EIGHTEEN
Counseling would serve her many purposes, which she phrased as being different than any other time she seeked this type of support- sentimental. She did not require anyone to probe about her ehsaas, her feelings, in efforts to rescue her, for this would make no difference- she was already bewitched by this rhythm, refusing to leave. Burrowed deep within the parallel lines of her ceiling wall, she became hostage to the torturous musical notes prancing with life, day after day, same old song. Dawn arose, as she dressed for work, the same old alarm- Allah. Upon reaching her clinic, the same old broken car lock, futile. The same old precarious behaviour, of abandoning her belongings near lurking eyes, attributing herself as reliable. She did not need the counsellor to renounce the consequences of being so careless, for Iznah knew the problem lay in being too affected, or not affected enough.
Anticipating in some way, that counselling would clean some percentage of filth, not which she plummeted, but which he implanted within her, she continued to seek service while simultaneously planning to vamoose. Ultimately, upon leaving her office, unless she stared her hyperactive, very ripened self in the eyes, she became susceptible to guilt, undeserving to withstand. Laughingly she murmured, anticipating the orange of this sun to light her ablaze, the opposite of bittersweet dreams was also, slightly pitiful. Unless she created a tower of impossible work, which she knew she would manage to conquer eventually, there was nothing left here.
After 101 days, Iznah approached counselling as transit to her fantasized future- merely dreamt of during the nights he wrapped his weighty arms around her fragile body and pulled her close. Perchance, it would provide some sort of explanation for her restless soul, whom she was unable to answer to and witness the irony, she declared to fathom her ehsaas, her feelings. As she curtained herself with the velvet of this blanket, alongside the clock which continued to tick, the preacher kept saying it will make a difference. As Iznah tore apart the fragile packaging, labeled this bundle as hazardous, and yet placed all her clothing next to it, the preacher said to stay, for it will make a difference. Again, laughingly, Iznah pursued departure, for the preacher barely knew that those who found absolutely no peace or mercy at her doorstep were Iznah’s kin. The conflict of interest was less in mutual clientele and more in the nauseating guidance she compromisingly accepted.
In all reality, it made no difference, had she approached the counsellor or guided her own self. Upon every sunset, in divine obedience, she would promenade to the water, which gradually eroded the sand she rolled in as a child, only to find a woman, hoping to be unrecognizable. Again, laughingly, Iznah embraced her famous smirk, revived. Recognizing her breath, as recommended, and territorial of the many enticing opportunities remaining, she curled into a ball, beside the crabs she still feared. She closed her eyes, as she frequently did so at the beach. Hummed the song, she frequently heard on the eighth floor of his cluttered home. Turned off her phone, as she preferred to do so when needed the most, and accepted that nothing had changed. Although, everything had changed, nothing had changed.
SEVENTEEN
Baggage she did not know of began to appear before her sight and scream- understand me. Recognize me, Iznah. You may close your eyes but I have no intention to perish. Propel me away from your sight and create unaffordable consequences, as I will then exert myself upon others through your seductive gaze, your brush against his arm, and your nibble upon many lips, ever so convincing of your unsatisfied appetite or more accurately, instability. Forget that you are his provider, he is your client, or he is your colleague. Focus merely on ridding the many ways I secure my stance upon your shoulder, visible to everyone looking your way, but barely within your own peripheral vision. Question me, Iznah. Am I real or am I an illusion?
Iznah did not seem to pinpoint the wave she was creating in jeapordous waters. Despite the ripple being so interruptive, she still described the ocean as a tranquil luxury, ignorant of the damage created by her emotions as she swam across sea in search of her person. In a state of yearning and hunger, she began to look into every gentleman’s eyes for some sort of hint as to where he disappeared and why? As if another human, with subtly resembling traits, could provide some direction to her pilgrimage, despite the many ethical boundaries this hunt may create. As if another’s coincidental similarities were enough to clone her person, match for match.
Agitated by the coming and going of patience and tolerance, Iznah could not even compile a sincere apology to the many individuals she began to affect. Accepting her inappropriate demeanour was merely a way to continue it, one day after the other, one person after another. Astonished was even the narrator at her persistent hope that something constructive would come out of this probing, investigation, and invasion into another’s unguarded soul? The false portrayal of lust and seduction was performed in attempt to reap some benefits, Iznah may no longer be aware of. After all, this hidden expression of love was what brought Iznah to her lost companion, in the first place. Even the narrator took pity upon her, as she dressed every morning to impress those who would be just fine, without her.
Today was not the same as yesterday, and the faster Iznah resonated with this, the more possibly she may rescue the last drippings of her sweat and turmoil. Iznah’s position did not allow the same version of her, which existed a few years back, during which she stumbled upon his existence, to prevail during this transitional phase. As she grew older, she was expected to become wiser, just as the ancestors state to naturally happen. Iznah could no longer allure folks, whom she was to guide, through such wild behaviour, hyper charismatic personality and pseudo apologies. Everyone she served could see through her, regardless of the many stitches on this translucent paper, and all she had to do was admit, she needed some extra care. Some extra empathy and kindness to no one other than herself and to grant this, was human.
