(Excerpted from BBC)
On Wednesday, the highest court in Germany ruled that a school in the southern state of Baden Wuerttemberg was wrong under current legislation to exclude a female teacher for insisting on wearing a headscarf (hijab) to work.
The school had argued that it violated the state's neutrality in religion. The teacher, 31-year-old Fereshta Ludin, declared the school was violating her freedom of religion.
The ruling does not, however, permanently settle the issue, leaving it open for individual states to establish a firm legal basis for barring the scarf from schools if they so wish.
Since the beginning of this year, debate about the rights and wrongs of headscarves has been raging in France as well as in Turkey, where the majority practice the Muslim faith but where scarves are banned in public buildings.
For all three countries, efforts to prevent the headscarf appearing in civic spaces have raised serious questions about religious tolerance, and, in France and Germany, fuelled the ongoing row about the relative benefits of assimilation as opposed to multi-culturalism in an age of immigration.
In France, secularity has been enshrined in the constitution since 1905. But the country has not always been so keen to assert a ban on headscarves in schools. In 1989, the then left-wing government declared that the wearing of scarves was not necessarily incompatible with France being a secular state as long as they were not ostentatious.
The decision on whether to allow pupils to wear them or not has been left up to the discretion of headteachers.
The new centre-right government however has said it is prepared to pass a law banning all religious effects from the classroom.
This stance has been applauded by a number of women's rights activists, but has also left the government open to allegations of racism, and to the charge that it is seeking to woo the large numbers of voters who opted for the far-right, anti-immigrant leader Jean-Marie Le Pen in last year's presidential election.
Other critics worry that such a law would simply push Muslim girls out of the state system, jeopardizing integration. This term the country's first private Muslim school opened in the northern city of Lille.
The row in Turkey, meanwhile, over women's right to wear headscarves has taken on particular resonance in the last year since the Islamic-based Justice and Development Party (AKP) came to power.
The headscarf, worn by more than half of Turkey's women, is seen as a symbol of Islamic fundamentalism by the defenders of Turkey's ardently secularist state and is banned in government institutions and schools.
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I read the debate on BBC’s Talking Point about this issue. It was interesting how many people were total proponents of the ban on hijab in public places for these listed reasons:
Hijab is oppressive
Hijab is forced
Hijab is a symbol of male domination
People should not wear their religious views like a special badge, because it’s judgmental
We should not advertise our faith
Hijab is contrary to social assimilation
Hijab is cultural, or an addendum to Islam
Hijab is about oppressive as a shirt or a pair of pants, though I‘m sure nudists will argue that articles of clothing are oppressive as well. It’s simply a piece of clothing. Wearing it does not turn off your brain or kill your will. Ask me, my brain still works and I’m as willful as I’ve ever been. I’m not oppressed.
I’m sure there are some people who are forced to wear hijab, just like there are people who are forced to go to school, obey the law, and respect their parents. The possibility of something being forced upon another is really no grounds to ban that thing entirely. Personally, I’ve never met a girl who was forced to wear hijab. I’ve met many girls who’s parents wanted them to wear it, and asked that they obey their rules, but once out of the house, they took their scarves off. Before people attempt to be the mouthpieces for hijabis, perhaps they should poll them to see exactly how many WANT to be ‘freed’ from their ‘forced’ state of being.
The view that hijab is a symbol of male domination is really a matter of opinion. I have an opinion too, and mine is that skirts, halters, swimsuits and shorts are symbols of male domination. They are all symbols and remnants of a society dominated by males who like to see women's bodies. I think it's interesting that the uniform of a female gymnast is a revealing leotard, while a male gymnast wears full pants and sleeveless shirt. I suppose that for a man to wear a silly speedo while doing athletic tricks would be considered sluttish, but it's somehow alright for young girls? I know that's a strong word, but what would you think of a man doing backflips in his underpants?
At my old job our head US correspondent, who was one of those aforementioned khaddar wearing pseudo-intellectual Pakistani liberals, accused me of being judgmental and self-righteous in my decision to wear hijab. His argument was that me choosing to cover my head passed judgment on all women who choose not to. I’d never considered my action of covering my head to have any bearing on anyone but me, but I was willing to consider the possibility. With his logic, however, I also pointed out that if I am passing judgment on others with my scarf, they pass equally damning judgment on me by not wearing one. He himself passes judgment on all nudists when he chooses to clothe himself. His short hair is judgment against the long-haired types, and his preference for bifocals bodes badly for those with contacts. I guess we’re all a bunch of critical Puritans then.
