Spring cleaning

I have moved my blog across to WordPress. I hope you will continue to read my writing, and post your comments.
Inshallah, I will discontinue posting on this blog at the end of June 2013.

Part 6: Kerbala - flowers and soldiers

After four days in Najaf, we packed our bags with heavy hearts on 19th October, and prepared for the one hour drive from Najaf to Kerbala Sharif, the Iraqi town which housed the shrine of Imam Hussein, Hazrat Abbas and other members of the Ahl ul Bayt. 

Kerbala. The epic scene of the grand battle between the small Shia contingency and Yazid's army. The defining ground for the split between the Shias and the Sunnis. The event that Shia Muslims across the world commemorated annually during the month of Muharram when Imam Hussein and all but one of his male descendants were killed.

On the way to Kerbala, we stopped at the town of Musayyib, which is around 45 minutes drive from Kerbala. It is where Muslim ibn Aqeel's children, 7 year old Mohammed and 9 year old Ibrahim, were killed. Yazid who was searching for their father had put them in jail, but the jailer freed them. There was a price on the heads of the seven and nine year old so the two brothers ran until they reached the town of Musayyib. Both were caught, beheaded on the banks of the Euphrates river and their bodies thrown into the water. 

It is said that Mohammed, the younger brother, was beheaded first, and that the elder Ibrahim spread his brother's blood on his own face before he was beheaded. The gesture is an intensely poignant one that repeats many incidences in the history of Shia Islam, not least of all the image of Imam Hussein's horse Maymun soaking his mane in the blood of Imam Hussein after his martyrdom. A large shrine is built on the eastern bank of the Euphrates river in memory of Mohammed and Ibrahim. 

Driving out from the town of Musayyib, there were date palms as far as the eye could see. Some were long and tall, others short and broad but irrespective of shape, each was heavy with fruit. Clustered with bunches of dates in various states of ripening. 

Every palm looked like a flower unfurled. The leaves at the bottom were yellow, brown and gold in colour and pointed stiffly to the ground. Not sagging. Stiff despite their age and brittleness. The green leaves on top were thin and spindly like bottle brushes. Poky. I imagined wiping off the tiny grains of sand that had turned the vibrant leaves into greyish shadows of themselves to reveal the dark green leaf which cloaked itself in dust in the same way that the women of its country camouflaged their beauty. 

These wild palm trees, even without a hemp corset tied around them, held their upper bodies erect. Their uppermost leaves pointed longingly to the moisture of the sky, distant from the dry and dusty world they were anchored to. And in contrast to the desert plains, the River Euphrates pulsed past, its grayish green waters encased in broad cement banks.

We stopped to clear another security check. The words Khul, Khalaas and Tamaam were bandied around by our bus driver and the security guards as pistol shaped weapons that had antennas protruding out one end were run alongside our buses, sweeping them for explosives.

And then we headed towards Bustan e Burhani, Syedna's home in Iraq: a small residential house surrounded by a date plantation that bore 20 tonnes of dates in one season. Like tourists at the home of a Hollywood celebrity we encroached on the privacy of Mola's family and walked around the house and the garden, carefully avoiding the pomegranate trees which were signposted with warnings not to pick the fruit.

Less than an hour later, we arrived at the main checkpoint in Kerbala, manned by soldiers in grey and green camouflage and draped with plastic flowers and leaves. The immortal garlands were on the main roads, street corners, everywhere. Garish pink, red, orange and yellow clusters dotted all over the city of Kerbala. 

Flowers and soldiers. Softness and rigidity. Forgiveness and anger.

Down the road we caught our first glimpse of the shrine of Hazrat Abbas, which was situated right next to the shrine of Imam Hussein. As we craned our necks to keep one eye on the glittery domes and a second on the roads so we would know our way back to the shrines from our uttaro (accommodation), we were pleasantly surprised to make a left turn barely 100 metres from the shrines and pull into a serene white courtyard with two shaded swing sets. 

There was a white mosque on one side with a red flag on which Ya Hussein fluttered rapidly, a two storey hostel to its right, and what seemed like a dining room on the left. Rimmed trees sat in the middle of the courtyard offering shade and moisture to the sunny dry temperature of Kerbala. White pigeons fluttered around the courtyard, and this - along with the glimpse of men in white saya kurtas and topis - were a sure indication that we had arrived at the Dawoodi Bohra Faiz in Kerbala. 