SIXTEEN
Iznah did not really have another option, other than narrating her own story- creating her own narrative. Had she allowed him to continue scripting her itinerary, she may not even remain alive much longer, yet alone sane. Hence, in order to preserve her sanity, she decided to moisten this paper, which originally belonged to her anyhow, with wetness of black ink. Either she was going to be ordered to the other side or, she would fuse with discomfort of the unknown. Iznah knew what accorded with the other side, even though his penmanship was naive, and he dreamed she would overcome life- dangerous imagination. She knew, he persisted to have her do the impossible, but past this flagpole, there was nothing but death. Many years ago, she already acquainted herself with the decaying cliff around the corner, often not visible until life places a vulnerable human upon it.
Now, where must she take herself next, in order to progress her narrative in a fashion unexpectedly bright and imperceivable by those who expected nothing better of her. The journey, which appeared normative, was everything she must escape and the trail, which eroded as gold, whether authentic or not, was her calling. Struggling to run the two laps, which she used to complete effortlessly, she struggled to erase his vision from her mind. Perhaps, after seeing her reflection so deeply embedded in his eyes, she only became closer to the reality of her future. Her future was not here. She must allow her chronical to sail overseas, less for the stranger’s amazement, and more to validate the blood she invested in his wellbeing. Above all, to uphold the value of her nightly prayers. To make those bittersweet, fictional nights come to life. To alleviate him of the weighty passion she sewed to his chest, and protect her zeal from further damage.
As a helping professional, Iznah held the privilege of distributing her support among many lives, which may or may not result in positive effect. Her city had its own sorrows and the city of Dubai, perhaps, had its own. Hardships hovering within the Middle Eastern heat may appear different than that of her local natives but her desperate search to find such answers among people of her own revealed a troublesome fire, which only continued to expand. The more she craved the camel’s calling, imagining his inability to perspire and sweat, the more these flames rekindled. Of course, she held an ethical obligation towards her fellow survivors, but as her own sleep refused to set, she realized she must allow this plane to go. Only after her soul nestled in the dust closest to her love, would she be able to return home and be of service.
Perhaps, until today, Iznah did not need, or did not truly know how to take care of herself. Even today, as she watched the prices of her desires rise, she faced difficulty envisioning any sort of luxury within her story. After all, it was her who held the liability of ensuring Iznah survived. How was she to know whether Iznah would make it back home from this safari, among creatures only seen in photography? How was she to confirm that Iznah would not further deteriorate upon realizing she was miraculously near the target of her prayers and yet, unable to savour and satisfy her lust? There was no way to secure her safety and the most dangerous aspect of it all were the few moments she refused to care. All she was certain about was altering his deathly narrative, hence, writing in ways she had never actually written before. All the ways her professors refrained from teaching, were the very ways she must write in order to remain of service.
FIFTEEN
Something must crack out of this long willed, tolerant cocoon shell, would you not think? If not one mechanism, then another strategy, another way out, another way to move forward? There must be a technique left untried, a better way to plough the land and await harvest? The coming and going of faith left Iznah contemplating if there ever was something she was praying for, if he was even listening, and if there ever was such a thing called Waheguru, Allah, God? If the Almighty existed, why did she find herself kneeling against the building door in hiding and at other times, kneeling on the temple carpet, sweaty hands folded and dripping eyes closed in either case? Both conditions left her heart weeping and appetite incomplete, so what difference did it make to feel this way before God and feel this way in isolation? There must be another way to cope, other than God. Perhaps, a gimmick of the non-believers.
With a heart full and stomach to par with hope, she entered the temple. She knew her pain was not in isolation but rather, well known to him, without the need to mention. Apart from the silent conversation between her soul and the Almighty, nothing else mattered. What difference were any words going to make towards erasure of this situation, and her predetermined fate? Even if she requested forgiveness, and admitted she was a sinner, what difference was such a pledge going to make, when everything was to play out according to his will, regardless? He knew she was powerless and sitting in his haven, unavailable, without a want or need and yet, at the same time, yearning for existential preservation. Dear Lord, please do not let me decay to such a degree, where I no longer believe in preaching your name, for it will make no difference anyway.
Iznah put the spoon to her mouth, as if eating from His plate would make a difference to the mercy he may bestow upon her. Had someone shaken her to consciousness, she would have reiterated that none of this mattered, anyway. Still, let us try to engage in coping mechanisms, just as she suggested to those who walked into her own door, although she knew better. Let us indulge in dessert, known to be blessed by his Holiness, because it may make a difference, or at least, that is what her parents told her. At that point, His devotee said to Iznah: The thoughts, judgements, actions, and behaviours of those who know nothing beyond themselves, are what do not matter. Do not compare the coldness you see around you to the strictness of your Lord, for both belong to opposite ends of your opportunity to succeed in life.
