WHO IS TO BLAME WHEN A CHILD BECOMES A PROSTITUTE

I was busy washing my car one Sunday morning, when I saw Jameel, my close friend, pulling up in my driveway. I pretended I didn't see him.

"Hey!" he shouted, leaning his head to one side. "Is that car so important?"

I laughed. "Maybe."

Jameel was tall, handsomely built, with long, black hair, a real ladies' man. He was married and had two children.

He came to me and we shook hands. He looked much younger than his 49 years. He hardly had any grey hair.

"Hello, Uncle Myle," Someone shouted from the other side of the road, and I saw it was Fairuz, my neighbor's daughter.

"Hello." I muttered and watched as she came over to me. She was dressed in a short, tight-fitting skirt and her blouse barely concealed her breasts. She was scarcely thirteen!

I agitatedly resumed my chores, wondering how Joe, the owner of the property they lived on, could still tolerate them, seeing that they never paid him a cent.

"Can I get you anything from the shop, Uncle Myle?" She was speaking to me but was glancing at Jameel.

"No, thank you," I said tersely, hoping she would be on her way. If Fatima, my wife, found her here now, she would blow a fuse. Fatima always blew a fuse when she saw this girl near me. I simply wasn't in a mood for a fight today.

"Can I get you anything, Uncle? She turned to Jameel, undeterred. "Cigarettes, maybe?"

"Yes. Get me ten rand airtime. Please." Jameel took out some money and told her to keep the change. She ran off excitedly.

"How much did you give her?" I frowned at Jameel. "You should not give her money!

"Why?" Jameel frowned back at me. "She looks like a nice enough kid."

"Yes." I sighed. "Until they get you into their pockets." I was thinking of the numerous occasions she and her younger brother came to knock on my door, asking for bread, for milk, for anything, even money to make a phone call!

Jameel said something, but I wasn't listening. I kept thinking about them, about the many letters Fairuz brought me from her father, asking to borrow money – R50, R100, sometimes R200, which they never paid back! I later discovered what their devious motives were.

Jameel was laughing at me. "Hey! You're splashing more water on you than the car!"

I was furious with myself for having fallen for their tricks; I had loaned them a lot of money!

I completed the washing of the car and saw Fairuz coming back from the shop. She was smiling secretively at Jameel. I wondered what devilish scheme she was hatching this time. She nearly had me in serious trouble.

"Thank you," said Jameel, when she handed him the airtime voucher. "That was quick."

"Yes I..." She wanted to linger on, but I cut her short. "Thank you, Fairuz," I said dismissively. "That will be all. I'll call you later if we need anything. Thank you." She left, but not before she had again given Jameel her secretive smile. She walked off slowly.

I shook my head. "You wouldn't believe how many people they owe money to around here." I stared at Jameel in earnest. "Nobody wants to give them anything anymore. They are very bad people!"

Jameel frowned at me as I bent down to do the wheels. "But how come I never saw them before? How long have they been staying here now?"

Not long," I said, looking up at him. "They've been living all over the show. I believe they even slept in an old car in someone's backyard."

"Really?" Jameel didn't seem very convinced. "She's such a pretty girl."

"Yes. She is. She's very pretty. But don't let that fool you. You don't know them. Don't go near her. Don't!"

Jameel laughed out loud. "You sound as if you had a run-in with her, or the father."

I wanted to say something, but then I saw Fatima, my wife, in the doorway, and I watched as she brought us a jug of cool drinks.

"I heard your voice," she said to Jameel. "How is Shamila? Why didn't you bring her with?" Shamila was Jameel's wife and she and Fatima got on very well.

Jameel took the cool drinks from her and said something that made her laugh. I was wondering if she had heard or perhaps even seen Fairuz with us. I knew she couldn't say anything, because I hadn't been alone with the girl. But thinking back to that day when she had found the child alone with me in the house still gave me the shudders.

Fairuz had, as usual, come to borrow something and had knocked and knocked, or so she said, and nobody had answered. Fatima had already gone to the shop and I was still sleeping. So the girl tried the door handle, found the door was unlocked, and came in.

I remember how Fatima had screamed when she had found the child sitting by my side, because she had made no effort to get up even when Fatima had come to stand right in front of her. And, to make matters worse, she had been dressed in the same type of clothing, the kind that barely concealed her full body. I had just woken up and was more surprised than anything to find the girl sitting there. I could just gape flabbergasted as Fatima practically threw her out, and for a long time they never came to borrow anything. I had tried explaining to Fatima that I had no knowledge of the child's intentions, but Fatima was adamant that if I wasn't so accommodating in giving them food and money, and anything that they asked for, they wouldn't be so forward, especially the girl!

