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AFTAB
The Islamic Center at New York University’s publication which serves as an
outlet for creative writing, poetry, art, and other articles. This is a publication
through which members of the New York University community can exchange
ideas, share their literary and artistic tales, and communicate on the topic of
Islam as well as the broad range of issues facing the Muslim community.
VOLUME NO. 4 | SPRING 2010
ATIF WASTI CO-EDITOR IN CHIEFAFTAB MAGAZINE EDITION NO. 4
TABASSUM RAHMAN CO-EDITOR IN CHIEFMARIYA CAMPWALA PHOTOGRAPHYALI REZA MALIK DESIGNERSTEPHEN POLNIASZEK ADVISOR
STEVEN AIELLO FRIDAY AFTER IFTAAR 4AMIN HUSAIN PHOTOGRAPHIC PIECE 5ALI SWABY WHO SPEAKS FOR ME 6WHITNEY TERRILL EXCUSES 8SAANIYA CONTRACTOR I BELIEVE 9HENA JEHAN PAINTINGS 10ALI REZA MALIK THE OTHER ME 12SIDRA QAZI PHOTOGRAPHY 16ATIF ATEEQ PHOTOGRAPHY 18YAHYA KIERANI PHOTOGRAPHY 22RANIA BANIA PHOTOGRAPHY 24HANA AHMED PHOTOGRAPHY 26SHERMEEN RAHMAN HENNA DESIGNS 28SHEHZAHDI MAHMUD KAZI 30
If you have any comments or questions about the magazine, or wish to help
create the next edition, please feel free to e-mail us at 2009aftab@gmail.com.
I had the good fortune of being able to visit Egypt for
the first time this past Ramadan. As an American-
born Jew now living in Israel (I moved here this
summer after finishing my BA at NYU), I still find the
whole no-separation-of-Church-and-State thing to
be pretty weird. In Egypt, not only is there no such
separation, but the people and society themselves
are still very religious. Although not everyone fasts
(I asked some Egyptians for an estimate on what
percentage of people there do, but no one wanted
to venture a guess), no Egyptian will eat or drink in
public during Ramadan; the restaurants are open
during the day just for tourists. The disadvantage to
looking Middle-Eastern enough to pass for Egyptian
is that I was chastised in the street for drinking by a
store-owner who assumed I must be Muslim.
Experiencing the pyramids at Giza and the
mummies in the Cairo Museum was amazing. But
the most impressive part of being in Cairo was
seeing the way so many people observed Ramadan,
and in such public fashion. An hour before sunset,
people would begin to gather in the streets and
sit down at massive tables that were sponsored
for anyone to break fast. Then they would wait, as
food was passed along the tables, until it was time
for iftaar. Similarly, while walking in the downtown
area right before sunset, almost every store-owner
I passed would be preparing his iftaar meal and
invariably would invite me to sit down with him and
his family or employees.
There were some obvious downsides as well –
although the city was awake until well into the early
morning, daily hours of many stores and attractions
were on limited Ramadan hours. I passed Egyptian
police and security guards who were quite literally
asleep on the job, often laying down in whatever
shade they could find. But the way that the entire
city shut down and left everything quiet and
peaceful during iftaar was surreal. On Friday,
Yawm Gumma1, there were hundreds of
people gathered in the streets, praying. It was
a beautiful sight.
The unique part of my experience came
when I realized that I would be on my own
for Shabbat, perhaps as the only Sabbath-
observant Jew in Cairo. I ran to buy all the
Kosher provisions I could find to store in
my hostel room. Although I had met an
Egyptian Jew at one of the old synagogues,
she didn’t seem to know what Shabbat was
and certainly didn’t invite me to any meals. I
was headed back to my hostel room on Friday
afternoon, a bit dejected about having to eat
in solitude, when I stopped at a store to pick
up a gift for my brother. After giving me a
“Ramadan discount,” the proprietor invited
me to stay and enjoy iftaar with him and his
family. Never one to be shy, I explained in
my very broken Arabic and a bit of English
to him and his son (the translator) that I was
Jewish and had to put my things away before
sunset, but that I would love to eat with them.
