Prolific Immigrant

I often struggled with trusting people. Primarily, it was to do with men because of my experience with my dad. While I know he would erase and redo all of those years in a heartbeat if he could, and while I have forgiven him entirely, there remains residue which affects my relationships (plural because I am a fun-times hooker) with men.

Aalya says that what I do is disappear so that I might lick my wounds and heal on my own before I can resurface. Maxi calls it my Shut Off Valve, and it is something about myself which I dislike, and so something I constantly work to challenge when I feel it creeping around in the shadows of my mind.

In a nutshell, what it is is that I become cagey, hard to corner or catch. Just like the chicken in Rocky. In the most extreme playing out of The Shut Off Valve, I have disappeared entirely from someone’s life.

This thing is rooted in two platforms: (1) it is a form of self-preservation; and, (2) it is an arrogance which assumes that people should never do wrong. Which, by default, means that I should never do wrong and so turn myself and people around me into weird automaton figurines while knowing fully well that I believe, to the core of me, that human behavior is so varied and so fundamentally non-mathematical and still I sometimes need to be gently reminded that I am wrong and that human behaviour is not 1 + 1 = 2.

One of the ways by which I am changing this about myself is to trust in God, and to trust in the Protection of His Grace. For a while, I was struggling and could not face my prayer mat. Though I always knew I was being carried in His (metaphorical) heart, I could not bring myself to turn toward Him for a variety of reasons. I was extremely ill at ease while this was happening, always aware that there was something missing. That my best friend was not present because I had closed the door and left Him outside, though I kept peeking out from behind the blinds and looking at Him.

My friend Blue and I talked about this at length and he encouraged me, like a Nike commercial, to just do it. Even when I wasn’t feeling it, to just pray. And so on January 9th, I began my day with my morning prayer and have continued since, alhamduliLah.

Recently, I changed my position from “this is an obligation and a duty” to “there are five times a day where I get to have private time with Allah during which I can reflect and allow my heart to be vulnerable.” While I wouldn’t say that I am jumping with joy every time I have to perform ablution, I can say that the thought of saying Hia to Allah for a few minutes eases the lazy.

Back to the point of this article. There are 99 names for Allah in Islam, two of which are in the decal in the photo: “Ya Fattah, Ya Salaam.”

Al-Fattah means The Opener, or “He Who Opens all things.” While this has several meanings, the most important for me is that He removes all obstacles in our path. This is the essence of this name, and it is meant to be integrated all across the board starting with the physical obstacles in this world, to the psychological obstacles with which we struggle when trying to move ahead, and culminating in the removal of obstacles on the path to Heaven.

Returning to my issues of mis/trust, and keeping in mind Ya Fattah, I have learned to slowly shift my positioning from one of mis/trust in someone to trust in God. Trusting that He will remove anything and anyone who might devastate me, and also trusting that only placed in my world are those who will help me grow and learn, challenge me to become better, and who will do their best to never ever crush my heart. Granted that often I tumble and face dive into regressive thinking, but I usually catch myself early enough that I might take a couple of steps back and start again before it’s too late.

This shift also helps us lighten our load and our hearts. To be in a constant state of mis/trust is horrible and it is heavy and hurtful to ourselves and those around us. To be in a constant state of trusting in God, however, brings with it a lightness and calm to ourselves and which — I think — is reflected in how we treat others and how they see us when they take a glance (both of which are really amazing and warm hugs for the soul).

Al-Salaam means The Source of Peace. This one is self-explanatory, and it’s importance in my world and in my understanding of faith traditions as they are reflected in the lives of people should be obvious enough to anyone who has been reading me regularly.

“Ya Fattah, Ya Salaam.”
When combined, to believe in The Opener, is to also believe that He is The Source of Peace. It is to believe that He will remove all obstacles which would bring anything but peace into our hearts and lives. The flip side of this is that He will open the doors to those men, women, and situations which will bring love and light to our station. Finally for me, it is to believe that everything happens for the best of reasons; that while the revelation of “why” may not be immediate in instances of trauma, the revelation will come eventually.

Though I might be biased, I believe that this perspective is beautiful in its sharing of our love and lives with Allah, and allowing us to open up entirely and free fall into the arms of others, since to love and to share are also to trust. It is also what some folks might call a crutch — and to them I say: while hobbling along is fun, I prefer to have Support intended to ease my presence today, and which allows me to open my heart fully to those around me.