"Sweetheart...Sweetheart..." Fatima got through my reverie, and handed me a glass of cool drink. There was no accusation or anger on her face. She was just smiling broadly. "Who or what are you thinking so passionately about? Hmmm?"

I kissed her on the lips. "You, of course!"

She laughed. "Thank you, Sweetie. I believe you. With all my heart." And she went back to the house.

I winked at Jameel, and thought how lucky I was to have someone like Fatima by my side. Not only was she an understanding kind of person, but also someone who couldn't bear a grudge against anybody. Whether she had seen Fairuz there with us or not, she would not harp on it. And should they come looking for food or anything else, she would not turn her back on them. But I wondered, as I finished my drink, what she would have said if she had known about that one morning when Fairuz had gone to the shop for me and on returning had been alone with me in the house.

"Give me your glass," said Jameel, holding out his hand, "I have to go now. "Shamila must be wondering what happened to me."

I nodded at him and handed him the glass, thinking for an insane moment what he would have done had he been in my shoes. How would he have handled Fairuz that day, when I had asked her when her Daddy was going to pay me the money he owed me. Jameel was a good person. He and his wife Shamila were honest, hardworking people, very kindhearted and very much in love with one another. But sometimes that was not enough when dealing with the unexpected things in life. Sometimes you need Divine Providence and Guidance when life throws you a curved ball. I remembered how Fairuz had looked at me when I insisted on her asking her father for my money. I had been very agitated because he owed me a lot of money and was making no effort to pay me.

"Tell him..." I had raised my voice. "Tell him..." And she had placed her hand on my arm. "Please, Uncle Myle. Isn't there something I can do for you? My Daddy won't be able to pay you. He is not working!"

I had stared at her quizzically. "What do you mean? What can you do for me?"

"Anything. Anything you want me to do for you."

I don't know up till today what had gone through my mind; I said,"Will you massage my back for me?"

She nodded.

"And my head...Will you massage my head and my whole body?

"Yes." And there had been such a look in her eyes, a look that I had never seen in Fatima's eyes, not for all the years that we had been married. It was a look of such want that it released all the animal instincts in me.

All I had thought of at that moment was, "PLEASE, ALLAH. HELP ME. PLEASE HELP ME!" And if a neighbor hadn't come knocking on the door at that moment looking for Fatima, my settled life as I knew it would have been over. She would not have left me alone.

It was some weeks after that day when I was washing the car and Jameel had met Fairuz, that Fatima came to me one evening while I was watching TV, and pointed to the curtains in the lounge."What?" I had queried?" Not knowing what to expect. "What is it?"

"Outside!" She continued pointing at the curtains. "Look outside!"

I hurried over to the window and was just in time to see Fairuz getting out of a 4X4 wagon. It was well after 11 pm.

"Isn't that Jameel's van?"

I looked closer. I didn't want to open the drapes too wide, but there was no mistaking the bull bars and the modifications he had done to his vehicle. I stepped back, trying not to think the obvious. "Maybe it's someone else." I muttered. "Maybe..." But Fatima shook her head. "Its him, Myle. It's him!"

"But how can you be sure?"

Fatima narrowed her eyes. "This is not the first time I've seen him dropping her off at night!"

"And you're telling me only now?"

Fatima shook her head. "I don't know about you, but he's not welcome in my house anymore. Not at all!"

I didn't bother to comment. I was thinking about Shamila and her children. What was she going to do when she found out? I suddenly hated Fairuz and thought of going there and bringing the whole thing out into the open. But was Fairuz really the one to blame? What about the mother and the father who sent their children to go and beg on the streets? What about the thousands of pretty girls selling themselves for money on the internet? What about those parents who are aware of the dangers of chat rooms and all sorts of pornographic avenues on the web, but choose to turn a blind eye to what their children are doing?

One can only pray to the ALMIGHTY that HE must open our eyes so that we may be better parents and role models for our children.

WHO IS TO BLAME WHEN A CHILD STARTS USING DRUGS?

It was 2:15 on Sunday morning when the phone rang by my bedside, waking me from a sleep I had struggled to get into. I mumbled something unprintable and sat up. Fatima, my wife, was also awake.

"Who can this be?" she wanted to know, yawning aloud. "What time is it?" She stared at me bleary-eyed as I lifted the receiver, a frown starting to form on her forehead. "What time is it?" She persisted, putting her hand on my arm. I did not answer her. An uneasy feeling crept over me.

