Bridging the Gap

There is a very strange inclination in the human situation; we default to exclusivity. Building bridges, mending gaps, shortening distances between ourselves is not an act most of us perform wilfully. Rather, we are more comfortable sitting in a state of exclusion, preferring to define ourselves by what we are not, rather than the commonality within. It’s the baseline of Otherness.

There’s a key element missing in our treatment of one another, which I believe is the contributing factor to this wilful exclusion: respect.

So many of us don’t care enough to learn about one another, and so within that created void we say “I don’t respect you”, “I don’t care enough to know you to understand you”.

Think of it in the following simplified scenario. Your partner loves macs; for their birthday, your dumb ass buys them an HP. Their reaction? It may be along the lines of “An HP…?”, with the underlying assumption on their part that you just didn’t care enough to pay attention. You didn’t care enough to find out and to understand and to note what they really loved. The fool in this situation is – clearly – your dumb ass.

Now elevate that to something as personal and as intimate as Faith.

Islam was premised on this notion of respecting others – one of the core principles of our faith is to accord full respect to every religion which has belief in God as its focal point. A shining example of this is a hadith about the Prophet Muhammad (pbuh), who in the year 10 H, gave free access to his mosque and full consent to the Christians to celebrate their religious rites within this mosque, although their adoration of Jesus as “the son of God” and as Mary “as the mother of God” was fundamentally at variance with Islamic beliefs.

Did you catch that, you ignorant prone-to-exclusion-and-Otherness asshats? One of God’s Prophets did not try to convert, change or annihilate another great faith tradition; instead, he honoured it by bringing it into his home and allowing it to exist as is.

Too many in this world continue to be told that they are better. Taught that they will go to Heaven while most Others will not. Generations kneaded with disrespect instead of encouraged to build bridges.

What heartbreak and shame we have brought to this earth.

Connecting Islam to earlier revelation
We no longer have either the original text of the Torah, nor of the Bible. Instead, we have translated versions of both the Hebrew and Aramaic texts re-written at different times by men and according to the political, gender, social and economic situations at that time. For believers, where there once existed the literal word of God, this is no longer the case.

Contrary to that, the (Arabic) Qur’an has never been touched; the actual and physical originals remaining in existence. The Arabic word within, from the moment it was uttered by Gabriel to Muhammad, remains as is. This, for Muslims means there is an unequivocal purity to the text – and so, this bring us to another fundamental tenet of Islam, which is that Judaism and Christianity – no matter that the texts may have been altered by men, their original divine writ comes from one same God, Author to all.

As such, any core element of Islam was once too a core element of the earlier Christian and Jewish original texts.

Coming full-circle, this then means that the fundamental Muslim belief that all must accord full respect to every religion which has belief in God as its focal point, is also a core element of Judaism and Christianity.

Bridges today & tomorrow
To reiterate; this respect which we do not afford one another at all times, if any of the time, is a respect which is a tenet of all three great faith traditions.

Sadly, and most notably in 2010, very few of us afford this principle room and space within our lives because we don’t care to, we are too scared to, or because we are more comfortable believing that We are better than Them.

Building bridges is a choice; it is a choice at every single turn. The next time you hear something about any Faith that you may not be familiar with, you will have this choice to seek out more knowledge and understanding in an effort to build a bridge.

Not finding that similarity, remember that bridges aren’t only built where similarities exist, but they offer a space where people can meet and say “we are not the same, but within that difference, I respect and honour you still”.

I hold fast to my belief that the respect we extend to others is a direct reflection of how much we value and respect ourselves; choose wisely, friends.

(Godspeed!)

———-
Image courtesy of Planet Ware.

Islam / America

Dear Keith Olbermann – Will you marry me?

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I was asked: ‘Tell me about Ramadan’

And I just fired this off, and thought to share with you, spelling and grammar mistakes well intact. Enjoy.

As per Ramadan – I would LOVE to!
- ‘Ramadan’ is the name of the month (like October or November) and the Muslim calendar is a lunar one and so the beginning of Ramadan preceeds its last year’s beginning day by 11 days.

And that, sir, is your very first blip of info on Islam.
Questions?
(p.s. I LOVE talking faith matters – love love love it!)