After lunch, the resident Amil led the first official ziyarat. Only a few of us followed. The rest, lulled by the knowledge that we would have five days in Kerbala, unpacked in our rooms and caught a small nap, confident that as the heat of the afternoon waned so would the numbers and that after sunset would be the best time.

I didn't take any such chances. I had waited too many years to perform my first ziyarat of Hazrat Abbas and Imam Hussein. I had listened to too many sermons about Kerbala and harboured too much desire to waste one moment in my room, just a stone's throw away from the shrine. I wanted no regrets when I returned to Kenya at the end of the week. No doubts.

We approached the inescapable security checks, more conspicuous here than anywhere else we had seen in Iraq. Iraqi and Irani women filled the queues in their full length silky black burkhas. But as they peeled a corner back to remove their amaanat (property kept in trust), they revealed the boot leg jeans, fitting tops and stylish cuts under their veils. 

There was a large fountain between the security check and the entrance to Hazrat Abbas' shrine. Water poured into the fountain from a mashki (a water bag made of leather) that was elevated in the centre. The mashki told the story of Hazrat Abbas' sacrifice. Imam Hussein's contingency had been denied access to water for three days, and Hazrat Abbas, the commander of Imam Hussein's forces and his brother, left the safety of the encampment to get water from the river for the young children. On his return, he was attacked and he died defending the precious pitcher of water.  

Najaf and Kerbala were two completely different pilgrimage experiences. Najaf was one and Kerbala was many. Najaf had only Imam Ali whereas Kerbala was sprinkled with ziyarats and Shia history. It became clear to me then why Najaf was a stop over and Kerbala the destination.  

The two main shrines in Kerbala were within one enclosure but separated by a stretch of around 300 metres of hot tarmac which we walked barefoot. The shrine of Imam Hussein was circled by the smaller shrines of his two infant sons -  Ali Akbar and six month old Ali Asghar - who were also martyred along with seventy two others during the battle of Kerbala. 

Kerbala attracts a larger number of pilgrims - more than double that of Najaf - and an incredible amount of refurbishment was taking place at both shrines which added to the confusion of the large numbers. Not only were both shrines larger than that of Hazrat Ali, but they were fully enclosed whereas Imam Ali's had an open ceiling covered only with heavy material through which the sun and the moon were visible. 

Even more confusing was that both shrines, although circular, had multiple, identical entrances. If you exited from a side door and not the main door, it was impossible to find your way back to the cloak room at which you left your shoes. But each door had a number written on it, and the best solution was to walk in circles within the shrine until the right number appeared.  

With the first ziyarat performed, and an understanding of the basic layout, our small group walked back to the Faiz, determined to return again at night. But as we left the hot and crowded shrines, we were greeted by a strong, crisp wind, and by dinner, a sand storm had descended on Kerbala.

A powdery coffee coloured dust filled the air. It was so fine it looked deceptively like fog or mist except that it filled my mouth with a grainy sandy taste, entered my eyes and nose blurring my sight and clogging my breath. The Ya Hussein flag on top of the mosque fluttered wildly, and the dust laden wind exfoliated the skin on my face leaving it ashy and tender to the touch. 

With our noses and mouths draped with a scarf and a handkerchief, we sought refuge in the marbled shrines from the swirling devils of dust. But even inside, the mist of dust was visible against the high ceilings and the Islamic Fatimid architecture. Almost as if the high ceilings were a mirage and we were still standing outside with the stars shining down. The bright painted navy blues and yellows on the white tiles faded to a lighter shade as the dust obscured our vision.

And during the long barefoot walk down the narrow path from Hazrat Abbas’ shrine to Imam Hussein’s, the sand grains swirled directly onto our faces. Families sat with their children tucked in blankets under the open shelters that lined the walk.

The sandstorm signaled a change in weather for us. It blustered all night and the next morning was cold. I awoke to a clear blue sky without a cloud in sight. A brisk wind continue to flutter the flag of Imam Hussein and our thin cotton ridas. There was a film of dust on everything: the table and chairs outside our room, the benches in the courtyard, and the buses in the parking lot.

