Shabana Rehman Nude PhotosBjørn Stærk is getting a lot of hits from Pakistanis searching for nude photos of Norwegian-Pakistani comedienne Shabana Rehman. So am I. And since I'm always interested in getting more Muslim visitors, I decided to make a post called "Shabana Rehman Nude Photos", which will appear on a Google search. No, I don't have any, but I want more traffic:
Shabana Rehman 1 - Pakistani editors 0
Shabana Rehman about the negative coverage of her in Pakistani newspapers: "Over the last two days I've received over a hundred offers of marriage from the readers of precisely these newspapers, who want to get in touch with me, who wonder if I can get them a Norwegian passport, or if they can buy nude pictures of me, or buy my body, or put them in touch with potential Norwegian wives, the letters decorated with Western pornographic pictures. That's how much the condemnation of hypocritical and ethically cripled Pakistani editors is worth." And let me add that my blog is getting a lot of hits these days from Pakistanis searching for nude pictures of Shabana. The only one I know of is this, but congrats for looking. Perhaps I can interest you in some of her ideas instead?
Shabana Rehman: The Migration of the Heart
My father died in 1996. He was only 52. There was nothing unusual about his death. But there was about his final wish. He asked to be buried where his children, the next generation, lived, and not in the country of his ancestors. This is an unusual choice for people in his generation of immigrants. A proud Pakistani, buried in Norwegian soil. As I watched his coffin being lowered into the earth, a truth struck me with a force I could not escape. It was like being confronted with an Icelandic vulcano.
For there, by my father's grave, I saw no roots. For a person who takes for granted the community one belongs to, to stand there and see no roots it was like time stood still. By my father's grave I saw something different. I saw a dream of freedom. Who then was I, where do I belong, if this was my father's goodbye? Last week the answer came to me in form of a miracle: I became the aunt of a little princess. When I looked into her eyes for the very first time, I saw neither a Norwegian nor a Pakistani, a Muslim nor a Christian. I saw a free human being. She was also born with extra large feet. That is good. She'll need them. That generation is going to make new history, for they represent the migration of the heart.
My father had a dream: To live in a country where he could escape the hell of poverty, where you do not measure a person's dignity by where or as who you are born. Most people believe in roots, in differences, in categories. By my father's grave I could find no roots. He was one of many parents who throughout their lives had fought to give their children a more dignified life than he himself had been offered. There we stood, before his gravem and watched as nationality, religion, ethnicity and roots were buried, in a country that he was neither born in nor felt at home in. And yet it became a powerful symbol to us, his descendants. By my father's grave I saw no roots. I saw only a dream, a dream of the emmigration of the heart, and the immigration of freedom. I saw a dream of freedom, and the price he paid for it. The migration of the heart is the dream of freedom. That is my message to you today.