"Hello?" I said, almost too afraid to ask who it was. I had learned, over the years, that apart from pranksters, or irritating "wrong numbers," the only other phone call that comes in the middle of the night is the harbinger of death.

"Yes?" I spoke into the mouthpiece and recognized my sister Kulsum's voice. She seemed very upset. "Brother," she uttered half-hysterically, "Muhsin is dead!" They all called me Brother (I was the eldest) and Muhsin was her youngest son. She had five children.

"But how...?" I suddenly blurted out, not sure if I had heard right. "How can that be?"

Kulsum was very distraught. "They stabbed him to death earlier this evening, Brother."

"Verily from ALLAH we come, and to ALLAH is our return," I said, echoing the traditional Quranic verses that a Muslim is supposed to utter on hearing about death. I saw that Fatima was wiping tears from her eyes. She could hear every word.

"Where did this happen?" I croaked, my mouth feeling dry.

"I don't know!" she said, sobbing loudly. "He died on our doorstep. He crawled all the way here!"

I didn't know what to say. I felt as if someone had thrown cold water over me. "And where is he now? Where's the body?"

She pulled herself together. "Farouk and the others are at the mortuary. He phoned just now to say that they were on their way." Farouk was her husband.

"Okay." I said, swinging my feet from the bed. "I'll be there in a few minutes."

She thanked me and hung up. I couldn't help shaking my head as Fatima stared at me. "O, ALLAH. O, ALLAH!" We were wide awake now.

I pulled on my pants while Fatima went to the bathroom. Her diabetes always played havoc with her, especially when something distressing happened. I wondered who else Kulsum had informed.

I put on a thick jacket, because the wind had been lashing the area for most of the night and it was very cold. I thought of Muhsin, and how as a child he used to go fishing with me. How we used to take him (Fatima and I) everywhere we went, even to weddings and to prayer meetings. He loved the chants, and we sometimes had our hands full trying to keep him quiet when we wanted him to go to sleep. He had stayed with us for some time, because Kulsum had to go and work. (They couldn't manage to raise five children on Farouk's salary alone). We became very close to him. In fact, Fatima, being unable to bear children herself, focused a lot of attention on Muhsin, making a point to buy him something new every time she went to the shops, and spoiling him with expensive toys and sweets. The other children all stayed with my mother.

I tried to warn her about this, making her understand that Kulsum and Farouk might not be in the dumps forever, that Farouk might just get a better job and then Kulsum would not have to go to work anymore. She could then look after her children herself.

As I brought the car around to the front door to let Fatima get in, I remembered Muhsin's eleventh birthday. I could still see the excitement on his face when I had given him the PlayStation he had been talking about for days on end. The other children had all looked on enviously. Kulsum and Farouk had both come to me, telling me how much they appreciated what Fatima and I were doing for their child and that they would never forget it. Fatima had been busy in the kitchen.

I remembered how I had led them to Muhsin's room where toys were scattered all over the floor and the walls plastered with pictures of all his favourite characters. He was practically our own child.

It was approximately three weeks after that, that Farouk and Kulsum came to us and told us that they wanted Muhsin back.

Needless to say, I do not not have to explain in detail what Fatima's reaction had been, only that she hadn't stopped crying for days on end, and no matter how hard I tried I couldn't get her to go into Muhsin's room, let alone clean it.

Looking at her now as she got into the car, I still felt angry over what they had done, not only to her but to Muhsin as well. I hated them!

I drove off, thinking of all the stupid arguments we had engaged in in trying to talk sense into them. Farouk still had not found a better paying job, and Kulsum still had to go and work. But they had stuck to their belief that things would change for them once they had all their children with them, and they would show everyone that they would come out on top.

And so they took Muhsin back. But after five months of trying to prove a point, or call it whatever you will, Muhsin had come to visit us one Saturday afternoon, much to our surprise, and told us he didn't want to stay with his parents anymore.

I had looked at Fatima and there had been a fathomless expression on her face, almost as if to say, "I told you so!"

Muhsin had told us in no uncertain terms that his mother and father were always fighting over money, always abusing or blaming each other for their woes, and if any of the children asked for anything there would be hell to pay. I hadn't interrupted him, but Fatima had hugged him when he had begged us to take him back into our house.

That same day I had gone to see my sister and her husband and had not minced words when I told them how unhappy Muhsin was with them, and asked whether he could come and stay with us again.