Part 5: Najaf - silent shrines and glittering mosques

Our priority in Najaf al Ashraf was to spend time at the gold domed Shrine of Imam Ali with its two minarets. But Najaf is a city steeped in Shia Islamic history, and so on the afternoon of Sunday 16 October 2011, shortly after lunch at the Dawoodi Bohra hall, we left our rooms at the Anwar al Sadiq hotel in downtown Najaf and piled into the white and violet striped buses that had ferried us to Najaf from Baghdad International Airport, and which were to remain with us for the duration of our stay in Iraq.

More conspicuous than the abundance of masjids in Najaf is the lack of supermarkets and grocery stores. Street vendors were selling plump and colourful fruit; traders had boxes of juice, bottles of water, shoes and clothes; and lines of small stalls crouched in shaded alleys selling nuts and sweets from kikapu styled woven bags. There were even some selling kichwa nazi (the heart of a coconut tree, kichwa nazi is a delicacy because it can only be extracted from a felled coconut tree. It resembles a book with thin pages and a spine.) But not a single supermarket.

We visited three mosques that afternoon en route to our final stop. Each held a strong significance in the history of Shia Islam, and were markers in the lives and journeys of the Ahl ul Bayt. In visiting the mosques, we were following their footsteps. Venerating the ground they had stepped on; the earth that had soaked  their blood.

We passed dusty fly overs carrying garishly coloured taxis and too many sand coloured private cars. Many Iraqis were on foot, and we were overtaken by what seemed to be a combination of the Kenyan mkokoteni and a Roman chariot. It was a two wheeled, hand pulled vehicle with a flat wooden platform at the back, elevated around half a metre off the ground by three wheels with long handles on its front. The platform had a rug pinned to the inside and at different times, it was used to transport freshly baked round naans sprinkled with sesame seeds, and old women who sat flat on the tilted wooden platform, cross legged, looking like  small mounds of black in their full length burkhas.

Our first stop that afternoon was Masjid Kumeil, which houses the tomb of Hazrat Kumeil to whom Imam Ali had counselled the famous Dua al Kumayl (recited to protect against evil, to increase daily sustenance and for forgiveness of sins). Located on the top of a small hill in what seemed to be a residential area, the circular silver tomb was surrounded by high arches. Less than an hour later, we clambered back onto the buses and travelled to Masjid Hanane. It is said that when Imam Hassan and Imam Hussein were transporting the body of Imam Ali from from Kufa (where he died) to Najaf (where he wanted to be laid to rest), the entourage stopped briefly at this mosque. It is believed that some of the skin from Imam Hussein's  head (removed when he was disrespected by a knife wielding man called Khul Mal'un) is buried here. The place is also hallowed ground because Shia Islam says that the pillars of Masjid Hanane bent towards the body of Imam Ali to pay its last respects. 

Our final, and most important, stop that afternoon was at Masjid al Kufa. We had all heard the mosque been spoken of during Muharram and Ramadhan sermons because it was where Imam Ali had received a deathly blow. Masjid al Kufa continues to be a landmark in the dry and sandy city. In size, because a large structure has been built around the modest mosque, a huge parking lot parallels the mosque's enclosure where big buses ooze thousands of pilgrims, and because the cloaked rivers of human traffic that arrive daily have spawned a bustling street trade. 

Outside each of the main entrances to the masjid were broad cloak rooms where people thronged to deposit their footwear - tied in plastic bags - and collect a token. Naive, despite my experience in Misr, I looked down at my blue Bata slippers and confidently believed they would be theft proof. 

The crowds were immense. And the bottle necks were the ubiquitous security checks with their drapes of heavy brocade - dirty, stained and sweaty from the many hands that had pulled it aside - and the winding mazes into the mosque itself. But our experience in Misr and Najaf had rubbed off on us and we did not carry any cameras or phones which would slow us down unnecessarily, We oped instead for speed with a small batwa - easily checked and just as easily carried - that contained money and keys.

