A Hate/Love Relationship

I admit it - I hate Christmas. Hold on, before you get your rope (or whatever else) in a knot, let me contextualize and define that statement. I don't hate the festival of Christmas, I hate the materialism that comes along with it. For years, around 3 or 4, I've railed against the horrors of materialism that befall our society every time Christmas rolls around. Shops start advertising the event months in advance, small children start writing letters to Santa (or their parents if they've gotten over the Santa myth) outlining (often in excrusciating detail) their profligate desires, and people whip out their credit cards to scoop up as many things as possible. To me, it seems, or seemed, a complete waste of money and time. To me, there were better things to celebrate, better things to throw money at (well not 'throw; 'donate' would be a better word), and better ways to practice writing.

I don't know why, or even when , I developed this hatred of Christmas. Perhaps it was a result of my family's Christmas celebrations, that usually ended with my little sister in tears because my parents bought her something she didn't want. She'd come down the stairs in the morning, excited to open her presents. My parents would be grinning, expecting my sister to love her gifts, and then she'd open them and complain. And then sulk for the rest of the day. I'm not sure if I sulked as much as she did, although I remember certainly doing so when I got a minidisc player and not the cd player that I'd wanted. Looking back, that was a stupid reason to sulk - minidiscs were state-of-the-art then, and CD players were already becoming obsolete. But, being a kid, I really didn't know the difference. All I knew was that all my friends had CD players, and I had something else. After 3 years of failed Christmases (and yes, we only had a tree with presents for three years), my mom decided that she'd had enough, and announced that she (and my dad) would no longer buy presents. My sister was devastated. I was surprisingly happy - maybe because I was older and knew that my mom's decision was the right one.

This year, I don't know what it is, but I've felt the Christmas spirit that everyone's always talked about and that I'd never felt. I don't know if it's because of the recession, or because of the freakishly cold weather we've been having this year, or because I'm a bit more sentimental this year given that it's probably my last winter in this city, but it's been different. It all started with me asking my mom to get a real tree this year (we'd had a fake one for a couple of years). This is only our 2nd or 3rd real tree ever, but it's by far the best one we've had. For one, it smells beautiful. The shape is also amazing. As well, it doesn't have any of that cheap tinsel that I hate, and is decorated pretty nicely (kudos to my sister for that).

I've also noticed people being much nicer this year - randomly. I've seen more people donate their time and money to the less fortunate this season than I have ever before; and I've seen people smile more, talk to each other more, and be in better moods generally. Maybe I'm imagining things, looking at my city through rose-tinted glasses, but, in all honesty, I don't think so. I don't know how to prove this to you, so you'll just have to believe me.

Maybe it's the recession's effect, but I haven't seen people going wild on spending this year either, which to me, is a good thing (not the recession of course, the curbed spending).

Whatever the case, Christmas this year promises to be special, and I've pretty much decided to make every single Christmas after this one as special as possible. Heck, it only comes once a year, and is a time when everyone can get together and celebrate. It may be religious in origin (Christian, Roman whatever), but in my mind, it's the coolest secular event of the year (more so than Hallowe'en as well!).

Merry Christmas everyone, and Happy Holidays!

Me? Myself? I? Nabz?

Late night papers always lead to posts on Selfistan. Given my lack of blogs in the last little while, perhaps it's safe to say that I should write more papers; though that would completely devastate my already-destroyed sleeping habits and would render me unable to carry-out basic functions (i.e. speaking and writing - not the other ones). And this post already sounds like the paper I'm writing...sigh...albeit on a completely different topic.

The issue at hand today is something I've been pondering for quite some time now. Not sure when I started thinking about it, but it definitely became a major brain-stimulus around the time that I started my 50-page, and now sitting on the back-burner, paper on Pakistan. For anyone that knows something about Pakistani history, the question of Pakistani identity - what constitutes it, does it even exist, questions like these - has always been debated. Is Islam the thing that binds the country together? Jinnah tried to use Urdu - a language spoken by only 3% of the Pakistani population at Independence - before he died. What about territorialism (which, according to a professor from LUMS I met on Sunday, is now being used quite regularly)? As someone of South Asian descent, and one who's family is 'from all over the place' in every meaning of that phrase, it made me wonder about my own identity.

Ultimately, I came to a sort of an answer - one that fulfilled my requirements of taking into account everything. I decided that I had multiple identities. No - not in the sense of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, but in the sense that only one who is of a minority group can understand. When I am with my "Canadian" friends (in quotation marks because the entire question of a Canadian identity can be questioned - but here I mean all those who were born in Canada) I have a certain identity; when I am with my Indian, Pakistani or African friends, I have other (varying) identities. This is not to say that I am not myself; rather, to me it means that I am able to fully relate to various cultures and types of people in a way that many people aren't. As Jawaharlal Nehru once said, "I am a queer mixture of the East and the West."

But my own identification with various groups isn't the end of the story. Having, to an extent, forgotten how others judge my identity as well, I was surprised when the question arose at a gathering this past weekend. Perhaps it was my own fault, as I had just asked this LUMS professor about identity-issues in Pakistan, and had had a conversation with him post-lecture on the issue of identities of South Asians in Canada vis-a-vis in South Asia itself. Also, having referred to both India and Pakistan as 'we' throughout the afternoon, and having a name too ambiguous to allow one to decide my background, I shouldn't have been surprised at the conversation that followed with another professor. It went something like this...

Prof: So Nabz - where are you from. (note - usually I hate this question when asked by 'Canadians' because it implies that I'm not from Canada - but given the circumstances, I wasn't too upset. Even then...)

Nabz: I was born here.

Prof: You know what I mean - are you Indian or Pakistani?

Nabz: Umm. Neither. (Note - if you know me, you will know why I said this).

Prof: Well, you have to be from one or the other.

Nabz: Well, I refuse to pay allegiance to either of them. And if I do, I say that I'm from both.

So - exasperated the prof walked away.
A little while later, another member of the organization that had hosted the talk asked me the same question, and the professor was still there.

Guy: So Nabz, where are you from?

Prof: I just asked her that question, but she refused to tell me.

Nabz: (sigh). Well, my family's from Gujarat, but moved away before Partition, and could've gone to Pakistan.

Guy: Oh - so they moved to ____________?

Nabz: Yes.

Guy: So you're _(religious group)_?

Nabz: Officially yes, but actually no. I don't believe in it, and don't follow its practices.

Prof: Well, we knew she was __(religious group)__ already - her last name gives it away.

And that's what struck me "her last name gives it away." It reminded me of a scene in a fantastic Indian movie called 'A Wednesday,' in which the cop refuses to tell the viewers the name of the 'terrorist' because names tell us too much of a person's life. More importantly, it made me realize how we immediately attempt to put people into boxes and try to understand them through things like names and hair colour and eye shapes - through things that are really inconsequential in the entire scheme of things. Of what importance is it to me what religion you are, or what religion your name tells me you are? Maybe that's the Canadian in me speaking, but in all honesty, isn't a person's nature more important? Or her likes and dislikes? Why this infatuation with the past? With this ethnic or national or religious identification of a person? This, in my view, is what leads to fragmentation, what leads to heinous acts of terrorism, what leads to this construction and the demonization of the other.

I know I've started rambling again (my excuse? Rfs), but it's all connected. I know I fall prey to making such judgements myself - I'm going to try and catch myself before I do though. That's one thing that's going to go into my New Year's Resolution list. That and writing more posts on Selfistan - without the aid of paper deadlines....

Long post - if you've stuck with me this far - thank-you...