothisweek.aspx). One of the major hurdles in this eradication battle in Pakistan is the fact that TTP (Tehrek-e-Taliban Pakistan) who are the followers of Al-Qaeda's policy of "lets blow up everyone who doesn't agree with our way of looking at the this world" deem this campaign to be "un-islamic" and a western scam to render the population of Pakistan impotent. Yeah, you heard me, impotent.

On the ground this means that if you are working to eradicate polio in a TTP stronghold you better not be a foreigner cause then you get shot (http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-asia-18868267), heaven forbid you're a woman, cause what do women know except for making roti's (bread) and if you're a local man then you better be prepared to deal with some extremely hostile individuals who will more than likely tell you to please be on your way, and not in such a cordial manner.

Now Mariam was on such a mission in remote parts of Punjab province in Pakistan. This places were in the DG khan district (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dera_Ghazi_Khan_District) which is not a taliban strong hold but is definitely heavily influenced by their ideology.

Mariam also has a 7 month old son, Abbas, who accompanied her on this trip. A case can be made of Abbas being one of the cutest kids you'll ever see, beatiful skin, grey eyes, healthy, looks a lot like his uncle some say, except for the eyes off-course :).

Now DG Khan has sizzling temperatures reaching up to 120 F or 49 C this time of the year making it no place for an infant to take his first vacation but my sister is a little crazy, what can I say. It runs in the family.

Coming back to Polio and how this all is connected. As expected some families in DG Khan refused to allow their kids to receive polio vaccination as it obviously causes impotency, but there was great likelihood that if left un-vacinated polio could return in that particular area. Knowing this my sister pleaded her case to the reluctant elders from the hardline Muslim families, trying to explain to them that if they didn't administer the vaccine to their kids, they were in danger of getting polio. But the elders were adamant about the vaccination being a scam and the west's plan of making their kids impotent. It was then that Mariam presented a solution that even Zaineb of Karbala would have been proud of. She told them that she is traveling with her very own infant son and if she administered the vaccine to him in front of the elders, would they then be willing for Unicef personnel to administer the polio vaccination drops to their kids? The elders were dumb-founded, surly this woman from the city wasn't crazy enough to bring her child out of the AC car in this scintillating heat and give her polio drops, and if she were to do it then surly the drops couldn't cause impotency. They agreed thinking that they had called her bluff. Mariam wrapped Abbas in a cloth and took him to several houses in the village who were refusing to vaccinate their children and administered the vaccine that supposedly causes impotency to her own son in front of them. By doing that she put to rest all the suspicions of the elders and all the kids in the area received polio vaccinations.

She truly believes in what she does and who knows, maybe her actions led to someone not being crippled by polio for the rest of their life. I am proud of having her as my sister, I am proud of her not being one of the millions of hypocrites who can talk the talk but don't walk the walk. She is my very own Zaineb.

Meet Mathew – Be inspired by the motorbike mechanic of Panijar

My work these days takes me all over Unity State (that’s the one being bombed) these days. One of the towns on the southern tip of Unity called Panijar is where this story takes place. Panijar’s not what you would call a town back in the US or in any even developing country of the world. There’s ONE road that goes in and out of the town, and its almost a dirt road. There are probably 20 – 30 small huts lined up on both sides of the road when you enter the town which serve as the main market.

I have my breakfast of champions (shisha with tea and biscuits) and brunch (again, shisha with tea and biscuits) there. Once you get to Panijar, to go to the surrounding even smaller towns, its best to take a motorcycle as the roads out of town and into the bush are let’s just say a lot more comfortable and maneuverable if you’re on a motorbike.

Last week, I was about to head out into the bush only to realize that my bike refused to start. I tried every trick I knew to make it start but it wouldn’t. I was told that there is a mechanic in town called Mathew who can help. Now for those of you who know me, you can understand that being a motorbike enthusiast to the point where I even rode my motorbike to uni in 32 degree celsius, hearing the words “take it to a mechanic” feel like someone’s pouring molten lava into my ears. Nevertheless, I had to do something so I dragged the motorbike to the market to meet Mr. Mathew.