Like Masjid al Anwar in Misr, we walked into a courtyard at the end of which was Masjid al Kufa. It was paved with large white marble blocks, and fifteen rectangular arches formed a circle around it with cream pillars in between each arch. In each arch, an intricate lamp was suspended and on the top of each dome gold Arabic lettering was etched into the smooth white marble. There was a fountain in the centre of the expanse, with raised edges on which people sat. And next to it was  pole at which it is said Nooh Nabi's safina, Prophet Noah's boat, had once stopped. A section of the courtyard had carpets placed on it where groups of women in black and men in ash grey trousers and shirts sat and prayed. Other groups were being led in prayer by a man standing amidst them.

The courtyard was rimmed by the shrines of Muslim bin Akil, Nabi Allah Nooh, Hani bin Arwa and Mukhtar a Thakati - each of whom played a central role in the history of Shia Islam.

Our visit to Masjid al Kufa was the corner piece in the jigsaw of Shia Islam history. It was the mosque in which Imam Ali had walked in for Fajr prayers on 19th Ramadhan. He had seen a non-believer sleeping in the corner at a time when he ought to have been preparing for morning prayers, and he had awoken him. That sleeping man turned out to be his assassin. And as Imam Ali - the Lion of Allah - bent his head in prayer and touched his forehead to the floor in abeyance to Allah, the infidel lifted a blade that had been soaked in poison for 40 days and 40 nights, and struck Imam Ali on his head in a blow that would have instantly felled a man. But the famed Shia warrior simply removed the second cloth that was around his waist, wrapped it around his head to staunch the flow of blood and returned home. 

In the days that followed, he let his sons know of his wish to be buried at a secret gravesite in Najaf so that his grave would not be desecrated by enemies. He asked them to take him to Najaf where they would see a shining white stone. Under it, he said, they would find a ready grave. In that same grave, Imam Ali continued, Nooh Nabi (Prophet Noah) and Adam Nabi (Prophet Adam) had also been buried. The white stone is a haven, Imam Ali told his sons. A haven for anyone, man or animal. 

It is said that a particular hunter was pursuing a deer, and was startled when he saw the shy animal sitting confidently on a white stone instead of running away from him. The hunter shot many arrows at the deer, but each missed as the deer sat atop the stone complacently. Eventually the hunter conceded defeat when he realised that he was on hallowed ground and that the deer was being protected by an unseen power.

Imam Ali died a couple days after he was attached, on 21st Ramadhan. For Shia Muslims, the 21st of every month is a reminder of this great leader.

These stories reeled in my mind as we approached the ladies entrance to the masjid. The qibla (front nook which the prayer leader occupies and which marks the direction of prayer) in which Imam Ali had led prayers on that day, in which he had prostrated his head in prayer and received the deathly blow, was partitioned into two. We accessed it from the right and looked through a jewelled glass and network of silver balls while the men were privileged to a wider access from the left. Here too were the women with their feather dusters hurrying those who clung a little too long to the ornate silver bars. 

All along the walls of the mosque were diamond shaped tiles in which jewels and yellow gold spoke the Arabic name Ali. A single symbol, it was written without lifting the hand. From the curvy letter for A to the pointed finger L to the graceful boat shaped final letter I. 

That first day we were content with the restrictions that gender placed on us because we knew our visit in Najaf spanned a couple days and we would have a chance to return. We were also tired from a full afternoon of traversing the hot and dusty city of Najaf, and so we performed a perfunctory ziyarat and shortly before Maghrib, left Masjid al Kufa and returned to the hotel.

In the days that followed, early morning buses were arranged to return to Masjid al Kufa and many of us grasped the opportunity to say our Fajr prayers at the Masjid al Kufa - at the acclaimed moment of sunrise - and at a time when few pilgrims would be present which would allow us to access the men's section and perform sajda in the qibla.

Mum and I went every Fajr, and with no lines and no rush, we were able to meditate deeply on our faith in the cool and silent hours of an Iraqi morning.

Thinking back to the ziyarat visits, I feel an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. Whether the memory of being there has become a part of my subconscious, or the anticipation of the event and the half encounters through photos and other people had prepared me so well that it took only moment for the experience to take on the quality of an old sepia toned memory, I cannot say.