In order to succeed, please claim yourself to be a loving person, to your Almighty and to those in your heart. For all those who shake you, and force you to feel, are what make you a living and breathing person. For giving up would mean to remain alive, but dead, without the capacity to love, the Almighty and those in your heart. Hence, dismiss what they have to say, those who wander this world searching for lust and luxury, and live without ego for a purpose greater than yourself. Pursue the direction, which you would pursue without the blessing of eyes, for that is the way you would be destined to travel. Please, allow yourself to trust Him, who most of this world no longer believes in.
FOURTEEN
“Would you like to come in?”, she asked Iznah. “No, I am okay. Actually, sure. I will come in, thank you.” she responded. In the beginning, things were different. Iznah would turn off her office lights and lock the door in between client sessions. She would sit on the carpet, against the blankness of those white walls, and listen to herself breathe, confirming that she was still alive. She would have to confirm that she knew her hands, legs, feet, and then, sensations of touch still existed. She feared she was decaying, as food meant nothing to her anymore. Until after lunch, the drugs would keep her going. Even though she stared at the bottle every morning and trembled while she popped that pill into her mouth, the drugs would keep her going, at least until a little past two. Then, she would have to take breaks. Then, came the on and off of office lights, the paranoia that all staff had left her alone for the day, and the constant smothering of a panic attack, which today, has yet to come.
She pursued. “It is okay. You are functioning but, you are on autopilot. I want you to realize that you dissociate here and then and that, is okay. I am able to see your light flickering and your constant eye set upon that ringer. Maybe, this call will come. Maybe, it will all be okay, any second now. I see you, Iznah, and please declare I am of no help to you. I do not aim to be of help. I only aim to, at least, confirm that you made it alive at the end of the day.” Dissociate. She did this. But God knew, she was only an animal, too. Never did anyone tell her that the efforts to perfect these office buildings, in which she worked, were ruptured too. Even that office, which appears virgin, is unchaste too. The people inside are broken too. And often times, the clients appreciating are inconsolable, too.
At first, she was impressed by the scent of her new working area. It was so untouched and original, like the aroma from inside a newly published book. But now, this emptiness mortified her, as she desensitized herself from the ability to smell altogether. When she curled into a baby on her office floor, brazing her cheek against the carpet confirming her consciousness, she wished the carpenter left some of his feelings behind. Maybe, he could have left a little bit of sweat from the income he struggled to make or, the etching of a swear word or two when he could not make it home for Valentine’s Day. But, Iznah’s cheek felt no chiselling of words on this floor, and since everything remained dehumanized, she continued to dissociate. Had she known that the woman next door was also struggling to keep it together, perhaps, she would not have welcomed all this solitude into her office.
THIRTEEN
Welcoming the new trainee aboard, Iznah made room in her office for discussion. They spoke of providing service to the needy, and their journey towards ending up in such positions. Alas, Iznah gestured towards the door, as it was time for the trainee to head home, after a long day. Still, Iznah shuddered as she mentioned that, which she learned in the most difficult way. “In your work, there will be no off days. Even your off day, is not an off day, and if you make it your off day, you will hurt many. This is not something I have been able to afford, despite doing it, regrettably. So know, you will have no off days.”
She wished someone told her that in the very beginning, although, she may have been stronger back then. Untouched, naive, curious. At that point, just like this trainee, she was delighted upon stepping into atrocities. She clung to the opportunities, in which she found the suffering, and emptied her bottle repeatedly, making room for more tears. Little did she realize, over time, the bottle would become old. Overtime, the bottle would be stained and creased, from all the squishing and shaking it went through, in attempt to allow others to weep safely. Still, the bottle had no off days, but it was getting older every minute.
Iznah realized, as she still smiled in such a nurturing manner, that she could feel the sides of her eyes crease. She smiled at this little girl, less with sincerity, and more with pain. It was only the most valuable pain, accumulated over time, which could cause her heart to sink as her lips lifted upwards. She became miraculous, as her heart sprouted a tear every time her foot touched the floor, but her colleagues called her superwoman. Still functioning, still breathing, still loving.
Iznah recalled the many times folks asked her why she became a Social Worker. Perhaps, it was only to become this way. The plenty of adrenaline she felt in her own body, without seeking it elsewhere, was the craving she had as a little child. Today, she asked the trainee, “Why do you want to become a Social Worker?” The trainee replied, “Because I want to help people”. Iznah formed the same smile, again. “Well, didn’t I, as well”, she whispered.
TWELVE
Here she was, doing it again, by turning off her cellphone and pretending those calls were not there. Somewhere, as she pretended that phone was not ringing, she erased her actions from history. The new truth was only that, which she allowed herself to remember and everything else, did not happen. This phone did not ring, no body reached out to her, and there was no need to answer. In fact, she did not even look at the phone, let alone have a device in the first place. Even if the call was repeatedly missed, even if the phone was accidentally left on loud, even if the phone was vibrating it’s way near to her knee, even if somebody died. There was no need to pick up a phone call that was not actually incoming because she chose to believe, it was not real.
Similarly, her mother was not talking, when she asked her to lock the front door. Her father was not hurting when she overstepped his minimum requests, if such a thing even happened in life at all. She always remembered where she parked her car and how to make it up her apartment, regardless of neighbors reminding her of basic instructions, again and again.
