Monday, 18 November 2013

Deformed babies and a shameful conspiracy of silence

Few subjects are more universally heartbreaking than the plight of sick children. Yet in this country babies are routinely born with terrible disabilities that could easily be avoided — if only the dangerous tradition of first cousins marrying, which still prevails in many Muslim communities, could be stamped out.

A whole raft of genetic disabilities —from blindness and hearing problems to blood disorders — are being bred into our children thanks to this antediluvian practice.

As a British-born Pakistani Muslim, this is something I have seen first-hand — and yet, in this politically-correct age, it is seen as a taboo, with precious few people willing to speak out.

At the weekend, however, geneticist Professor Steve Jones from University College London made a brave speech at the Hay Literary Festival highlighting the health problems of ‘inbreeding’ within Islamic communities.

He warned of the ‘hidden genetic damage’ to children born when first cousins marry, explaining this occurs because children are much more likely to inherit two copies of any damaged genes from their parents.

While everyone inherits some abnormal genes, in most cases a normal gene from one parent will overrule a defective gene from the other parent. But if the child’s parents are related, they are more likely to both carry the same defective genes.

Professor Jones’s research showed that children of first cousins were ten times more likely to have recessive genetic disorders and face deafness, blindness and infant mortality.

This is a shocking statistic, which is why I’m grateful that someone has finally been prepared to stand up and say what many of us in Islamic communities have known for decades.

I can only hope that David Cameron’s Government will not shy away from confronting a problem which for too long has allowed outrageous practices to flourish unchallenged in this country.

Growing up in England as the child of Pakistani parents (who moved here in 1965, five years before I was born) I know of several children, born to first cousins, who have severe disabilities. I have little doubt that most Muslims in this country would say the same.

It is a problem I have always been aware of. Thankfully, I was under no personal pressure to ‘marry within the family’ — indeed my own British husband is not even Muslim.

I am even more grateful for the fact that my two-year-old son has no health problems.

Unfortunately, others in my community cannot say the same. Many Muslims born in Britain are under intense family pressure to ‘marry within’, as a way of keeping money within the family. If they do not, they face being ostracised by their own relatives.

Studies show that in Bradford, which has a large Pakistani community, 70 per cent of marriages are between relatives — and more than half of these are between first cousins.

The result of this inbreeding? Terrible disabilities like the ones I have witnessed in the children born to a woman in my own community. Her first child was born blind, the second deaf and the third mute.

As if that were not tragic enough, these disabilities are simply accepted with a casual shrug. Because everyone seems to know someone with a sick child, it is barely commented on within the community.

In the Pakistani-Muslim communities I have experience of, it is not a cause for  concern. The only thing that matters is ‘marrying within the family’; after that, no questions are asked.

Those who do acknowledge the issue take no responsibility for the hardships they are inflicting upon their children.

To me, it is nothing short of shocking that this is happening in third, fourth and fifth generation British Pakistani communities.

My own mother, whom I love dearly, arranged the marriage of her niece to her nephew, the children of her brothers. If they have children, will they be born healthy? I just don’t know.
But no one should be surprised that blood disorders, diabetes and obesity are commonplace among Muslim children.

This is the case in Pakistan, of course, where these practices have been common for hundreds of years.

But while I can understand — without condoning it — why this might still be happening among poor, uneducated villagers halfway around the world, there is no excuse for it in a modern, advanced country like Britain in 2011.

One thing needs to be clear: these practices have no basis in religion — there is nothing in the Koran that dictates a man should marry his first cousin.

And while I’m prepared to stand up and say how appalled I am at the indifference of my own community, I am every bit as outraged by the lack of interest shown by liberal Britain to this deeply troubling problem.

Although as a nation we are quite prepared to storm into places like Libya and stand up for the human rights of their citizens, we do not have the same approach to social problems in our own country.
Terrified of being branded Islamophobic, most people simply choose to ignore these issues and are more worried about causing offence than the plight of these poor, blameless children. But in keeping quiet out of a misplaced sense of political correctness, we are failing our own citizens.

If this were a problem in any other section of the population, it would be openly debated and tackled. After all, it’s the overstretched state that is left, quite literally, holding the baby.

Because the Muslim community takes no responsibility for the disabilities among its young, it is left to the NHS and local authorities to provide healthcare and learning support.

While only 3 per cent of UK babies are born to British Pakistanis, their babies account for one in three of those born with genetic illnesses.