As long as crosses, yarmulkes, bindis, curls, orange robes, nun’s habits, dog-collars, beards, stars of David, WWJD paraphernalia, pentagrams, tattoos, and other forms of personal ideological expression allowed, hijab should be allowed as well. Some people apparently are wary of even the idea of religion, and don’t want even to be reminded of its existence, hence no advertisements, but that seems close-minded to me and we can‘t cater to that mentality.
Hijab is contrary to social assimilation. I’ll grant you that. So is individuality of any sort, as well as race, culture, personality, difference of opinion and too many slurpee flavors. Shall we ban those as well? Can’t have folks being different now can we, that’s dangerous.
If hijab were cultural it would be seen only in one culture, country or region alone. But it’s not cultural. It is practiced in every single Muslim country, because the concept of hijab stems not from a national preference, but rather, from an ayah of the Quran. “And tell the believing women to lower their gaze and be modest; and let them not display their adornment except that which is apparent; and let them draw their headscarves over their chests as to not reveal their adornment except to their husbands and mahram.” The Holy Qur’an 24:31.
It boils down to opinion doesn't it, and the freedom to have one and to wear one on your head.
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My blog seems to run on themes. There’s the work angst theme, weather/atmosphere stuff, the food/cooking theme, complaints about my health, religious/semi-intelligent thought, and nonsense plans. I’m not feeling particularly blogular today, so I’m just gonna try and hit all my targets.
Work angst: My boss informed me that only 3 per cent of journalists in Pakistan are women. This, after I told him that he was probably not going to have any better luck trying to find me a female assistant, since most bright young women are too smart to get stuck in this thankless dead-end profession. Me, I wasn’t smart enough to stay clear. Strange though that there really are very few women journalists here in Pk, while in the US journalism is a pretty female-dominated field. Sigh. Oh yeah, and that was his way of telling me to stick around. Bleh.
Weather goodness: We had an absolutely ripping storm last night, quite literally. The wind was upwards of 165 kmph. Our giant cement house was moaning with the gales, and you could hear the tin-sheet roofs of the nearby village making funny whoompwhoompwhoomp noises as they flew past the house. Full grown trees were split in two, and all the tias (food stands) at the nearby shopping plaza were lifted and flung a block or so away. My dad saw lawn chairs flying in the breeze. He himself got attacked by a mad deep freezer that was sailing down the sidewalk outside a strip mall. Very awesome.
Food/cooking + health complaint: I’m so talented, I just dunno what. Why is that, you ask. Well, I’ve given myself food poisoning. I don’t know how I did it, but I can’t blame anyone but myself, since I’ve been doing the cooking around here. Tis a mightily sad thing when your own cooking makes you sick. :( It’s not been fun. Oh well, at least I got a day off out of it.
Religiousness: Dang I wish it were Ramadan already. I very much miss that month of fasting and piety. It’s a beautiful time, like the whole world is under a spell of calmness. It takes the poison out of life.
Nonsense plan: If I start wearing a cape, do you think anyone will notice?
I’ve been planning a vacation to Karachi for some R&R (rowdiness and retardation). I really do love visiting there, hanging out with my hilarious cousins, talking with my great uncles and aunts, picking up cooking tips from the established suggards, making cookies for my nieces and nephews and just enjoying atmosphere of the city.
But one thing that always worries me before I go is the clothes I’ll have to pack. Not only do I have to presentable house clothes (an unreasonable demand!), but I have to make sure I’ve got enough fancy stuff to handle the unavoidable parties I’ll have to attend. That means I’ve got to march my cheapskate self down to the fabric shops and concede to have bolt after bolt of technicolored cloth thrown at me by a store-keeper who, while modeling a tangerine orange and lime green toga for my inspection, assures me that this outfit is absolutely wonderful and appropriate for a young person like myself. In the US I might be offended if a man told me that a toxic fruit-salad colored outfit was ‘so you,’ but here I just sigh.
After selecting a non-offensive fabric and bargaining for an acceptable price, I have to trudge down to the tailor. There, with much difficulty, a style of suit is found that doesn’t violate every Islamic code of modesty without taking me into the realm of old-lady-fashion. We argue over when it will be ready and, again, the cost. I then have to procure a matching shawl and scarf, which will be left with the dye-wala, to color it to match my suit.
