Solitary travel is a creative occupation. And yes, for women as well, although a bit rare, particularly for middle-aged women in India, or at least it was rare eleven years ago when I started to travel alone or with a friend or family member for only a part. Travelling alone was not my idea of fun or education; I had to travel alone when I realized that I had outlived my utility in today’s concept of family as a unit and contributive role of each member. I understood that if we had anything of value between us, it certainly was not companionship;
which is not uncommon after a quarter of a century of coexistence under one roof. One night, very late in the silent darkness, I suddenly sat up wide awake in my bed with a searing rush of energy which came with an insight: I have lived all my life (a little under half a century) according to some one else’s wishes, specifications, expectations and my own sense of commitment to all but myself. I have put constrains on myself in line with what I thought was socially acceptable or rather socially desirable. It did nothing to bring love or appreciation. It
did nothing but damage to my self-esteem. The others have lived my life for me. When will I live my own life, my dreams? But first, I must recognize that I have dreams of my own, with no part in them for the ‘dear ones’. Then I must find the wherewithal to live my dreams. For months after that night, I tiptoed around the house in a state of extreme fear-anxiety-panic. It is just not easy to resist thousands of years of social-emotional conditioning. For a woman, who is told that all responsibility, all desire to please and all the ‘honour’ of the family, rests
only on her frail shoulders, even education, financial independence and a good dollop of bravado does not come to her rescue.
Whenever I am asked what my occupation is, I want to say, ‘Traveller; in the tradition of Al Beruni or Ibn Jubayr or Hafiz Shirazi.’ I am not really interested in monuments unless they enlighten me on some unique aspect of local life, but on how people go about their lives, what their problems are – both local and universal – and what solutions they have found and how. Above all, I am interested in the life story of every single person I meet. I want to live in their region, walk in their shoes and completely identify with their concerns. It is like being in a movie whose script you have not read.
I like to drift through cities, villages, countries; stopping where I need to rest or stopping by beautiful landscapes that allow for quiet contemplation. There is too much clatter in politics, too much violence in everyday lives of half the world and an immense din in the head. I travel to find relationships that are unnamed, unboxed, undefined; like the one with a Kurdish attendant at a hotel on an island in the Gulf of Marmara, in 2005.
He brought my luggage up to the room and stood there quietly even after being tipped. I sat down on the chair and waited, because I knew he wanted to say something but did not know how. This happens with me often. Perhaps it is my being alone which makes people think I am sad and therefore can be trusted with confidences. Or perhaps because I am a middle aged woman from a land that is so intriguing that every one outside it has dreamed of visiting it some day, like everyone wants to live in a cottage in the mountains someday. Or perhaps there is a kinship of the lonely in every part of this world.
‘Hindi?’
‘Huh? Yes, yes, Hindi!’ I knew he was not referring to the language but to my country.
‘I love Hindi! I love Gandhi! Non-violence. He visited Turkey. You meet Gandhi?’
‘No. I was not born in his lifetime. But yes, we read about him.’
‘We also. School. Gandhi was great man. Sufi. Hind non violent country’
‘Oh!’ So they taught the Turkish children about the Mahatma. Calling him a Sufi was the greatest honour any Turk could give to a man. They were the proud custodians of Jalaluddin Rumi’s 13 th century Mevlana Order of Sufi khankhah in Konya, as also his tomb. They consider it brings them merit of half a Hajj to visit it. It remains one of the most inclusive of holy orders, spread far and wide. They think we in India live by Gandhi’s principles, especially nonviolence. They should think again! Not any more my dear man, I thought. But I wish we had not forgotten him before you did.
‘I am Kurd.’ He stated hesitantly. ‘You know Kurd?’