More significantly, Iznah recalled the 4th story medical clinic, which she was fired from, although she never experienced work place termination in life and held a clean record. Or despite having left all those children alone, in that daycare without care, Iznah refused to believe she was responsible for their panic, hunger, and fear. What was accountability, if she was not even there, despite having been for a month or so?
How did Iznah reach in this space today without having learned a single lesson from the brutality of her past ways, her dangerous impact on many lives, and countless nights of guilt and shame? Intentional erasure of such memories, with mentally gruelling effort, could not provide her with a clean slate to take upon new case notes. How did she receive the privilege of sitting amongst the vulnerable despite having hidden her own crimes beneath this carpet? Somehow, she had the audacity to walk upon this carpet alongside an aching heart, and ignore the wounded beneath this surface.
Iznah knew that those scabs were not healing but rather reeking, only to torment her and her loved ones, day after day. Upon lifting the carpet, she often caught a glimpse of the decomposed and disintegrating hearts, souls, and minds, prompting her guts to surface through vomit. Such were the toxic consequences of choosing dissociation as her coping mechanism. She walked with a disturbing odour and prayed no one would notice.
ELEVEN
“Firstly, I would like to apologize if I, in any way, offended you, frightened you, or made you feel unsafe when I was ranting and raving. There is no excusing my aggressive and inappropriate behavior and I hope that you will forgive me. Secondly, I want you to know that I feel ashamed for my trying to enlist you in my inconsiderate and selfish attempts to malign those who are trying to support me. My perceptions were clouded by the inability to be open and honest with those around me and seek clarity about my conversations. I was wrong. Assumptions kill. I have apologized to those around me and also, wish to apologize to you. These actions have said something about my lack of consideration and integrity. I want you to know I am grateful that I had the privilege of meeting you in my life; to diffuse the anger I carry inside me. I would have run away, if it were not for you. Left to me own devices, I would have screwed up my trajectory, if you were not there for me.”
Recalling her client’s question, Iznah pulled out this letter from her bag- “What do letters mean to you and why do you not write them to others who may benefit from reading them during times of weakness?” Iznah did not know the answer to this question, so she said she never considered letter writing to be a form of genuine communication. If so, why was this letter tucked in her bag, in the corner she rarely reached into? It was as though she treasured this letter wholeheartedly and hence, placed it in a section to not dirty it. To not blemish it and not stain it, potentially altering the form in which it was given to her, from his bruised, trembling, and scarred hands.
Sometimes she thought, remembering him, how much she is missing in her own life by living simply. The dangers in living a life of risk would have brought her similar scarring of hands, easily resembling her heart and mind, full of experiential wisdom. She would, similar to him, reach for those pills that may allow her mental sanity, enough to share the most valuable lessons of a life, somehow lived. One may say being in his shoes is a miserable state of being but it is difficult to imagine how else, other than through such suffering, one would develop the resiliency he carried in his aura. These days, she saw him in the restless cashier, complaining about having to work eight hours to maintain her job. Oh, she could not help but giggle thinking about all he would have said hearing this worker complain about life.
Continuing down this dim lit road, Iznah recalled hearing about his death the other day. Many declared the stereotypical statement of “we saw this coming” but lately, Iznah had known nothing more about him than this letter he wrote. Of course, she could assign value in writing letters to those who she worked with. A letter would allow her to remain connected with them forever within a profession, which limited human connection to a contract.
TEN
What caught her by surprise was the attraction emerging from the inside towards this gentleman, an older man with a long, frizzled, grey beard. In addition, she noticed the wrinkles forming on his cheeks when he attempted a smile amongst the chaos he was trying to manage. Tracing his body movements, she noticed the wrinkles on his hands, the very hands, which certainly guided his own children to become the adults they are today. Iznah stopped in her tracks, as this was important to her. Silencing all the surrounding cries by those suffering and muting her supervisory directions, Iznah remained grounded a meter away from this father and his disobedient child.
What is a child if he is not disobedient during his time? What is a child if he does not worry his past generation with his unexpected behavior? What is a child if he has not brought a foreign demeanor into this world, further challenging customs, regulations, and the norm? Iznah’s gaze remained focused on the father as he struggled to convince his child to return to class. What a simple request for a privileged child- “Puth, idaan ni kari da, raurha ni paeeda!”
Nothing was more important than recognizing she was falling in Love with he who represented her heritage to the core. She was falling in Love with he who resembled her own father, who struggled to hold her captive while she misbehaved. This man resembled her father’s beard, wrinkled face, and worrisome facial expression when conducting himself in public. Mentally visualizing the future, she was able to see her father aching to touch her children, walk them to the nearby park, bring them to their school, and most importantly review their mathematics until they no longer understood the slight bit of information they once had. These will always have been the struggles of a passionate teacher who curved his career for the betterment of no one other than, Iznah.