Kulsum had sworn at me and told me not to interfere in their lives, and asked whether I was aware how cheeky and stubborn Muhsin was. She also said that Muhsin was back-chatting the both of them and setting a really bad example to all the other children. She wasn't saying it in so many words, but she was actually blaming Fatima and me for the child's misbehavior. I hadn't pursued the argument, I had merely left and asked them to reconsider my request; after all we loved him very much.

We pulled up at Kulsum's house after a 20-minute drive. My mother and youngest sister Ayesha were there. Farouk and the others had just arrived.

Muhsin's body was wrapped in a blanket and I could see blood seeping through one side. I greeted Kulsum and hugged her tight as she sobbed uncontrollably. "He was only 18, Brother. Only 18!"

I went on to greet my mother and Ayesha whose eyes were red with weeping. Fatima was also crying bitterly.

"What time do you plan to make the funeral?" I asked Farouk as we all helped to lay the body on a bier. Muslims usually bury within the same day, or as soon as possible if the body has to be transported from another area.

"What time do you think we should make it?" he asked me, and for a moment I was confused. "Why do you ask me that?" I wanted to say, but thought better of it. Now was not the time to bandy arguments about. One had to respect the dead. "I think three o'clock would be a good time seeing that it is Sunday," I offered. An elderly man with a grey beard had entered the room and I recognized him as the one who performs the ablution and prepares the body for burial. He removed the blanket from the deceased. I tried not to look; I felt very sad. I wanted to scream out loud that this should never have happened. Muhsin should not have died in this manner! I buried my face in my hands.

I heard the old man giving instructions to someone and I still did not look up. I was thinking how many youngsters at this moment were lying shot up on coke, or methamphetamine (or Tik, as it is commonly known here in Cape Town). And how many of them were lying dead in mortuaries all over the world because of an overdose, or as in Muhsin's case, stabbed to death over an argument about who stole whose drugs. I was particularly cut up in thinking how many of these youngsters were indirectly encouraged by the ignorance and stupidity of their parents in following the drug route.

I finally looked up and I saw Fareed, Kulsum's second eldest child, standing on the other side of the bier. Tears were running down his cheeks freely. I made a vow there and then that no child that I knew, be it family or not, was ever going to go the drug abusers' way. Even if I have to use force. And if the parents should get in the way I will use every means at my disposal to fight them to get the child onto the right path. I wasn't even aware that tears and mucus were collecting at my chin, until my one brother put his arm around me and led me out of the room.

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF POPPY TOMBAZANA

The alarm clock by Poppy's side rang shrilly; she sleepily reached out a hand and knocked the thing over. It kept on ringing.

Poppy sat up slowly and switched off the alarm. The dial read 5:05. She yawned and stretched her arms above her head. Outside, a taxi was noisily passing by, searching for passengers. Poppy yawned once more and got out of bed. She somehow felt more tired than usual.

She went into the bathroom and relieved herself, thinking of the events of the previous evening, and shuddered. Dr. Weir had left the clinic late. There had been an influx of new cases, and Poppy wondered for how long they would be able to cope if no new staff was going to be employed. She herself was only a voluntary worker.

She started brushing her teeth and in the distance she heard the Call to Prayer sounding from the local mosque.

She thought of her own condition as she began taking ablution; she thought of the anti-retroviral treatment that she was on, and she wondered for how long it would sustain her. Dr. Weir had said there was no reason why she should not lead a healthy, normal life, if she stuck to the treatment and looked after herself.

But she was worried. She felt listless at times, and she sometimes couldn't sleep. Many a night she would wake up, drenched in sweat and with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

She left the bathroom and laid a prayer mat on the floor. Her husband Alfred had died two years ago. She had contracted AIDS from him.

She started her rituals and she suddenly started to cry. "O ALLAH!" she uttered. "Please don't let me die now. There is still so much to do."

She had embraced Islam when she was 36. She was 42 now and had no children.

Alfred had been a good husband; her face softened as she thought of him. He had provided for her well. The sickness that he had carried with him had been there from the days he had been imprisoned in Angola for political reasons. He had only become aware of his status when he had been involved in a car accident, and by that time he had already infected her with the dreaded disease. She still missed him a lot. She sometimes imagined that he was in the house and he would call out to her. She completed her rituals.

She left the house as the sun began painting the horizon with a deep, orange glow. There was already a stream of cars making their way along the freeway and she flagged down a taxi. She could feel the heat on her face and she knew it was going to be a hot day. There was hardly a breeze in the air. The TV had said it was going to be 32 degrees centigrade, she thought glumly as she squeezed in next to a fat woman, who was wiping sweat from her glistening face. Poppy wondered what this new day held for her.

