By Abdul Moeed Asad, KL-YES.
On the last Friday of Ramadan, I met with some of the strongest people in my life. It was over an iftar (ceremonial breaking of the fast during the holy month of Ramadan) where we broke bread together on sunset and talked about our lives. These people shared their stories of loss and redemption – or the redemption that never came. They shared it all, rather unsettlingly, in a monotone. I sat there quietly baffled. I do not know where this strength originates from. I do not know and I hope that no-one has to know.
I was going through my Facebook feed one day and discovered a friend had organized an iftar for the transgender community. At first I passed it off as a token gesture, something only superficially beneficial. It took a little curiosity, some introspection and a Google search for me to realize that I actually knew very little of the stories about the transgender community, commonly referred to as the “Khawaja-Saras.” It didn’t take long before I reconsidered the usefulness of iftars with the discriminated; therefore, I decided that I too should have an iftar with the Khawaja-Sara community and learn from them.
However not everything is as easy as just having an idea and working up a budget. Perhaps my biggest obstacle was to convince my parents into letting me do this iftar. I appreciated my parents concern and decided to do it in a way that they might find more agreeable: with a number of friends and with common sense precautions (example: not to hand out my number to strangers). From then on, my team of volunteers and I set out to collect funds. We created a closed group on Facebook, communicated regularly, reached out to our social contacts and finally managed to put together a budget with everyone’s efforts that allowed us to host a lavish iftar menu comprising of Biryani, Samosas, Fruits, Dates, Jam e Sheerein and water bottles. We carpooled to BaadShahi Mosque in Old Lahore for the iftar with the transgender community to spend an evening talking to them, not only about their plight, but about their life.
As we sat down for the iftar with the Khawaja-Sara community, we started asking questions. Once we saw them as fellow human beings and realized how open they were, we started to gained real insight from our discussions. We mainly talked to Ashi Butt, who is very aware of the separation that the Khawaja-Sara community endures. Almost matter-of-factly, Ashi told of how she went to mourn the death of a Khawaja-Sara about a decade ago only to find out that she wasn’t welcome. This ostracism was made more apparent when the same thing happened when she tried to attend her own mother’s funeral: she was driven out by her own brothers.
Among the many questions we asked, we were curious as to how the transgender community raises money. We asked Ashi, naively, why is it that the transgender community relies on their stereotypical dancing routines for money and does not attempt to raise money in a way that society deems more respectable. I will admit, it was ignorant of us to come to the assumption that they did not try other methods (they do the odd job and I hear they are engaged in making handicraft at fountain house among many other alternatives). She told us with candor that they are not allowed to work. She elaborated that even the educated among their community are never taken seriously, referencing friends that had tried to get jobs.
Getting to know the community was enlightening and something I would recommend to everyone. In a country divided, we must stand strong in our unity through camaraderie and empathy to better define who we want to be as a people. Do we want to be known for the wrath of our prejudice or our kindness, hospitality, and empathy?
As an ending note, I believe the answer not only lies in a deeper understanding of the limited resources and opportunities for some members of our society. Our progress lies in being individual champions of inclusivity and harmony for a society that is welcoming in all spheres of progress – social, economic and political.