I ran to my room, prayed and came back to
my friends.
Not only did I have my first Shabbat
iftaar dinner that night, but I was probably
their first Jewish iftaar guest as well. One of
the cousins of my host family was proud to
show off the Hebrew he had picked up from
working in the Sinai and most of the younger
generation spoke some English, so we got
along just fine. My time in Cairo was certainly
an interesting experience, and I’ll definitely
never forget my Shabbat iftaar dinner!
FRIDAY NIGHT IFTAARSTEVEN AIELLO
AFTAB MAGAZINE 4
“The image that you were going to see was of a cute blond Arab boy playing after the rain in a narrow
alley of a Palestinian refugee camp . . .”
THE IMAGE THAT YOU WERE GOING TO SEE...AMIN HUSSAIN
Some come before Columbus come
Live even with the Cherokee
Blend culture with Submission
In hearts they use to see
Sail from West Coast Momma
Come clear from cross the sea
Mansa father send 200 ships
Only one return to he
Go he he self, with 2000 more
Leave Musa in charge, now he big willie
Sail from west coast region
From rich kingdom of Mali
Mali get richer still
Mansa Musa hand very stea-dy
Take pilgrimage to Makah
Black wealth like this, them never see
Writer write down Musa story
An’ ‘das what Musa tell all we
Who speaks for me?
Mandinka reach Brazil and Peru
Opposite end of the land they be
Reach Brazil then travel west
Then up north to Mississippi vicinity
Arizona cave with elephant drawing
Pictographs so clear to see
Translate Mandinka language
“Elephant sick and very angry”
Seem like fairy tale to you
Read ‘bout it in book of anthropolo-gy
Who speaks for me?
North Pacific ‘Makah Native’
Look, dress, name, same like Mali
Garifuna people, same thing
On all isles of the Carib sea
More you read, and look, and dig
More evidence you see
Cover up, distortion, some even say conspira-cy
Islam here long time and peaceful
Momma send then in waves you see
Been coming for long long time now
And they pitch black like you and me
Who speaks for me?
Next wave get force on ships in shackles
This time like cow and horse you see
Rob from all over Momma coun-try
Different tongue, status, and creed
Treat them like they was the same
These of noble, varied ances-try
You have to always tell the story?
February, month for your history
Roots Book man name Kunta Kente
The “never again” people always do it
So why on earth can’t we?
Who speaks for me?
Is something there you ‘fraid of,
When back to history we flee?
Re-evaluate biased conclusions
Cross referencing things fair-ly
Like, why only individual story?
What about their communi-ty?
Prince great man, no doubt
What ‘bout Georgia and Carolina Island,
Bilali tribe and family
What about Louisiana rice farmers
Bahians, Jamaicans, Trinidadians, even in Belize
Who encode and decoded Nat revolt instructions?
It write down in Arabic you see
Black Historian, can you please tell me?
Why the no-learning, no-reading law?
Was there something you want to cease?
Beat and kill them! Torture and maim them!
The Moorish savages will have no ease!
Civilize them with the Bible!
Theorize! Move quickly! That’s it!
Infect them with the Ham disease!
Who speaks for me?
Can’t kill Black Religion
Survival instinc’ natural you see
When people force do it
Religion always sync up with ease
Look Boss, Lord’s Prayer in Arabic
Recheck. Quran Opening Chapter. Oh Jeez!
Criterion say:
“Save yourself and your family.”
“Worship Allah as much as, and jus’ as you be.”
Allah, I beg you, with them will You be pleased
There’s no hardship in Your submission
WHO SPEAKS FOR MEALI SWABY
AFTAB MAGAZINE 6
SUPER EPIC
POEM
, BROYou said: “After difficulty come ease”
What else is hidden from me?
That show their survival compromise?
Would I do likewise?
Who am I to criticize?
Who speaks for me?
