Ghada Karmi's book: In Search of Fatima

...is one of the most straight-forward, unselfconscious and unaffected piece of writing I've ever read. These are the highest compliments I can think of for someone of her intellectual stature and experience. It is so easy for academics to fall into the trap of intellectualising everything, it's a major miracle how someone with her background avoided that and came up with such a beautiful book.
She struck a chord with me for several other reasons...a semi-lonely childhood, a house frequented by her father's famous intellectual friends, a convent-school education, studying medicine instead of the arts even though she loved reading and writing to fulfill her parent's wishes...her (self-admitted) anglophilia, her friend's opinion (and her own) of her as "a dark-skinned English girl" and subsequent devotion to the Palestinian cause.
It reminded me in parts of Edward Said's memoir 'Out of Place', but 'In Search of Fatima' is special because it's written from a Muslim perspective, albeit by a person who describes herself as non-practising.
I bought the book at duty-free and could not put it down until I'd finished all 450 pages.
Good stuff.

dead and gone: the man who made childhood fun

very very sweet article on the man who invented the Hula Hoop and the Frisbee (among other fun toys)...as much an obituary of childhood as it was in the pre-pokemon cards and playstation era really as of the man himself.

BY MITCH ALBOM
Last week, at age 82, Richard Knerr died. You probably don’t recognize his name. You probably can’t pronounce it. He wasn’t an actor or a war hero. He cured no diseases. Made no scientific breakthroughs.
In fact, you could say Richard Knerr was about one thing and one thing only: fun. But if you measure a man by what the world would be like without him, here a few things that, minus Knerr, you would never know:
The Hula Hoop.
The Frisbee.
The SuperBall.
Those alone took up a third of my childhood.
Knerr was the co-founder of Wham-O, the company that made those items and more, including the Water Wiggly, the Slip ‘N Slide and Silly String. If there was a philosophy to Wham-O’s products, it was this: Keep it simple, keep it cheap, keep it something kids like to do, over and over.
You’ll notice what is left out.
Violence. Noise. Weapons. Video.

Just for the fun of it
Believe it or not, there was a time when “free time” in America meant doing things like trying to shake a Hula Hoop without it falling down your legs. Or lining up a perfectly flat Frisbee throw, so that it glided on air like a flying saucer.
I know, I know. Anyone under 30 is groaning just reading this. But we make no apologies. This was what we did for fun. We threw Frisbees back and forth. We shook Hula-Hoops around our waists. We flicked a SuperBall against the pavement so hard it would bounce onto someone’s roof.
And then Mom called us for dinner.

[...]

I didn’t know Richard Knerr. But I recently saw an old photo of him in a shirt and tie, goofing it up, Hula Hoops swinging from his shoulders. And I was saddened by his death, because it reminded me of how a certain philosophy has died with him.
Today, kids’ fun has to be at someone’s expense. Blowing up your opponent is fun. Clobbering your friend in Madden football is fun. Insulting people on MySpace or laughing at a geek on YouTube is fun. You don’t see kid “crazes” anymore — the way SuperBalls or yo-yos were crazes. Today a kid craze is cell phones or PlayStations. Today the idea of bouncing a ball as high as you can seems so incredibly lame, you’d wonder if the kid doing it had problems.
But that’s the thing. We didn’t have problems. Not like they have today.
We bounced our balls, threw our Frisbees, shook that silly plastic ring until our hips hurt. And it was fun. It was fun because we weren’t proving ourselves. Our toys didn’t define us, rank us or socialize us. They were meant to be played with. What else could a product from a company named Wham-O be?
By the way, it doesn’t surprise me that Wham-O was sold to a conglomerate in 1982, then later sold to Mattel, then later to a bunch of investors. Guys like Knerr and Melin, who started in their parents’ garages, are often bought out, left with memories, photos and a big check.
Just the same, I was sad to see Knerr’s obituary, because it reminded me of so many youthful things that have waved good-bye. I know when something drops out of style, they say “it went the way of the Hula Hoop,” but they shouldn’t mean childhood.

The Famous Five's Kids!

"Enid Blyton's Famous Five are being given a 21st-century makeover for a new TV cartoon series. Gone are Julian, Anne, Dick, George and Timmy the dog and in their place come the next generation - Jo, Max, Dylan and Allie - descendants of the original characters, and a new dog called Timmy II.

The original stories began in 1942 with Five On A Treasure Island and the youngsters had no more gadgetry than a penknife or two. But the 2007 Five have laptops and mobile phones.
There is a half-Indian character, Jo, the daughter of the original tomboy Georgina, who replaces Aunt Fanny as the host for the children's school-holiday adventures."

***

Even though the authors say they're taking great pains to ensure that the "essence" of the old books is retained, I for one, don't believe in successful on-screen re-births.

Instead of 'creating hype and curiosity for old Famous-Five fans', this particular bit of news has only left me feeling dated.

stories that linger a lifetime

The Times has been asking several 'well-known names' to recall the books that they enjoyed the most when they were young... to kick off a charitable programme called 'BookStart' that involves donating 3 packs of free books to every child under 3 in the Uk.

It makes me wish there was something like this in Muslim countries (God knows they have the resources to do this). Besides weaning children off tv, computer and gaming screens, a programme like this would develop their minds, language skills, world awareness and emotional intelligence...and most importantly give everyone something more substantial and interesting to talk about than sales!

