Salima looked out the window and decided that she will have to go, even though she did not want to. It was one of those parties she hated, overdressed desi sahibs and memsahibs parading their newly acquired wealth.

But she had to go as her mother, who lives in Cincinnati, Ohio, had sent some home-cooked halwa for her. And the person who brought it was returning the next day.

“Mercedes is the only car for me,” she heard a man with an overfed tummy saying to another obviously overfed man as she entered a large room. “For the last 10 years, I have not touched another car, although my children have been urging me to try others as well.”

In another corner, she saw a woman showing a diamond-bracelet to other women. Salima could guess what they were talking about without going there.

As she moved deeper into the large hall, someone called her and asked her to join a table where another woman, who had just returned from home, was narrating her story.

“It was horrible. They were taking so long in stamping our passports. I had to wait for 45 minutes in the queue,” she said.

Salima recalled her last trip to her parents’ home country. They had to wait at the JFK airport for two hours for security clearance but nobody complained. Not a word.

It was a different story at the airport in Karachi. Even her parents had changed. The changed was so drastic that Salima could not recognise them.

“We have been here for an hour and nobody is bothered (Koi pochta hi naheen hai),” her mother complained. Saleem, her father, agreed.

“Haan, koi pochta hi naheen (yes, nobody is bothered,” he said.

“Mom, we entered this building only 30 minutes ago,” said Salima, looking at her watch. “And why should they bother about us? We are like hundreds of others,” she adding, pointing to passengers from other flights from the Middle East.

“Yes, but we have come all the way from America,” said her father.

“So what?” Salima asked.

“Toon chup kar (you keep quiet),” said her mother, “You know nothing about this country.”

Salima curbed her memories, went to the table and greeted everybody.

The woman who had complained about delays at the Lahore airport was now talking about her visit to the city’s main railway station.

“It was so dirty. Full of flies. And the pakoras, my God, I wonder how we used to eat them,” she said.

“And there were so many fakirs, little children. Mind you, some of them were very beautiful. I gave my shawl to a very good looking girl, hardly 12 or 13 and already a woman. Wonder what they eat!”

This was more than Salima could handle, so she looked around for someone her age and noticed one sitting alone in a far corner. She left the group and walked up to her.

Unlike other overdressed women, she was wearing a nicely tailored “sooti (cotton) shalwar-kamis.” No diamond bracelet, no gold bangles. And yet she looked impressive.

“Hello,” said Salima, expecting her to respond in Urdu. But she spoke fluent English, albeit with an accent which was also different from those of other desis.

Confused, she asked: “Where are you from?”

“I am Huriya from Afghanistan,” she responded.

“What are you doing in this crowd of middle-aged desi women?” Salima asked again.

Huriya laughed and said: “Will I be wrong if I asked the same question?”

“No, you are not wrong. I am here to collect the halwa my mother has sent from Ohio,” she said with a smile.

“Halwa, and that too made by your mom. That’s worth a trip to Kabul,” said Huriya while asking Salima to join her.

“I was looking for some young faces, so I came to you. I hope it is OK,” said Salima.

“I am absolutely delighted,” said Huriya, “as you noticed I was sitting alone. But I am not as young as you think.”

“I am not a spring chicken either,” said Salima. “BTW, I am a journalist. I work for an American radio,” she added.

“I work for an Afghan human rights group. We provide financial and moral support to those working in Afghanistan,” said Huriya. “I am here to explore the possibility of expanding our support base.”

She explained that she wanted to hook up with some Pashtoon women activists from Pakistan.

This led them to a discussion on how the life was for women in the Taliban-controlled areas of Pakistan and Afghanistan.

“The situation is bad, very bad,” said Huriya. “That’s why I have so much respect for those struggling there. We only play a supportive role. They are the ones who suffer.”

“Are there women activists in those areas?” asked Salima.

“Yes, there are. There are women who have been killed, flogged, tortured and imprisoned for speaking up for their rights,” said Huriya.

Then Huriya warned Salima not to use the Western definition of an activist to define those struggling in places like Afghanistan and the bordering areas of Pakistan.

“The activists there do not necessarily have an office or a meeting place. They do not have access to literature. They do not have support groups,” said Huriya.

“So the situation is very grim?” asked Salima.

“Grim, yes, but not hopeless,” said Huriya. “If you go and meet these women, and I have, you will see why I am still hopeful. They want to enjoy life and be counted.”

Huriya complained that most journalists were only interested in stories that made headlines: beheading, flogging and stoning. Those stories, she argued, were important but those were not the only stories.

“There is a silent defiance that often goes unnoticed,” she said, “but to notice it, you have to stop thinking in headlines or sound bytes.”

Then Huriya took out her smart phone and showed Salima a picture of burqa clad women, covered from head-to-toe. One among them had unmasked her face and was smiling at the photographer.

“This is the spirit that the Taliban have failed to subdue. This sweet defiance unsettles most men, even in the West,” she said. “Put away your pens and microphones and enter their world. Share their experience and only then you will understand how powerful this smile is.”