How to pronounce "adrift"

The last time I addressed this august TED crowd was in 2019

from the main stage in Vancouver,

where I was giving my first TED Talk on the case for having children.

And that's where I shared the news I had just received earlier in the week

that my then two-year-old daughter, Nusayba,

was diagnosed with stage IV cancer and needed a full liver transplant.

So how have your past three years been?

As you can imagine,

our last three years have been eventful.

However, they have given me some tough,

learned, lived experiences and lessons

about this ephemeral thing we call hope.

And apparently, there is a huge demand for hope right now.

In 2022,

we're all dealing with multiple crises.

A pandemic has killed 900,000 Americans,

there's a partial lockdown, there's disinformation,

there's income inequality,

the rise of white supremacy, people telling people like me,

“Go back to where you came from.”

We have to learn new Greek letters every few months,

and oh, yeah, there's climate change.

But other than that, things are pretty peachy.

And with all of that, you might be asking,

“Well, then, why should we be hopeful in such hopeless times, Wajahat?”

And that is a very valid question.

And it's a perfectly fair question.

But hope is what allowed me to believe that my daughter would somehow survive.

And she did.

And so if I may, allow me to share briefly

three pieces of advice or lessons

or things that we can do

that gave me hope in hopeless times

and that I hope can help you.

Number one.

Tie your camel first.

There's a great saying in Islam,

many Muslims know this,

that, have faith in God, but tie your camel first.

As a dad,

I felt utterly hopeless with Nusayba's cancer.

I'm the dad, I'm supposed to fix things.

But I couldn't fix cancer.

Cancer plays for all the marbles.

It's a relentless, brutal, remorseless killing machine.

It does not care about your vacation plans.

It does not care about your bucket list.

It does not care about your Netflix queue.

It comes for everything.

Then, coronavirus.

Awesome.

How do I defeat coronavirus?

A 41-year-old, middle-aged, slightly overweight male with flat foot.

It's easy to feel helpless,

out of control, adrift.

But at the end of the day,

try letting go of what you can't control

and just focus on what you can control.

The simple stuff.

Wear a mask.

Get vaccinated.

Take care of your daily chores.

Something that makes you feel that you have some control,

some agency in this world.

When it came to Nusayba,

that meant as a dad, just to be present, you know,

building her her Lego Friends set when she asked me to build it.

Watching "Frozen" 39 times,

then followed by "Zootopia" 46 times,

then followed by "Moana" 56 times.

Getting her the tasty frozen yogurt from the hospital vending machine

that she loved.

Do what you can the best you can.

Have hope, but tie your camel first.

And then be like Elsa from "Frozen"

and let the rest go.

Number two:

invest in joy.

Make the intention to actively invest in this thing called joy every day.

Almost like a workout.

You have to commit to it.

It has to be a discipline.

Build and flex that muscle.

The world does not need more masochists or martyrs.

It does not need more overworked, overstressed burnouts.

New rule for 2022.

You deserve to have moments of joy, even if they are fleeting,

every day that you are alive.

And you have to take those moments,

you have to grab them, you have to seize them.

I love food,

so I learned how to cook Pakistani food,

took my mom's recipes during lockdown.

My kids love Lego, so that means now I love Lego.

I love drinking chai.

I make a cup of chai every day, it makes me happy.

No matter how much stress or pain or misery I was going through,

I made sure to invest time every day,

to invest in things and people

and experiences that gave me joy.

And finally, number three.

I would recommend, humbly, invest in the narrative of hope

because the alternative is apathy and cynicism.

Investing in hope is painful.

It means opening yourself up to the possibility of pain,

betrayal and disappointment.

It's easier to court cynicism, right?

You expect nothing, so you lose nothing.

But it also means you have resigned yourself to the cheap seats.

You are a spectator who yells out "Boo,"

instead of being a participant in the ring where your nose could get bloody,

but at least you're pushing the ball forward.

It means choosing apathy and nihilism, which is comforting and easy,

but also lazy and destructive.

During Nusayba's cancer,

I used to sit up every night after my family went to sleep

and I stayed up till, like, three or four am, I couldn't sleep.

And instead I imagined,

like Doctor Strange in "Avengers: Endgame,"

with the time stone,

every possible scenario and outcome, just to prepare myself as a father.

I had to emotionally prepare for every outcome.

So I used to imagine Nusayba dying.

I imagined burying her with my own hands.

I imagined making the phone call to her grandparents,

explaining that she had died, listening to them cry.

I imagined living the rest of my life like a shell of a man,

but pretending to put a smile on my face

because I had a son to raise and now a daughter.

My wife, badass that she is,

was also pregnant during Nusayba's cancer.