Personally, I find reminiscing about books a great ice-breaker and in a funny way, one feels a strange sort of bonding with people who enjoy/have enjoyed the same books. I think I've bought nearly all the books I've enjoyed as a child for my own children, subconsciously recreating my own old library, and it still feels wonderful to be surrounded by all those stories and sharing them with all the Rs.

Like me, they enjoy stories from the seerah, all the Enid Blyton school series, Famous Five and Secret Seven, The Magic Faraway Tree and the Adventures of the Wishing Chair.I was a trifle surprised though when they weren't as enamoured by Nancy Drew as I used to be, perhaps because the newer books are quite insipid and not as enagaging/informative as the old ones.

Like me, they liked Oliver Twist, Charlie and the Chocolate factory, Jane Eyre, My family and other animals and (surprisingly) Pride & Prejudice, which was a book that always exasperated me.

However, they haven't yet laid their hands on the one book that defined growing up for me, and which I loved beyond anything else: Catcher in the Rye.

sepia-tinted Ramadhaan posts

Lots of people (now grown up) share childhood memories of Ramadhaan in Jordan, Palestine, Lebanon...reading through these posts brings up tons of memories. Good stuff.

A sample:

Ramadan Memories...
By Mike Odetalla

pic and narrative courtesy: www.hanini.org

The holy month of Ramadan is once again upon us, and its fasting. Muslims will fast from sun-up till sun down, abstaining from food, water, and intimate relationships.

Each year around this time, my memories of Ramadan in our small village of Beit Hanina, a suburb of Jerusalem which was still without electricity, whereby people carried lanterns to light their way in the darkness as they went first to the mosque and from there to visit friends and family: a special part of Ramadan, are once again rekindled.
Beit Hanina had a drummer, charged with the pre-dawn task of awakening the village to sahoor, the light meal whose end marked the beginning of each day's fast. Closing my eyes and thinking real hard, still brings back the sound of Beit Hanina's drummer banging away, and the delightful memories of joining the other children, carrying our decorated fanoosia lanterns with candles burning brightly inside them, as we ran along behind the drummer, singing, laughing and shouting to help awaken the sleeping adults and start them on sahoor and their new day. How I admired the drummer; how I wanted his job and to share his fun.

In Ramadan 1979, my first visit back to Palestine since the '67 expulsion, my cousin and I, both 18 and living in the US, finally became the Ramadan drummers of Beit Hanina. The Israeli invasion of 1967 and the subsequent occupation made the drummers' job very high risk and today they are scarce: Ramadan drummers were often stopped, even beaten, and some have been killed by the Israeli occupying army.

By 1979, the village had not enjoyed a drummer in 5 years, so my cousin and I delighted in our job of walking through the village each morning banging away on large tin cans. It must have been a very humorous sight: the elderly were happy to hear us; the younger people thought we were a great joke and made fun of the 'bored Americans'. But everyone agreed that we had renewed some "life" that had been lost as we broke through the dark still nights of Ramadan.

For me, however briefly, I was transported back to a happy childhood whose memories had never left me for a moment.I still remember sitting by the family's transistor radio with my siblings listening to the special programs as we awaited the "cannon" to go off, signaling that it was time to break our fast. The "cannon" was a World War I era English relic and merely made a loud bang, which was all that it, was good for.
Ever since my children were very small, I had regaled them with the many stories of my childhood in Palestine, enjoying the look of fascination on their faces as they implored me to tell them yet "another story of when you were young in Palestine"…

During Ramadan, my mother would always invite friends and relatives to our home to break the fast with us. As Muslims, we are obligated to share breaking our fast with others, especially those less fortunate than us. It is considered a blessing to do so. It is something that we continue to do here in America as we invite friends and loved ones to share in our blessing on this Holy Month, the essence of which are a time of prayer, fasting, and charity.
Some of the best memories that I carry with me are connected to the month of Ramadan in Palestine when I was a child. The closeness and feeling of "community" that I felt during those times is something that is almost beyond description. The sound of the drummer, the Muezzin call to prayer, the static emanating from the transistor radio, the "boom" of the cannon, the enticing aroma of the special foods that we only ate during Ramadan, the sight of families huddled together on a mat covered floor around the evening meals, illuminated by the flickering light of a kerosene lantern, enjoying their meals, as humble as it may have been, in the company of family and loved ones…

These are my memories of Ramadan before the Israeli invasion and subsequent brutal and inhumane occupation which has destroyed many families and communities and is now in the process of causing further havoc as Israel continues to erect its Apartheid Walls, checkpoints, and roadblocks which have reduced many Palestinian villages and cities to nothing more than walled off ghettos and open air prisons.

Unfortunately, these will constitute the next generation of Palestinian children's memories and experiences…

*The* most chilled out Ramadhaan or (alhamdulillaah x infinity)

For all practical purposes, this Ramadhaan I should have been stressed out to the max.

I have a demanding, physically and mentally draining job, a new baby (alhamdulillaah) who demands nutrition and attention 24/7, besides the same-old, same-old routine of growing up the bunch of Rs Allaah has sent our way.

The writing on the wall says I should be tearing out my hair or staring dully into space at this point, halfway through Ramadhaan. But I'm not.

What gives?

I wish I could say for sure.

Perhaps it's something as simple as an answered prayer.