By the time my mission is accomplished, I’ll have spent about Rs 1,800 on a shalwar kameez that will be worn a handful of times during my trip before I return home and throw it into my trunk of old clothes.
Being a female in Pakistan has its few pros and many cons. One of the cons that always bothers me is the fact that if there is any dim possibility of a party, all females from the age of 12 to 30 are expected adorn themselves in the latest Pakistani party-wear not unlike an excited bird of paradise.
If you have a big family like mine, the wedding season means a party a night for about a month where women are expected to wear nice, new clothes that meet the weekly changing standard of fashionability. That means a hellova lot of suits costing thousands of rupees each that’ll only be worn once or twice before they ‘expire’ (to quote my dear cousins in Karachi), and are thus unfashionable and unwearable.
Weddings in your own near family are worse. Like princesses in a fairytale, the sisters, mothers and cousins of the bride or groom are expected to wear a different colored outfit for every party. Depending on how nuts your khandaan is, that can mean upto six different outfits, all costing anywhere from Rs 2,000-10,000.
Dressing a bride is an exercise in wasteful idiocy. For her engagement, mehndhi, wedding, valima and all the other little parties before, during and after, she is expected to be decked out like a Christmas tree in outfits each more garish and costly than the last. The wedding outfit for a woman here costs between Rs 30,000-200,000. She’ll wear it once, put it away in a box and that will be the end of it.
It’s no wonder that marriage ceremonies here incur debts that take a lifetime to pay off and fathers are rarely pleased at the birth of a daughter. I think they’re seeing all the needless party clothes they’ll have to purchase for their in-house fashion plates before they’re parceled off to the next hapless keeper. It’s no surprise that a major consideration before a marriage takes place here is not the timing and convenience for both parties, but whether enough money has been horded away to cater to such an event. My family’s housekeeper has been waiting 10 years to have enough money to host her own wedding. Though she earns very little, she too has told me that her wedding dress will cost 20,000 rupees. That’s more than she makes a year.
Men have it better. My uncle gets away with wearing a simple white shalwar kameez everywhere he goes, be it funeral, wedding, meeting or trip. My youngish guy cousins just make sure their slacks and shirts are ironed and reasonably new looking. Occasionally, if you’ve got a fop in the family, they’ll go out and buy an embroidered men’s shalwar kameez from a man-boutique or a tailored suit, but even still, they’re far cheaper than women’s clothing and a dude can get quite a few uses out of them before they’re thrown to the scrap heap.
And I know you sensible people will probably be thinking, if you don’t like it Owl, just stop attending the dang things or wear whatever you want. Yes yes, I know, you and your horrid logic. I could do that, and actually, I often do, but I risk being labeled a social pariah if I don’t conform to a degree.
So I’ve come up with a solution. Pakistan needs eveningwear rental services like they have in the West.
In the US, the average young person only attends a handful of formal events in their lifetime, so there is no point in investing a few hundred dollars in an outfit that will only be worn once or twice. The solution they have come up with to cater to the proms, weddings and rare formals are eveningwear rental services. You go into a shop, pick out the dress or suit you want from those available in your size, reserve it for an event, pay a fee about one fourth the cost of the outfit, and you’re set! You wear it on the night you need it, and return it to the store the following day. It’s all cut and dry and marvelously convenient.
So that is my harebrained, and slightly borrowed, idea for today. There you go.
Sometime between now and the winter solstice, I'm scheduled for a nap. I've been in dire need of one all week. I keep running myself on half a tank of sleep, and each day waking up is harder and harder. I’d register a complaint, but I don’t think there’s any intergalactic Department of Insomnia out there that I can hold responsible for my fatigue.
But I shall shutteth up about that. I‘m endeavoring to complain less, though it‘s one of the few things I do well, and instead attempt proper blogging.
Lets see, normal people like passing on good news, right? My good news is I got my much needed raise, an assistant and the promise of some time off, so I’ll be staying on at my job. Bad news is, no going out in a ball of flaming, angry, neglected hamster glory. You guys, I’m sure, will be very disappointed. I have, however, managed to do some retaliatory poking, so there. Plus, the office flunkies have been instructed “to do my bidding.” Mwuhahahaha. Course, I haven't nuttin to bid, but it’s the sentiment that counts.