Black Religion alive and thriving
Church and Un-church my people be
I see Hand of Allah
You see nature
Different name, same tenden-cy
A People striving an’ jus’ wanting to be free
As for me, force fed the cross you see
But it never really sit fit with me
An’ just seem to leave me ill at ease
Learned Elijah, read some Malcolm
Is like I jus’ a start to breathe
Introduce to Abdullah Son
Now that cat truly spoke to me
Now me feel thoroughly at ease
Brother of the Drum hear ‘bout it an’ say to me
“Travel that road to nothing but cultural aposta-sy,
“Sand man jus’ another master
An’ our people has got to be free”
Who speaks for me?
But me learn Criterion by heart you see
Abdullah Son clarify it so easi-ly
Speak to my mind an’ deep in my heart
Conviction settle in fairly speedi-ly
Sensible Submission you see, is the real key
When me chant Criterion
It make sense to me, an’ sound still so sweet-ly
Suprema-cy not to color, nor to money
Only to Allah, God Almigh-ty
“Yeah, but what about the histo-ry
Sand man jus’ another master
Our people have got to be free”
Who speaks for me?
In agrarian economy
Slavery came to always be
It was a pillar of first Greek democracy
By war, thru outlaw, or even treache-ry
Oppression, by custom, sometime even voluntari-ly
Slavery was part of the reali-ty
Seem like justification to you?
Not done yet,
But read it in the histo-ry
Criterion say it wrong
Should be no part of socie-ty
Abdullah Son abolish it steadi-ly
Stop access to it eventual-ly
Made it detestable in the communi-ty
Sand Man come first with force
Back Mamma push back even more forceful-ly
Sand Man come back later, nicer now,
Want to build up him own economy
Black Mamma see the human side
Through fair trading an’ engaging intellectual-ly
Trader teach the people Criterion
Translate it, discuss it, chant it very sweet-ly
Teach Abdullah Son life
Abdullah Son always explain t’ings clear-ly
Most take it, some don’t like it, sometime fight it
This how Black Mamma take Islam you see
This is definite-ly
How it reach to place like Mali
Seem like fairy tale to you?
Go read it in books of histo-ry
African write him own history you see
Seem like fairly tale to you?
This write down in ‘tousand year ol’ African library
Book use’ to sell in market like cra-zy
Me say book real cheap
Even salt worth more money
Literate, educated, an’ strong tradition
Stronger, Black Muslim Mamma came to be
Sound like they enslaved to you?
Not to me
Who speaks for me?
Nex’ door king get jealous
t’ings break down you see
When you can’t solve the problems peaceful-ly
War break out eventual-ly
Loser get captured, and then put in slave-ry
Better treatment than your penitentiary
Some slave even a run the country
This was not a rarity
Consistent with Muslim Mamma own book of history
Same thing with the oral legacy
Who speaks for me?
So my brother of the Drum,
I beg to differ, very serious-ly
I read the books like you
You don’t make sense to me
Momma Africa took Islam willing-ly and voluntari-ly
Submit not to Sand Man
But to Allah, God Almighty
Why is this so hard for you to see?
Musa made hajj while King
This what Mansa means you see
Won’t vote for Barack the black
But vote for he because he white
Or vote for she for she
To even start campaign
Black man must have extra ability
Why this cultural normalcy?
When big willie right now on-ly get C?
Where Sand man shackle or he chain?
He never shackle or chain
He never brand nor maim
Momma keep her culture and tongue you see
Why Ebonics disgraceful to you
While in Mali 46 language alone they be
Who speaks for me?
Islam not strange Sand Man legacy
No silly “blow up people” ideology
But anchor a true and vibrant universali-ty
Sand man, Brown, White, or Black Man
Even Green man if they be
Mental freedom from all things
Transcendental spirituali-ty
Establish humanity rights
Predate and supersede constitutionali-ty
For the community it means social harmony
Some abuse it, which is normal
That’s just a very small minority,
That still leave beautiful majority
More importantly
If you follow me
It inherently
Part of your legacy
That you never talk about correct-ly
Not in your book, nor your school,
And especially not in his story
Still, who speaks for me?
If you smart, YOU were, from start to
THE END.