Last Ramadhaan, (which was incidentally one of the most stress and angst-filled times of my life) I prayed and prayed and prayed and prayed to Allaah 'azz wa jall, that if I lived to see another Ramadhaan, please let it be different from the spate of Ramadhaans I've virtually sleepwalked through like a spiritual zombie or an automaton.

alhamdulillaah, Allaah has heard.

This time, from the very beginning, I felt a deep tranquility descending on my heart, alhamdulillaah.

This Ramadhaan, Allaah created a cosy little space in my heart, a warm, sacred space where the soul can disappear even if I'm in the middle of customary bedlam and immersed in the mindboggling mundanity of mummyhood.

This Ramadhaan, I learnt to let go. Of expectations -- others' and my own -- and stopped trying to live out the semi-mythical idea of a perfect Ramadhaan.

This Ramadhaan, I made my own.

No store-bought, commercialised, idealised utopia for me. I am doing what I can, happily, joyously to the best of my ability; not racing on an invisible treadmill or glancing over my shoulder uneasily to see if others have caught up in the race to be super-mum, super-wife and super-muslimah.

This Ramadhaan, I rest easy in the knowledge that Allaah, Al-Lateef, Al-Khabeer knows the deepest secrets of our hearts and souls.

He knows I would much rather be doing some things, when I'm doing other things and may He accept the sincerity of our intentions inspite of the imperfection of our 'ibaadah.

May Allaah allow this Sakeenah to last long after Ramadhaan, in this world and beyond. Aameen.

Hope everyone's having an equally cool Ramadhaan, in shaa Allaah. Keep us in your prayers!

no more baba and baby-log

R-R are discussing something very interesting on 'Sisters in Faith': their most and least favourite domestic duties (I don't want to call it chore b/z it rhymes with the word 'bore').

They were asking me what were my favourite jobs around the house when I was their age, which led to some cringe-inducing confessions...[/censored]

There was a portion of the article that I posted below that really struck me:
''Raising women's self-esteem, as a first step to liberating them from the confines of the home, was one of feminism's earliest and most vital tasks.''

My experience is just the opposite: I've found that one's self-esteem is inextricably linked to how in-control/on top of things one feels around the house... housework constitutes valuable life-skills, it's not just time-wasting techniques ....and I have the research to prove it:

Involving children in household tasks: Is it worth the effort?

Parents of the world, take note: You can make a big difference in your children's future by asking them to take out the trash. And do the laundry, wash the dishes, make the beds, put away the toys
Research by Marty Rossmann, emeritus associate professor of family education, shows that involving children in household tasks at an early age can have a positive impact later in life. By involving children in tasks, parents teach their children a sense of responsibility, competence, self-reliance, and self-worth that stays with them throughout their lives.

What the research shows: Using measures of individual's success such as completion of education, getting started on a career path, IQ, relationships with family and friends, and not using drugs, and examining a child's involvement in household tasks at all three earlier time, Rossmann determined that the best predictor of young adults' success in their mid-20s was that they participated in household tasks when they were three or four. However, if they did not begin participating until they were 15 or 16, the participation backfired and those subjects were less "successful." The assumption is that responsibility learned via household tasks is best when learned young.

How the tasks are presented also influences children's abilities to become well-adjusted adults. The tasks should not be too overwhelming, parents should present the tasks in a way that fits the child's preferred learning style, and children should be involved in determining the tasks they will complete, through family meeting and methods such a weekly chore chart. They should not be made to do the tasks for an allowance. The earlier parents begin getting children to take an active role in the household, the easier it will be to get them involved as teens...

To get back to the topic...my favourite domestic duty is:

because it has a beginning and an end, and at the end one can actually see results.

My least favourite duty is:

because it's never ending...which is why I try and recruit R-R to do it for me!

remembering Rasoolullaahصلىالله عليه وسلم

Around this time last year, in the aftermath of the Danish 'cartoon controversy', I was involved in a project on the life of the Prophet صلىالله عليه وسلم.

Once, while looking over my shoulder as I edited an article, Abu RR remarked that if I got nothing by way of remuneration for the project, it would have been enough recompense to be simply given the opportunity of sending salaat and salaam upon him, صلىالله عليه وسلم , so many times during a day.

Alhamdulillaah, there were many things I learnt during the course of that project, but what really struck and stayed with me was the importance of establishing a system of ittiba'a (emulating/following) of his blessed example, if we truly believe in the Qur'aan when it says that he, صلىالله عليه وسلم , was the best example for mankind.

It isn't enough to theoretically know what did the Prophet صلىالله عليه وسلم do in his lifetime, or rhetorically ask would he صلىالله عليه وسلم do in a particular situation.

We must ask of ourselves: what am *I* doing that he, صلىالله عليه وسلم, did/encouraged/stood for? How is *my* life a reflection of his?

The recurrent motif of his life was overwhelming kindness, generosity of spirit and justice:

he gave freely and never demanded (even if it was within his rights to do so);

he overlooked and never nitpicked;

he gently guided and never harshly remonstrated...

...and yet here we are, the generation that claims to have finally *got* the Deen, and there is not much of the Sunnah, of the aadaab and sulook of Allaah's Messenger, صلىالله عليه وسلم apparent in us -- except perhaps in our dress, rituals and manner of prayer.