Fatman still lurks though, but I think he now has a slight understanding of my potential volatility. Beware little man, I can go off at the slightest provocation, and then it’s gonna be a rain of lemon squash and tepid water on both your houses. Or something like that.
What’s another ‘non-depressive thought’ (as per the orders of Dr Naffi) that I can share.... I like green parrots - the default Pakistani tota. We’ve had a couple for pets and they had the greatest comedy value.
The usual Indian-ring necked parrot is about six or seven inches tall, not including the tail, and weighs less than a computer mouse . They’d be cute, except that along with their diminutive size comes an absolutely monumental superiority complex. Really, these flying arm-less pears have the mistaken impression that they are the dominant species, and we are the just walking perches/chewing sticks that they deign to let live.
We used to have a parrot whose name was Sweet Pea. Of course, nothing about her was sweet, so she was dubbed a ton of other names, including the Green Menace, Craven Raven, She That Bites The Hand That Feeds Her, the Horrid Beast, Destructor Bird, She That Squawks, and the Toxic Revenger. She couldn’t fly, and used to putter around the house, quietly walking along the floor and chewing to bits anything that she could reach. She killed our leather-bound reference books, many pairs of my shoes, Abez’s new purse, and even made the Playstation controller analog buttons bald of their rubber coating.
Try and put her away, or take away the thing she was damaging, and the silly animal would stand up straight, stretch her neck out and do this eye thing, which generally meant, one more move and you‘ll rue the day you questioned my superiority. For an animal with a head the size of a large marble and a brain the size of a pepper-corn, she was pretty successful. She would contract and relax her pupil while looking down on you, doing a remarkable impersonation of a gangsta thug. And generally, she’d win, because if you ignored her warning system, she’d go off not unlike a car alarm, and make your ears ring for hours.
Whenever I’d be feeling bad, or bored, or just bleh, I’d walk up to the bird, and throw down the gauntlet for a staring contest. She won there too, because I’d end up laughing myself silly at her posturing. Like I said, she was always good for a laugh.
She ran away , our little Sweet Pea. Walked out the backdoor one day, never to be seen again. I actually wish she was still around. I could use a good laugh.
I AM UNPAR JAHIL, PLEASED TO MEET YOU.
It’s most definitely time I learned some Urdu. I was sitting here, sipping on chilled watered-down buffalo milk while eating the last piece of German chocolate cake (made by yours truly, loved and appreciated by all while it was with us) and I nearly busted my brain trying to read the milk box.
Incidentally, for you gaijin and ABCD’s, milk in Pakistan comes in two forms, in a tetrapack, which is like a juice box, or in a knotted plastic bag handed to you by a guy on a motorcycle, dipped out of a huge metal jug strapped to his bike. Since we’re not too fond of illness, though we still manage to get our fair share, we stick to the pasteurized tetrapacks for safe measure.
Anyways, the writing on the milk box was in Urdu. I can *cough* read Urdu, but it’s, um, not anything to write home about. I probably couldn’t pass muster on the Unesco literacy definition, which requires you to be able to read the newspaper and write a simple letter in the given language, along with do arithmetic with the numbers. I can’t count past 30 in Urdu, let alone do Urdu math (who remembers the words for plus, minus and divide anyways?) or read the papers, though I have rather unsuccessfully written a few letters in the language.
So I was reading the box, which said “Halib ub naya sahoolat pack main, jisay haat say kholna nihayat asaan,” and I got stuck on nihayat. The whole thing means “Habib, in new convenient packaging, making opening by hand very easy.” Nihayat means ‘quite a bit’ or ‘very’. It‘s not a complicated word, but still, it boggled me for a few seconds. It’s definitely time to call back the Urdu tutor when you don’t know the word ‘very.’
This is just plain sad. I thought when I moved here I’d finally bring my Urdu on par with my English. Wishful thinking. I have years worth of language proficiency to catch up with and even if I studied full time and put all my efforts into learning advanced Urdu, somehow I doubt it will catch up fully to my English. But right about now I’d settle with the ability to carry on an intelligent conversation in Urdu.
It doesn’t help that every where I go here in Islamabad, people are either speaking Punjabi, Punjabified Urdu, English, or Englishified Urdu, and of course, lots of other native dialects I can’t identify. In Karachi I get a crash course in Urdu each time I visit, but here, I find myself instead picking up local slang and relearning washed out English (atukmatuk means automatic, swirij means sewerage, timepass means to do something to pass the time, a ceerdee is a CD).