I nodded. Yes I knew about Kurds even in 2005. I knew of the strange racism practiced against the mountain men of the region they call Kurdistan, which pans across South-eastern Turkey, Northern Iraq, Northern Syria and North-eastern Iran. Kurds are mostly Muslims but there are Christian Kurds as well, just like Palestinian Christians, almost never acknowledged in international discourse. In Turkey and Iraq and Syria, Kurds are seen as internal enemies; ostracized, criminalized, and persecuted. Their languages were banned, just like the languages of native Indians in Canada and aborigines in Australia, their life-cycle rituals were called magic and those who practiced them were arrested and tortured. These hardworking men who lived in very inhospitable conditions were denied any identity. Even marriage registration was denied to them; hence, no family ties were recognized. They did not vote or run for office like the Rohingeyas of Myanmar. All governments plundered their mineral-rich region and they were forced to live in abject poverty and dismal healthcare. In fact, it was these people against whom Saddam Hussain had used chemical warfare and who actually owned the region where Iraq’s plentiful oil came from. Only in Iran, they have their representatives appointed to parliament and they are a recognized minority. Now, ten years after my visit, some concessions in the form of lifting of ban on languages and rituals and festivals have been granted, perhaps because they are the Peshmerga fighters (including women fighters), fighting ISIS on the Turkey-Syria border, dying to protect their region, being targeted from both sides. Particularly after the failed coup against the government of Tayyib Erdogan from the right wing AKP, an undeclared civil war has been unleashed on them. But now, dynamics change every day. In my heart, there is sadness and an ache. Why do I feel so much empathy?
‘Tell me about yourself,’ I said quietly. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’
‘No, no. I am ok. ’
Then, haltingly, but with a strangely touching trust in each other, we spoke of our deepest pain and fears and loves. He stood there in my hotel room, and just his presence made this strange land suddenly my own.
He told me of how he aches when Turks shun him for being a Kurd. His words, I remember, brought tears to my eyes. I too ached inside when others look at me with resentment and disdain in India, when they come to know I am a Muslim.
….how handsome and brave Kurdish women are.
…. how enchanting dusky, South Indian women are.
…..how beautiful his land to the South East was.
And I told him how beautiful Hyderabad is, how every alleyway, garden and well and gateway of the Old City had history and folklore attached to its name.
….how lilting his language is, and how wonderfully expressive its many dialects are.
….how elegant and lyrical my mother tongue Urdu is, how deep and philosophical its poetry, the Gazal in particular. In fact, Urdu even has a twin language: Hindi! And the dialect of my region, Dakhni, sounds so true and cheerful. A dialect, the state never recognized but it has three scripts: the Persian, Devnagiri and Telugu.
….how delicious and unique Hyderabadi cuisine is, and how I just can’t live away from Charminar!
….Kurds are spread over Syria, Iraq, Iran and Turkey. Yet, Kurds do not have a state and no recognition of its language.
….Indian Muslims don’t have a state like the other minorities. The Sikhs have Punjab and Christians have the North East. Nor does Urdu, like Tamil or Telugu…We, both the Muslims and Urdu, are dispersed all over this great land of Hindustan.
“I have come here alone to support my family back home,” he looked at me as though asking me for my reason to be travelling alone.”
I have come alone because my family doesn’t want to support me – it is not about money, you know. It is about sensitivity, about love, about empathy and about feeling heart broken.
“I miss my Family.”
I am sad because my family will never miss me. They don’t need my support and they think I am too independent to need theirs.
“You know, Kurds are discriminated against in Iraq, Syria and Azerbaijan, but not in Iran.”
You know, Muslims are discriminated against in every country in the world, including ‘Muslim’ countries, where the leaders have sold their souls to the West.
“We are not allowed to speak or teach our language. We are not allowed to think. I don’t know why I wanted to talk to you so much. You look like my sister.”
‘I know why. There is a kinship of the lonely, the excluded and the silent; in a family, a country, what is the difference in the response of the innermost being? It allows us to speak across the solid wall of silence and look into each other’s heart.’ The victims of the violence of thought, of power, of wealth, of caste….and most of all the violence of silence; of being muted because your voice does not matter, it can’t be heard in the loud babble of the majority, whose narrative is accepted as the only grand narrative; the victims of denial of identity and dignity; we are a fraternity, the true brethren in this world across borders of languages, faiths, castes and geography.