Where's the Sunnah of mutual compassion, empathy and mercy? The joining of hearts? The fair dealing? The abstinence from injuring each others' feelings? Modesty in appearance and behaviour? The thinking twice before uttering/writing a poisonous or injurious word? The rigorous self-searching? Where's the trustworthiness, the grace, the humility?

We're so often busy looking for/commenting on the real or imagined lapses of others, we have no time to notice the barrenness in our own souls...we're so busy patting ourselves on the back for doing x, y, z "good deed of the day", that in our smugness, we forget the Sunnah was not about complacence, it was about continuous striving.

I often think about the hadeeth of meeting the Prophet صلىالله عليه وسلم at Al-Kawthar:

Narrated Sahl bin Sa'd:
"I heard the Prophet صلىالله عليه وسلم saying: "I am your predecessor at the Lake-Fount (Al-Kawthar), and whoever will come to it, will drink from it, and whoever will drink from it, will never become thirsty after that. There will come to me some people whom I know and they know me, and then a barrier will be set up between me and them."

Abu Sa'eed Al-Khudri added that the Prophet صلىالله عليه وسلم further said: "I will say those people are from me. It will be said: 'You do not know what changes and new things they did after you.' Then I will say: 'Far removed (from mercy), far removed (from mercy), those who changed after me! "

[Saheeh Al-Bukhaari, Volume 9, Book 88, #174]

We seek refuge in Allaah's Mercy from His Anger; and in His Good Pleasure from his Chastisement; and we ask for His protection always.

May Allaah protect us from changing the Sunnah and from neglecting to revive it in our lives and the lives of those around us -- not just in its outward aspect, but within the secret depths of our own souls.

Aameen.

the newest R in our life

...is called Rohu :)

I've resisted fish (cooking/eating) from the time I was a growing child in a place where Koli fisherfolk gathered the sea's riches and emptied them at local markets twice a day... to the place where fishermen rowed dingy, wooden boats to the centre of a lake amidst green water-chestnut wreaths, to catch silver-grey dinners from the blue green water.

When we moved to a place by the sea, friendly patients would give Abu-RR a bag full of the day's freshest catch, which he brought home to a wife who wouldn't know what to do with it.

Another move brought us close to a Giant Store, which obligingly conjured fresh fish fingers with chips or baked fish in huge infrared ovens or fried hamour filets from fish one could choose fresh off the counter, while one shopped for groceries.

However, the move that really brought us out of our fish-less state was when one of Abu-RR's colleagues moved closer to our place, and his wife served us a variety of delectable fried fish one day. It looked like fish and tasted like fish -- but it didn't smell like fish. Turns out it's a variety of fresh water fish so exotic and well loved that it qualifies as a *gift item* in some parts of the world.

For now, I have a stash of fish in my 'fridge; my family (except for Rasha who's a pucca vegetarian) has their supply of omega-3 fatty acids, high protein and minerals that promises brighter eyes and hair, stronger bones and better brains, and protection from everything from asthma to cancer.

PS: I found this delicious site while looking online for fried fish recipes -- complete with amazing pictures, authentic recipes and a really original name...look it up!

The purpose of language: a lesson in humility

My son and I sit across a table.
His Grade 2 Arabic Qira'ah wal Kitaabah (Reading and Writing) book is open in front of me as I dictate sentences from a lesson that he will be tested on tomorrow.
He writes swiftly, with dark sinuous strokes of his pencil upon the fresh sheet, unhesitating.
The lesson (comprising about 3 printed pages) is finished in around 15 minutes.
I pick up the sheet and read through it, trying to spot mistakes that could cost him precious darajaat (grades) tomorrow.
Nothing. maa shaa Allaah...laa quwwata illaa billaah.
He has it all down perfect, down to the sukoon over the silent alphabets.

It's my turn next.
I hand him the book and he dictates.
Slowly.
Waiting for me to catch up with the text.
The alphabets look clumsy to me, at one point I ask him to show me how to make a better looking ط, ,ى, and ه. I join and re-join the joining letters to make my handwriting look more-grown up and not the childish scrawl it really is. I ponder over which alphabets need sukoon. It takes considerably longer, and while there are no real mistakes, he mercilessly runs the red pencil over some of the alphabets to give them a better shape.

I am humbled, alhamdulillaah.

When I was growing up, I was considered something of a prodigy at home and school because of my language skills. I consistently got top marks in English all through my school years, won a number of handwriting and creative writing competitions, spelling bee trophies, was called on to draft everything from dear-john letters to acceptance speeches by friends and teachers.

I had a newspaper column in one of the mostly widely distributed regional 'papers when I was a teenager; I wrote and worked for some of the biggest national newspapers and magazines. I could make out the Latin origins and meanings of most muscle groups and other arcana that one is force-fed in medical school. I teach others language skills.

Yet, here I am struggling with a Grade 2 Arabic book.

It makes me think of the purpose of language: instilling humility.