Here is another photo of the decal, a little more clear in its size and stature. Being approximately 4 feet x 4 feet, it is a gorgeous addition to The Cloud Cave, and it gives me reason to stop and think and find calm when I may be otherwise disheveled. Additionally, it looks like there’s an ‘M’ (for Maha) at the top…which…I mean….how could I have resisted?

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If you are interested in more Muslim art work, please pop by Irada Arts for a look and see.

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. This, 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.

Many of us don’t care enough to learn about one another, and so within this created void, what we are really saying is “I don’t respect you,” “I don’t care enough to know you to understand you.”

Extend and elevate this thinking 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 Mary “as the mother of God” were fundamentally at variance with Islamic beliefs.

Did you catch that?

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, supremacy, and hatred, instead of encouraged to build bridges and find commonalities among their brothers and sisters in humanity.

For me, there is so much heartbreak and shame in this, how so many of us have chosen to position ourselves above others, and use Faith as the reason to do so.

For the longest time, Muslims understood “Islam” as to surrender, based on the idea that God placed us on this earth so that we might worship Him and nothing more. I never understood this, because I couldn’t wrap my mind around the concept that Allah would grant us free will and then ask us to simply surrender — this perspective always seemed like a little sick joke for me and so I was never able to fully embrace it.

Then I heard Tariq Ramadan speak about Islam as a means to peace; that to enter into a state of Islam, is to enter into a state of peace within our hearts. And that, dearest Reader, makes complete and total sense to me. Because for me, Faith can not be about God’s need — since He needs nothing — but rather about humanity’s need. And clearly, we need to bring peace into our hearts, else we will Lord of the Flies it into infinity and beyond.

Which brings me to my next point…

Connecting Islam to earlier revelation
Muslims believe that the (Arabic) Qur’an has never been touched; the Arabic word within, from the moment it was uttered by the archangel Gabriel to Muhammad (pbuh), remains as is.

The logical extension of this for me is that what exists in the Quran once also existed in both the Torah and the Bible. To believe in an omnipresent God means that we believe He did not change His mind between revelations, as He does not experience time like we do (in linear fashion).

In the Quran, God said: “Behold, We have created you all out of a male and a female, and have made you into nations and tribes, so that you might come to know one another.” (Al-Hujurat 49:13) Not so that you may hate or hurt or oppress one another. But rather to engage, to learn, and to love one another. Who in their right mind would ever believe that God seeks to create divisions in His own world meant to create trauma rather than an opportunity to something better?

Imagine when you have plunked onto your desk a file about which you know nothing. You don’t even understand the subject matter as it is spelled out onto the folder. Your choices are simple: Shove the file off and say you can’t be bothered and who cares and how annoying and ugh?! Or, you open the file, learn from it, incorporate it into your work and see it as an opportunity for growth.

This is our choice where different faiths and ethnicities and belief systems exist. This is our challenge, as presented by God. Anyone who believes differently is headed for disaster (and likely war, racial profiling, and states of supremacy, founded on principles of fundamentalism).

Again, this respect which we do not afford one another at all times, if any of the time, is a respect which is in fact a necessary means to execute properly one’s actions within the dimension of any one of the faith traditions, as a means to bringing peace into our hearts.

Sadly, and most notably in 2012, very few of us afford this principle room and space within our lives because we don’t care to, we are too scared to, and / or we are more comfortable believing that We are better than Them.

I see this routinely, and have had vehement arguments with my own Tribe about this matter. The argument being that “Muslims are better. Full stop.” A sentence as laughable as the beliefs that “Christians are better. Full stop,” and “Jews are better. Full stop,” and “Buddhists are better. Full stop,” and “Atheists are better. Full stop.”

Because. BETTER THAN WHAT AND WHOM?

A drunkard Muslim who beats his wife is better than a Christian man who treats his family with mercy and asks God’s grace? An oppressive Jewish settler who invokes God’s name every time they thieve Palestinian land in the name of some fucking divine writ is better than the atheist taking to the streets to demonstrate against oppression, genocide and apartheid? A psychotic Christian who goes on a murdering spree in the name of Christianity, as a means to defend against encroaching Islam is better than a non-Zionist Jew who sits firm in a Palestinian orange orchard while an Israeli demolition team faces them down?

Are you kidding me?
Are you kidding you?

Do you really believe that God has made you better, by default because of your ethnicity or the religion into which you were born (or later adopted)?

You are better only with respect to your treatment of others.
You are better when you exist in a state of humility and see everyone as your equal.
You are better when you understand that you don’t get to decide WHO. IS. BETTER. A role belonging only to Allah on the Day of Judgment.

