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Express Tribune
07-07-2025
- Health
- Express Tribune
When a physician speaks poetry
Dekhna taqreer ki lazzat ke jo uss ne kaha Mein ne ye jana ko goya ye bhi mere dil mein he Ghalib Dr Azra Raza has over the last several years won widespread acclaim and popularity in the US as an oncologist - but more so as a literary figure who can delve into the verses of Urdu master poets with effortless ease. Her mastery of English and Urdu alike makes her a captivating speaker who can spellbind an audience in the flicker of a glowing phrase. Her recent convocation address at Simon Fraser University in Vancouver was much more than a cancer-researcher's speech - it was a testament to her rare gift of blending the rigours of human anatomy with the depth of poetry and the warmth of the human spirit. Few people can stand before a hall of graduates and make the deadliest, most daunting topics blossom into something endearing - yet Dr Raza does exactly that. In her voice, even the harshest truths about cancer bend into lessons on courage, love, and the journey of being fully alive. With her commanding yet gentle presence, she remains a speaker who must be heard - regardless of the subject. She can take the most daunting facts of life and death and breathe into them a dignity that uplifts. In her speech, she spoke of a lifetime spent in pursuit of a cure that still evades her grasp, yet she turned that unfinished quest into something luminous: "I did not attain what I had set out to seek, but in that pursuit, I swallowed the world." Such lines linger like verses that echo one's own hidden thoughts - just as many poets remind us. At the heart of her message lies a truth both fierce and tender: that love - for an idea, a calling, or a person - is what gives our struggles meaning. She urged the young graduates to go forth with their hearts on fire, to bind themselves to what they cannot live without, and to carry that love with integrity. She shared stories of patients like Andrew, who faced the horror of cancer with quiet, heroic courage - reminding us how the human spirit can shine in the darkest places. Even when she spoke of bold, cutting-edge hopes - like the 'Stentinel' device that may detect and destroy the very first cancer cell - her words never felt clinical. They glowed with the conviction that science must always serve the soul. In her telling, a stent is not just a piece of metal in a vein, but a promise that one day, no one's mother will have to stand by a hospital bed in helpless grief. To hear Dr Azra Raza speak is to feel the burden of suffering soften - because she carries it with us. She turns the hard language of medicine into the soft music of hope. She reminds us that the work is not just to fight disease, but to hold onto our shared humanity, to love what we do, and to ease one another's pain. In every line, her voice echoes one simple truth: to reduce the suffering of even one person is reason enough to dedicate a life. That is why whether she speaks of cells or souls, Dr Azra Raza remains a humanist whose every word is, in the end, a kind of healing. Uss ne jalti hui paishani pe jab haath rakha Rooh tak aa gayee taseer maseehaye ki i.e. When she placed her hand on a burning forehead, Its healing touch reached deep into the soul This couplet by Parveen Shakir beautifully captures what Dr Raza does: she does not merely treat cancer patients - she soothes the spirit, with a healer's grace that lingers far beyond the boundaries of medicine.
Express Tribune
27-04-2025
- Entertainment
- Express Tribune
Tethered to the homeland
Each essay in this anthology is a mosaic of childhood memories, family lore, and the national events that quietly shape one's identity, hence there is something deeply intimate about Home: It's Complicated. These are not just abstract reflections but lived experiences — stories of loss and longing, of resilience and rediscovery. Some recount personal tragedies, others moments of quiet joy; some trace the pursuit of justice, others the search for belonging. Yet, woven together, they resist any singular narrative of Pakistan, offering instead a layered, deeply human portrayal of the homeland. Home is not just a place but a feeling — one found in the warmth of family traditions, the weight of generational traumas, and the unexpected moments that tether us to where we come from. The writers in this collection deal with their own histories, questioning what ties them to their homeland and what pushes them away. At the heart of many essays is the idea that home is stitched together by cultural markers — food, music, poetry, sports. Azra Raza, a cancer researcher in the US, clings to Urdu poetry, a legacy from her migrant parents — who sought to preserve the 'courtesy culture' of Aligarh and Lucknow. Now, she harbours the same 'immigrant's anxiety' to pass this heritage to her daughter living in the US. Similarly, Farrukh Karim Khan finds solace in music, declaring that while Pakistan may be 'sad, disillusioned, even broken,' it still finds joy and unity in Coke Studio's melodies. Cricket, another national obsession, emerges as a powerful metaphor in multiple essays. Omar Shahid Hamid, a police officer and crime novelist, compares his tumultuous relationship with Pakistan to the unpredictability of its cricket team — breaking hearts one moment, soaring the next. For many expatriate Pakistanis, cricket serves as a powerful link to their homeland. Muhammad Ali Bandyal, now a journalist in Dubai, echoes this sentiment, describing the life of a Pakistani expatriate as either 'hair-tearing or chest-thumping,' depending on the cricket team's performance. Likewise, Ali Khan, raised across continents as the son of a diplomat, found cricket to be his strongest connection to home. No matter where they lived, his father ensured their ever-changing residence always had space for net practice and indoor cricket. Meanwhile, Seher Fatema Vora, a second-generation Pakistani-American, is drawn to her Pakistani roots through familiar comforts — the rich flavours of nihari and