The Qur'aan was revealed during a period when the Arabic language was at its pinnacle of development. Poets vied with one other in producing the most grammatically correct and intellectually intricate prose. Yet, nobody could measure up to the simplicity and majesty of the words recited by the unlettered Prophet صلىالله عليه وسلم ; inspite of the challenge:

وَإِن كُنتُمْ فِي رَيْبٍ مِّمَّا نَزَّلْنَا عَلَى عَبْدِنَا فَأْتُواْ بِسُورَةٍ مِّن مِّثْلِهِ وَادْعُواْ شُهَدَاءكُم مِّن دُونِ اللّهِ إِنْ كُنْتُمْ صَادِقِينَ
فَإِن لَّمْ تَفْعَلُواْ وَلَن تَفْعَلُواْ فَاتَّقُواْ النَّارَ الَّتِي وَقُودُهَا النَّاسُ وَالْحِجَارَةُ أُعِدَّتْ لِلْكَافِرِينَ

“And if you are in doubt about what We have revealed to our slave, then bring one chapter like it and call upon all your witnesses/helpers, besides Allaah, if you are truthful. And if you cannot; and indeed you can not, then fear the Fire, the fuel of which is men and stones, prepared for the deniers (of the Truth).” [Soorah Al-Baqarah, 2 : 23]

The language of the Qur'aan was meant to humble people who considered themselves linguistically and intellectually 'accomplished'; who scoffed at the idea of an unlettered man producing sublime verses that rendered them speechless with awe.

Learning Arabic has been an incredibly humbling experience for me.

There are intricacies of grammar and speech which seem like unexplained mysteries to the uninitiated. There is the i'jaaz (inimitable nature) of the Qur'aan, that has been incorrectly understood to be grammatical errors in the Qur'aan; when it is really the transcendence of Divine language above human limitations and man-made rules -- including grammar.

I often wonder, if the purpose of language is really instilling humility, what explains the latent pride on acquiring/knowing a language in all its sacred and mundane intricacy?

Is it not an act of denial of having one's heart and mind opened?

Is it not a negation of: laa hawla wa laa quwwah; illaa billaah (there is no power and strength, except from Allaah)?

Sometimes, I'm glad Arabic is not my first language. It forces me to learn everything afresh; by driving home my enormous ignorance, it frees me from the unsightly burden of pride. alhamdulillaah.

The coolest girl in school

The coolest girl in my school was
the girl who trained a squad of knock kneed girls to march in perfect time around the huge school quad;
or the one who won the National Talent Scholarship;
or the one who won the inter-school spelling bee (*ahem*);
or the one who beat a bunch of other fast talkers at debate;
or the one who won national-level medals at high jump and shot put
or the one who was invited to participate in the President's parade
or the one who was a wiz at Math...

...it was never the girl
who had been "asked out" first,
or who wore the shortest skirt or the most lip gloss;
or the one with the sleekest skin and the thinnest ankles...

This is why I am *so* glad (alhamdulillaah) that I studied in an all girls' school and Rasha-Rida are too...

Girls' schools allow girls to discover who they are and who they want to be without being pressured by what they are *expected* to be to be popular/acceptable with boys; (I'm constantly hearing/reading of wannabe bf-gf relationships in kids as young as grades 1 and 2, and I'm sure you have too...so please spare me the open mouths :P)

...they allow girls to bond with others of their planet without any element of catfights/competition/jealousy

...they allow girls to focus on what's most important at that all-important stage of their lives without being distracted by boys and the associated angst

they allow girls to develop a reserve in mixed company that makes it (almost) impossible for them to be one-of -the-guys/ on backslapping, highfiving terms with the opposite sex ever(which is always a good thing, imho) ...[a point that the good Sr. Delphine always pressed: girls, you're all going to be women one day..but only some of you will be ladies]

...they allow girls to ask questions in life science lessons without dying of embarrassment

When I was in school, all my public school friends scoffed at us and said that being around boys took away the "fear/charm of the unknown" and made them "immune", and they just treated boys like one of the gang ...they said it was in fact girls who had never been around boys who were the most "susceptible" and behaved the most inappropriately ...but after all that I've seen through the years, I still believe that girls' school are the last havens of natural behaviour for girls left on earth ...sort of like a sanctuary...and if they are endangered, maybe we should do something to protect them..like starting many more ..it makes sense for Muslims to invest in this ..

(sure, I've seen and been around girls who got into mischief/trouble even in all girls' schools but they got into mischief/trouble on their own time /out of school... BIG difference )

The only downside (if you can call it that) of studying in an all girls' school is that it gives you a longing for like-minded female company to bond with always..even when they're hard to find....

I know I'm always looking for sisters to be sisterly with..always trying to replicate that precious, precious feeling..but alhamdulillaah..that tight, close bond belongs only in the past...with the friends I went to school with (and for a brief while with a brilliant girl pack at work)...

If that were the only advantage my girls out of their school...I'd be glad.

PS: no this isn't the post I was planning..that didn't pass the thought police (in my brain)...a copy of the rough draft can be accessed by all those who write an email with my nickname at school.. :P

PPS: This isn't a fatwa on the haraam-ness/halaal-ness of girls' schools..this is just me (your average jane)speaking about a personal choice and qadr that has worked beautifully for me and my kids. alhamdulillaah.

2005-2006, the year that was

If 2004-2005 was the year we found our voice on the blogosphere, then 2005-2006 was definitely, The Year of the Bitten Lip…

in other words, as the readership of this blog grew beyond the close friends who helped us set up and get this place started, we began carefully weighing what to say and the words to say it with; graciously assisted by our very own inhouse censor who was horrified when we carried this post..and another time insisted that I remove my single line contribution to this post, which was the fact that I had found it funny and laughed… for fear that people might misunderstand it to be a tacit encouragement/acceptance of v-day..