The day after our visit (Monday 17 October) to Masjid al Kufa, we walked to the largest cemetery in the world, Wadi al Salaam, located just metres away from Imam Ali's shrine. It is apparently the cemetery at which Hud Nabi and Salih Nabi were buried. It is also said to be the oldest graveyard in the world, the final resting place of people from the days of Adam Nabi, possibly making Najaf one of the oldest cities in the world. Inside, the graves were made of rough cut bricks, and haphazardly panelled with white tiles painted with patterns in blue and yellow. Some of the graves were shaped like small square houses and had a roof like shelter constructed on top of it.

We walked on ancient graves when exiting the cemetery. The burial ground was so large that the town had had to reclaim the outer perimeter to ease movement on the roads, and as we shielded our eyes against the light, we searched for the end of this vast acre that seemed to stretch to the horizon. 

4 April 2013

Najaf al Ashraf

That last evening is Najaf is embedded in my memory. I left mum at the hotel room.
Packing.
She was tired but I was counting the last few times I would be able to go and talk to Ali. Sit so close to him and share my innermost thoughts and wishes. So I rushed out the hotel room and began walking towards the roza whispering Ya Ali Ya Ali under my breath, and saying in my heart Ali I am coming to you.

Light steps.
Walking quickly.
Almost hovering over the tarmac road.
Completely unaware of anyone else on the path.
Gliding through both security checks. 

The first at the entrance to the area around the haram and the second when entering the haram itself.

And then I was there.
I had reached. 

The quiet solitude and serenity of Ali's presence.
With the fresh fragrance spraying out of the fans, and settling on me and everyone else.
The aroma which will always hover in my consciousness. Settling gently onto the thick, red carpets on which we stood and sat in collective huddles. Clinging in tiny refreshing droplets to the navy blue, light blue and yellow tiles that patterned all four sides around the haram shareef. 

And that ethereal light reflecting off the deep velvety onyx of the sky and back into the shelter of the roza. Bouncing off the golden leafed dome. 

One step closer.

The varnish on the centre of the large wooden doors is almost worn out by the millions of hands, fingertips, foreheads and lips that have touched it on their way in and their way out. And the white marble tiles are cold under my stockinged feet as I walk into the haram. Arabic messages are etched on the doors in gold. Wooden balustrades divide the women flowing in from the women sitting and praying.

Tall, black burkha clad women wave their colourful feather dusters at us, ushering us to hurry up, or to move in, or to move aside, or to move out. Just the flick of a hand to convey sentences of meaning to a crowd of women who speak a multitude of languages and can only collectively understand gestures. They perch above use, one arm wrapped around the balustrade, the other waving in meaning.

Their guttural voices speak in Arabic, clear and resonant. Not an irritable word or a single sound is raised in anger.

Steady.
Navigating.
Arranging the multitudes who come every second, every minute, every hour of each day to hold onto the silver bars of Ali's mausoleum, to cling with their fingers to the cold metal, press their foreheads against it in abject prayers for blessings and mercy, stare up at the intricate gold silver and ruby writings on the border of the structure, gaze inside through the silver cubes at the green and gold material covering this man who means so much to so many.

I imagine the deer who sits on the white stone of safety to escape the hunter.
I imagine Hazrat Ali's assassination in the mosque of Kufa.
And finally I remember the tragedy that befell his family and his son Imam Hussein in Kerbala.

Tears stream down my face.
Breath catches in my throat.
The jostling of the women with their feet on mine and their elbows digging into my waist no longer elicits a cry of pain or objection.
My physical presence dissipates in the face of this overpowering emotional experience. Like a memory dredged from inside my  being.

And then it passes. 

I feel again the cold marble floor, polished by the caresses of so many feet, against my soles and I take a step back.

And then again one forward. 

A good bye.
A final caress of the silver squares.
And then I walk backwards out of the haram. Wanting this last sight to stay engraved in my mind, for my last memory to be of this. 

Of him.

With tears blindly pouring out of my eyes, I stumble out.
My head bent.
Overwhelmed with emotion.
I collapse in a soft heap on the carpet outside.
Pulsing with the intensity of the experience.
Kind eyes glance at me as I shudder with feeling. 

Silent whispers of solidarity. 

I am unable to stand yet or walk out.
And then the delicate fragrance washes over my face again.

It dews on my skin replacing hot tears with cool solace.
Refreshed I stand up and make my way towards the large wooden doors, tracing my fingertips over them, bending my head in prayer and gratitude, and then as I stand at the threshold on the way out, I look up at the golden dome and see one last time the flag fluttering on top.