When, for example, underage pregnancy was identified as a problem in the UK (and a drain on resources), efforts were made to educate the young, predominantly poor, white, women this was happening to.

Yet because this is happening within Muslim communities, those who speak out about it are made to feel racist, while the liberal elite step back, vowing not to ‘meddle’.

As a young woman who knows only too well how difficult it is to grow up in Britain’s prevailing culture, while another set of rules and norms dictate life within your own home, I would suggest that today’s young Muslim men and women would heartily welcome ‘interference’.

Most of them do not want to marry their first cousins, or have arranged marriages. Instead, they identify themselves as British and would like the laws and cultural traditions of this country to be observed within their own communities.

Many of the women  who have been coerced into marrying first cousins probably do not speak any English, and will not even know of the health problems they may be storing up for their children.

There should be a mandatory genetic screening programme and counselling for any first cousins planning to marry, to ensure they are aware of the potential health problems they could be passing on to their offspring.

Similarly, anyone coming into this country to marry should have to be screened to determine their suitability for their intended spouse. Instead of taking pot luck, people would know the risks they were taking before they conceived.

After all, how can it be racist to protect the well-being of innocent children?

While it is the children who suffer most in all of this — having to negotiate life with crippling disabilities — the impact it has on their families should not be underestimated.

The woman I know who has children who are blind, deaf and dumb is now struggling on her own after her husband left her, remarried and went on to sire more children with another woman.

In the twisted logic that still governs many Muslim communities, this was seen as his right — because his wife had been unable to bear him a healthy child. She, meanwhile, is a single parent with three disabled children who has no choice but to ask the state to support her.

It is a shameful state of affairs, and the more courageous people like Professor Jones draw attention to it, the sooner these families can be dragged into the 21st century.

(Source: Dailymail)

Sunday, 17 November 2013

I wasted £30,000 trying to have a baby I didn't want

Found an interesting article on IVF by Claudia Connell on the Guardian. Single and in her 40s, Claudia Connell decided to have a baby – it was now or never. But during her third IVF attempt, she began to regret the whole idea. Here you go:

Most of us have made extravagant purchases that we've regretted wasting money on. Things that seemed a good idea at the time but, down the line, left you wondering what on earth you were thinking about.

My highly regretted buy set me back the best part of £30,000 and now, some 18 months on, I still feel sick when I think about it. In my case, though, I'm not talking about a flash sports car or a wardrobe full of designer clothes. Neither is it something I can sell and try to claim some money back on. I am talking about fertility treatment. Three cycles of IVF to try to conceive a child that I now know with absolute certainty I do not want.
Claudia Connell: ‘Perhaps I needed to go through the emotional journey
of IVF in order to discover that I don’t want children after all.’
As many women do when they approach their late 30s, I began to ponder the baby issue. I'd just read Baby Hunger by Sylvia Ann Hewlett, in which she made a strong case for the fact that today's "have it all" woman was facing the prospect of a very lonely and unfulfilled middle age. She hammered home the point with some alarming statistics: nearly half of high-achieving women were childless in America at the age of 40, most of them bitterly regretting leaving it so late.

To make matters even more complicated, I am single, so any journey into motherhood would be a lone venture. But, after much thought, I decided that I needed to give it a shot. I had a nice home, a bit of money put by, a steady if not entirely dependable career as a journalist and, besides, I liked children, didn't I? I have four nieces, three nephews and several godchildren.

Aged 41, I visited one of the biggest sperm banks in the UK to ask about artificial insemination with donor sperm. I was told that, at my age, it was unlikely to be successful and I was better off having IVF instead.

Even though my own eggs were becoming distinctly hard-boiled, and an interactive online IVF tool calculated my chances of success at 2.9% (or to look it another way: a 97.1% chance of failure), I wanted to use them. With no help available from the NHS, a shortage of donor sperm in the UK and clinics still decidedly sniffy about treating single women, I opted to go abroad – to Athens. The clinic had a ready supply of sperm donors – I selected a 6ft 2in, 28-year-old doctor – but the consultant told me that the fibroids from which I suffered greatly impeded my chance of success and would have to be removed. The NHS disagreed, and I ended up spending £8,000 having the operation done privately.

