Both/And: A Memoir

The grab bag of my identity served me well in Abuja. This had always been the case, ever since childhood, except for one critical aspect of my background, the weight of which I would not appreciate until I was older: being of both Indian and Pakistani heritage.

The greatest threat to freedom is the absence of criticism. —Wole Soyinka

She was also doing what women do a lot: being self-effacing, both because she believed it was her job to serve others and because it had the side benefit of mitigating her potential threat as a powerful, ambitious woman.

As we sat down for lunch afterward, I realized how serene and settled I felt. Something I had never felt before. Surrounded by the people I loved most and who loved me. There was no agenda, no one was pulling out briefing cards or talking about the goals of the gathering. We were just there to be there. In fact, we were there for me.

They would open conversations about her with “You know your mother was the first woman to…” Then they would conjure a character so fiercely determined, so independent, I had trouble reconciling it with the mild, uncomplaining mother who slept in the bedroom next to mine.

Writing is one of the most ancient forms of prayer. To write is to believe communication is possible, that other people are good, that you can awaken their generosity and their desire to do better.

As we flew out, low over the city, I was reminded how important it is to talk to a range of people on these foreign trips. They revealed far more than we could learn sitting in government complexes, talking to leaders determined to impress us with how well they were handling things.

maybe? I didn’t know. I also didn’t know what the cost of taking that road would be, that it would mean twenty years of missed weddings, missed birthdays, missed funerals. Twenty years of sleeping on planes and perpetual jet lag. Twenty years of praying alone in strange hotel rooms and being the lone person fasting during Ramadan at official events

There could not have been a more stark reminder of how much constant pain he was in, all hidden by his perfectly tailored suits, his ever-present smile, his unfailing joy at the privilege of simply being alive. It took my breath away. How he found promise in life despite that pain might have been Abbu’s final lesson for me, delivered twenty-six yea