Ya Ali. Ya Ali.

Written on 9 November 2011

The victim and the bully

I grew up in a middle class family in Mombasa, a multicultural society in which race and religion didn't play a large part. I never thought of myself as an Asian (Indian), and even less as a Muslim and so my cultural identity never influenced the kinds of friends I made.

Tal and I were in primary school together. As an 11 year old, he had big brown curls, was a whizz at Maths and was very shy. But his mum threw the trendiest slumber parties for his birthday. At one of his parties, I remember there was a bowl of sweets with a string tied to each end of the wrapper. The boys lined up on side of the bowl and the girls on the other, and we each chewed on the end of a string until we were paired up. We didn't know what to do next that but it all felt very grown up.

After an entire evening of fun and games, Tal's mum would give us goody bags filled with foreign sweets and other items to take home. The sweets disappeared quickly but once I found an eraser in my goody bag. The only eraser that the Mombasa stationery shops offered at the time were the red and blue Pelikan brand, and so this pure white, square shaped eraser with a coloured drawing of a man selling falafel went straight into my collection. That was the day I realised that falafel, a Middle Eastern dish, was also Israel's national food, and that Tal was Jewish. It didn't mean much, cocooned as we were from the prejudices of the world by our youth, our middle class status and our location on the idyllic East African coast.

There were other Jewish students at our school, of course, but apart from Tal, I only remember two sisters: one in the year below me, Yiffat, and the other 3 years ahead. Yiffat and I wouldn't have crossed paths at all - I was in the year above her and totally buried in books - except that Yiffat was dance partners with a girl from my class Bianca.

Both Yiffat and Bianca were confident and self-assured, even at that age. They were comfortable in their pre-pubescent bodies, very particular about their choice of friends, and verged on the teenage version of wanton with their clothing (and dance routines). Their poise was only highlighted by the gawkiness of the rest of us who were adjusting awkwardly to puberty. We preferred to hunch our backs to hide our growing breasts, wore training bras not lacy lingerie, and had permanent braces and not the more stylish removable retainers which could be clicked in and out of the mouth.

Yiffat was also a bully and I was her prey for a season. One break time in class six, I remember being cornered in the art room, which was in a relatively deserted corner of the school next to the basketball court, by Yiffat and a group of five girls. Yiffat, the ring leader, informed me that my shoes looked too similar to theirs, and that since I was not a part of their clique they would not tolerate me wearing them.

My shoes were a standard black leather, laced up pair bought from Bata. Even outnumbered as I was, I remember thinking how ridiculous she was being; Bata was an official school uniform supplier. But there was a veiled threat to her words that frightened me.

Shortly after her brash declaration, the school bell rang. One of the group, Rohini, a girl from my class who I was friends with, looked visibly uncomfortable with what had just happened and she pulled some of the others back and urged them to leave me alone. They walked off with Rohini looking back at me apologetically and Yiffat swaggering out confidently. I stood in the shadowy art room a little while longer and wiped my tears.

When I came out, it seemed as if the entire school knew what had happened. My friends took my side even though they risked alienating one of the most popular girls in school. And I continued wearing the same shoes to school; I was more worried about explaining why I needed a new pair to my father, and I suppose a part of me knew Yiffat's threat would not escalate into physical violence. But I never forgave Yiffat for it.

Around a year or so later, my sister and I were abruptly transferred to a boarding school in Nairobi. When I told my friends that that Friday would be my last day at Mombasa Academy, one of my friends, Salima, encouraged me to find Yiffat and make peace with her since I didn't know if we would ever meet again. We shouldn't part as enemies, she insisted. And so they came with me to the sports field where Yiffat was playing, and as we stood on the sidelines of the pitch, she walked over and we wished each other well.

It was awkward; my hurt had not disappeared. But bolstered by the presence of my friends and the excitement of the new chapter of my life that I was embarking upon, I shook hands with her and we parted.

As time passed, my mind tried to make sense of that incident in the art room over and over, and for a while I even believed that her unjustified aggression had something to do with our differences in religion. The 11 year old in me is still hurt by how she behaved and how she unwittingly damaged my confidence. For a while, that incident even gave me pause when befriending others from the Jewish faith. 