This was also the year we were eclipsed by a satellite, inundated with sickening spam that eventually led to the removal of the guestbook…severing all contact with the strangers from the Great Wide Somewhere who used to surf in by chance and leave us kind words to remember them by, giving us the motivation to post..

After we took off the guestbook, we started receiving more mail…some of it was very encouraging and gratifying (jazaakumullaahu khayran to all the people who wrote)…and some of it was not so complimentary …it was unnerving and took me a while to get used to people commenting on posts that were basically outpourings of my thoughts…

There were people who questioned us when we carried links to articles on the need to tell Muslim kids the facts of life before they heard it from the nudge-wink-snicker network or non-Muslim sources or the media (someone officially and publicly exchanged this blog’s U rating to Parental Guidance…which is just as well..)

Recently someone took umbrage when I called a daai’yah ‘charismatic’, asking me to seriously consider re-wording it, and then there were the FAQs…so many FAQs…

How many kids do we have? (alhamdulillaah, enough to enable this blog to go on in the same format for many years)

What happens to the blog in the future? (allaahu a’alam)

Would we become muslim-teenz when R-R eventually became teenagers? (probably)

Why do we use double vowels? (it makes for more correct transliteration)

And the most FAQ Faq of all: Why Blog?

This is the hardest question of all to answer, b/z it’s hard to explain to someone who’s never scribbled feverishly at the back of used envelopes and doctor’s prescriptions and even currency notes what a compulsion it is for some people to write…

My guess is that the people who ask us why we have a blog are actually trying to ask us why do we want to be heard, why do we feel the need to have a voice?

This blog is our means of bringing some meaning into our life, combat the boredom that comes from staying in a place where sometimes it’s several weeks before we go out and have an intelligent, stimulating exchange with other people, and if a random reader can find something in the process that would benefit them in some little way, or even make them smile…that means this blog has more than served its purpose..

This blog is also about nixing assumptions (which is my favourite pastime btw)…for example, I am a very quiet person, a listener and observer to the point of being thought of as taciturn and snobbish or part of the scenery :P…by revealing this, I hope to make you understand that if a person is not talking much that doesn’t mean that they have nothing worthwhile to say…it could also mean that they have too much :P…

Hypothetically, a person walking down a street who could see me walking my kids on their stroller (some crying, some playing hooky, some skipping out of reach just in time to avoid a whack) and think: poor beleaguered oppressed soul, I bet she’s never heard of Nietzsche, or the Third Law of Thermodynamics or Thich Nhat Han…

appearances, even in real life, are only a part of one’s personality..they are never the sum total..they can never be, because there are so many facets to the human soul, so much uncharted territory that could never surface even in a lifetime of cursory conversations and meaningless encounters… if I could convince even one person of this, this blog has served its purpose..

This blog is also an expression of my love for the internet…it is an incredible medium…almost like a 4th dimension in a 3-D world…

I’m a bit like the character in Francoise Sagan’s Un Certain Sourire (A Certain Smile), who would rather talk about people’s lives, their dreams and emotions, their ambitions and childhood memories when we meet, rather than mouth plastic platitudes (in fact, I think small talk is a new-world conspiracy to end all human contact among humans and make aliens of us all …literally)

Until I discovered the intenet, I thought I was the human equivalent of a platypus, a creature so fantastically strange that its existence was considered a hoax by scientists, with so few characteristics in common with other animals, that it has to be classified in a class of its own..alhamdulillaah..I have seen and spoken to and known of many people on the net with the same concerns and thoughts, the same feelings and hopes that I have, it’s been such a reassuring connection with the world… this feeling of not being alone..

Someone also asked me why is this blog called muslim-kidz when I monopolise it all the time, why not name it muslim-mumz :P?

Without my kids (especially Rasha-Rida) I would never have become the person I am..being with children is a constantly transforming process, where one is constantly learning and re-learning lessons in life…this blog is about sharing our lives and the lessons we learn …please spare us a prayer…may the learning never end.

PS: I would have posted this on May 24 th (the day we started our blog 2 years ago), but we don’t do ‘days’ :P…

On this day..

Bhopal, Dec 3, 1984


7.30 am
Dressed in my school uniform (green pinafore, yellow blouse) I'm waiting for the school bus. The 'bus stand' is a ramshackle shed overlooking the Big Lake, migratory black Mongolian ducks dot the deep blue water and the winter wind takes a nibble-sized nip from our red noses and cheeks.

We walk along the promenade, talking of this teacher and that, keeping an eye out for the bus as it comes hurtling down the slope.

7:48 am
No bus yet. Maybe the driver's had a flat. All this walking has made us hungry: should we take our tiffins out and have a second breakfast? Yeas all around..we feast on pickles and puri, paper-thin dosa and coconut chutney, plastic smelling jam sandwiches.

8: 10 am
No bus.
Should we go home and ask someone to drop us off to school? No one fancies 10 laps around the enormous schoolyard in the biting wind, Sr. Lorraine's favourite punishment for latecomers.

8. 20 am
On the road again, the place seems strangely empty. The daily mess of office-goers, schoolkids riding tongas or pillion behind their papas, the sweepers on the streets..nobody's around. Perhaps it's a government holiday that we didn't know about we think, until we see the bodies..white sheets upon white sheets line the road leading upto Hamidia Hospital. We can see a crowd in the distance..chaos..