They say to acknowledge one’s biases in the field of Social Work as they will always exist, regardless of one’s attempt to walk away from them, as often directed. She did not realize the weight of her cultural bias, which by now, must have seeped into her interactions, sessions, and practice. With respects to the multicultural realm and all people, her feet moved towards those who reminded her of her language, mother’s touch, her father’s tears, sister’s disappearance, and grandmother’s aging. Her passion lingered by those who remained anxious in a western environment, dominated by the oppressor’s language, which barely allowed them to walk through the corridors and access basic needs. Regardless of this country’s accepting reputation, only Iznah could understand the fear behind his closed eyelids and the whimper within his stern voice.
NINE
Iznah allowed the holiday season to bring about feelings of anxiety- such nostalgic feelings were an annual occurrence and hence, “normal”. Plenty came from not aligning with Christian values enough to celebrate Christmas. Others came from re-conceptualizing Christmas to better align with the tradition through acts of giving. Others came from obligingly respecting the relative culture in a multicultural paradigm. Her feelings came from being surrounded by Catholic carols, artificial Santa Claus’s and Winter Wonderlands- all of which were ignored throughout her upbringing.
Cordially knocking on their door, she hesitated to enter this room. Peering through the window, she noticed both ladies facing each other, not a word exiting their lips during this visit. Breaking the silence, Iznah presented her hand-made holiday gesture to the old woman, who was actually unable to see and grasp the gift. Hence, her daughter placed this tea light candle on the wooden table, beside flowers, which longed to be watered. The room seemed to crave both luminescence and aroma to end the war of familial conflict, lifelong resentment and repressed angst.
As she ripped through the frozen surface, like a dolphin that had been knocking its head on hard ice gasping for survival air, she apologized for her tears. Here she was, on the other end of the spectrum, cradling her mother’s fading brain until loneliness set in, again. He felt it appropriate to leave them in this manner for an undetermined time during an undetermined moment. It was appropriate for him to disappear during moments of her rare laughter, pitfalls of her severe depression and occasional visions of light. Her glimpses naturally excluded his presence, as he was never there anyway. Closing her eyes, she reviewed her capabilities of resilience, independence and strength. Upon opening her eyes, she rekindled with her relationship of dependence, sharing and togetherness.
This story of turbulence revealed atrocities yet to appear in Iznah’s future. Gasping for air, she excused herself and placed the binder away- her hands shaking. She ran towards the elevator, simultaneously wrapping the shawl around her suddenly cold body. She was this woman. She waited at the airport door, for the phone to ring and for his aid. She plugged away at adversity alone hitting cave bottom every time. Every time she saw his face, she knew she was a little less than yesterday. As if her lifeline depended upon his coming and going, she made all the excuses to compromise. “If I could change things, I would have run for the hills. Run for the hills before it is too late” said the woman, much too close to Iznah’s heart.
EIGHT
Never had there been a moment where she slipped, intimately. Never had there been a moment where she thought sexually, embezzled in a seductive atmosphere, with relative fantasy in a professional setting. Understanding this conduct violated her obligatory code, she refrained from allowing her mind to imagine, create and enact. Iznah held her compassionate, feminine gaze to a minimum, gait slightly masculine and authoritative and words poised to recover. But she had seen him before, somewhere, wrapped in a charcoal, woolen scarf aligning with his beard, bleeding of black.
The more he came into light, the more cautious she became about her own demeanor. She began to eat with greater mannerisms as if he would judge her personality by diet- as if she may lose the mysterious label he allocated to her. Reaffirming her professional position, she reviewed the binders, finally conducted assigned calls and activated her mental database (her primary strength) as if his mere presence held power enough to snatch it all away from her. Alas, she welcomed him past the office corridor and offered a seat.
Little did she know, he created an imaginary line between the two of them for several months, which prohibited him from moving beyond the corridor, exchanging words rather than a glance or two, and extending his hand for the firm handshake they shared today. “Maybe, I find you intimidating. Maybe, I find you mysterious. Maybe, I like you better when silent. Maybe, this silence gives my mind room to appreciate your beautiful features.” Hurriedly thanking him for the indirect compliment, Iznah moved towards his problems and her solutions, as her interactions typically worked. “You should accept the compliment because I am just stating the obvious. I find attractive women intimidating”.
He mentioned all she could not disclose to have undergone, although she felt the essence of his story still, a little less than he did. Speaking through broken ethical lingo, she managed to maintain eye contact, although her lips were aching to smile, to laugh. To laugh at the magic of his mere presence- at their attempt to professionalize the atmosphere despite obvious mutual attraction. To laugh at the constant ringing of chemistry downplaying the seriousness of his story- talk of his disastrous past was an excuse for today’s hello.
SEVEN
Iznah, despite contributing to it’s competence, was not a fan of the hospital setting. Upon entering a hospital, her body felt unhealthy, as if there was something left to take care of. As if she was in denial about mortality or reluctant to face the very prevalent existence of malady. As if she could not be in the corridors of suffering without entering this emotional realm herself. Despite nurturing it’s prosperity, Iznah was merely tolerant of the hospital setting. Time and time again, she questioned her offerings, intentions and commitment, upon entering and exiting the premises.