But it never stopped me and now I just remember her as a bully. Not as a Jew.

The art of the autograph

I grew up in the 80s, the time of autograph books. Looking back now, everything about it shouts vanity. The assumption that you were so grown up at the age of 8 or 9 - when pink ink was the rage, and cursive writing was a rumour that older siblings taunted you with - that your classmates would be those that leave a mark on your life … and that the best way to remember them would be through a flowery verse or rhyme scrawled into your autograph book.

But they were the rage, and in two years at Mombasa Academy I went through three of them.

The autograph books were available in every stationery shop, although the best ones could be found at Kant's Stationery on Moi Avenue (previously known as Kilindini Road) in Mombasa, covered in a film of dust, with the price of the book (around Sh25 at the time) written in pencil on the top left hand corner of the inside page.

The books were available in all sorts of cover material like cloth and rexine, and their insides were made of folded, manila card in green, pink, yellow, blue and white. Small was trendy then, and so the most popular size of autograph book was A6. I started with a slightly large lime green book with a textured cover and as its pages filled up, moved to a glossy navy blue one and my last book was matt black.

The same friends and classmates appeared in all three books - with the addition of new students who had joined - so it wasn't as much about immortalising a person in the book with coloured paper but more a popularity contest. For the owner of the book to see how many people would write in theirs, and an achievement for each person who had been invited to contribute.

The friends who appeared can be categorised by time, style and location. There were those who would fill their page out in a rushed manner over break time or lunch hour, and those who would take it home for a whole week (and a week end) and decorate the entire page with glitter, stickers and multi-coloured drawings. 

Some went to the same school as you; and others were friends outside school who you knew from tuition classes or from the mosque, for example. They added a glam feel to the book, internationalised you, and allowed you to track trends in competing schools - the latest stickers, glitter pens, popular limericks ...

But the class legends were those who filled two pages worth. They could only be outdone by those who glued two pages together and prepared a fancy cut out!

And then the obligatory fills by family members - who filled it first just so you would not seem unpopular by showing up at school with an empty autograph book. Wise sayings were mandatory for this category (soppy endearments an absolute no!), and oddly enough, even here, we were extremely competitive - comparing parents who had made the most unique contribution (which is probably why some of us would decorate the page for our family members, just to maintain social standing in the eyes of our peers).

And finally … the celebrity appearance by a teacher, who would say something cryptic and leave us to puzzle it out for weeks on end.
I wonder what the teachers (who were not required to be indulgent unlike our family members) thought about this latest fad, when we swaggered over to them in front of a crowd of students, and asked them to write in our autograph books. Whether they laughed themselves silly over previous entries in the staff room, passing around the funniest for a giggle; or made bets on what ridiculous comment they should write. Perhaps the fact that some of them pretended to lose our precious books overnight, only to miraculously find them when eyes began to brim with tears, may offer a clue. 

But that was the wonder of that age. We were totally oblivious to our conceited behaviour, and in the naivete of youth, overly confident of our actions.

As we grew up, the autograph book phase ended - I still keep all three of mine hidden in a box in my cupboard - but the desire to immortalise ourselves at different stages of our life didn't fade. And so my three autograph books are tucked away with two uniformed shirts - one from Mombasa Academy and the other from Peponi - which had been written on in marker pen by friends and teachers on the last day of school. The same principles applied to these autographs: a unique message presented in the most original way.

What made us want to capture and eternalise these moments? Were we aware of how fleeting those days would be in retrospect? Were they meant to serve as a reminder to our adult selves of a younger, more carefree time?

Revenge and justice

At the start of our second term as sixth formers (January 1997), a school was visiting for an inter-school debate competition. These events were a cross between a PR gimmick and a social networking opportunity - a chance to boast about your school and its facilities while capitalising on the opportunity to date one of the visiting students, which would guarantee you a spot in the popular clique that term.

But instead of celebrating our achievements to the visiting school, one of the boys in our class - let's call him George - apparently criticised the girls at the school during a midnight male gossip session, and described us as "cheap and dry".

Whoever coined the phrase Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, must have had high school girls in mind. Nothing could abate our anger. We had been criticised in front of outsiders! It was the worst form of betrayal imaginable.