Updated in August 2010 to add: This month has started to take on another meaning for me as well. In the last few years, it has served as a time to take stock of my past 12 months. I usually have a running list of actions I have committed and with which I am not entirely comfortable, situations in which I have placed myself that I was probably best not to, and improper and unkind ways in which I have mistreated individuals. I try to remedy where I can, take note and change where I can not, and ultimately take the coming year to remove influences which I believe aren’t too healthy (emotionally, physically or spiritually).

It’s a slow road and I am a slow learner who sometimes tumbles back into the same mistakes; but still, it’s a great road if you’re up for the introspection and reminder that we should strive to be in a constant state of evolution and (inshallah) improvement.

———-
This entry was originally posted on 10 Sept, 2009.

Attn Boys: One way to turn her on

An interesting conversation has been brewing and cross-cutting among all of my girlfriends these past few days, in which the following is injected: “….yes, feeling beautiful comes from the inside, yada-yada-yada…I totally get that. I know I’m beautiful and no one can mess with that. BUT F*CK, can’t he just say it out loud? Like, there’s nothing worse than a man not telling his woman he thinks she’s smokin’. It places such a huge dent in me when he doesn’t say it, when he doesn’t acknowledge it, and it’s actually starting to turn me off because I don’t care if he stares at me, I need to know he loves what he’s staring at. OUT LOUD, already.”

Did you catch that boys?

This isn’t about her knowing she’s a hottie (that’s the inside part), but rather, it is about her confirming (yes repeatedly) that you, the man she digs finds her a hottie.

Crystal clear is the memory I have of the first man who ever told me I was beautiful. At university in sweats, runners and a t-shirt, with my hair a mess, I walked past this dude while he was working the bar at Oliver’s on campus. He pulled me over and simply said “I just have to tell you that I can’t stop looking at you. You are so beautiful.”

I stood dumbfounded.
No one had said that to me (except my momma) prior and so to hear it from a man set off an avalanche of squees and near nauseau throughout your WebMistress.

A feeling that has not subsided; a feeling which happens every single time I hear those words from a man, but most importantly, from a man for whose attentions I am vying.

That goes for all women I know; the ones who just started dating their men, and the ones married for 10 years. Even though every single woman I know has an unbelievable reserve of self-awareness both in terms of ability and beauty, each one of these women – myself included – also has a natural inclination to insecurity with regards our looks because we exist in a culture that places so very much emphasis on a woman’s beauty (and know full-well about the male inclination to visual.).

It seems that recently, there is an epidemic amongst the women I know, and one which is centered around their men not engaging these simple words or these simple acknowledgements.

Gentlemen, and on behalf of the Sisterhood: tell your woman out loud that you think she’s hot, because if you don’t, another man will and he will get big points (since the off-set of you never mentioning it actually works to heighten his comment).

If the reason that women like it and so appreciate your attention to detail isn’t enough of a reason for you, then let me break it down and make it all about you instead: When you tell your partner she’s gorgeous, it will turn her on. (Women? We’re selfish that way; maybe you can relate.)

Right. So for your asshat edification, take a read through this article and note that: She needs to hear out-loud from you that you notice her and admire her. And, chose words like “sexy” or “beautiful” or “amazing”; women like words like this because they are bigger and make it seem like you really are thinking they look incredible at that particular moment. Stay away from bland and generic compliments like “you look nice” or “you look fine.” And one compliment that most women really don’t like is “you look cute”; she is not a puppy, she is a woman.

Side Note: To the women who would say that the above is a slight to women, and women don’t need a man’s accolades to feel good. And to those idiot self-help writers who tell us that everything must come from within or else it is meaningless. You are lying liars who lie and exist in a perpetual sea of self-delusion.

My baba’s blog

Alcanaanite.

Politics, humanity & religion.

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Bad enough your generation will not have the hard-earned bump on their middle finger…

Dear Kids These Days -

It appears that mAny Of yOu RandOmlY capitaLize LeTteRs when you write shit.

At first I thought it was perhaps a secret code, and so I pulled out the capitalized letters and tried to make out your secret language. Deflated, I discovered there was no secret anything.

Additionally. You seem to do shit like *~$this .*oO+ WhiLEsimUltANEously.nEither*!!*.sssspaCing;Nor.speLLing.ProPeRleeee+*~*.

I was wondering: are you alright? …because although we are all dumb in the head occasionally, it’s not the greatest idea to be dumb in the head perpetually.