You are best only when you understand that you are one of a whole, and that whole belongs to Him and Him alone.

Building bridges is a choice, and it is a choice at every single turn. Further 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, because we are of the same Whole, and we all belong to and shall return to Him.”

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, and happy Sunday.

(Godspeed!)

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Image courtesy of Planet Ware.

Have I mentioned that my family is predominantly one of Alpha Males?

Today, two of them came over — my baba, and one of his brothers, amo (Arabic for uncle, on one’s partileneal side) Mustafa. Naturally, I served them mini-sized cupcakes with hearts on them. I also sprinkled them with fairy dust while they were leaving.

I woke up this morning thinking that this would be a good idea. When I brought the cupcakes home and stared at their delicate, I thought: What the fuck? As I am not one to half-ass anything, I served the cupcakes on my very wee vintage fine bone china saucers covered in flowers and trimmed with gold flakes. Neither of them said anything, until my father said something. Staring at the plate which his hand dwarfed, he let out a frustrated sigh and asked me for a “real plate.” I pretended not to know what was the matter and he just stared after me like I maybe wasn’t related to him.

Honestly. I might be injecting heroin behind my own back.

Before they arrived, I had a fun back and forth with my beautiful baby cousin Deema, who I should probably stop calling “baby” because she is about 46 years of age now. She began a project about Islam with her schoolmate and was told that it was illegal or some such, and she risked getting into trouble. Likely because it is too progressive or it doesn’t toe the ignorant line of most of the Middle East’s version of Islam. But she’s not stopping, and so I told her I would support her no matter what the outcome and would visit her in jail if need be, with cookies, because I believed in her project and this is what family does: We support one another (even when we don’t agree. We support one another, and if we don’t, then we can’t God damn call ourselves family). Lucky, I agree with her initiative and project and so the support is easy as Sunday morning.

After the Alphas left, I rang my amto (Arabic for aunt, on one’s patrilineal side) Arwaa7 and spoke with her briefly to thank her for the lovely gifts she sent back with my dad. She has not been feeling well and while I am not someone who is ever at a loss for words, hearing her usually vivacious and extremely well spirited voice quieted to nearly a whisper shattered my heart. Please keep her in your prayers.

Finally, I closed my afternoon by Skyping with mama and the entire family present. She is in the Middle East at the moment and they were about to have isha, which is the final meal of the day had at around the unhealthiest of hours maybe 9.30 or 10pm. Why go to sleep light when you can instead roll over to bed filled with home-made pita and felafel and fresh cucumber and fried cheese and some hummus, washed down with sweet chai? The joke is that my mum will come home to me with an additional 20 pounds around her little body. Which. May not be such a joke after all.

SA7TEEN YA SUMAYA!! What are you eating now?

While I stood in the kitchen preparing for tonight’s dinner party, they plunked the laptop onto a chair and I sat with them after giving them a tour of The Cloud Cave. Mama, a little girl in pink pajamas; my cousins, studying like the amazing young women that they are, and who will surely never let their parents down (unlike my sorry ass); and, khalo (Arabic for uncle, on one’s matrilineal side) Nasr — who I adore beyond measure — engaged and engaging and with a heart the size of the Gaza Strip, always.

All in all, a perfect family-filled day. AlhamduliLah.

The early years after my parents fell out of love with one another and divorced, I didn’t much act out against my mother. One way I did act out is that I played a little on her need to ensure I never felt excluded in life-things, in general.

Not wanting for me to feel as an awkward outsider (since divorce made me an anomaly within our own tragic community which often hates women and loves to see them struggle, especially the ones as physically and heart beautiful as my mother — but more on this another day, as it deserves its own article), she actively went out of her way to ensure I was living a “normal” teenage life, aged 13.

Sometimes, this was awkward and challenged by cultural overtones. Most notably the time she finally decided to let me have a Christmas Tree.

Christmas is not a Muslim holiday. We love Baby Jesus (pbuh), the immaculate conception, the manger, and especially the Virgin Mary (who is the only woman mentioned by name in the Quran, with an entire chapter devoted solely to her), though to Muslims she had no Joseph, and she too was an independent single mother who struggled and persevered as a woman alone. Dear Men of The World: Mary didn’t need a man to survive, y’all.

Like the suck that I was and sometimes still am, I wanted a Christmas Tree.
Because…
They are so shiny and fluffy.
They smell nice
They come with presents.
They have a twinkling star.
Little elves live inside.
Angels sit atop them.
With one, I will fit in.