She reached the clinic at about 7:00, and there was a sizable queue forming outside. People here in the rural parts of Kwa Zulu Natal had to travel early if they wanted to be attended to at the only clinic for miles around. Many of them walked.

The clinic wasn't very big. It had two sections: the administration and preparation area, where patients' blood pressure was taken and preliminary examinations done, and the doctors' rooms, which were supposed to accommodate three doctors. There was also a holding area, where casualties and trauma cases were seen to. Severe cases were either flown by helicopter or transported by ambulance to the nearest general hospital, depending on the severity of the case.

Poppy grimaced. Nowadays it was mostly Dr. Weir attending to a horde of patients, and he wasn't that young anymore. She felt sorry for him.

"Nurse," said someone as she unlocked the preparation room door. "I'm hungry."

She saw that it was Lucky, a developmentally disabled person who sometimes helped to clean around the premises, and who always waited for her at the door. She smiled at him and told him to wait, wondering how he managed to come to the clinic every morning, seeing that both his parents had died from AIDS, and he lived with a relative in another part of town who didn't work and never received any social grant. The distance was too far to walk.

Lucky smiled back at her with big buck teeth, almost as if he could read her thoughts.

Poppy shuddered involuntarily as she thought of the man in his early 30's who had caused such a stir the previous day, when he had unceremoniously started to vomit blood all over the reception floor. She remembered how the woman sitting next to him had screamed when he had suddenly grabbed her arm and pleaded for help. Poppy had managed to calm him down, and she and two other nurses had gotten him onto a stretcher where Dr. Weir had immediately seen to him. She wondered how he was doing and she made a mental note to go and find out. HIV/AIDS was so rife here in Pumelalane, and people were dying at such an alarming rate that at some stage she felt afraid that there would be no one left to care for the orphaned children.

Dr. Weir was already in his room when Poppy knocked. He was sipping from a cup and the smell of coffee pervaded the air. He had a pensive look on his thin face.

"Good morning, Doctor," she said, and came to stand before him where he was sitting at his desk. "You are early."

He did not reply, but she could see that something was troubling him. She did not speak further.

Dr. Weir shook his head, and Poppy couldn't help noticing how drained he looked. "Are you okay, Doctor?"

"Yes. I'm okay. I'm just very tired." He kept on shaking his head. "You know that young man who came in yesterday, the one who vomited blood on the floor?"

Poppy stared at him. "Yes?"

"He's dead."

Poppy felt a cold shiver running down her spine. She wondered if she was also going to vomit blood before she died. Tears welled up in her eyes. "When did he die?"

"At about eleven last night. He is still lying in the wash room. He's got no family."

Poppy shuddered. "So what are we going to do?"

"I don't know, but I've contacted Jabu from Social Services. He said he'll send someone out today."

Poppy left Dr. Weir's room, wiping the tears that were now running freely down her cheeks. She saw the young man's face before her again; the gaunt look of utter despair, the eyes that stood dead still in their sockets. She thought of the HIV/AIDS campaign she and the other nurses had started and she became more determined to fight this scourge with everything at her disposal. They had already begun by fetching groups of people at their houses, taking them on outings, providing food for them, and practically demonstrating the importance of healthy living and sound practices. It was slow but there was real progress.

She turned her face upwards. "O, ALLAH. Let me die with dignity." A silent prayer went through her mind as she walked towards the holding area. "Let me die amongst friends and amongst those who love me and whom I love. Please let me me not leave this world in disgrace."

"Nurse, come quickly!" a woman with a child in her arms shouted, panicking. "He's not breathing!"

Brenda, one of the other nurses, came running over and took the child from her.

"Please don't let him die!"

Together, Brenda and Poppy administered CPR. "Come on. Breathe!" Poppy almost willed, and pressing down rhythmically on the child's chest. Brenda blew down his throat.

"O, ALLAH. Please do not let this child die. Please!" Poppy said out loud, and there was a sudden cough from the child. "Let him live. Please."

The child started to cry, while the mother hugged him so tight that the nurses were afraid she would hurt him.

"Thank you, ALLAH," cried Poppy as the other nurse took the child from the woman. "Thank you."

And so began another day in the life of Poppy Tombazana, where existence here in the rural areas of Kwa Zulu Natal was an uphill battle to survive each day; where death was a constant reminder of how transitory human life was, and how traumatic yet utterly rewarding your services to your fellow human beings could be.