Nonetheless, here she was awaiting the news of her blood work, creating multiple imaginary scenarios based on hypothetical results. Mentally infused in such planning, Iznah did not realize there was another patient “placed” beside her, until the hospital code announcement disrupted her daydreaming. As the moaning, whining, and derogatory language became more apparent, Iznah’s nausea and restlessness raced up the wall. Scanning this woman from head to toe, Iznah’s visual lens zoomed in on her needle wounds, still fresh and bloody. Despite having dealt with women in treatment and transition, Iznah’s gag reflex peaked and she hurled in the eye-washing sink.
Of course, this woman remained oblivious to Iznah’s disgusted facial expression, still pining in a state of drug withdrawal. However, Iznah’s attention was robotically centered upon this woman as if she lacked the neurological ability to shift her gaze. Visually fixated, as if undergoing a traumatic experience, she “felt” overlapping blurbs banging against the side of her brain. Blurbs like those which appear on comic strips- a white circle with a black outline and triangular point, directed towards the speaking character.
Iznah questioned her evident discomfort towards a woman facing withdrawal and likely, addiction treatment. Clearly, the woman was in excruciating pain so why was Iznah labelling her as disruptive to the hospital setting, deviant in seeking help, and even, grossly unhygienic. Never did Iznah feel such bodily shivers upon seeing a woman face domestic abuse so why was she disregarding this woman as irresponsible, incapable, and hopeless? Why was Iznah taking hesitant steps towards this woman, only to confirm her likeliness of having body odor, a whiff of alcohol or drugs, or suffocating gas vapor? Being a woman herself, how was she able to so mightily degrade another woman?
SIX
She entered the room, according to sequence, recalling the medical notes she was welcomed with today. After all, such notes were to assist her in building a relationship with someone whom she had the privilege of “already knowing”. Nonetheless, understanding the sensitive nature of medical diagnoses, safety protocol, and confidentiality, Iznah opened the door. Among all patients-in-care, this gentleman chose to close his door, resulting in a room full of utter silence rather than an echo of staff chitter-chatter, infant cries, and keyboard typing.
Twisting of the door handle created noise prevalent enough to wake him up from, perhaps, illusionary sleep. Mentally bloated with a helpless desire of sleep permanency that may result in some sort of salvation, at least, how was he to peacefully close his eyes? Iznah knocked on the side wall, hinting towards her presence, which he already noticed of course; visually fixated on this stranger by the door, his protective guard was evidently rising. Purposefully, Iznah tried to view this world within his frame- “Perhaps, this is the lady that will end my life. Is it going to happen now? Is she going to remove my oxygen? Will she hurt me?”
Settling by his side, the first thing that ventured out of her mouth was “Are you Korean?” In fact, Iznah was so tempted to visit his cultural orientation that such words came out of her mouth as she scurried around the room looking for a chair, struggling to establish eye contact and a welcoming facial expression. Upon noticing his frantic stare and rapid breathing, she reframed her question to something along the lines of: “I have always wanted to visit Korea as some of my friends are from there (untrue). I thought it was really nice to see someone here from Korea. How are you doing?” Of course, this did not reverse her unintentional, racialized comment, indicating that he was viewed as the “other”- a man from Korea, unable to speak English and hence, requiring special attention.
Not surprisingly, the gentleman was aware of “Canadian” racialized practices and identified himself as unable to speak English; the countless times he apologized for speaking his native language rather than western English prompted Iznah’s face to become ruby red. She was unable to mask her embarrassment and shame as a Canadian, fluent in the “oppressor’s language”, as she attempted to practice anti-oppressive social work- Oh, the paradox. He continued, “I am sorry, I am trying to speak about Jesus but my English is no good. I am here eight years and no good. Please, watch this movie. You will know. Jesus is savior.” Hesitantly, Iznah acknowledged the film title, still feeling sinful for the lack of communication.
Iznah recalled the crippled woman, with newly defined wrinkles, evidently entering old age. Attempting to communicate with the taxi driver, she gestured towards Iznah, desperately requesting assistance. However, Iznah as a westernized school girl surrounded by folks of white privilege portrayed herself as an English speaker, unable to assist with native language interpretation. Egotistically grounded upon her patriarchic country’s soil, Iznah watched this woman struggle to convey her death-defying message to the driver: “Please help me. He is going to rape me. He will kill me. Please, please. I need your help!” and shamelessly walked away.
FIVE
Iznah did not find any appeal in complaining- complaining to whom and complaining about what, when everyone around her seemed to have it “much worse”? How were her discomforts and inconveniences at all legitimate when the young old man, unable to speak English, could not express his longing for Euthanasia? How could she have the audacity to be dissatisfied with her current condition when her father lost a limb as a millwright and continued to labor so she could gain academic privilege? Among such comparisons, Iznah found it difficult to be remorseful and inappropriately question God.
Yet, her profession emphasized self-care, constantly reminding her to look at areas of personal need; a metaphorically full gas tank served as mandatory criteria for becoming a competent helper. Hence, she sat in front of her bedroom mirror with dim lights attending to the drooling consequences of physical intimacy. Although admittedly in denial, Iznah knew such recurrent episodes were becoming lifestyle and at the same time, felt infuriated with such symptoms to the extent of complete inaction and rather, numbness.