PHOTOGRAPHY BY MARIYA CAMPWALA
You want me to do what?
You have got to be kidding me.
Just not this one time –
Let me make it all up to You later.
Just not today –
You want me to do that?
It’s too hard to do in front of these
other people.
Just wait for them –
Let me make it all up to you later.
Just not in front of them –
You want me to wear one of those?
That is beautiful for them to do.
Just not right now –
Remind me when I am older.
Just -
My own excuses.
EXCUSESWHITNEY TERRILL
I believe in chai. No, not the mass-produced Starbucks garbage that chic
New Yorkers enjoy drinking but the hot traditional drink from India that’s
brewed every evening in my home. The chai I believe in doesn’t come in a
manufactured plastic cup but it is a custom that has been passed down for
several generations. My mother prepares chai every evening on an electric
stove in our American kitchen. She uses American milk, American sugar and
American tea bags. Despite the American products used to make it, my chai
itself still resonates of India; quite possibly the only aspect of India that I will
ever fully understand.
If my frequent summer trips to India have taught me anything it is this:
chai is sacred. Not in the religious sense but in the Indians-must-drink-at-
least-two-cups-a-day-or-something-terrible-will-happen sense. Families will
wake up in the morning, their maids will prepare a cup of chai for them and
eventually husbands and wives and children will leave for work or school.
Upon returning home in the evening, almost certainly another cup of chai
will be served and drank before dinner. The porcelain cups in which chai is
served will be washed and dried at least twice every day by the willing maids
who have no other way to make a living for themselves. It’s possible that their
husbands or brothers or sons are chai-wallah’s: street vendors who give chai-
addicts their daily high. Chai is the solution to everything in India whether it
is headaches, stress, insomnia or awkward social moments. As long as there
is milk, sugar, and chai mix in the cupboard, Indians can solve any type of
problem. Actually, that isn’t completely true; a top-notch chai brewer is
also necessary if one hopes for chai to fully work its magic. Underneath the
surface, chai has a much deeper significance to me. It isn’t just about the milky
goodness that is the hallmark of good chai but it’s everything else that you
can’t see or taste. It’s the connection to the traditions of India I feel when I’m
gulping down a cup of chai late at night when a caffeine-kick is absolutely
necessary. It’s my ability to adhere to an Indian custom without fear of doing
something wrong. It’s a ritual I can partake in while in India without needing
someone to explain it to me. When I take a sip of my chai, it is the one thing
that reminds me of India: the malodorous stench that can be smelled on all
the roads, the half-built houses with questionable foundations, the children
running around half-naked while their parents make food outside for all the
world to see and the stunning technological advancements being made right
next to horrifying poverty. I don’t understand why there is so much progress
in the face of such great adversity but I do understand chai. I realize that chai
may be the only thing that I ever understand about India.
This is why I believe, I believe in chai.
I BELIEVESAANIYA CONTRACTOR SH
ORT PRO
SE
HENA JEHANHena, a rising junior at Baruch College, paints abstract art. She started painting in
order to express herself in a creative way. She was inspired to do abstract because it is
probably the only style of painting that allowed her to paint as she liked. The amazing
thing about abstract painting is that it can help someone find creative solutions to
problems. Hena feels that painting has been an excellent way for her to relieve stress
while juggling a job, college, and other extracurricular activities. Hena believes that
abstract paintings do not need any guidelines: everyone develops his/her own unique
style. All of Hena’s paintings are based on her life experiences and the lessons she has
learned. When Hena paints and hangs the finished pieces in her room, they serve as a
constant reminder of those amazing lessons she has learned.
Earlier today, when I woke up, I looked at my clock, as usual. 10:17 AM. I stuffed my face back into my
pillow, and after a few seconds, threw the blanket off myself violently. It usually takes a few seconds
for my eyes to adjust to waking life. I sat up on my bed. I looked to the left. I found myself staring. Just
staring, with parts of fear, awe, and confusion mixed together. Staring into a thin, translucent wall
cutting my room in two. It took a few seconds for my eyes to realize this isn’t something I normally
wake up to.