Well ladies and gentlemen, Mathew was not only able to start my motorcycle but did it at AGE 13. Yes Mathew, who you can see in the picture attached is only 13, maybe 14, definitely not older than that. Mathew is indeed the town motorbike mechanic. Not only that, Mathew also fixes radio’s and watches in his spare time. I mean if this is not as Russell Peters would put it - MIND BLASTING, then I don’t know what is. He's FREAKING 13.
Sometimes I forget why I do this, but then Mathew comes along, who is everything that a normal teenager is. Extremely shy, goes to primary school, plays soccer with his friends, giggles when he sees a white man, but oh yeah he fixes motorcycles, radios and watches on the side.

Mathew learnt this art while he was in Bentui (the town in north Unity which is being bombed these days) hanging around motorcycle repair shops. His father died when he was very young and so he probably spent a lot of time in these shops. Many kids have that story around here, no father, hanging out in town all the time, but Mathew was/is incidentally a genius as well. Mathew moved back with his mother to Panijar last year, her home town, and is supporting her financially. If this kid was in any other country on this planet he would be paraded on TV, would go to some school for the gifted, but, alas he’s the Kohenoor (largest diamond in the world taken by the British from India) stuck in one of the remotest parts of the world.

Mathew and I are really tight now (at least thats what I think) and I asked him the other day what he wanted as a gift. That’s when the real 13 year old came out, “a motorcycle, so I can go really fast”. I told him we can think about that a few years down the road but for now if he does well in his class this year, I’ll get him a kick ass tool box. He giggled and told me “that will do as well”.

I did have something for Mathew that I hold very dear to my heart, my Leatherman multi-tool (sorry nani) equipped with pliers, cutter, stripper, knife and screwdrivers. I wish other people could see the look on his face when I gave it to him. He held that 50 dollar thing like it was a 5 carat diamond, and yet again like a 5 year old girl, I had tears in my eyes.

Sometimes, I wonder if people here realize how much joy they bring to my life. I can’t thank God enough for letting me see such wonders of this world. I will never understand how in amidst all the hunger, poverty, war and chaos such an unbelievable treasure can unearth, but I will always be grateful when I look up to the heavens for giving me the chance of witnessing it. 