"What happened? Has there been an accident?" my father asks someone.
"Yes, there's been a gas leak in the Union Carbide factory.."
"But that's so far..in another part of the city, what's the commotion here for?"
"It's just people coming to the hospital..thousands of them..it seems thousands have died..."

The first time I heard of it, people described the gas as "red chillies being burnt in the air"..ironically, a superstitious ritual to ward off disaster.

It was only years later, as a medical student in Hamidia Hospital that I saw what that night meant.. old ladies, their heads covered with wrinkled green dupattas opened their kurtas to show us the "peau-d'orange" effect of carcinoma, their faces reflecting the confusion on ours; old men waited patiently behind partitions to show a group of would-be doctors what prostate cancer looked like; in the children's ward there were 'cases' that couldn't be classified as kids..bulging heads, cleft palates and holes in hearts, dumped in the hospital by parents who cared..(the others were simply killed).
In the TB hospital (located conveniently en route to the crematorium) housewives hacked up blood and wasted away, wondering when they'd be allowed to go home…
At family gatherings, people blamed the 'gas' for everything..from seasonal aches and pains to the rising cost of groceries..who knows, perhaps they were right?

As I write this today, I realise..it's true, we live the horror of the past only in retrospect.

The Boy who was a Partridge

Once upon some years ago, a little boy came into the world three and a half weeks before his family was expecting him. His family was waiting in the little green car for their mum to come out of the doctor's clinic to go and eat chicken tikka and drink soup. Instead, they were called in to see the newest member of their family. The soup would have to wait.

"Who does he look like?" they wondered.
He had damp hair and bright eyes and was utterly "lacking in big-ness."
"He looks like a partridge!!"
And so he did..a little wet bird masquerading as a tiny human being.

The aunties who came to see him tucked currency notes between the fierce clutch of his fingers and whispered to his mother in a complimentary way: But he doesn't look a bit like any of you..who does he look like?"
His grandmum fed the little partridge porridge and pistachios and told his mum: You wait and see..he'll be the best of the lot in shaa Allaah..

And so the little partridge grew..(he had skin trouble and a week in the ICU before he was one year old) but he grew and became a ...parrot. Yes, I know it sounds strange, but it's true.
He talked and talked and talked and talked ..until everyone told him: Would you please be quiet only for 60 seconds..look here's thewatch..

One day he was talking to his Mum and he asked her: Why doesn't Abba have a silver car? I like silver cars, I don't like white ones..
So his Mum said, maybe he'll get one in shaa Allaah, silver cars cost a lot of money
So he said, when I grow up in shaa Allaah, I'll be a rich man and have a big house with lots of children and I'll buy a silver car for myself and a golden car for Abba and a red car for you...

This post is to remind everyone to say a prayer for my dutiful little son if you see me driving a snazzyred car two decades from now, inshaaAllaah..(because Abba already has his silver car).

May the road be long and smooth and straight for you. Aameen.

grandparents are non-renewable resources

there are some things without which life wouldn't be life as we know it...

Nanu, you're the fossil fuel in our lives [...and not nearly as old ;)]

Ode to a *great* GrandMum

September is the month in which R-R's maternal grandmum was born, not just grandmum, but as R-R like to say: *great * grandmum.

Actually, Nanu's been one of the girls for so long, it's weird to think of her as being a grandmum..and truth to tell, there's nothing grandmummy about her at all..she still reads Famous Five and munches chips and plans midnight feasts and whispers late into the night ...

..the only time Nanu acts likes a grandmum is when she exercises The Veto that only grandmums and superpowers have... dismissing all disapproving parental cluck-clucks with an imperious wave of her hand, to do as she likes (which just coincidentally happens to be whatever R-R like)

She'll book us a dinner at the fanciest eating joint in town..or a plane trip ..or a shopping orgy where, (besides splurging on the dishiest designer stuff for R-R) she'll buy the kids everything they ask for ..yes, e-v-e-r-y thing they ask for..[and I have shelves upon shelves of unusable sewingmachines and walkietalkies and beadedbags and stickersets to prove it].

September is also the month in which we lost R-R's paternal grandmother..who loved them dearly, who altered R-R's clothes for them a night before Eid and knitted them their first sweaters and taught me how to massage and bathe them when they were this small...

Somehow, it seems fitting to mention this here.

The time we have here on earth with our loved ones is limited: with a beginning and an end...that's what makes it so precious...that's what makes the struggle for jannah,where people will be with the ones they love for ever, so urgent.

First Fast

7:30 am
The very first Ramadan I have to keep all my fasts as fardh, I find myself in the middle of a desert.
Not the prettified lush palm trees and 24/7 AC-ed mirage, where a can of chilled cola is never out of reach and you need cotton quilts in summer, but the Real Thing. Where camel carts trundle on sandy paths and women dressed in scarlet tie-and-dye clothes balance brown earthen pitchers on their heads and walk miles to get a drink of water for their families.

I wake up with cacti growing in my throat and check my wristwatch. Groan. Hours to go until iftaar.

Unable to lie still, I get out of bed and do wudhu with cool water out of an earthen pot. Everyone else seems to be asleep. I sit on the rope-bed in the verandah and let the hot desert wind wipe my face with its feverish fingers.
* * * * * * *
At suhoor earlier that morning, I was shocked to see mango everywhere. Mango with milk. Mango with porridge. Mango with roti. I think I even saw someone eating mango with tea.
I guess my face unwittingly reflected the horror I felt, when one of my cousins jibed…"This isn't Inglistaan sister. ."
"Can I have some bread?"
"Where does that grow?"