I argued that because I have a tree, I wouldn’t suddenly believe that Jesus died for my sins but rather that I own and am responsible for all of my choices; I will continue to believe that the way to Heaven is through God and good intentions; and, I will still accept into my heart all of the Prophets, including the unnamed ones.
Etc.

One year after the divorce, my mother caved and surprised me with an awkward Christmas Tree. Crooked. Small. Sad. But a Christmas Tree nonetheless. We covered it in shredded sparkly tinsel that got into every corner of our apartment. Pretty sure that at one point, I was nearly suffocated by a stray piece.

We added an angel on top that I may or may not have made out of a barbie. I sat and stared at the Christmas Tree for hours, and every night, I would turn its lights on and think: I belong!, which slowly morphed into: I belong?

Pretty sure it didn’t help that it was February.

I kept hoping that something in me would be transformed. That I would majically fit in with my surroundings. I was so adamant that I slept next to the tree, and though my mother might deny this, I maybe didn’t bathe for a few days. In short, I was a hysterical psychotic who quickly realized that belonging had nothing to do with objects, and everything to do with what we aligned our hearts.

From that very young age, I quickly recognized and accepted that when our actions are at balance and in-step with our belief system, we are presented with emotional calm inside of which we find clarity. This is when our hearts are at rest, when they are cradled perfectly in the tear-drop of God’s protective custody most fiercely.

This last while, things have served an emotional challenge because my heart is imbalanced. She is adrift.

Only a bit, because she is being dislodged by thought, rather than action.

For a girl who fights tooth and nail to live daily her beliefs, and not simply pay them lip service, I am being tested in a way I didn’t think imaginable. Had you told me last Fall that come Spring, I would be standing in front of this challenge, I would have checked for track marks between your toes.

But here I am.

Thinking how it was only recently that scientists confirmed the heart organ, like the brain, has neurons – over 40,000 in fact — and it communicates.

Isn’t that the most amazing thing?

Our
Hearts
Speak

…while listening to them is an active choice which we must make, tempered with responsibility for others and humility in general.

With all of the above, and as already mentioned, but here I am.

Heart and mind functioning at different rates, and to different rhythms. While I am doing my best to find the clarity so that I may also see a road ahead, I am too drunk on my heart’s message to do anything but sit quiet and ask Allah to clear the rubble over which I might trip and impale this little heart which otherwise hears Him so clearly.

Most important, that He might forgive me for the otherwise static.

“When I am silent,
I have thunder hidden inside.”
- Rumi

Comments closed.

I have recently been struggling with something I have never before dealt with. It is a very deep, visceral, and unkind reaction to someone I don’t know. This is a difficult thing to admit when I work so hard to always keep my heart as free of ink-stains as possible.

I have never been arrogant enough to assume that we can know everything (an arrogance which can never coincide with believing in God), and am respectful of the reality that around me, the women on both sides of my family have always been able to tap into things otherwise unexplainable.

For me specifically, it is dreams and intuition. Never, once have I ever been misled by either. Never. I actually can not make the statement any stronger than this, only because I can not find the language to do so.

On the dream front, I have it strongest of all the women in the family, and this has never been terrifying for me on any level, even when the dreams are giving what I don’t wish to receive.

As I have touched on before, but have not explained in any great detail, there is a very serious and deep dream interpretation tradition within Islam. When I dream, I pay very close attention to the message. Equally, when every bit of my body tells me to be on guard about someone, I pay even more attention, and always I have been thankful for the guidance and protection. I ignored these things when I was younger, and learnt the hard way that when the Universe is yelling, it is foolish and dangerous to put on my earphones.

Forget about the circumstance of how I came across this individual or what I know about them. Suffice it to say that they are not someone I have met, they do not reside in the same province, and they are neither dating nor married to someone I care about, so the chances of ever coming across them is next to none.

However, here’s what my body tells me about her:  she represents everything I stand against. She is someone not to be trusted. She is someone I would never want around my partner. She is the sort of woman to whom I would never turn my back.

This time, the ‘on guard’ is so magnified that it is making me physically nauseous. Whenever I come across this particular individual, my insides turn themselves inside out, and I am having great difficulty locking this shit down. Because I don’t think I actually should lock it down, because I believe there is a reason I am meant to be extra vigilant about this particular person’s presence. Even if I don’t foresee meeting this person, I imagine that this guttural thing which is happening is because our paths will cross sooner or later. And when they do, my signal is to be wearing a full suit of armour and seated inside of a tank with several snipers on the surrounding buildings.