She couldn't thank the ALMIGHTY enough for giving her the strength each day to perform her duties.

WHO IS TO BLAME WHEN A TEENAGER COMMITS SUICIDE?

Can there be anything more traumatic, crushing, or heart-wrenching than to see someone you love dearly hanging from a rope in your garage? Can there be a more pitiable sight than to see a father on his knees, sobbing like a baby, his fists banging the concrete till blood spurts all over the floor?

Let me then tell you the story about Tariq (not his real name) and the events that led to his demise in this very sad manner. And, let me also convey to you the importance of keeping a close watch on your children and establishing an open rapport with them, so that they may feel free to confide in you, as a parent, whenever the need is there.

Tariq was a good-looking young man who lived with his parents and sister Mariam in Plumstead, one of the more affluent areas of Cape Town, where everyone kept to themselves.

His father, Ebrahim, a builder, prided himself on giving his family everything they needed, as well as the finer things in life, and he made no secret of the fact that his hard work over the years had secured them a good life for some time to come. He simply had no time for hangers-on, he said. He believed that every able-bodied person had the opportunity to better himself, and beggars were lazy people. Life was what you made of it. It was as simple as that.

Tariq's mother, Fatima, on the other hand, was a good-natured woman, always smiling, and always ready to lend a hand at functions, although her husband never approved of her mixing with the ordinary folk.

Tariq attended a well-known college in the upper echelons of Newlands, where emphasis was placed on A-Grade passes. Students were encouraged to participate in all kinds of extramural activities, as well as all the major sporting codes. Parents had to attend Parent/Teacher Associations meetings, and no one was allowed to abstain without a valid reason.

Students who did not excel were kept behind in detention classes where a specialist in education methodology worked with them intensely. No one left these remedial sessions without emerging a better person. Students who showed a propensity to complacency and laziness were not tolerated for very long. Either you toed the line or you were dealt with in a no-nonsense fashion. The parents would be called in and the student disciplined there and then; if the behaviour or attitude did not change in a given time, the child would be expelled. No one questioned the school's motives – it aimed to turn out leadership material. The parents paid too exorbitant a fee to complain

Tariq was A-Grade material. His ambition was to become a nuclear physicist and his parents spared no expense in getting him all the extracurricular tuition he needed. Tariq did not disappoint them.

When he turned nineteen, he was already doing his Honours Degree in physics, and the speculation was rife that he was going to complete his training at NASA in America, because his understanding of atomic structures and quantum physics was at a very high level.

He kept mostly to himself. He never attended Madressa or any institution where Islamic learning was offered. His parents allowed him the freedom to busy himself with his own devices. He was a good child.

His sister, Mariam, was his confidante. He loved her and she loved him. If he shared anything with anybody it would be her. She was two years younger, but acted as if she were older. No one could say anything bad about Tariq, or she would would have it out with them. She protected him fiercely.

Then, about four months before Tariq ended his life, Mariam noticed that her brother wasn't as close to her as usual. He never came to her room to chat to her, or even ask her to wash and blow-dry his hair as he always had. She noticed, however, that he always seemed neat and tidy, and took special care in the way his clothes were ironed.

She cornered him and questioned him about his new habits. She asked him directly if there was a woman in his life, and who was she? Was she pretty? Was it someone she knew?

He had answered her vaguely, she recalled afterwards. He had said that she was imagining things, and that there was no one he was seeing. But she had found out soon enough, and so had their parents, that there was a girl in his life and she was much older than he. In fact she had been married before and had two children: a girl aged 7 and a boy aged 5.

Her name was Nadia, and she was very pretty. Tariq was head over heels in love with her.

Their parents were devastated and barred Tariq from ever seeing Nadia again. They even went so far as to confiscate his motorcycle, and everywhere he went he was under their supervision.

They discovered to their shock and horror that the girl was pregnant, and Ebrahim wasted no time in making his intentions clear. There would be no further relations between his son and "this woman," as he called her; he, Ebrahim, would see that the child had everything, and he would also pay for the woman's confinement. That, of course, was if it could be proven that his son was the father of the child.

Ebrahim relayed this to the woman and she refused, saying that she was was not a prostitute. She genuinely loved Tariq with all her heart, and that was why she was pregnant with his baby. She would raise the child on her own.