Not being in the mood for wisecracks at 4 am in the morning, I have a glass of milk and a chocolate. Already, I have acquired a "reputation" as the girl-who-only-ate-chocolates. Which explains why I received only nine proposals in my first week there. If I had been a regular girl, the number may well have been ninety.
* * * *
10:30 am:
Everyone's up. The boys are taking airguns off the niches in the wall and the women are organizing the household.

"What's up?" I ask the only brother it is safe to talk to, because he hasn't yet grown the trademark upturned moustache.
"A hunting we will go", he sings…he goes to a British boarding school in a big city.
"Whenever we have guests over, we never buy meat. We hunt it…" he explains, mentally grooming his moustache.

11 .15 am
While the men are climbing onto jeeps, my cousin calls me out to the terrace. "Look there…that's a red storm. We might even get caught in it"…he sounds as if he's looking forward to it.

1.30 pm
It's true. It is a storm where the red sand swirls in the air like rain and beats against windows and closed doors, After dhuhr, I have little else to do so I sit by the window and watch the storm wear itself out against the red stone of the house.
I have been forbidden the terrace . My aunt says she played with the children of jinns there as a child, and they may still be lurking there waiting to make friends with strange, new girls . I believe her.


3.20 pm

They're back. Jeeps laden with carcasses. Wild duck and wild rabbit. Wild deer. There's even a wild fowl in there.

"Want to come and have a look?" a cousin asks.
I get up grudgingly and go to the kitchen where the booty is equally divided between maids and cooks who set to work cleaning and cooking. Kebabs. Korma. Biryaani.

4:15 pm
After 'asr I finally spot something to see. Construction workers live in shanties close to the red-stone house, moving their huts whenever they get a new contract, never aspiring to live in the houses they build for others.
The women return first, babies in slings on their backs and water pots balanced on heads and waists. They set to work, making smoky fires, kneading barley dough and grinding garlic and chilli to a fiery red paste. They slap the dough between their palms and cook it on overturned iron skillets.

The smell of their cooking mixes with the aroma of sizzling kebabs and pakoras.

5:30 pm
The girls are dolling up in their rooms and the servants are spreading metres of starched white dastarkhaan in the verandah.

My great-grandmother's rocking chair is brought out, she follows leaning on the arms of two middle-aged daughters-in-law. She smells of moth balls and rose water. She catches my eye and nods to me to come closer. She kisses my forehead and asks me what I have been doing all day. Have I decided on any of her great-grandsons, she asks. I grimace and hope it passes for a "shy smile".

6.25 pm
The guests are here. Girls and women, eyes bright with satiated sleep and ears, arms, necks, noses aglow with glinting jewels. I have a curiosity value of my own as the strange, chocolate-eating-cousin-from-outer-space and invite many stares. A weak spiral of smoke rises beyond the wall.
I get up to check it out.
The labourers are back. Sitting in groups around the cooking fires, waiting for the cannon ball to sound.

7.15
Bright streaks explode in the maghrib sky. We all drink almond sherbet and eat sticky sweet dates. The girl on my left offers me some more sherbet, but I feel thirsty for water. I make my way to the kitchen where the sight of so much food nearly makes me retch.

I step out of the house and walk toward the shanties, not knowing why I'm going there. I can see them eating.
"Where d'you think you're going?" an indignant voice follows me. It's one of the maids.
"Oh just walking around…I want to check out what those people are eating for iftaar."
"Do you know they kidnap young girls like you and sell them? Besides, you won't like what they're eating."
"I only want to try. Can you get me some?"
"I'll be kicked out of the house if anyone comes to know I've been feeding visitors with labourers food."
"I won't let anyone know. Really."

After a while she returns with a piece of bread smeared with a little red chutney. It is still warm. The labourers eye us while chewing their food, never pausing, except to drink a gulp of water.

I put a piece of the bread in my mouth. It is hard to chew and tasteless.
Why would anyone eat it with so much relish?
* * * *
This Ramadan diary is post-dated by about 15 years, but it remains one of my most powerful memories of Ramadan…one that is refreshed annually by the sight of overloaded sufras at iftaar parties.

It is easy to romanticize hunger. We read about the early Muslims passing out from hunger by the roadside, eating leaves and chewing animal skins, licking the remains of empty containers to ward off hunger. We read about Allaah's Messenger tying his girdle tightly against his stomach in times of want and eating only to a third of his stomach in times of plenty.
We read about the Mothers of the Believers surviving on "the two black things" : dates and water. We read about them breaking their fast with a crust of bread, having spent hundreds of gold coins in charity in the earlier part of the day. We read of men weeping while breaking their fast with a cool drink and sufficient food, for fear that they might be receiving the rewards of their deeds in this world and will have nothing in the hereafter.
Yet, we justify our indulgences as signs of "barakah" – the blessings of Ramadan. Notwithstanding the mountains of uneaten food that make their way to the garbage. Notwithstanding the fact that we have turned the month of fasting into night after night of unabashed feasting.
Notwithstanding the fact that as we eat, drink and make merry, there are people in our Ummah – our extended family -- for whom the hunger does not end at sunset.

May Allaah forgive us our shortcomings and excesses.
May Allaah accept from us our good deeds done only for His sake.