Et Tu, Brute?

I recently ordered a grapefruit from one of the instant delivery apps . In the picture it looked bright, juicy, and extremely inviting. I also realized that I might never have actually tasted a grapefruit before. Since I love citrus fruits, I decided it was time to try one.

Within minutes, the fruit arrived.

I requested my wife to bring it to me because I was eager to try it immediately. She went to the kitchen with the fruit and returned a moment later with it neatly cut into smaller portions and arranged on a plate. 

She placed it in front of me and casually said, “It’s very tasty. sweet and refreshing.”

That made me suspicious.

You see, I have a long history of playing a particular trick on her. My wife absolutely hates sour food. If she ever asks me to taste an orange or a grape first she tries it, I will take a bite and - even if it is painfully sour - I would calmly say that it is very nice. She then takes a bite and immediately regrets trusting me. The expression that follows is priceless.

So when she told me this grapefruit was “sweet,” I was not entirely convinced.

At that exact moment, my daughter walked into the room. She saw the plate and said she wanted to try some. She took a small piece, popped it into her mouth, and instantly said, “Wow! This is really nice. Very sweet.”

That changed everything. I will ALWAYS doubt my wife. But my daughter, my little angel, my little bundle of innocence? NEVER

Feeling reassured, I picked up a large piece and confidently put the entire thing in my mouth.

The next few seconds were… unforgettable.

The fruit was extraordinarily sour. Not mildly sour. Not slightly sour. It was the kind of sour that makes your eyes close automatically, your teeth clench, and your entire face rearrange itself into a very dramatic expression.

When I finally recovered and opened my eyes, I looked at my wife.

Then at my daughter.

Both of them were laughing uncontrollably.

At that moment, I realized something historic had occurred. My daughter had joined forces with my wife. This was not just a prank. This was a carefully coordinated act of deception.

This incident should always be known as one of the greatest betrayals ever executed in the history of mankind.

I may have lost this round, but the citrus wars are far from over.

Girl on the Foot-Over Bridge

Yesterday, my wife showed me news reports about the death of Ali Khamenei’s granddaughter in a joint USA-Israel strike on Iran. While I personally support Israel’s position in this conflict, the photograph of the 14-month-old child visibly unsettled my wife and made me pause as well. I found myself thinking about the fate of the child, who would not have understood what is going on around her. Well, she was not alone as no one completely understands what is going on.

This brief exchange with my wife somehow took me back to 2016. To a personal experience but the context is of Syrian civil war and the refugee crisis.

I would not go into the details of the crisis but by 2015, millions of Syrians were attempting to flee the conflict, seeking refuge across borders. Several neighboring countries like Turkey, Lebanon, Jordan, Iraq and Egypt hosted millions of refugees.

In Europe, Germany opened its doors to a large number of asylum seekers. I remember that I would often joking remark that Germany appeared to be attempting to correct a historical wrong, though I questioned whether such a gesture was necessary or prudent. Countries including Austria, Sweden, Netherlands, and Greece also received significant numbers of refugees.

I remember being particularly struck by France’s position. France has had issues with Islamic fundamentalists. It probably started with the 2010 ban on face-covering veils (burqa). Then in January 2015, the offices of French satirical magazine Charlie Hebdo in Paris were attacked by Islamist gunmen, resulting in the deaths of 12 people. The assault was motivated by the magazine’s earlier publication of cartoons depicting the Prophet Muhammad, which had generated significant controversy. “Je suis Charlie” (French for “I am Charlie”) emerged as a worldwide slogan, hashtag, and emblem of solidarity in defense of freedom of expression and the press.

That France was also among the nations that extended shelter to Syrian refugees – though in comparatively small numbers (roughly 50,000) - struck me as bizarre! France indeed has been facing issues as there have been concerns about security, national identity, and the capacity to integrate migrants.

Back in 2015, in various discussions and on social media, I was vocal in criticizing what I perceived as an overly casual and permissive approach by several European countries. I argued that unchecked influx of Syrian refugees was risky as it was believed that even radicals, involved in mass killings in Syria, were using the situation to get into Europe. I maintained firmly that Syrian refugees should remain within neighboring region.

Yet, even as I held that view, a single image shook me. In September 2015, a two-year-old Syrian boy drowned in the Mediterranean while his family attempted to reach Europe. The photographs of his small body on a Turkish beach became the symbol of the crisis. The image haunted me for some days and may be weeks but then like it always happens, we moved on and forgot about it. My strong opinion about the Syrian refugees did not change though.

Then something happened in late 2016. It did not change my opinion but gave me another perspective.

It was the time when me and my family were preparing for our relocation from Malaysia to India. We had spent 5 years in Malaysia and were looking forward to the move to India. We were quite busy with the packing, paperwork and coordination with the cargo company. Our departure was probably a week away and then – like always in the last minute - my wife reminded about my daughter’s bicycle. My daughter was 5 years old and was extremely fond of her pink and white bicycle. It would have been prudent to sell off the bike and buy a new one in India but so much was about to change in her young life that I did not want her to part with something familiar and comforting.

Transporting the bicycle required dismantling it properly, so we decided to take it to the same shop from which we had bought it. The incident happened on the way.