After healing from the surgery and forking out another £2,000 or so on drugs and endless blood tests, I was ready to undergo my £4,000 cycle. I had two "perfect" embryos transferred. I underwent the whole thing without confiding in a soul – not my family, not my closest friends. I now believe my reason was that I still wasn't convinced I was doing the right thing and was faintly embarrassed about it all. Instead, I joined an internet forum for single women having IVF.

Two weeks after the embryo transfer, a negative pregnancy test proved what I knew from the beginning – my body wasn't going to beat those impossible odds. While the women on the forum I used were devastated by a negative cycle, I felt oddly indifferent. The clinic in Athens booked a conference call with me to discuss my case and any future protocol treatment, but when they rang I didn't take the call.

A year went by. Two of my closest friends had babies the good, old-fashioned way (with a husband) and, once again, the noise of a loudly ticking biological clock became the soundtrack to my life. Some of the older women on the forum I was using were having success with the eggs of much younger donors, mostly from eastern Europe.

Following a brief hiatus where I looked into – and ruled out – adoption, I again travelled to Athens, to another clinic, for a second cycle of IVF. This time I used the eggs of a 26-year-old Polish teacher and the sperm of a 19-year-old Danish student. That last part still makes me feel a bit icky. I wouldn't dream of having sex with a 19-year-old so to take sperm from one felt somehow very weird.

Drug protocol is different when using donor eggs and, on the second attempt, I had to switch off my own natural cycle to avoid ovulating, sending my body crashing head first into a very brief but intense menopause. My bones ached, the hot flushes were unreal and the huge doses of progesterone I was taking made me constantly dizzy.

But with the eggs and sperm of two such young and fertile donors, my chances of success were put at around 60% – none of your 2% nonsense. Even so, it didn't work and another £8,000, secured via a loan on my house, was down the pan.

After two cycles I decided I'd had a fair crack at it and would move on. Far from feeling sad and unfulfilled, I felt happy, content and at peace with my life as a childless singleton.

I wish I could tell you why, aged 44, I decided to have one last roll of the dice and attempt another cycle of IVF. Was it because I had secured a good job and was earning a lot of money? Was it because I had always regarded 45 as the cut-off and I was nudging dangerously close to it? Perhaps it's because I read somewhere that the majority of women having IVF will be successful after three cycles.

Whatever the reason, I chose to return to the same clinic and attempt one final cycle with frozen embryos. Once again I took the down-regulating drugs. This time a few steroids were thrown into the mix to suppress my overactive immune system, causing me to balloon by a stone.

The egg donor was Russian, 20 years old and a student, while the sperm donor was a 26-year-old architect. Other than that, all I knew was their hair and eye colours, and height.

On the day of the embryo transfer I had a massive panic attack and told one of the nurses that I didn't want to go through with it. Puzzled and with poor English skills, she just said: "You still pay."

By the time the consultant entered the room, he was buzzing with excitement. My defrosted embryos were among the best he'd ever seen. Grade one. He felt certain it was going to work.
Claudia Connell in her mid-30s. 'I wish I could
tell you why I decided to have one last roll of
the dice at the age of 44.'
As ridiculous as it sounds, telling him that I no longer wanted them felt somehow rude. So I went ahead with the transfer. In the middle of the procedure, flat on my back, legs in stirrups, my phone rang. It was my elderly neighbour, Patricia, back in London. Her burglar alarm was going off and she couldn't remember how to deactivate it. And so it was that I found myself in the absurd situation of being impregnated with strangers' embryos as I talked an old lady through the complicated procedure of turning off her alarm.

During the two-week wait before I found out whether the cycle had been successful, I ignored advice about drinking and taking baths. Unlike during the first two cycles, I felt nauseous and began to suspect that this one might have worked – and the idea was freaking me out. Instead of thinking lovelythoughts about newborn babies, I obsessed over how a child with whom I had no biological link would turn out. What if it were really ugly? What if one or both of its biological parents were dull and humourless? None of the Russian women I'd met were exactly happy-go-lucky. These were shallow and trivial things that really shouldn't be troubling the mind of any woman with deep maternal instincts.

At night I couldn't sleep, and when I did I had horrible nightmares in which I gave birth to deformed half-human, half-beast babies. I decided that if this cycle worked, I would have to terminate the pregnancy. I didn't want a baby after all.

When the pregnancy test showed a faint positive, instead of sharing the happy news I starting Googling for information about early abortions.