You’re welcome,
Maha

‘The Feminist’ should be a television show title

Editorial note: The following has been drafted on the fly via berry. Pardon the mistakes and the non-coherency if I am a little all over the place…it is an inspired piece (thank you, Clay!).

I have been watching women fight for women’s rights since the day I knew how to watch, because it started with my momma.

Recently, there has been a surge in this fight for women’s freedoms. Specifically, it has been about our (female) right to choose.

Abortion. We possess the right to choose whether we will or whether we will not. The refusal to stand for a Government that attempts to tell us we can not make this choice.

When the prohibitions against forms of hijab in some parts of Europe came to the forefront, very few ‘feminist’ sisters said anything. In fact, some of them actually nodded in agreement with this prohibition, arguing that the prohibition is a means to ‘free’ women.

Sadly, no one drew the correlation between a woman’s right to choose what she ‘aborts’ from her body, and with what she chooses to cover her body.

But they are both choices, no?
(And last I checked, we defend the female right to choose, not the female right to choose what only some of us see fit.)

Choices that affect a woman’s body. Choices that affect society. Choices that are extremely private.
C.H.O.I.C.E.S.

And yet, amazingly, there has been very little blow-back from self-proclaimed ‘feminists’. (Or have I managed to miss it? And if I have, then please post links here to those organizations or individuals so that they receive the necessary accolades.)

Don’t get me wrong. I am turned off by both the niqab and the burka.
But I will support and fight for any woman’s prerogative to choose how she covers her body.

Additionally, and to the core of me, I loathe abortion.
But I will support a woman’s right to that choice, and I will fight for her right to make that choice in a safe environment.

I have zero tolerance for the sisters among us who actively engage in furthering only their idea of what a ‘free’ woman is. If you fight for rights, you best be fighting for rights for all, and equally so, even if you don’t agree with it.

So then, this begs the question: Where do we draw the line? (e.g. How far do we defend this freedom of choice; is it ‘anything goes’?)

Naturally, I have a few ideas that are developing still, and I would really love your input to help along this development. (Keep comments clean and respectful of all opinions, please & thank you.)

The Road to Chimayo (by Max McGuire)

The following is a 10:31 demo of an hour long documentary that is being edited. It follows Max (known at ofc (dot) com as ‘Maxi’) on a pilgrimage to El Santuario De Chimayo, New Mexico, where he goes looking for a miracle cure for his Cystic Fibrosis.

The Road to Chimayo from Max Mcguire on Vimeo.

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Of Coffee Cups, Figs & Letters

“You have to pick them before the birds do in the morning.”
“At 10?”
“In the morning…earlier, Maha.”
“9?”
“No.”
“It’s the weekend, ya seedo. The birds have to sleep too because they’re flapping a lot and they’re tired.”
“Birds don’t get tired the way we do. So how early do you think?”
“SEVEN?”
“No.”
“SIX!”
“One more try.”
“YA ALLAH! Fiiiiive?!”
“Around then. We have to come down here after salaat el-fajir and pick the figs that are ready or else the birds will have them for breakfast and you’ll have to wait until the next day.”

And so it was in this way that seedo convinced me to plop out of bed at the age of four, one year less than the time staring back at me from the digital clock in our room. This was the year that the tradition was born and though I became older and the small details changed, the ritual itself would remain for my summers in Gaza.

In my ruffled pink and yellow nightgown, he would carry me out of bed and sit me next to him on the green sofa in the living room while drinking his coffee. Leaning on him, I would slip my feet into my babooj and wait quietly while the aroma of his turkish coffee ran past me and we listened to the whisper of Qur’an through the tape recorder. We never spoke during this time, my grandfather leaving me to waking and I to his coffee.

Coffee he sipped from a treasured cup because it was the perfect size for my little hands. Daily, he handed it to me so that I would have the last sip; the sweetest and the thickest part of the potion were mine, a secret we never let outside of our early mornings.

I would clutch the cup in both hands while he placed his hand either on top of my head or on my shoulder to gently lead me down into the garden and out to the fig tree. (I was so worried I would drop and break the cup that if it were a person, surely I would have suffocated it with my protective grip.) In his other hand, he always carried the same ornate bowl.

At the tree, he took the coffee cup I so carefully handed over and placed it on the window sill. I never saw him bring the cup inside and so believed it to be made of majic just for him. Unlike the other cups, this one sat alone, not a part of a set I could ever find no matter where I searched in the house.

