But for the grace of God

I have always been an adventurous person. As a little girl, the second of four daughters, I was the tomboy of the family. The one who spent her afternoons scrambling up trees and playing cricket with the neighborhood lads in Lahore. After marriage and motherhood, my thirst for adventure did not abate. I accompanied my children on every rollercoaster, went on long hikes and dived into lakes in the beautiful mountains of northern Pakistan.

I’ve also always been a spiritual person, and particular about my daily prayer and basic religious obligations. But above and beyond the outward practice, I have always felt the Hand of Allah supporting me, guiding my decisions, and seeing me through the ups and downs of my life.

In June 2014, I was put to the test. A test of physical and mental strength, pitted against the awesome forces of Nature.

I plunged deep into the icy water. Sharp rocks jutted into my sides

I arrived in Madrid in early June to visit my elder daughter, who lives there with her husband. The both of them, an adventurous pair themselves, had signed up for a three-day whitewater rafting and canoeing trip in the Spanish Pyrenees, organized by a Madrid-based group. Knowing my penchant for such activities - and whitewater rafting had been on my bucket list for some years, along with scuba diving - they managed to book me a spot on the trip.

So, on Thursday morning, the 19th of June, we set off from Madrid, a group of twelve in three cars. It took us about seven hours, with lunch and fuel stops in between, to reach Torla, a small mountain village in the foothills of the Pyrenees, just ten km from the French border.

The resort where we stayed the night was called “Refugio de Bujaruelo”, a scattering of charming wooden lodges nestled between fragrant fir trees and craggy hills. It reminded me of the huts we used to stay at during our summer escapes to the Kaghan Valley.

The next day was the big rafting day. I woke up feeling excited, but also a bit nervous. I was in decent shape, thanks to my regular yoga practice, but I was also the oldest person in the group.

After breakfast we headed out from Torla to the offices of Kayak Campo, the adventure tours company that was managing our trip. There, we were fitted with wetsuits, life jackets and helmets, and divided into two teams. The Spaniards in our group went over to the local Spanish guide, while the rest - a Russian, a Bulgarian, a Canadian and us, three Pakistanis - were assigned to the “English-speaking” guide.  This “English-speaking” guide was a strapping six-foot six-inch Czech youth who could barely string together a sentence in English. While the Spanish guide rattled on nonstop to his team, giving detailed instructions and answering all their questions, our giant guide was as silent as a mouse. The only three instructions he managed to impart to us were:

“When I say forward, row forward. When I say backward, row backward. And if you fall, float on your back.”

We had no idea exactly how to row or what rowing forward or backward even meant. Most of us had never rafted before. We did not know whether to alter the strength of our strokes depending on the water or how to stabilise ourselves in the raft during rough patches. Worst of all, we were not told what to do in an emergency, such as if the boat capsized or someone fell out, except that one line: “Float on your back”.

But we didn’t think of any of this at the time. We believed we were in safe hands - these were professionals, after all, who did this sort of thing for a living. And it was such a beautiful day! The skies were clear, the sun was out, the air crisp and the river sparkling. We splashed about in the cold water before boarding the big yellow rafts, six people to each raft plus the guide at the helm. And so began a five-hour adventure on the river that was to leave me stunned and transformed, in a way I could never have imagined.

The first hour was exhilarating. The river was wide and fairly gentle, and we were able to navigate without much exertion.  It was a busy day - we could see other rafts in front of us and behind us. The bouncing waves sprayed us with water, and we squealed with delight. We were after all five women on one raft!

Suddenly, the river began to get narrower. The craggy slopes started to close in, and large rocks and boulders appeared in the way, like menacing obstacles. As the descent began, the current moved faster and our raft with it, seemingly of its own will. The rapids flowed and churned all around.

Our raft was quickly spiraling out of control. The noise from the water grew so loud that we could hardly make out the guide’s shouted commands. His eyes betrayed panic. Before we had time to react to this unexpected change and figure out what to do, we saw a sight that filled us with absolute terror. The raft right ahead of us, manned by only four people, was stuck in an angry, frothing whirlpool, half-submerged in the raging water.

And we were headed straight for it.

“P...a...d...d...l...e...H – A – R – D!!!!!” The guide bellowed at the top of his lungs. But it was too late. Nothing could avert what was going to happen. We were all screaming, aware of our utter helplessness in the face of that terrifying force. The raft lurched four feet up into the air at the whirlpool and came crashing down on the other raft, throwing all seven of us - as well as the four people below - into the snarling river.

I plunged deep into the icy water. Sharp rocks jutted into my sides. As I floundered to the surface, I considered my options. I could try swimming sideways, against the current, towards the muddy bank. But that required Herculean strength. It was impossible for me to do that.