Concerned that the pregnancy test wasn't more conclusive, my consultant advised me to go for a blood test. The results revealed that the pregnancy hormone was not as strong as it should have been and that the pregnancy would not "stick". A week later, I had a heavy period and it was all over.

I deleted my membership of the IVF forum, chucked out all my fertility paperwork and test results, and drew a line under the whole sorry affair.

Today, I am happy being childless. I like my life without children and I know that I would not have been a good mother. My body still suffers from the effects of the IVF. I struggled to lose the weight I put on and it might be a coincidence but I still suffer from menopausal symptoms at the relatively young age of 46.

Perhaps I needed to go through the emotional journey of IVF in order to discover that I don't want children after all. But as I am now stony broke, I can't help feeling it was a very expensive, foolish and miserable way to find out. 

Rain in Doha: Missing walk in the rain...

“The rain to the wind said,
You push and I'll pelt.'
They so smote the garden bed
That the flowers actually knelt,
And lay lodged--though not dead.
I know how the flowers felt,” wrote Robert Frost in the poem “Lodged”. But the rain is Qatar neither said to the wind nor to the people about pelting, for it is never pelting, never pouring when compared to what I have seen back home. Even the slightest drizzle in this desert brings back the memories of thunder crashing, lightning flashing, rain making puddles and children making splashes in India.

The very word rain makes me to think of the smell of soil when the first few drops touch it. It’s been cloudy since morning, drizzling continuously… Watching the rain drops on my window is making me miss home, bring back some sweet memories, the days of making paper boats, dancing in the rain, riding in the rain, walking in the rain…
Rain in Doha, Qatar
Rain in Bangalore was always special, as another person loved it as much as I did. My then boyfriend, now hubby, loved riding the bike with me sitting in the pillion as the downpour lashed the city. Sometimes he dropped me to the office and, picked me back when it rained and we both fondly remember those rainy days… I would love to share those happy moments with our children in future. I want our kids to enjoy the rain the way we are doing. Don’t know if kids today enjoy rain like how we did it back then. Both parents work and in their hectic day-to-day life, I won’t be surprised if they even get time to allow their children to enjoy the rain and enjoy themselves. These days, all I see is the first showers in welcomed by empty roads, as I have seen very few children playing outside in water.

When we were young, I and my brother used to steal ourselves from our parents’ eyes to go out and play in the rain. I remember making paper boats and floating them on the small rain water stream. We never bothered of getting drenched, we never worried of falling sick, we never stopped even after getting scoldings, and sometimes thrashes, from mom. She always worried that we would fall sick, and we never did!

Maybe we had befriended the rain, it was our playmate. It was one season that we longed to eagerly welcome. When we were caught surprisingly by the first showers of the season, it was rather fun: walking on the roads, splashing rain water, not knowing on whom we were standing in the over-loaded bus, reaching the school completely drenched, with water dripping from clothes and hair, wet socks and shoes, entering dark class room, unable to concentrate on the lesson as the rain lashed the windows, eating lunch in the classroom itself, last but not the least, running around and playing in the ankle-deep rain water-filled playground in the last hour for the day, PT period…

The first showers gave us the freedom of not wearing those school shoes. Our teachers usually announced not to wear shoes till the rainy season ended -- after all, the stench of wet socks and shoes made them sick the whole day. We enjoyed every bit of it, as the rain played hide and seek and kept our company while we walked back from the school, got a bus and reached home…

Mom used to welcome us with hot and mouthwatering bajjis or pakoras and it was playtime in the rain again, without listening to her warnings not to play in the muddy water. It was fun to watch her clean the wet floor and cursing the downpour, as it took days together to dry the washed clothes.

But we just enjoyed, enjoyed the first showers, enjoyed the cooler days, enjoyed the water-filled fields and roads. It was heavenly to watch our rose, jasmine, lily, marigold, chrysanthemum plants and banana, coconut, curry leaf, mango, gooseberry, drumstick, custard apple trees dancing in the rain -- their branches dancing to the tune of thunder, flowers, fruits and leaves dropping tiny rain drops making waves in the puddles, small plants grounded due to the weight of rain water -- they danced as if they were giving company to us, they also seemed enjoying every moment of it.