Lifting me carefully to where the ready figs hid, seedo would always wait patiently as my small hands struggled to grasp and pull free each one before letting them drop on to the soft ground.

We ate the figs while seated on the front steps of the house, never sharing them with anyone. Every morning that summer, he would take me back to bed and tuck me in, kissing my forehead and letting me sleep until the house’s natural order woke me up. He never left me awake, instead sitting on the bed next to me while I held one of his hands in mine, hands that remain the softest I have ever touched; little cushions brought together for comfort and safety, kindness and protection, I would keep pressing on the insides of his hands until I fell asleep behind my own back.

When I broke the seal and went to Gaza for the first time after he was done with this world, I said hello to everyone and then immediately went to his room. I turned on his short-wave radio, tucked myself into his bed and cried myself to sleep.

When I woke up, I went looking for the coffee cup and the ornate bowl, found in a box inside of which he kept only a very small number of his most important posessions. Among them, all of the letters my mother wrote telling him about me as a baby, his eldest an eternity away with a new child of her own. These letters I stole without the knowledge of anyone, letters it takes me hours to read because my Arabic simply isn’t good enough. But I have them in my drawer, written on soft paper made softer with the humidity of Palestine and time, serving as gentle reminders of seedo’s hands.

Allah yirhamak, ya seedo.

God fathers amputating flowers in a heatwave

.1. A few weeks back, D told me that my m.o. is to cut. Her exact words were “You’re a cutter. You amputate. Someone fucks around, they’re gone and you’re lethal about it. Clean lines where you’re concerned. Like an emotional Jedi Master with one of those amazing lit up sabers, only you have emotions, not a saber. Know what I mean?”

The above paragraph was drafted in May of last year, 13 months back. Interesting that this is likely what Maxi refers to as “the shut off valve”. Others have noticed it, but he gave it the most interesting name; Maxi wins!

.2. Faith plays an enormous part in my life. Even when I don’t realize it, when I actively ignore it, when I am pissed off with it, when I am an idiot about it, when I am unaware of it, it is always present.

Conversations with friends have a way of eventually coming around to: politics, economics, relationships, Hollywood and faith matters. Naturally, there is too an element of Crack thrown in for good measure.

Someone the other day asked me what standards I would apply to choosing Islam on a daily basis. Because, no matter that I was born into Islam, no matter that my family is Muslim, but by me declaring myself a Muslimah daily, that is a choice made several times within a 24 hour period. I think, perhaps, this is why it is a component of prayer in Islam; a reminder that it is always a choice. That if you stop saying it, you cease choosing it.

So, then, why do I routinely and every day choose Islam (even when I am an idiot)?

It took me a while to pull together a very simple and coherent response. Finally this morning, en route to work, I realized the why of my choosing.

My starting point will be different from yours, but you may choose to engage in understanding your own process if for no other reason than pure awareness of your self.

I see Intelligent Order and Design and that to me is the starting point for Faith. Even in Chaos, I see that same Order. But this one’s easy; it can be any sort of energy as described by a number of faiths / philosophies.

So, the more important point then is that which draws me to an understanding of and existence in Allah.

Simply put, I can not believe that injustice can go unpunished; I can not believe that a child rapist will have the luxury of never being caught, and then dropping dead and not having to ever face the children they raped. Based on my political understanding and perspective, I must believe in Justice as it extends beyond the temporal. And so I believe there is a Judge in the divine sense, and that is what creates balance and order in my world. (Go ahead and call it a crutch. Or maybe opt for an imagination instead, silly. “Crutch” is so 1983.)

Those are my two simplest and clearest starting points.
Chime in as you see fit, please. (Too personal? Keep using the email addy…)

.3. When you have a daughter, be the first man to send her flowers. Do it on a random day and for no reason other than: She is yours, and you’re her Poppa. (Forget about the gender divide here; instead focus on the reality that she will be bombarded with the weird notion that the right man brings you flowers. We likely agree that this is awkward on many levels, so let’s leave it to another entry.)

.4. It is 42 degrees in my City tonight. I have soaked through all t-shirts, and am sticking to random objects passing by. My hair is a mess of curls and all I wish to do is lay around like a big carrot drinking ice-water. All of which makes me very happy.

(Tip & trick for those of you without a/c: run a towel under cold water; ring it out well; drape it over your fan; and, enjoy the cool breeze. You’re welcome.)