the familiar sounds of Urdu. She recounts how experiencing Islamophobia, in post-9/11 America, pushed her to embrace her Muslim and Pakistani heritage even more openly. But for some home is not just a source of comfort — it can also be a set of shackles. Sundus Saqib's essay is a stark reminder of this unfortunate reality, recounting how she was forced to abandon her education and adventurous spirit for marriage and motherhood. The burden of patriarchy, rigid societal expectations, and outdated values appear throughout the anthology, reminding us that for many, home is not just complicated — it is stifling. Zofishan Umair recalls how, even in childhood, relatives viewed her body through the lens of motherhood, while Aisha Sarwari compares Pakistan to an oppressed bahu [daughter-in-law] exploited by her overbearing nands [sisters-in-law]. Zofishan's essay is filled with stories of women who refused to be defined by their circumstances — women like Qandeel Baloch and Saba Qaiser, whose defiance came at a cost but whose legacies challenge societal norms. Aisha insists it is time for the 'founding mothers' to take the forefront from the 'founding fathers'. Amber Zafar Khan in her essay highlights the double standards within a patriarchal household — while her uncle, Nakhshab Jarchavi, thrived as a poet and filmmaker, the performing arts were deemed unfit for women of the house. Growing up under her father's strict puritanical rules, creative expression had little room, and it was only later in life that she was able to pursue music on her own terms. The writers in the anthology also explore the traumas of migration — both their own and their ancestors' — and the fractured sense of identity that follows. Writers such Sameer Khan and Arsalan Athar embody this struggle, tackle issues to do with identities that previous generations withheld, if not erased. Now living in New York's Jackson Heights, Sameer catches glimpses of home in Bengali street vendors and Gujrati shop assistants, yet his nationalistic instincts clash with fellow South Asians who romanticise pre-Partition India or long for its reunification. Khaled Anam, in 'Kaleidoscope of Dreams', offers a starkly different perspective. Raised in privilege near Karachi's Passenger Pier, he views Partition through a more idealistic lens. Calling it a 'political requirement of 1947,' he even suggests a reunification with India, drawing parallels to Germany's unification — a stance that sharply contrasts with Sameer's, for whom Partition is defined by the sacrifices of his ancestors. Bee Gul's account adds another layer to Partition's legacy. Her maternal grandmother lived in a house once owned by a Hindu man who, despite being forced to leave, returned every year to visit. The home, imbued with the ghosts of migration, became a lingering symbol of loss and displacement. People inhabiting the pages of Home: It's Complicated navigate the familiar terrain of nostalgia — yearning for lost homes, childhood flavours, or cultural symbols. Saba Karim Khan introduces the term 'expatsplaining' to describe the often critiqued tendency of diaspora writers to exoticise Pakistan, romanticising mangoes, mosques, and monsoon-drenched earth. There was one essay that I believe disrupts this pattern. I personally found Dur-e-Aziz Amna's defense of Islamabad's architecture the most compelling read. Rather than indulging in the sentimental pull of an 'authentic' past, she defends Islamabad — a city often dismissed as soulless or too modern. Where others see sterility, she finds an intentional, post-colonial vision of nationhood. Amna does not apologise for its modernist design but treats it as a national honour. Her essay suggests that home does not have to be a relic of the past; it can also be a place still in the making. A similar non-apologist celebration of one's national identity is explored by Osama Siddique. Reflecting why he stays in Pakistan despite its challenges, he finds his answer in the country's generosity and humor — the hospitality of strangers, and the wit embedded in everyday conversation. Beyond its individual stories, what makes this anthology particularly compelling is how it intertwines personal narratives with historical and political events. Omar Shahid Hamid, as a police officer, has lived through Karachi's most violent moments, investigating high-profile assassinations and terrorist attacks, yet he keeps returning, unable to sever his connection with the city. The retelling of national events through individual perspectives transforms history into something deeply felt rather than abstract — whether it's Ali Khan reminiscing about watching Pakistan's 1992 World Cup victory in his Cambridge apartment with friends from India and Pakistan, Seher Fatema Vora recalling how her family nearly got caught in the ensuing chaos in the aftermath of Benazir Bhutto's assassination, or Nadeem Farooq Paracha tracing Pakistan's ideological evolution through his father's political struggles, these essays reveal how personal histories intertwine with national events. Each account bridges the personal and the political, much like the anthology itself. Despite the anthology's recurring themes of loss, disillusionment, and fractured identities, it does not leave the reader hopeless. If anything, it highlights resilience — the ability to endure, to redefine home, to carve out spaces of belonging even in exile. It acknowledges Pakistan's flaws without erasing the love its people hold for it, however complicated that love may be. Home: It's Complicated is an important addition to the discourse on Pakistan's identity, adding layers of nuance to the way we understand belonging, displacement, and national memory. Through these deeply personal essays, we see a Pakistan that is not made of a monolith narrative but a cacophony of unique experiences — some painful, some beautiful, all undeniably real. Tayyaba Iftikhar is a lecturer of English at a public college, with a research focus on postcolonial historical fiction and memory studies All facts and information is the sole responsibility of the writer
