Cruel Affection
By Isaac Schrödinger
2006/03/06
OVER THE PAST FEW months, I have watched bits of programs on a channel called
Animal Planet. For
example:
In the southeastern corner of Michigan beats the industrial heart of
America's "Motor City" — Detroit. And on the outskirts of town is
the headquarters of the city's primary animal welfare agency, run by the
nonprofit Michigan Humane Society (MHS).
Animal Cops: Detroit follows the MHS's animal cruelty
investigators as they track down animal abusers and bring them to justice.
It was fascinating to see all these different men and women who do their best
with the provided resources to help the neglected, and sometimes battered,
creatures. Their genuine concern for animals was always evident from their body
language.
Such shows always bring back a rotten memory or two from my life among the
Ummah. In a topsy-turvy reality, Western society tries to provide a comfortable
life for animals whereas the Islamic World has rules about wife-beating and
where children are treated with mindless savagery.
ONE OF MY RELATIVES was having a conversation with my dad in 1996. My dad was
being updated about all the different family members and their present
situations. The talk soon turned to one of my uncles who, at the time, had been
recently married. This guy told my dad in a most nonchalant manner, "He
beats his wife practically everyday."
"Tsk tsk, that's not good," said my dad.
Then, they moved on to other topics.
DURING THE SUMMER OF 1995 in Lahore, Pakistan, my mom asked me to come with
her to a nearby town as she was going to meet a tailor. My leg was aching but I
agreed anyway. A few minutes later our car stopped in front of the tailor's
house. My mom went in as I stood outside with our transport. It was a bright
sunny day and not a single structure with more than two stories could be seen in
that village.
Suddenly, a wailing noise broke the calm. It was coming from the street at my
front-right. Soon, a child, who was at most five, emerged from there. He was
crying his lungs out. Behind him, I guess, was his father. He was ferociously
yelling at the kid. The weeping boy kept on walking as his dad approached him
from behind. Then, he hit his kid on the back of the head with such revolting
force that the frail boy practically leapt forward and landed on his face.
The crying stopped for a moment. The boy got up and started to weep and walk
again. And again that man would menacingly catch up to him and sickeningly smack
him with brutal power. It was not the first and likely not the last time that he
had hit a kid. In public. No-one in the neighborhood stopped the brutal beating
or even uttered a word of disapproval. There were no Kid Cops who could
rescue that young boy from his gruesome fate.
IN
AN OLD POST, I described the barbaric behavior of teachers in my Muslim
school. I ended that piece with this:
Some of you might be asking, "How could the parents allow this
barbarity to continue in schools?" You naively assume that such violence
is limited to schools in Muslim lands.
I've been hit with the following list of things. By some magical coincidence,
the people responsible -- parents, teachers or relatives -- were all
adherents of the Religion of Peace.
- Hands. On many occasions I was smacked across the face.
Most of the time, I didn't even know that I had done anything wrong.
- Footwear: flip-flops, slippers, boots etc. My dad
lovingly used to call the procedure Bata
service.
- Clothes Hangers. Lots of 'em; mostly plastic. A few hits
would break the hanger right in the middle at its horizontal part. It would
leave burning pain; often I'd sob and go to sleep.
- Sticks. All sorts of varieties: small, thick, rounded,
long, taped. In Urdu, a stick is called a dunda. I got the dunda
treatment almost exclusively from my teachers. What did I do to
"deserve" the punishment? Take your pick: failed a test, couldn't
recite or write a verse from the Quran, didn't do an assignment, collective
corporal treatment for everyone in the class because of excessive noise.
- A Spoon. A stainless steel spoon to be precise. It was
hurled from across the room and I instinctively raised my arms to protect my
skull. It hit me on my elbow and my mouth was wide open for a few moments
but not a single sound came out. There was some bleeding.
- A Water Pipe. A stainless
steel water pipe to be precise. After being hit on my left leg, I
couldn't walk for the rest of the day. The affected area was bruised and I
had trouble walking comfortably for a couple of weeks.
I'm fortunate to be no longer around such viciousness and to point
it out. However, today literally tens of millions of kids within Islamic borders
are subjected to such vile brutality. The overwhelming majority grow up and
internalize this loathsome pathology, instead of rejecting it.
Violence is utilized in countless Muslim-majority schools -- not just the
madrassas -- to keep pupils "in line" and in most homes to restrain a
"disobedient" wife or raise "honorable" children.
Non-Muslims have to ask themselves: When most of the Ummah treats their own
offspring with such an abhorrent passion, then what is in store for those whom
the Muslims hate?
Posted by Isaac Schrödinger at 07:00 PM in Life
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Comments
I accidently posted the following on another thread: I meant to post it here.
I was punished quite often as a child with an orange HotWheels racing car
track, made out of plastic. I used to dread the words our mother would say: Your
dad is gonna give you the ORANGE STICK. Now that I think about it, using that
track on us was way beyond cruel, because it was a Christmas present we'd all
been clamoring for. Nothing says "I love you", like getting beaten
with a toy you'd wanted all year.
Comment here
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