I had to be prepared.

But I also chose to invest in a narrative in which Nusayba lived.

And I imagined seeing her alive

with a liver transplant, smiling,

regaining her hair, full of joy and life.

I preferred that story.

That's the story I invested in,

even as we were sitting on the edge of what seemed like a falling cliff,

I decided I would put out the lawn chair and at least enjoy the scenery.

Over 500 people, mostly strangers,

chose to sign up to be donors for Nusayba,

even people who told me they hated me for my politics.

They were moved by her story.

Sometimes some people can change.

Sometimes some people can choose to do and be good.

An anonymous donor, Shawn Zahir,

decided to give a piece of his liver to a girl he never met

just so she could live.

I'm not Pollyanna.

I'm not a foolish, wide-eyed, naive optimist.

I'm a pragmatist,

fully aware of the many challenges and horrors we are facing.

But through my own personal experience, if it is at all helpful,

I can assure you that walking through this forest of horrors,

going on this journey, wherever it may lead,

if you choose to invest in hope,

it at least makes the ride a bit sweeter and easier.

And as the wise ram tells Po in “Kung Fu Panda 2,”

"Your story may not have such a happy beginning,

but that does not make you who you are.

It is the rest of it,

who you choose to be."

Right now,

survival is victory in this story that we are living.

We are alive during a pandemic.

We are winning.

And just for that, we should be grateful.

And I hope the choices we make in these challenging times will,

Inshallah, God willing,

lead to a better story for all of us.

And I believe that begins with choosing to invest in hope

during hopeless times.

Whitney Pennigton Rogers: Thanks so much for that.

It was really wonderful to hear,

and I think we may even hear Nusayba in the background,

which is, I think, exciting.

WA: I'm sorry, that's her, it's virtual school,

I'm doing the best I can.

The wildlings are right there.

What's keeping us from the wildlings is a very thin wall, so let's pray.

WPR: I think we talked about this before we started,

that we're all at home right now.

That's the thing I think we all know.

So that's what it is.

I think before we dive into just talking more about what you've suggested

around growing hope,

I'd love to start by talking a little bit about your book

"Go Back to Where You Came From,"

because I think that it will provide a nice foundation

for, sort of, understanding your thinking around this

and sort of how you've come to really embrace this.

So I guess maybe you could start first by talking about the title of the book.

You know, it's part memoir, part historical analysis,

part how-to guide on being inclusive and creating a place of belonging.

How did you come up with the title?

Why did you choose this for the title of your book?

WA: So the title is “Go Back to Where You Came From:

And Other Helpful Recommendations on How to Become American.”

Very deliberate tongue in cheek, both ugly and funny, right?

Because I believe that's the lived experience of life.

But that's the lived experience of many Americans

who are still trying to love a country that doesn't love us back.

And so how do you respond to that pain?

And some people cry, as you can tell, I laugh.

And so this book is also an elegy

for the rest of us

who are still striving to be co-protagonists

of this American narrative.

And the book tries to expand and stretch this country

to accommodate all of us

to become the multiracial democracy it has to become.

Or else I believe it'll all fail.

And it's done with a lot of humor and hope,

and throughout the journey, you read the book,

you know, I talk about Nusayba's cancer,

but there's lots of interesting things that happen to me.

WPR: To put it mildly.

WA: Yeah, my life is like a telenovela,

like a Mexican soap opera for better and for worse.

And so I hope that when you get to the end part,

where I talk about "invest in hope, but tie your camel first,"

the hope that I give the audience for the future,

I don't want it to make it a hallmarky,

fake, saccharine, Hollywood ending.

I want you to really, like, I want it to be earned.

And you know, the way to earn it is to confront the horrors,

confront the challenges, name it, own it.

Talk about the pain, wear the mileage and the scars.

But despite all of that, you still persist, right?

And because I agree, I mean,

what I said in the speech, the five-minute talk that I just gave you,

I believe in it.

I've been on all the sides in moments of deep despair.

I've been there, of darkness of pain,

and I realize if you tap out, it's over.

If you tap out, it's done.

And what I've seen,

and we'll probably talk about it because you read the book,

in those moments in my life where you feel like it's over, it's done,

I'm at the edge of the cliff and I'm about to fall,

there's been a plot twist.

Like, the the page turns,

and with it comes, like, a better story.

And so in the book I mention there was a time

where I was completely broke, homeless,

my parents were in jail, I was taking care of my grandparents.

And I’m like, there’s no way, I couldn’t even imagine my future.

I couldn't imagine living to the age of 40.

I thought I would be dead by 35.

I’m being honest with anyone who’s listening.