After all, where was she to direct herself, other than to a potentially culturally competent physician, miles away from home? Her personal physician, having been present at the time of her birth, stared at her with an expression of what seemed like, disbelief, negative judgment, disapproval, or disgust. Every other professional seemed to redirect her to him as if they were incompetent of practicing medicine themselves. Such inaccessible and disrespectful experiences had her questioning the very same medical system that she referred her clients to- professionals performed based on personal bias/values without objectivity and positive regard, they filtered their clientele based on preference, they were discriminative towards certain diagnoses, they were racist, or they valued time-based service rather than effective, quality-oriented treatment, all in all leading to oppressive service.
Experiencing exaggerated and worsening symptoms, Iznah subconsciously understood the importance of obtaining treatment; such action was crucial to becoming a competent provider but more significantly, to have quality of life, if any life at all. Little did Iznah realize that she was engaging in judgment based practice with direct reference to personal values, resulting in subjective treatment in her own practice. Otherwise, she would not have argued so passionately about refugee rights with her client in treatment. Otherwise, she would not have bypassed a palliative patient based on the way he smelled. Otherwise, she would not have provided relationship advice to a young woman dating an elderly man.
FOUR
Plentiful terminology, familiar and unfamiliar, was beginning to take up Iznah’s mental space, often leaving her with null energy for socializing. Increasingly inclined to understand beneath-the-surface factors and person-centered approaches, Iznah placed high value on human connection, attentive communication, and reciprocal learning within the client-worker relationship (not always possible, based on the goal). However, new language never made sense enough, until practically experienced in an unintentional manner: the learning in such surprises.
Iznah searched for the patient in her designated room- the bed was empty and two women were sitting on visitor chairs. Amongst careful observation, she saw intravenous bandaging on the middle-aged woman’s arm; perhaps, she was the patient in care? Sitting across from the two women, Iznah began to introduce herself in the “oppressor’s language” of English until the woman spoke in her native tongue, also that of Iznah’s. The woman was dying, as the hospital unit entailed, but also leaving two highschool children to strive in this gruelsome world alongside an unstable husband. Suddenly, Iznah began to see her own mother in this character.
Confident that she had mastered an ethical approach in practice, incapable of exerting countertransference, Iznah felt unfamiliar tears form internally as the woman spoke of motherhood virtues. Consciously, Iznah refrained from allowing a weak voice to direct their conversation, revealing her personal vulnerabilities and relativism to this client. Instead, aware of her shaking legs, she listened to this woman guide her on “ways to respect your mother” as you will never have another. This sensitivity emerging from her words could only be found in a dying mother’s remaining aspirations for her loved ones- not even for herself but rather, for her love.
Desperate to leave this room prior to further picturizing her own mother’s face and this woman’s body in attachment, Iznah excused herself: “I will be right back after the nurse examines you” only to never return again. While walking through emergency exit hallways, Iznah thought of her fatherly figure, another client in her treatment facility. Since when had Iznah formed such subjective relationships hindering her ability to refrain from bias, judgment, and favoritism? Since when did she feel uncomfortable upon going weeks without hearing from this man who claimed to see his dead daughter within Iznah’s demeanor?
THREE
Amongst rigid training, it was essential for Iznah to continuously search for grounding mechanisms- how could she feel most in tune and consistent with herself? Desperate to align everchanging perspectives with projected behavior, she created a self-care atmosphere in a private setting (unsure of which elements actually made this space self-care oriented). Perhaps, remaining in isolation, away from clientele and familial pressure resulted in some sort of assurance: she still had herself. She still existed and all that was required was feeling of her own arms, twirling of her own hair, and echo of her own breath.
Every morning, Iznah bumped into a middle aged woman, seemingly of a Latino background. Presenting with curly/unsettled hair, effortful makeup, and a smile, this woman requested cleaning of the room. She would return time and time again asking Iznah of her stay and probing for appropriate time frames for refreshing shampoo bottles, coffee supply, and anything wishful. Although, Iznah had recurrent contact with housekeepers, she did not view this woman with similar lens. This woman most definitely had children based on her loving nature towards Iznah and was working in a low-wage hotel setting, probably making bare minimum income to feed the household. In the city of lovers, perhaps, this woman had lost her husband, experienced familial deportation, or longed to see people of her origin in a “multicultural” society.
Iznah questioned hotel staff ethnicity and demographics as she surveyed the hallway noticing multiple Latin workers (mostly women), African American housekeepers, and Asian staff. It was rare for her to see someone of “White/Caucasian” color cleaning up after the last resident; polar opposite positions to that, however, seemed to be an ongoing theme. While walking through such corridors, Iznah recalled her long term vacation with an unsuitable partner. Vomiting throughout the hotel room due to intolerable alcohol and marijuana intake, he portrayed no remorse for a housekeeper having to clean up after his mess. Shamefully, Iznah reached for cloths to at least partially, clean up the odorful undigested food as she listened to him yell: “What are you doing? There is no need to do this. “Those” people know how to clean, they do it every day. Leave it for them, let them clean it, it is their job.”