But wow. It was a dazzling spectacle. The wall was so thin and fragile looking, yet there were
hundreds electric impulses and sparking energies and things tangled together in a flat, glowing,
breathing, white web. The branches looked like veins. The clusters looked like neurons. I crawled to
the edge of my bed and continued to observe the wall with this childlike wonder. I’m thinking about
how this could have grown overnight without my knowledge. Maybe a ghost built his house in the
middle of my own, and this was a ghost wall. Maybe a hyper radioactive spider went berserk building
an impenetrable spider fortress. Maybe it bit me a few times. I actually thought about the prospect of
being Spiderman for a minute or two. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find any bite marks on me.
I raised a finger to touch the wall, making sure to be extra gentle. I felt this small spark ignite on my
fingertip, but the overall electrical network seemed to flow through and around the tip of my finger.
The wall cut off my nightstand on the left side, and my bookshelf on the right end. The only items
within my reach were a dollar hanging over the side of the stand and a pen and notebook I bought
last week, hiding underneath my pillow. I ripped a piece of paper out of the notebook and crumbled
it into a ball. I took aim and threw it into the wall. Just like that, poof. It disappeared as it passed
through the wall.
Just as it made contact, though, about a foot to the left of me, it reappeared, just flying through the
air, and landed on my bed. I picked it up and opened it up. It was blank. I really couldn’t tell if it was
the same paper that I had thrown. It had reappeared as soon as I had thrown it. I took my pen, the
only real tool I had, and wrote Puppies on the paper. It was the first thing that came to my mind. I
crumbled it up, and threw it back, and sure enough, a ball came right back my way just a foot to the
left. I opened it up, and this is what it read:
Puppies
THE OTHER MEA STORY BY ALI REZA MALIK
I took a moment to consider what this could mean. That
wall could have been some intergalactic space portal that
bounces everything back at me. Just to mess with my
head. Meaning I was eternally stuck on my half of the
room. I could run through the wall and jump and land
back on my own bed. Forget the ghost and the spider,
Puck was now my biggest concern. Or, maybe there
was another person in some other dimension who just
happened to throw a piece of paper that read Puppies at
the same time that I did.
The next test would be my pillow. I slowly pushed it
through the wall. An eerily similar pillow poked through
the wall next to me. I used my left hand to tug on the
Other pillow, that is, the intergalactic space pillow, and
felt something pull away my own pillow from my hand.
I get a bit startled, so I let go of my pillow and take the
other one, inspecting it thoroughly before tossing it
aside. It was the same pillow. The same pillow. It was
absolutely the same damn pillow. I was stuck. This portal
was bending space around back at me, and now had me
confined to that little bed forever. Just to kill time, I wrote
some more messages. Maybe I was wrong. I wasn’t ready
to just jump through the wall yet. So I wrote message
after message, and every time I threw it over, the same
message, same handwriting, same crumbled up form
reappeared on my side.
About fifteen minutes later, something really shook me.
I wrote The walls in my room are blue. And tossed the
ball over, and even caught the return ball in my hand. I
opened it up and had to read it twice. The walls in my
room are green. That’s what the note said. The look on
my face was priceless. Probably. Shock, confusion, and
all that. There was definitely someone else on the other
side. I sucked up my fears of disintegration and put my
finger back on the wall. It took a little more effort, but I
managed to push my hand through. Just a bit to my left,
fingers were protruding the wall back at me. It’s a pretty
creepy sight to see a hand appear through a wall. Sure
enough, the skin color was the same as mine, the same
fingers wiggled when I wiggled mine, the hand pulled
out when I pulled mine. It was me. It was me on the
other side. Well, another me. This Other me was doing
everything I was doing in his world. Everything. Every
thought that was mine was his. He’s the one who pulled
on my pillow. He wrote Puppies. He realized something
was fishy when my note said that the walls were blue, so
he put his hand through the wall. But our worlds weren’t
a hundred percent alike. Thus the
existence of both worlds.
