For me, Appi’s death, was more than just the death of an eminent personality. Appi (Anita Ghulam Ali for others) was family; she was like a grandmother, after my own passed away in 2005. And she held a place in our lives that no one else can ever fill.
Appi became a part of our family through my grandmother, Umme Salma Zaman, a renowned educationalist and the principal of Sir Syed Girls’ College. They were both deeply involved in the teachers’ movement, especially during the repressive martial law years.
Those were the days when teachers used to take to streets all over Pakistan, some of them being arrested or beaten up by the police. However, they proved their strength and held hard to their principles, in spite of heavy odds.
It was in that era of activism that my grandmother and Appi became good friends, bonding over mutual values. After my grandmother's passing, Appi was the one we turned to, to confide in and seek out advice. It was with her that we now shared our achievements and concerns.
Although we were aware of her illness, her death still came as a shock. It is difficult to write about someone whose presence you have taken for granted all your life. Appi was always here. It's unimaginable that one day she won't be.
For me, Appi radiated humour and friendliness, persistence, determination and a will as strong as steel – unbent and resolute.
She never involved herself in politics at the office, and yet climbed up the ladder of success, all the way to the peak.
Perhaps she will be most memorable for her attitude towards people. It was free of any prejudice against any group whatsoever; never once tinged with any socio-economic arrogance. It impressed me as a child, when her car used to roll into our driveway with Appi sitting right in front with the driver. I had never seen anything like that, especially with a woman. But Appi being Appi, she never even gave it a thought.
The first time she fell down and broke her leg (she had many similar accidents in the following years), everyone got worried. But despite the pain, Appi could not be stopped from going back to work. She never walked without a walking cane again. Arthritis too had slowed the use of her hands, but she always did her own writing and never once complained.
In her dealings with people, she was bold and courageous, never afraid of being direct with them.
We were in fits of laughter when one day she told us how General Musharraf had called her up and begged her to rejoin the Cabinet which she had quit. While most other people would chew their lips and be polite, Appi actually told him off for the ongoing corruption in the Sindh Cabinet and refused to be part of it anymore. This was after she was offered a ministry – I have yet to see anyone refuse a ministry.
Her anecdotes of meeting political personalities were so compelling, most of the time we'd be amazed at how she got away with it every time. However, what's even more amazing is the fact that even though Appi would be direct with many such politicians, they always respected her. That's because the power she exerted was not through money or position but through honesty.
When I was a child, she'd keep me engaged in creative and imaginative pursuits all the time; making handy-crafts or looking at pictures or something else. She encouraged me to write down anything out of the ordinary. When I went on a trip to Manora Island once, she helped me cut out pictures and words from a newspaper and paste them onto a single sheet to make my picture story. I still have that and to this day, look upon its brilliance with utter awe.
Appi was also a great lover of animals, having grown up surrounded by farm animals. She loved dogs the most and was our chief procurer of dogs. The dogs loved her back too, jumping in excitement every time she visited.
Today, when I look back at her importance and her history, with regard to her work, and then remember the time I received an award on her behalf, I swell with pride. It was a women’s achievement award and I still remember the way people responded to her name when it was announced. There was so much applause that they had to wait for quite some time for it to stop. Many people had stood up in respect.
Appi’s personality was so dynamic and her ideas so progressive that she could not help but shape the lives around her.
At work especially she always wore very low key, conservative clothes, never anything loud or flamboyant, an important aspect for today’s working woman. She always had her shirt buttoned up discreetly to the neck, her gray hair tied up neatly in a bun, and walked with the regal grace of a queen. Despite her severe joint problems and spinal pain, she had a poise that was something to behold, but never arrogant.
Appi was the wonderful, lively lady who smiled and laughed all the time, who spoke her mind, who had such interesting stories to tell us; who had sympathy and tenderness for others, love for learning and teaching, and was a prototype of the ideal mentor for just about anyone.
It is unfortunate that in spite of her contributions, the media did not deem it important enough to profile her for the nation.
Her passing away was limited only to a few column inches of newspaper space, or Facebook statuses. Media attention was primarily focused on Tahirul Qadri’s arrival in Lahore, and Imran Khan’s upcoming long march, and maybe rightly so.
For in Pakistan, does anyone really care about teachers and free thinkers?
Perhaps in the long run, media coverage will not really matter, because it is the people who will remember her – the people who have been moved by her, who have been touched by her.
For them, she will always be alive.