We slept listening to the thunder and rainwater lashing against the windows. The next day would be clear with sunshine or sometimes, the day began again with the rainfall saying good morning to us. Our joy knew no limits… Late to the school? Blame the rain. Not wearing the uniform? Blame the rain. It gave us an excuse from all the corners and we utilized it in all the manners.
Drizzle, drizzle in Doha, Qatar
In between, let me say that there were a few who did not enjoy the rain. They complained about it raining all day, they worried of getting soaked, spoiling their clothes and falling sick… But we never did that, we loved it. Being from farming background, our parents welcomed rainy season, it was the much awaited season as our fields were finally getting some much needed rain.

As we grew up, our love for the rain also grew. College days gave immense pleasure, as we walked in the rain with friends, taking them near the trees in our campus and giving them a sudden rain by shaking the branch and running away… We noticed each and every mood, we loved every single day of the season, we laughed at people struggling with the wind and rain, wrestling with their umbrellas, covering their heads and faces with their jackets, shawls or saree, jumping or running around for shelter from rain, it was like a movie, a beautiful movie live in front of our eyes…

College days ended and it was time to earn something and life took me to Bangalore, where I became busy with my working life, but still I never stopped enjoying that first drop of rain falling on the ground. I enjoyed riding my bike in the rain, as my parents and colleagues worried for my safety. But who bothered? I felt the rain coming from the front, hitting the helmet, making it blur, forcing me to open it slightly so that vapor doesn’t form, with that came the wind and rain droplets splashing my face, penetrating deep into my skin, making my body numb… I shrunk my eyes despite wearing glasses, to check the water getting into them. I just enjoyed riding back home, be it 10.30 pm or 1.30-2 am, after my night shift.

Ah, with all these I realize how much I miss rain in this desert, how much I miss home, how much I miss all those wonderful moments… Every time it drizzles in Doha, I get nostalgic, it brings back so many memories. And I’m loving every little bit of it. So instead of complaining and grumbling, it’s better to follow Vladimir Nabokov’s words and enjoy the season: “Do not be angry with the rain; it simply does not know how to fall upwards.” 

World's most expensive penthouse unveiled at Qatar show

The world’s most expensive penthouse, valued at over $300 million, and the costliest soap have been showcased at a luxury expo in Qatar.
Rising above the waters of the Mediterranean and the captivating Principality of Monaco, the penthouse is the world’s most expensive property per square metre.
“Tour Odeon takes luxury to another level. The sophisticated interiors enhance one’s enjoyment of the stunning 360 degree views and the shimmering waters of the Mediterranean,” Karine Lackner from La Conciergerie Du Qatar, the exclusive property agent in Qatar for the property, said.
The World Luxury Expo is also showcasing the “most expensive soap in the world,” which is made of pure gold dust, olive oil and virgin honey and is embedded with diamonds. With a price tag of $3,800, the soap is dubbed the “Qatar Royal Soap.”
A selection of rare lithographs and etchings of the biggest names in 20th century art is also on display at the Expo.
The Expo, following the Doha edition, will return to the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia and Abu Dhabi in 2014, creating an annual signature series of events in the Gulf Cooperation Council (GCC) region.

(Source: PTI)

World’s ‘most expensive’ soap unveiled in Qatar

The “most expensive soap in the world”, made of pure gold dust, olive oil and virgin honey and embedded with diamonds, was unveiled by Khan Al-Saboun Bader Hassoun and Sons at the Qatar Pool and Spa 2013 at the Doha Exhibition Centre last week.

Weighing around 100gm and with a price tag of $3,800, the soap dubbed ‘Qatar Royal Soap’ with the word ‘Qatar’ in Arabic inscribed on it, is being dedicated to Qatar and its great achievements in many fields, especially in winning the bid to host the FIFA 2022 World Cup.

Khan Al-Saboun Bader Hassoun and Sons chairman Dr Bader Hassoun explained that the soap was specially made for royalty aside being beneficial for the skin due to its natural and organic contents.

“Our company, based in Lebanon, has been known for specialising in natural and organic beauty  products for years and we have very committed patrons due to this specialisation,” said Dr Hassoun, whose family has been in the soap making business for over eight centuries.

He said that the soap, though highly valued, has not been produced for commercial purposes, though it was earlier reported that it will be available for sale in Al-Saboun City Center – one of the company’s six branches in Qatar.

“We have made only this one piece in order to showcase our capabilities for inventions in soap making and just to express our respects for royalty. So, the soap will not be for sale,” he maintained. Lebanese singer Reem al-Sherif was present at the launch.

(Source: Gulf Times)