You’re me, I wrote, which I promptly
received back. This is some parallel
dimension gate, we said. Awesome,
we agreed. This went on for half an
hour. Everything was the same. We’re
both film directors. We’re Rangers
fans. We ate three turkey sandwiches
the previous day. Sarsgaard was
President. People still made fun of
Canada. Firefly was in its eighth season.
Our parents were still alive, and our
mother’s birthday was coming up in a
week. The same life. It finally occurred
to me to ask about Isabelle after all
these banal questions. Might as well
bring my girlfriend in this game.
How’s Isabelle? At this point I was the
master of creating paper balls for inter-
dimensional transport, and it flew on
through, as does my Other’s response.
Except it didn’t read How’s Isabelle?.
Written on the crumbled paper was, Do
you miss Isabelle, too?
I studied that note for a while. A long
while. This was the first inconsistent
message since the green-blue wall
fiasco. I was thinking about the
circumstances of that information. I
was thinking about my Other thinking
about the same thing. He was reading
my note, not understanding why my
message didn’t have his element of
loss. The wall color was absolutely
marginal. This was the reason for the
dimensional split. I still had Isabelle,
and my Other didn’t. I got this really
weird, vicious headache. One I had
never felt before. My mind actually felt
like it was splitting in half like paper.
I leaned back to rest. After a couple
minutes, neither of us making any
move, I asked, You two aren’t together
anymore? The message I get read, You
two are still together? Now I have so
many more questions to ask. Is he
happy now? Leading a crazy bachelor
life? Being single after three years? I’m
getting really excited. The life I could’ve
lived. Without a serious girlfriend.
Then I thought about his thoughts.
He wanted to know if I missed her.
His life without Isabelle, without my
Isabelle, and my life with her, that’s all
he was thinking about. I wrote another
note. Yes… she nags as much as ever,
thinking that would make my Other
feel better. The one I received though
goes, No. Just that. No. I instantly felt
regret for writing my note, and I know
that my Other knows that I instantly
felt regret for writing my note. I was
furiously trying to remedy all this. I
was just kidding. She’s the world to
me. I throw that one aside. I’m sorry. I
love her? Trashed that one, too. I was
writing a third one, and something
started to come out from the gate. A
minor amount of electrical interference
surrounded it. A hand. My hand. My
hand brandishing a pocketknife.
Then an arm. The wall showed severe
turbulence. Then a face. My face.
It’s a strange phenomenon, to see
yourself with tears streaming down
your face. When you see it in a mirror,
you know the mirror is just doing what
you’re doing. Sometimes you adjust
your facial expressions and watch the
mirror mimic the actions. That, in
itself, feels fairly strange. But imagine
that you’re looking in a mirror, and the
mirror image starts crying. You’re fine,
but the mirror is showing that you’re
crying. What happens to you? Do you
cry? Do you adjust your facial features
to match what you see? Because that’s
what I did. I felt the muscles in my
face twitching, contorting, scrunching
up. It was reactionary. Instinctive.
Unconscious. I fought those urges
to match my Other’s emotions and
movements. He crept towards me, and
I heard my voice coming out of his mouth. It didn’t seem
right. He had stolen my voice. And I’m sure if I spoke, he
would have felt the same. He was telling me that I didn’t
deserve this life. He wanted to switch spots. He reasoned
desperately. Everything was the same in his world. I could
find someone else. He begged. I was begging to myself.
Switch places. Nothing would be different. The more
I backed up, the more his emotions evolved. He asked
about my walls. Was Isabelle still mine because I had blue
walls instead of green walls? Although when he said it, he
dropped the f-bomb a few times to accentuate his point.
If everything was the same, why was he suffering and not
me?
I couldn’t answer him. I didn’t know. I couldn’t say
anything. I knew myself. Whenever I was in a state like
this, all reason was blinded by my emotions. I was a
romantic at heart, and I would do anything – anything
– for the love of my life. I backed up against the wall, still
trying to force the tears back up into my eyes. He raised
his right arm, and so I raised mine. He struck down, and
I caught him. It was crazy. All of our moves crisscrossed,
and he couldn’t land a blow. Fear and confusion had
blocked my capacity for a counterattack, and desperation
and fury fueled his barrage. But hell, my room is messy.
