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