Right about now, if people attempt to talk to me about anything aside from the weather (garmi bahout hai, tis mightily hot) or shopping (kya main paisay ki bani hui houn? What, do I look like I’m made out of money?) I’m at a total loss. My vocabulary is so bad that my 12 year old niece, who I’m very fond of, is able to utterly and completely sass and outwit me in Urdu. I can’t even begin to respond to her witticisms. I just sit there, with my mouth slightly ajar, trying to work out why everyone is laughing and what can I say to regain some semblance of intelligence. I fail miserably each time.
So, when I’m trying to pass myself off as a Pakistani, I can only pretend to be slightly above mentally challenged. In English... well.... Unesco would vote me literate.
Barely.
I've got a bit of a problem. Aside from the fact that my brain is still mainly composed of custard, I've also recently discovered that my office superiors know about my blog. Hmm. Shall I call it a night then and run away for a hiatus or perhaps I shall kill this and resurface elsewhere? Or maybe I should let the boogery dweeb who's been reading my blog and attempting to avoid my listed complaints keep on reading it as I change this into a terrifyingly dark and horrid fictionalization of my thoughts. Play with his mind as he tries to read mine.
Btw, we quiet people, just because we're not talking much, doesn't mean it's all calm upstairs. I know Pakistanis don't know about the term "going postal" but perhaps I may give them a taste of this uniquely American way of protesting office stress. *grins*
What say you? And fat man, you might as well start commenting since you've become such an avid reader.
Perched upon my neck there is a lump. It is a lump of wires + rubber + spaghetti + dust + custard. That is exactly how my head feels right now.
I’ve been trying to do my work, really I have. I sit here, in this very unergonomic chair, trying to make sense of the alphabet soup that is the Pakistani brand of English journalism. The more I try to focus on the words, the more they dance away from me. If you’ve read Abez’s recent “Killing me softly with pineapple” entry you’ll understand why I can’t keep up with them. Some of us are rhythmically challenged. That some is me.
I don’t think I’ve ever been in greater need of a vacation than I am now. But that’s good because I’ll be officially quitting my job in the middle of this month, and not a moment too soon. All the irritating intrusions into my pathetic office, all the stupid questions (dude, I told you the same thing YESTERDAY), the politics, the ineptitude, the smell, the heat, have gotten to be too much. I’ve been working since January without more than a day off every week, and aside from Independence Day on August 14, no holidays either. The time is ripe for me to throw in the towel, and hopefully hit a few people in the face.
You know it’s time to look for a new job when you feel like subjecting your coworkers to some serious reprogramming. I have this urge to take all the various staff members who have been periodically, one by one, barging into my office under some pretense or another and grab them and stuff them into the bathroom. When a second officewala comes in, I’d rush him and herd him into the bathroom as well. Broadside all other coworkers and shove them into the restroom they’ve made smell so bad. (now do you see why it’s important not to dirty the place?) Add staff until the bathroom is full. Ignore their pleas to be let out. They’ll just annoy you if you release them.
When the very tall tech support dude comes in, the one who causes your computer to blow up monthly, neatly file him into the book shelf. On the shelf above him add the graphic designer. The receptionist will fit very well on the shelf below. When you run out of space, wait for the short, fat office major domo - the one who stands way too close and doesn’t have the body hygiene for such a near proximity. When he shuffles into your office for the fifth time today to relay orders that he’s made up, pick him up (he’s not that big ok), stuff an apple in that ever jabbering mouth and cram him into the closet. Shut the door. Turn the key. Do a little jig on the dusty and ill-kept floor.
Anyone else who comes in to plead for the release of your captives, hose them down with hot sugarless tea in a water gun. Pour some tepid water down their backs. Add some of that disgusting lemon squash you never asked for and sprinkle the instant coffee the cook never learned how to make drinkable on their heads. Call it a day, go home.
Arrive at home, throw your brief case against the wall, make a bonfire of your huge list of “in-house style policies” and abbreviations and official titles, toss in the professional adult shoes you‘ve been subjecting your sneaker-fed feet to, sprinkle liberally with printer ink and sing hallelujah.