A real mess. We grappled at one point, and I noticed my
guitar case laying on the floor. He started pushing me,
and I pushed him back. We were the same. I put one leg
back for more leverage, as did he. Except when he did
it, the leg caught the top of case, which slid under his
foot, and he flew backwards. Back into the gate. I could
see the last look of terror on his face, no doubt the same
look he saw on mine, and he disappeared through the
gate. My room turned into an electric volcano. I covered
myself under my blanket, a trick I learned when I was
only five years old when something horrific went down
in my room, as electricity was buzzing and crackling
everywhere and those energy neuron things started to
inflate like balloons. The wall started making this high-
pitched siren noise, and my room started shaking. Like a
baseball through an old factory window, the whole thing
made a deafening shattering sound and it crumbled into
itself. Like a mini-black hole, the thing sucked itself up.
And it’s done. A few stray pieces of paper floated down
from my ceiling.
I stepped through where the gate was, and everything’s
fine. There’s no evidence of the Other. No trace. Nothing.
I get my phone, and I go down my contacts to reach
Isabelle. The love of my life. But that gets me to thinking.
My Other was right. Everything in my life was the same,
and I wasn’t with her. I suppose, yes, my walls were a
different color. Other than the fact that he missed her,
there was no real significant change in my life with her
out of the picture. How often do you get the opportunity
to see that your significant other offers no significant
effect on the way you think? On the way you act? On
your life? I had gone each day just fine. Maybe not
100% okay, but my thought patterns were pretty much
the same. The very same. Then again, he lost his mind
hearing that there was another life where they were
still together. And that was my fortunate life. I would
have done what he did. Without any consideration
of consequence. I would have fought to get my girl. I
would dive through a dimensional gate that grew in
my room overnight. I almost envied my Other. Maybe
I just forgot her worth to me since I’ve always had her. I
always wanted to have the one girl in my
life, and now I do.
But maybe I saved him, because he’s
going to live his life climbing the hill,
while I’m sitting on the top of the tallest
mountain with nothing on me but
climbing gear. I realize that he messed
up. He messed up terribly. That’s why
he was as crazy as he was, and I have no
intention of letting myself go through
that sort of desperation.
Then again. I was never one to just sit
around and enjoy the scenery. Here she
comes now.
PHOTOGRAPHY BY MARIYA CAMPWALA
SIDRA QAZI As a medical elective from the Howard University College of Medicine, Sidra and eighteen of her peers traveled to Urubamba, Peru to provide medical assistance to the town’s inhabitants after a flood left many in the community homeless, injured, and sick. The trip was set up by Nexos Voluntarios, a group that promotes voluntary activity and social initiatives in Peru. Sidra brought her camera along to document her experiences and her travels to neighboring cities in her free time.
SIDRA QAZI
AFTAB MAGAZINE 17
“My Mother’s Brother”
This photo collection was shot when Atif’s mother learned that her brother had passed away. Although it was difficult to remain composed, Atif was dedicated to documenting this tough period so he could capture raw, unadultered emotion that represents the loss and sadness his family had undergone at this time.
ATIF ATEEQ
AFTAB MAGAZINE 19
A veteran photographer for Aftab, Yahya continues to share his visual explorations of both human nature and conceptual still life. Focus and perspective frame our everyday experience, whether our attentions are captured by the richness of color, or the myriad shades of gray. It has been his good fortune to articulate and represent his personal view of the world, full as it is, of beauty, sacrifice, and dignity.
YAHYA KEIRAN
AFTAB MAGAZINE 23
No stranger to traveling, Rania has a developed an extensive portfolio of images that explore the varieties of wordly cultures. But back in New York, she has developed her own style to capture those tiny yet magical everyday moments. Rania’s personality bursts with youth, and this sentiment comes out in full force through her photography.
