The Decree
He was the devil, plain and simple. This was true for our community, for our generation. As I sat in my aunt’s good living room in the suburbs of Toronto, my attention focused on Ammar Rizvi, it was the farthest thing from my mind. Us “kidz” were just lounging. The musicians had not yet arrived, and when they did, it would take them some time to tune their instruments and begin the qawwali. Our parents were already in the large finished basement; men on one side, women on the other. They would sit on plush carpet and pillows; laughter and traces of Urdu conversation making its...
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