Quickly the word spread across the girls dormitory and that same evening, informal vent sessions took place in every dorm room. By two o'clock that morning, after a couple of hours of stewing and steaming, representatives from each form gathered in the Head Girls room to discuss what was to be done. As the breakfast bell rang the next morning, plans had been firmed up and we had a clear course of action for that evening. The plan quickly developed an unremarkable code word - "Tonight" - and every time one girl passed another in between classes, it was whispered conspiratorially.

Most of the girls at the school had been in a verbal tussle with George at one point or another. I don't know what it was about him that infuriated us but anecdotes of his cocky arrogance and puffed up attitude circulated. It didn't help that George, with his loud rambunctious laugh, was a newcomer to the school having joined for the A level certification, while the rest of us had been together through a painful adolescent period and the harrowing IGCSE exams. George on the other hand was an outsider. We took it upon ourselves to take him down a peg or two.

The plan was for the senior girls to gather in the common room as usual. The other senior boys had been warned to stay away, or to risk receiving the same treatment we had planned for George. We intended to shut the doors of the TV cabinet when George walked in to minimise light in the room, which would allow us to get a beating in before he could identify our faces. One girl was to serve as lookout for his arrival, while a second was to blockade the common room doors with a chair to prevent a rescue attempt. While the juniors waited on the back steps of the common room (which led to the dormitories on the first floor), the senior girls feigned indifference in the common room. 

We were going to use pillows and sofa cushions to give him a good pummeling; one he would never forget.

The event had been whispered about all day and so it wasn't surprising that there was a leak and that the boys had found out what was planned for that evening. But we were confident, even boastful, about our plans for revenge.

Somebody must have tipped off George but with his usual show of bravado, he decided to face the girls in a nonchalant manner rather than be seen as a coward.

He walked into the common room. The door was closed behind him. No one knew who should throw the first cushion, but seeing George walking in calmly threw some of us and some girls scuttled up the stairs into the safety of the dormitory. But before a single pillow could be thrown, there was a banging on the door. George's reinforcements had arrived. Spurred on by the possibility that we would not get a chance to complete our plan, we all jumped in at once and a torrent of pillows landed on George.

A group of boys burst into the room. In the pool of light that their entrance created, George was seen lying on the floor howling in pain, surrounded by a pile of pillows and a handful of the senior girls. The rest had escaped up the stairs.

The boys didn't hesitate and raced after the escaping girls. They streaked down the corridors, and stormed into their dorm rooms. There was banging, and the sound of loud and heavy footsteps overhead. Chaos reigned for half an hour after which the seniors restored their authority and ousted the boys from the girls' dormitory.

The whole crowd - boys and girls - then gathered on the flower bed outside the girls dormitory, and the duty teachers arrived. George was standing in the middle of a crowd, clutching his side. Apparently during the furor, he had been hit in the kidneys with a hockey stick. We looked around at each other, unsure of who had carried a hockey stick into the common room and attacked him with it.

We felt terrible. In the aftermath of the attack, we knew we hadn't planned any serious harm - just an expression of our anger. Threats were made by the boys which the girls responded to valiantly. The teachers set up individual interviews to question each person involved and clarify the facts. No one owned up to having attacked George with a hockey stick.

The senior girls took responsibility for the whole event - after all it was our territory - and we were confined to our rooms for the next month. Understandably, the school administration was disappointed that rather than protecting a student in our midst, we had been the ones to attack him.

The injuries George suffered that evening could have been a lot worse than they were, and we were lucky that criminal proceedings were not instituted. We were even luckier that George did not hold onto his anger and hurt because that would have fractured the close knit class that we became in the run up to our A level examinations.

I don't know whether he ever forgave us. But that experience - of ganging up and physically attacking someone: not a stranger but a classmate, a colleague, a friend - has never sat easily with me.

I cannot help but compare it to the wekatyre form of mob justice practiced in Kenya, and the post election violence of 2007/08. The rush of power experienced in the build up to the event, the curiously satisfying release of tension and emotion during the attack, and the silent confidence and feeling of invincibility in the aftermath - albeit with moments of total denial dictated by self preservation.

Physical violence is a heady - and addictive - thing.