RANIA BANIA
AFTAB MAGAZINE 25
Hana is an Orlando based photographer and a 17 year old junior in high school. She started doing photography when she was 15. Her favorite genre is fashion photos and uses her closest friends as subjects for her photography. She works as a contributor for SAPNA magazine and provides article photos.
HANA AHMED
See more at: hanaahmedphoto.webs.com
AFTAB MAGAZINE 27
SHERMEEN RAHMAN
Shermeen Rahman is a student at NYU majoring in Urban Design & Architecture. In her spare time she enjoys dabbling in a variety of visually artistic endeavors. She began experimenting with henna in high school as a hobby and has continued to build interest since then. Her skill level developed rapidly and vastly as she tried and mixed different styles, and now does Henna work professionally.
SHERMEEN RAHMAN
While waiting for the B train on Cortelyou Road’s small and
simple platform, a man descends the stairs to my left. I look
at him. He raises his right hand to his forehead to salut me,
stopping his hand just before it touched his grey flat cap.
Maybe he’s Muslim, I wonder. I say “salaam,” but I doubt
he hears me over the screeching noise of the approaching
train. He stands next to me as we both pretend to inspect the
metallic caterpillar.
“Does this go to DeKalb?” he asks me in an accent I can’t quiet
trace.
“Oh, yes,” I respond, quickly turning back my head to face the
train.
“Sister, where are you from?”
After my initial reactions have been confirmed, that he is
Muslim, I don’t mind answering: “Pakistan.”
“Oh, we’re neighbors!” He exclaims, as I stand there confused,
“I’m pashtun from Afghanistan.”
We both enter the train and sit down together. He begins to
speak his life’s story as his strong tobacco breath and taped
glasses give him an another-worldly facade.
Born and raised in Kabul, Afghanistan, Mahmud Kazi has a
six-generation family history of judges, hence the name kazi.
“I’m not a judge,” he emphasizes several times. As a young
adult in pre-USSR invasion of Afghanistan, Mahmud was a
soldier for four years. He was only supposed to be a soldier for
two years, but his commanding officer made him stay for an
extra two years–a job he did not mind doing. Afterwards, he
went to California to study at an American university. During
the same time, however, the USSR invaded Afghanistan.
“Don’t come [to Afghanistan],” his mother warned. He heeded
her words and decided to remain in the US. As Mahmud
explains the CIA’s role in the creation of the Taliban, his voice
is remorseful.
“Fourteen members of my family were killed by the Taliban,”
he recalls, “fourteen.”
Moments of silence fall between us only to be interrupted by
a new slice of Mahmud’s life.
“My daughter went to college in Peshawar,” he says happily,
MAHMUD KAZISHEHZADI
“and my son.” Peshawar, a large city
in west Pakistan is located close to
the Afghanistan-Pakistan border. His
wife, daughter and son live in Canada.
Eventually, he will leave New York to
see them. His daughter, 32 years old, is
engaged–but “not married,” he repeats
several times.
Mahmud tries to speak in broken Urdu, but
surrenders very quickly.
“My wife knows Urdu very well. I know
Farsi, Arabic, Pashto, and English,” he says,
counting each language off on his fingers.
He continues to recite a verse to me in
the Qur’an and then give me the English
interpretation.
“What are you studying?” he asks. “Middle
Eastern and Islamic Studies,” I respond.
“Oh, masha’allah! Good for you, sister.”
After another moment of silence, he tells
me that he is meeting a friend. He needs
to get to a place in Brooklyn and plans on
transferring at Dekalb to the R train. His
rough hands fumble around in his torn
bag and finally take out an aging business
card. The back has a handwritten address.
“I don’t know the address,” I say, not familiar
with the Bay Ridge area, “but to transfer,
you have to go up the stairs and go to the
other side for the R.”
“Thank you, sister,” he responds, putting
the card in the inside pocket of his worn
leather jacket.
“I am very happy to see you, sister,” he says
finally, “someone familiar.”
As the train stops in Dekalb Avenue, Kazi
picks up his bag and exits. Before he
reaches the door, he turns and says: “I
hope you happiness and goodness in life.
salaamu alaykum.”
AFTAB MAGAZINE 30