My timeline, you know, I imagine a lot, like I said, like Doctor Strange,

it ended at 35, I just couldn't imagine it.

And I just knew that I would die.

It’d be over, and I almost did die.

But here I am, sitting in my home,

married to a woman who's way better than me,

I married way up.

Like, hotter than me, smarter than me,

like, it’s ridiculous, not even cool.

And then I got three kids and then Nusayba, who was supposed to die,

that’s what they told me, she wouldn’t make it.

They said every complication against this girl is happening,

you could just hear her chirping right now,

I'm sure you guys can hear her chirping, that's Nusayba.

So you never know, you never know.

WPR: We have a question that came in from Darcy,

where Darcy asked, "The idea of investing in hope is a great one.

But how can we make it tangible?

You mentioned visualization or avoiding complaining,

but how else can we actually bring this to life?"

WA: It's a very good question,

and that's where I say, tie your camel first.

You have to exhaust yourself of every possibility within your control.

You know, and after that, you have to let go.

I'll give you an example, I mention it in the book.

There was a moment, my parents were in jail.

I'm 21 years old, I have to leave school.

I'm taking care of my grandparents,

my grandmothers, who used to live with me.

I'm an only child.

I have to care of the family business,

I have to pay the lawyer.

It's post-9/11, my community turns vicious and cruel.

Bad news travels fast, ladies and gentlemen,

bad news travels fast.

I'm surgical with my budget.

I have an Excel sheet.

I've got to pay all the bills.

According to my Excel sheet,

after I withdrew the 20 dollars from Wells Fargo

on the corner of Warm Springs and Mission,

I was supposed to have 71 dollars left.

I go to the ATM of Wells Fargo.

I take out the 20 bucks, I get the receipt.

I look at the bottom, instead of 71 dollars,

it was 00.03.

I had 20 dollars, 00.03,

I had to pay the bills, pay the lawyer,

take care of my family.

And I swear to you, at that time ...

I mean, honestly, I said: “I have done everything in my power.

I am exhausted.

What can I do with three cents?”

I didn't even get angry, I didn't get upset.

I remember this vividly, it was a beautiful Bay Area day,

anyone who lives there knows, 4pm, little bit of a windy breeze.

The sun was still there, it was just idyllic.

And I remember I started laughing, look at the receipt,

and a couple of people behind me

were trying to figure out what’s wrong with this guy.

Because I didn’t know what to do, I just chuckled, I had three cents left.

So this is what I did.

I took the 20 dollars, went across the street and decided to splurge.

I went to Subway

and had a Subway supersized meal,

foot-long tuna sandwich with all the workings and avocado.

And then I decided to have two chocolate chip cookies.

Then I went next door and had -- what is a Venti?

What's the largest one at Starbucks?

WPR: I think Venti, I don't drink coffee.

WA: Venti caramel frappe with extra caramel drizzle, right?

And I had now 20 dollars became 10 dollars.

I went home, and I told my grandmother,

I said, "I've done everything I possibly could.

There's nothing else I can do.

We have 10 bucks left, I'm sorry."

I had some Dal Chawal that night watched a Netflix movie.

And I remember, I said this in the book, I let go.

There's nothing else I could do.

I completely let go.

I said, Allah, whatever happens, Inshallah, I leave it up to you.

I've done everything within my powers,

like, everything I could possibly think of, I've done.

This is it, like, you want to save me, save me,

you don't want to save me, whatever, I enjoyed my Subway meal.

And I remember, this is really interesting,

I had the best night's sleep that night that I have ever had in my life.

I remember that sleep to this day.

I have prayed for that sleep.

I felt like I was a baby in my mother's womb.

I tried to wonder why.

It's because I knew that I did everything within my powers,

I exhausted myself, and I let it go.

And then what happened,

somehow, I got a loan and 2,500 bucks came.

And the story continued.

And so when you're saying about doing something tangible,

it's not just me saying that like,

you have to have some feeling of control and autonomy

in what is a world where you feel adrift

and the ground is shifting beneath your feet.

Those small chores that you take for granted,

they'll give you order, some discipline.

I’m making that chai. I’m painting this.

I’m feeding my children. I took out the trash.

I did some work today.

I can control this. I did this with my hands.

I'm still alive, right?

And then you plot and you do the best you can,

and then you let go.

And I think those daily chores, that daily routine, that you establish

gives you a sense of rhythm,

at the very least, says,

"The world can take everything, but it won't take this.

It won't take my delicious cup of chai that I made with my own hands.

It won't take this little plant I plotted outside.

It won't take my love for my kids.

It won't take that from me.

Not today, death, not today."

So I hope for whoever asked that question, I hope that was hopeful.

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