Fabi ayyi aala e rabi kuma tukazibaan

The day I almost died

The Honda City was cruising along at 120 km (75 miles) an hour on the 3 lane highway that connects the cities of Lahore and Islamabad.  I had just visited my dying grandfather for what was going to my last time ever seeing him. I had landed in Pakistan from South Sudan only 3 hours ago was now on my way to Islamabad. We were about 2 hours away from Islamabad when it started to drizzle. It was prayer time so the driver and I made a pit stop for the mosque by the side of the road. By the time we were done with prayers it started pouring, and I was soaking wet when we restarted our journey. I reached back into my daypack to pull out a dry shirt to put on. Unfortunately, I had to unbuckle my seat belt in order to change my shirt. While buttoning up the shirt I realized that the car started to skid, I thought of trying to put the seat belt on but it was too late, I put my hand on the dash board, shut my eyes and hoped for the best.
The car spun a few times and ended up in a ditch. I remember while it was twisting and twirling in the air and on the ground I kept reassuring myself that I was still alive as every microsecond past. Finally, it all came to a full stop. No more movement, I was completely wet with my body underwater lying horizontal inside the inverted car. I must have past out for a few moments as I heard a faint sound that kept coming closer and getting louder - it was the driver. He just kept repeating my name and I didn't have the energy to respond. Finally, I told him that I was okay and soon after a group of people pulled me out of the vehicle and into the rain. I've had the pleasure of being in a few crazy car crashes but every time I got away with minor scratches, this time though it felt different. I couldn't move my neck  and back at all. I was pretty sure I broke something. I couldn't sit or lay down, the only thing I could do was stand with the support of my rescuers.
I remember them bringing water for me and asking me if I was okay and I just wanted them to shut up and let me be. I was in pain, it was raining and my phones were not working anymore. The luggage had apparently flown out of the trunk, everything was wet and I couldn't get through to my family. The only numbers I knew off the top of my head were my parent's home phone number and my father's cell phone. Knowing how "kabutar dil" (dove hearted) my dad is and I mean that in a loving, respectful way, I couldn't call him, so I decided to have my rescuers call the home phone. Luckily my sister picked up, I think she did, I really can't remember much but I know I spoke to her. I told her that I had been in a car crash on the highway coming and I needed to get to a hospital right away. I told her there was little chance that I could get through again cause the phones were not working.
In the mean time my rescuers were trying to look for the police patrol. Usually they are pretty prevalent on the highway and pass by every 15 minutes. Whatever the reason that day, no police car was in sight. My best option was to get to Islamabad somehow and hope that my sister arranged for an ambulance at the toll plaza.
This highway is like the turnpike where each exist is 30 to 40 minutes apart so it would have made no sense for an ambulance to come get me from Islamabad which was an hour and a half away from the site of the accident.
My rescuers were vehemently trying to pull over any vehicle so that I could be given a ride to Islamabad, but no one stopped. No one even stopped to find out what the hell was wrong with a guy bloody, being held upright by other people on the side of the road.
Now the highway connecting Lahore and Islamabad is known as the "motorway" and the motorway attracts mostly fancy cars that go at high speeds on a state of the art highway. The people who had stopped to help me were local residents from the area who had jumped over the fence to assist. They were the poorest of the poor, the scum of the earth, while the elite of Pakistan were driving by one after the other, oblivious to the fact that a desperate person needed help.
Finally an empty van did stop. I was told it was a guy who was headed to Lahore (the opposite direction) noticed an accident and turned around to drive 30 miles back to help out. The man agreed to take me another 1.5 hours in the opposite direction to where he was headed. I didn't have the energy to thank him enough. I somehow fit in the back of his van still soaking wet and he drove me to the toll plaza that marked the city limits of Islamabad. There, I saw my sister and uncle waiting with an ambulance.
I asked my sister to make sure that the gentleman who had driven me to Islamabad be compensated well. It turned out that the vehicle did not even belong to him. He was simply the hired driver for that vehicle (another poor scum of the earth who went out of his way, risked his own job to help me). My sister told me that he refused to take money stating "how can I take money from you, it is Ramadan and I'm fasting. I helped your brother because that's what God would have wanted me to do".
I ended up suffering a slipped disk in my neck and severe bruising in my lower vertebra's. I was lucky. From the pictures one can see how much more worse it could have been.
When I narrated the story to my family members and friends of my parents, they understood why people in their fancy cars didn't pull over for me. They told me that there were many robberies happening that way, where robbers would fake an accident to make someone stop and then rob them and steal their vehicle.
To me it was sickening to hear it. Anyways, I'm not going to state my feelings on why the rich have something to loose and the poor don't thus they didn't stop, and I'm going to give them the benefit of the doubt, but what I did decide was that no matter what happens, I will never become them. They want to NOT stop for people dying on the side of the road, more power to them but I will never work for their betterment.
I think my accident was a reminder to me. I hear it all the time when I go back to the US or come to Pakistan, "when will you get a real job again Ali, when will this adventure of yours stop". And this job is frustrating, and many times a day you're like "why the hell don't I just go back and get a normal job, normal life with a wife and a car and a house in the suburbs and a cat, and a coffee shop, a nice imam bargah to go to, make babies" you get the point. But then incidents like these happen and you are presented to all the answers to your WHY AM I DOING THIS? question. How can I ever turn my back on the poor scum of the earth when they were the only ones who came to my aid when I needed it and asked for nothing in return.

I don't remember the faces of any of the guys that helped me, it was raining and I was in pain but that same night when I got home I got a call on my phone. I picked up and a guy asked me if I was Ali sahab (sir), the guy in the car accident. He then went on to tell me that he was one of the guys who pulled me out of the car and wanted to know how I was doing. I couldn't hold back my tears. He had gotten my contact information through the driver. He went on to tell me that I will be okay and that once I am, I should come over to his small village to see him. And that he'll show me around. After that much love how can I ever stop working for such people. Regardless of whether I end up a rich man or become poor in the process, it would be the biggest hypocrisy if I ever turned my back on the most needy in this world.