I hate being stuck indoors when it’s raining. Some people are sunshine people, some folks love the snow, but me, I’m all about the rain. Right now I’m trapped in my dank, hot and musty office, trying to be a good little editing troll and do my work without too much time wasted, but I’m really not feeling it. I can hear the soft rush of the puddles in the street as their sliced by passing cars. The faint smell of wet earth has managed to fight its way past the stagnant air that circulates in the agency, promising an enlivening storm outside. It’s nice, but it’s not enough. It’s not fair that I can smell the rain but I can’t get wet.
As far as I can remember, rain has always made my day. I guess maybe it began when my father was a cabdriver when I was very young. Back then, storms meant good business for him. We knew when the dark storm clouds gathered, that dad would come home happy, satisfied and in a good mood.
I remember later, running outside with paper boats and sailing them down the road. You’d have to be quick and grab them before they were eaten by the drains. I’d make dozens, in different sizes, and launch them down “my river.”
When we came to stay in Pakistan when I was in the second grade, we saw how Pakistanis enjoy the wet. In Karachi, rain is always welcome. Children will go on to their roofs and balconies to play in the rain. Adults will sit under their sooraj danis (sun roofs for your house) and drink tea and talk. Everyone, aside from the very old and very young, will take some pleasure from the rare storms. Maybe it’s because this is a hot country. Maybe it’s because my father’s family are refugees who’ve known the pains of having to bring water from a well miles away, and have learned the hard way the value of water. Maybe it’s because we’re all bored and rain is instant party. I don’t know, but here, it is something that is always enjoyed, rarely unwanted, and generally invited in like an unexpected guest.
It's rubbed off on me, the need to enjoy rain. It feels like such a waste to hear all that water fall and take nothing from it, no joy, no fun. So, when it rains, I'm usually out there with my dog, jumping in puddles and getting thoroughly soaked.
Yesterday there was an absolutely awe-inspiring storm. Abez and I set off to the gym as the clouds were darkening and looming close. The wind had begun to pick up and the gnarled, midget trees set on the red Mars-scape that is our city were being whipped about like grass.
By the time we hit the highway the rain had begun coming down in hard, large droplets, smacking against the windshield with crisp crackling. It began to fall harder, bringing down visibility to only a few feet. Motorcycles, horse carts and trucks could be seen stopped along the roadside, sheltering under clusters of trees. Men crouched under the bellies of their vehicles or along side the length of their carts, seeking a bit of shelter from the watery missiles falling from above. Truckers used their lost time to wash their technicolored beasts of burden. Bikers stood sadly near their mounts, drenched entirely, looking longingly at we who passed in our waterproof cars. We drove on, sad to be unable to offer rides to those caught out in the storm. We’re women, they’re men. It just doesn’t work here.
Having grown up in the Mid West of the US both Abez and I are accustomed to driving in bad weather conditions, so we didn’t think twice about our choice to keep plugging along while other drivers pulled off the road to wait out the storm. Turn on your headlights, click on the emergency flashers, maintain greater distance between you and other cars, and drive slowly. That’s what your driver’s ed textbook says. But nothing in that book gave us any guidelines for what we came across when we finally pulled in at the gym.
The gym is spread out on a few acres of land, which are dotted with various buildings and stadiums. The open space gave the wind a chance to build up a frightening momentum. It hit the ground like a blast, causing waves of mist and rain to rise from the road. It looked as if we were driving across the ocean. It was water as far as the eye could see. There were some boys who had been jogging when the storm hit. We passed them as they struggled into the wind, laughing wildly, fighting to keep upright and shield their faces from the sharp pings of the water droplets. They ran in a line and again we sadly passed them, unable to offer them a lift.
The road looked viable, though it had inches of water on it and its own rhythmic tide. When we reached the roundabout from where we’d turn to go to the women’s section we had to accept defeat. We had followed the slightly submerged road so far with few problems, aside from a worrying feeling that our tiny car was being bullied a bit too strongly by the insistent wind. You could feel it lift slightly and shudder when a gust broadsided the car. But when we came to the lower-lying turn, it was truly like driving into the sea. We had picked our path, looking for the highest part of the road, and hit the gas. What we met though, wasn’t a compliant road. It was a wall of water. It washed straight over the car, covering the windshield and all the windows in gray froth, and came in through the windows and out of the dash. Our feet sat in a few inches of water and I, who had been trying to enjoy a bit of the weather from a crack in my window, was completely soaked.
What’s that saying, the cautious live to fight another day or something. Wisely, instead of testing the buoyancy and shipshapeness of our pocket-sized car, we turned around and headed home.
Subhanallah.