Ebrahim felt somewhat relieved. He hadn't told anyone about this conversation, and had simply said, when questioned about the girl's response, that she was rude and didn't know how to speak to older people. At least, he told his wife, Tariq could now concentrate on his studies once again, and that was all that mattered. The sooner they could get him into NASA the better. He, Ebrahim, would go to the ends of the earth to achieve that. He felt that perhaps the events of the past few months were a sign for him to work harder on his son's future. But that was all going to change, he promised his wife. Tariq was going to make a great name for himself and his family. Ebrahim was going to make sure of it.

Tariq then began to disappear from his room regularly at night. He would wait till everyone was asleep and then slip out his bedroom window. He was like someone possessed.

Mariam caught him sneaking in at about two o'clock one morning, his face all flushed. She did not dwell on the thought, but she knew he was heavily involved with Nadia. His eyes portrayed his inner feelings more than any words could express.

She asked him what he was going to do for the future, because she knew that their father was planning to get him off to America as soon as he possibly could. What if he became aware of Tariq's nightly escapades?

Tariq smiled secretively and had said that nothing was going to stop him seeing Nadia. He planned on marrying her, and nobody was going to come between them. Nobody! He said it so ominously that she had felt a cold hand gripping her throat. And when she had asked him about his studies, he shrugged, and lifted his hands dismissively. She wanted to tell him that their father had threatened to disown him if he persisted in seeing this woman. What would he do for money then? But seeing the look in his eyes, she kept quiet, and slowly turned away from him.

He suddenly grabbed her arm. She became frightened at the forcefulness of his grip. "Tariq!" she said, pushing him back. "Are you mad?"

She couldn't really speak out as she wanted to, for fear of waking their parents, but it seemed as if Tariq was past caring. He gave her that sinister smile again and released her arm. He said, as loud as if he intended for their mother and father to hear, "Nobody is going to stop me marrying Nadia, Mariam. Nobody!" Mariam looked round, almost expecting to see their father in the hallway. But there was no one. "Nobody, Mariam!" Tariq added, "Only Death!" And there was so much determination in his voice that she felt very alarmed and told her mother everything the next day.

Fatima first replied that Tariq was a good boy and wouldn't do something so foolish, but after Mariam had insisted that they tell Ebrahim, and together get professional help for her beloved brother, the mother conceded, and spoke to Ebrahim.

The father's response was everything the two females had not expected. He immediately summoned Tariq and bundled the youngster into his car despite the desperate pleas of both Fatima and Mariam. He was going to sort this thing out once and for all, he shouted as he drove off, and he would show everyone who was boss around his house.

He returned some time later, with Tariq, and told the two worried females that he had been to see Nadia and promised her that if she did not leave his son alone, he would not only disown the boy, but would make sure that Nadia regretted her actions for as long as she lived. He, Ebrahim, would not tolerate her nonsense any longer! He had been so smug and self-assured that Mariam burst out crying and ran to her room. Fatima said nothing, but anyone could have seen the pain on her face as she silently stared at her husband.

Ebrahim was too confident that he had done the right thing to listen to anybody else's opinion. He himself had been involved in many puppy-love affairs when he was young, he recalled, and if his father had allowed him to marry any of the girls that he had fallen in love with, at first sight... Heaven knows! He hated to think what would have happened to him.

Later, as he looked at the lifeless body of his beloved son, one could only imagine what was going through his mind. Was he thinking of all the injustices he had done to everyone he had dealings with, or was he thinking of how wrong his son was to do this to him? Was he perhaps thinking of who was to blame for this, or was he blaming himself?

We can't know, can we? Suffice it to say that life isn't as simple as we sometimes think it is. All we can do is to try and live a clean life, do as much good as we can and try not to harm anyone, especially those who may be weaker than us.

At the Newfields Madressa our primary aim is to educate our young generation about God Almighty and His Divine Commands. It is also an integral part of our educational structure to make our Youth aware of the pitfalls of life and how to best negotiate every obstacle and trial that may come their way. Ofcourse, it is never humanly possible to shield anyone from every threat and evil so prevalent out there, but with the help of the parent, or guardian, we have managed to save many a youngster who would otherwise have been lost to society.

We make an urgent appeal to anyone concerned about the well-being of our Youth, to donate generously to our Cause, and we pray that the ALMIGHTY grant you every success in all your undertakings. Indeed.