Then I remembered the one instruction that had stuck in my head: “If you fall, float on your back”. I managed to throw my head back, and, hoisted by the life jacket, started floating down the river at breakneck speed. My body was spinning uncontrollably in the eddying current. Just before turning a bend, I got a glimpse of the disaster zone: people’s heads bobbing, oars scattered everywhere, two huge rafts capsized – and my daughter’s horror-struck face at the edge of the river, entangled in the long roots of the trees that grew on the bank. “Ammi-i-i-i-i-i!!!!” she cried, as she saw me go.

The powerful river had caught me. I was its first victim, and it thrashed me around like a rag doll. The water knew no mercy. The rocks knew no mercy. Nature, it seemed, knew no mercy.

Even though I was afloat, I couldn’t breathe. I was gasping for air, but there was only water, one wave after another, pounding over me, choking me.

So this is what it feels like to drown, I thought. Death has brought me here to die, far away from home, in the deep, distant waters of the Pyrenees... So be it. I was ready to go. I was just thankful to God that my daughter was alive and safe. I reassured myself that everybody else, including my son-in-law, must be safe as well.

At some point thinking these thoughts, I passed out.

When I came to, I found myself propped up behind a large boulder. The rapids continued to rage downstream on both sides, but that little pocket of water at the back of the boulder was miraculously calm. How I had reached that quiet space, I do not know.

But I knew it was a short respite. I could be displaced from my small vacuum at any moment - I needed to find something to hold onto.

I groped behind me on the surface of the rock, hoping to grab at a weed, a crevice, anything. There was nothing. The rock was like a sheet of glass, smoothened by centuries of erosion.

The only thing I could do, then, was stay as still as possible, and wait for help. One false move could send me hurling back into the current, to be pummeled once again by the unrelenting river. I knew I couldn’t take much more of that.

I waited and waited, holding my breath. But no help came - not a raft nor a rescue boat, nor did I see anybody else wash away in that direction. How far downstream had I floated? A kilometer? Maybe more? I wasn’t sure. My arms felt heavy as lead. My neck was so stiff I could hardly turn it.

As the realisation that no help was coming fully struck me, and that it was only a matter of time before the moment of Truth would be upon me, when I would be face to face with my Creator, I began to think: What would be my fate in the Hereafter-that-never-ends? Would it be the Garden of Eden or would it be Doom? That is what shook me with terror.

Shivering to my bones, I was now crying to Him for forgiveness, for help, repeating the incantation “There is no god but God” at the top of my hoarse voice. “Forgive me, Lord of the Heavens, You are All-Merciful!” I sobbed.

All at once, I heard a voice inside me, telling me - no, ordering me - to think of a way to save myself. Think! It said. Think! Think of all those men and women you have read about, stranded in deserts, dangling from cliffs, trapped in canyons, saved by the sheer strength of their wills. If they can do it, so can you.

As my mind awakened to this possibility, the only safe place appeared to be the top of the boulder behind me. How could I climb up backwards to the top, which was at least three feet above my head, with nothing to hold on to? Nevertheless, I had to try.

Encouraged by the inner voice, I gingerly dug my right heel into the rock. It slipped. I tried again. It slipped again. I almost got dislodged from my secure little basin just by that movement.

Then, as a last chance, the Now or Never, I mustered up all the strength I had, lifted my left leg and thrust the heel into the rock. As I did so, my whole body started rising.

To my utter amazement, I realised I had become weightless. I was floating up the smooth wet rock with not an ounce of weight on me! I reached the top and planted myself securely in a saddle-shaped depression, whereupon I regained my weight. The waves continued to crash and pound below, but I was safe.

Allah had heard me. He had pushed me to make the first move then saved me! Gratitude overwhelmed me like the incessant waves of the river. I was in a state of stupor, humbled by the thought of divine intervention. I don’t know how long I sat there on that rock, lost in reverie, but eventually another Kayak Campo raft came along. They helped me down and I stayed with them on the bank of the river until members of my own group turned up. The collision in the whirlpool had knocked eleven people overboard. With the oars also lost and no rescue boats at hand, it had taken a good hour or more for the guides to regroup. Most of us were rescued by other rafting groups, which had started on the river after us.

When I was finally reunited with my daughter and son-in-law, we were so relieved and so shaken that we could hardly speak. We only held each other, and cried. It was too painful to talk, to think of what could have happened. We were bruised, battered and blue, but we were alive.

Some weeks later, I was informed that our guide, the giant Czech, had been dismissed from the Kayak Campo company.

I will never look at water, or any force of Nature, in the same way again. Now I look at it with awe, with profound respect, and with fear.

And if I ever in the past despaired or doubted Allah’s immense Power, or His immense Love, I will never despair again. No matter how terrible the situation, I know He is in my heart, and that He will carry me through waters rougher than those I encountered that fateful June day in the Spanish Pyrenees.

That is the most empowering feeling of all.