Let the Latin woman with two little girls and bare minimum food in her fridge clean my vomit as I indulge in luxurious practices of intoxication and publically watch pornography. After all, she is who she is. Low status… Another immigrant… Just another “Latina”.
TWO
Surrounded by ongoing discourses of racism, Iznah stood in front of the mirror analyzing everything. From her hair to her jawline, her biceps to her stomach wrinkles, and from her unpainted toenails to slightly unshaved legs. She wondered if she was an ally of racist and oppressive practices and consciously practiced humiliating another being, as there seemed to be no urgency to change her behaviour. Of course she was. She sat down on the floor and tried to zoom in on her pupil.
Throughout Iznah’s schooling journey, whether it was elementary or high school, she never invited her father around her friends or professors. During her elementary school graduation, she forged a letter catering to her mother’s attendance, and excluded her father. In fact, she stated the school wanted gender alignment and hence, would not be open to her father since he was a male. In reality, the school invited all parents, all family members, and even extended relatives. Acknowledging her father’s facial disappointment, she continued to eliminate him from field trip supervision (a chance for family engagement), special events, and milestone ceremonies. Still, she had the audacity to say upon reaching high school that he never took the initiative to become involved in her academic journey.
No. Iznah did not allow her father to have the privilege of seeing his own daughter navigate elementary and high school grounds. Even if her grades peaked or she achieved award of the year, she would bring such materialistic treasures home, ridding opportunity for him to be involved in the process. Oh, how he would have loved to watch her cross the stage, obtain the award, and give her little speech. After all, Iznah had the privilege of pursuing high-level academia only due to her father’s daily toiling at work for financial stability, countless rides in snowy weather, and balanced meals for optimal health.
Iznah feared her father’s presence due to his turban, beard, and cultural garments. Many fathers would pick up their children and portray similar hairstyles, skin color (white), and outfits. However, Iznah never learned to take pride in her father’s bilingual capacity, successful immigration efforts, and mathematical skill set, which led to her fruitful grades. Instead, she limited her father to his white turban, brown skin color, and older age. Being of brown color herself, she attempted to westernize as much as possible because of course, she could: she was born here. She was “capable” of doing everything independently such as, maximizing her westernized friends, assimilating to all cultures (other than her own), and affiliating with professors of white-privilege to “build her reputation”.
ONE
Self-care, a common theme within her journey, was becoming critical for Iznah as she suffered vicarious trauma and recurrent flashbacks paired with urgency to be maximally healthy and grounded for ideal practice. Searching her mentally situated “personal care” toolbox, she reflected upon her spirituality, always a successful reference during depressive episodes or periods of uncertainty. Hence, she decided to visit her local temple- the one that had the emptiest space and least number of visitors.
Overtime, Iznah visited different temples in search of one “most suitable” to her conditions, without ever attending to what such conditions actually consisted of. According to her family, temples were all welcoming, nonjudgmental, and meant to encourage spiritual practices. So, why must she find a specific temple catering to personal comfort? Was there a difference in temple layout, ceremonial schedule, or general atmosphere? No. Iznah’s preference of temple depended upon population type and size.
Upon entering a temple after cutting her hair, Iznah experienced extended glares, indirect rejection to serve in the kitchen, and minimal communication by those in her surroundings. Iznah kept her eyes slightly open while praying to notice the old woman, beautiful mother, or middle-aged man, evidently rating the appropriateness of her outfit (westernized but, completely covered). In fact, she had a priest speak with her through self-invented sign language, assuming she did not understand the language of her heritage. Upon mentioning a few traditional words, the priest was clearly taken aback: “How could a girl with short hair, westernized clothing, and a tattoo (disregarding the tattoo’s religious significance) speak our language? She could not belong to us- she does not even look Indian enough!”
Iznah was focused on studying democratic racism- a conflict between Canada’s all-welcoming reputation/service to equality and continued racism/discrimination. All blame upon patriarchal Canadians vanished when she experienced racism from her own ethnic group. Watching the mother coach her little girl to “never become like her (Iznah), she was subjected to “othering”. Trying to withhold familial traditions and create a plan to maintain cultural connection post parental mortality, Iznah analyzed her “options”. As Canadian veterans questioned her “background” during hospital shifts and Indian communities demanded proof of cultural identity, Iznah struggled to find safety.
Today, she recites prayers in isolation, forcing her way to cultural ceremonies regardless of oppressed feelings. Perhaps, the day her hair turns longer or she commits to baptism, will her community stop mental interrogation and visual head-to-toe searches, replacing these with gestures of love.
DISCLAIMER
Iznah, a fictional character, is representative of a Social Work practitioner-in-training and her reflective experiences as she navigates through her undetermined and curious journey. Undergoing daily personal dilemmas and realizations as well as professionally constructed obstacles, Iznah begins to log her personal pilgrimage. This segment respects confidentiality of all associations and their relative information.
The Iznah Series: www.instagram.com/Iznahh
All Parts Complete Novel Release: 2018