Our Banking Details are:
Newfields Madressa
Standard Bank
Parow Branch.
SOUTH AFRICA
Account No. 072704764
Branch Code: 051001

THE MOST BEAUTIFUL WOMAN IN THE WORLD

Who is the most beautiful woman in the world? Is it someone with fair skin or olive skin? Is it a blonde with blue eyes or a brunette with dark smouldering eyes? Is there such a person who has immense facial beauty, perfect body proportions, the most beautiful hair, as well as a brilliant mind? Can there be a defining answer to this question? Who would men prefer more, blondes or brunettes? And what about those with red hair, or any other colour hair? Would men prefer, a woman who is their equal in the intellectual arena. Would they? Or perhaps someone who is more smarter than them when it comes to dealing with worldly affairs?

Who would make the best partner? The best mother? the best companion? Or even, the best housewife? How does a man choose his soulmate?

We spoke previously about women in Afghanistan, how they are peceived to be oppressed in their dress code when it comes to the western world. Infact, all women of Muslim countries, who wear Hijaab or Purdah are not only looked upon as oppressed in their dress code, but are labled as chatels of their husbands. If a woman wants to participate in politics or sport she must wear what the capitalist world prescribes. And the more she can reveal of her body the more liberated she portrays herself to be?

What about a woman, in her mid-thirtees. or early forties, who is married with one or two children, has extremely beautiful features, as well as ample body proportions, and a husband who is more interested in his business than in his family. What does she do when a good looking male crosses her path?

We know that it is an accepted fact that any normal, full blooded female is in her prime of her life when she is between the ages of thirty and fifty and especially if she has given birth to one or more children. It is also a known fact that many young men are greatly attracted to older women than what they are to their daughters, especially if these women are beautiful and full bossomed.

How does one stop an ellicit relationship between a buxom blonde, or brunette, and a virile young man who may be married with children of his own? How does one make them both understand that in the end it is the children who is going to suffer?

On T V it is accepted to have adulterous relationships between couples in movies and in soapies. It is also a norm to have the lead actor sleeping with the mother as well as the daughter. Our young generation watches this and tries to emulate their heroes. To them, these are the most beautiful people in the world!

Islam has liberated woman from that very same abuse that we witness on television. Islam says that a woman's body is sacred. Only her husband is allowed in her private domain. No stranger is allowed to lay eyes on her private parts.

A WOMAN IN AFGHANISTAN.

Afghanistan. The land of the Taliban: the land of much conflict. A place where the once mighty forces of Russia succumbed to the small but irresistable combatants in the hills. A place where, according to George W Bush, Al Qa-eeda terrorists found a safe hiding place, and a convenient springboard to launch their terrorist attacks against the western world. Especially in the wake of the 9/11 World Trade Centre disasters, George W Bush had a very powerful argument to get Congress to approve his requests for billions of U S Dollars to root out terrorism in all its forms. His search for WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION knew no boundaries, and the world shall not easily forget his policy of, "If you are not with us, you are against us!"

But amidst all the chaos and destruction that the former U S President has left in his wake, where do woman in Islam fit into this? What does the future hold for a woman in a land like Afghanistan?

I saw the other day one of the electorates, a lady by the name of Sima Matin appearing in Public. She had on , what looked like a scarf on her head, and a casual style of dress that was no where near to the conventional Hijaab or Purdah that is sometimes synonymous with Muslim women in Muslim countries. But what is expected of women as far as Islam is concerned. Can they be liberated in their dress code?

Looking at a woman from a male perspective, I would say that any beautiful woman who knows that she is beautiful, and also knows how to carry herself, does have an effect on any full-blooded male admirer. Especially if she reveals those body parts that has been proven through the ages to allure and seduce the opposite sex.

BARACK OBAMA AND THE NUCLEAR CRISIS

I listened to Barack Obama's speech on stopping Iran and Korea from continueing their nuclear weapons manufacturing , and, I felt somewhat disturbed in thinking how he would endeavour to bring an end to this stalemate, especially as far as Iran is concerned.

The western world has till this far managed to call a truce, albeit a tentative truce with one another concerning nuclear proliferation. However, Israel on the other hand wants to take out all the nuclear sites in Iran and, she has even called on some of the Arab states to help her in her quest.

Barack Obama has thus far managed to maintain his political dignity, unlike George W Bush , who, through sheer arrogance, or call it what you will , managed to incur the wrath of the world, by his infamous statement, "If you are not with us, you are against us! (sic) We shall then proceed to search for weapons of mass distruction in your country!

We all know what he has done to Iraq. Is a similar fate awaiting Iran? What do you think? Is Obama going to follow in his predecessors footsteps?

I sincerely hope not. But something needs to be done. Something soon. Iran insists she is not enriching uranium for nuclear weaponry. The western world does not agree. But where lies the answer?