It must have been around 3PM and we took a cab to go to the bicycle shop. At a busy traffic junction, I noticed a well-built man in a thick brown T-shirt and grey trousers. He was barefoot, moving from one vehicle to another, asking for help. Homelessness and begging, while not as visible as in India, do exist in Kuala Lumpur, so at first I paid little attention. A few seconds later, I looked again and saw that he was holding a piece of cardboard that read: “Syrian Refugee. Looking for Work and Help.” I looked at him for few seconds as I had not met or seen someone from Syria before. I was certain that I would not give him any money - primarily because of my strong opinion regarding Syrian refugees.

I looked away.

Near the junction stood a foot-over bridge (or pedestrian overpass) and I noticed a little girl sitting on the stairs. She was about the same age as my daughter. She was fair, had unkempt hair, and was barefoot. She was wearing a soiled frock - which I am sure would have been white back in Syria. Both the frock and the little girl looked as though they had seen much better days.

She watched the Syrian man with an expression that can be best described as a combination of affection, hope, and a child’s boredom. I looked at the Syrian man and at that point I noticed that, while he was busy going from one vehicle to another, he was regularly looking at her. While I am not certain, but I think she was his daughter.

Even in that condition, the little girl was strikingly beautiful. Her face radiated innocence. I kept looking at them – especially the little girl.

(Since I am sure you are thinking about it, let me clarify that it was a busy signal and we were there for few minutes.)

Then something else happened. A ragpicker – apparently a Malaysian homeless man - appeared from nowhere and started climbing the stairs of the foot-over bridge. He too had unkempt hair, wore a dirty shirt and khaki shorts. He was wearing a pair of slippers. When he reached the girl, he stopped. I felt a surge of anxiety. I looked at the Syrian man but at that moment, he was not looking at his daughter. This made me even more anxious.

Suddenly, the ragpicker reached into his bag and took out a half-eaten packet of potato chips. I distinctly remember shouting a silent “No” from inside the car. The girl looked at the packet, then at the man, then back at the packet. I hoped she would refuse, worrying that it might be unhygienic. I also questioned the ragpicker’s intentions. We clearly had different concerns in mind. She was thinking of hunger, I was thinking of hygiene and her safety.

She glanced toward the Syrian man, who at that very moment - much to my relief – looked toward her. He paused briefly and nodded, giving silent permission. The girl smiled. I still clearly remember that beautiful smile. She looked at the ragpicker, smiled again, and accepted the chips. The ragpicker gently and lovingly touched her head and walked away. I felt a sudden strange pain in my heart. It broke my heart to see she was so hungry that she was willing to take a half-eaten packet of chips.

Just then, the traffic began to move. Argghhh!!!

I do not know why but I asked the taxi driver to stop. He refused, saying he could not halt in the middle of the junction. Of course! I asked him to cross and stop beyond it. He replied that our destination was only 400 metres ahead and that it would be better to stop there. I agreed.

When we reached the bicycle shop, I carried the bike inside and asked my wife to supervise the dismantling as I have to go somewhere. She looked puzzled but did not question or stop me.

I ran back toward the junction hoping to find the girl there. I was desperate and ran as fast as I could. Somehow, it still took a while! When I reached the junction, I was relieved to see that the little girl was still sitting on the same step, eating the chips slowly, as if determined to savor each bite.

I crossed the road and approached her. She was startled to see a chubby Indian man hurriedly approaching her - while gasping for air!! (okay, I am not a runner......yeah yeah, I am not even a walker)

I stopped and looked towards the Syrian man, who by now had noticed me and was hurriedly moving towards us. When he reached us, I asked him if the girl was his daughter. That is when I realized that he does not understand English. He obviously did not understand Hindi, and I did not understand his language. He was looking at me with suspicion.

So, using gestures, I tried to explain that I too had a daughter of similar age. I took out my wallet and handed him all the cash inside. I do not know how much money was in it as I never have an idea about the money in my wallet, but it was not a small sum. I handed him the money and tried to explain to him that it is for her, and he should buy her something to eat. With gesture, I blessed her.

I do not know how much he understood but I think he did get some of it. He no longer looked at me with suspicion. He said a few things softly, but I did not understand him. He extended his hand and we shook hands. He had very thick, very strong hand and a firm handshake. I looked at the girl and smiled. She was looking at us and had a puzzled expression on her face. I wanted to say something to her. I think I did. She did not understand me. I said bye to both and turned back to go to my confused wife and my little angel - who was probably thinking that we have come to buy another bicycle for her! When I reached her, I hugged her and silently prayed that she stays away from misfortunes.

Three thoughts came to me on that day - two immediate, one later.

The first was that I wished I had more money in my wallet. They clearly needed help.

The second thought troubles me to this day. I wish I had bought her some snacks on the way. There was no time to buy a proper meal, but I could have stopped - during my marathon - to buy her something to eat.

The third thought came hours later. And it returned yesterday, when my wife showed me the photograph of the deceased granddaughter of Ali Khamenei. Whatever positions we may take on conflicts between nations, religions, races, or political ideologies, when we arrive at the most fundamental human level - the level of an individual, especially a child - our instinct is not to argue but to feel for them. And if possible - unless the person is truly evil or it's a matter of nation's interest - respond with humanity.

That is the way it should be. Before we are citizens, supporters, critics, or opponents, we are human beings. And it is precisely this reflex - to see the child before the flag, the person before the politics - that is likely to preserve what is best in us. If anything can sustain humanity through its divisions, it is that simple, uncalculated impulse to care.