Social networking sites have suddenly become a c/ntpunt.

And now you know I may be part (what North American contemporary culture would call) witch.

Last week, I was discussing the challenges of being a single woman in today’s world. We talked about what lessons should be taught to daughters and to sons and from that conversation comes this article. Below are my primaries, to which I invite you add yours either in the comments section or in a private email.

First and absolutely foremost for me would be the Oneness of God. Not Jesus, or Moses, or Buddha, or Muhammad, or whomever, but rather God. Not Jesus as God, but rather God. In his Oneness, exists our own. It is the recognition that no one is a sovereign (Hi Arabic Dictators!!), but that we both share, and are a shared humanity, outside of which none of us can sit alone. Rather, each one of us is an integral thread within it, and if I fray, so too will you.

So. I do my best to live this. And I would be a liar if I didn’t tell you that I have lost a man or two to women who behaved otherwise. And though I sometimes struggle with that, at the end of the day, 87.3% of the time, I am happier for my choices.

Ultimately, to hurt another is to hurt ourselves, and to improve the station of another is also to improve that of our own. What asshole would argue with this? Especially if every day we are working to ensure that our heart is kind and compassionate and still open to vulnerability?

Second,  you have enough problems on which to focus; don’t judge the behavior of others. And where you can’t help it, do your best to temper that judgement with compassion because your time will come.

Your time will come to fall and to hurt and to commit a really fucked up and devastating moral error. Trust in that reality because we are humans and our biggest gift from God is the freedom to choose, and sometimes that actually means “…to choose to do the wrong thing, and suffer the consequences.”

And when that happens, may you be surrounded by people who — though they may disagree with you — will put their arms around you and hold you as tight as you need and for as long as you need until you are whole again, with absolutely no judgement whatsoever.

Third, respect yourself. Always.

I have said that the amount of respect we afford others is a direct reflection of how much we respect ourselves. Even when we don’t like someone, we should still respect them, if for no other reason than we are all One (see Number 1 above).

And on the most powerful drivers defining the human condition…sex and love…

.X. Love with as open a heart as you possibly can. Keeping in mind the above foundations, do not act from a place of fear; do not shy away from what your heart might scream at you. We see God with our heart’s eye, so pay attention to your heart (but only in a healthy love, and not in an abusive one).

To the boys: Treat a woman and court a woman as you would like for your daughter to be treated.

To the girls: Expect to be treated as you would expect for your daughter to be treated, and no less than how your dad adores you still.

To both: Love is a two-way street, and you are both responsible for its maintenance. With that, sometimes even the greatest loves become disenchanted and disenchanting, and so long as you gave it your all and did your best, it is alright to walk away carrying only the best memories forward and into your next relationship. That something doesn’t last forever doesn’t mean that it — or you — are a failure, and where two people don’t evolve in a compatible way, it means that both of your paths are meant to grow in the presence of someone else’s love. Accept this with grace and go easy on yourself.

.Y. Treat your body like the playground that it is. But within confines, because as has been noted by endless many throughout the ages, sex is not merely physical. It is emotional and it is psychological before it is ever physical (at least the amazing sex is). If you choose to give it away at every turn, be cognizant of the repercussions which that will bring.

In Islam this is recognized fully, by the way, and sexing your partner as often as possible is aces and highly recommended, else He would not have given us “the orgasm,” or the multiple.

To the boys: Double bag it, and have patience. Never expect sex, never demand sex, never ever belittle or humiliate a woman with whom you have been intimate.

To the girls: Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait for the right man — not your first love, but rather the right love. Wait for the man who does not ask it of you; the one who does not expect it of you; the one who treats you and your body with the reverence you deserve.

To the both of you: Love of GOD, please don’t videotape or photograph yourselves. Please. Believe in the power of imagination instead, and leave some mystery to be desired. And, keep your mouths shut about the details. Look, we all need to speak to our BFFITWWW about the towers of experience in our lives and this is one of them. But out of respect for your partner, speak in general terms, not in specifics. (Also, see Number 3 above.)

.Z. As already mentioned, sex can be wielded as a weapon to oppress, manipulate, abuse, and harm women more than it can be used to do the same to men. Sex, when right, is the most incredible tool of communication, filled with warmth, kindness, loyalty, adventure, and a right good laugh.

Where it is the first, we need to teach our daughters that this is unacceptable, and we need to teach our sons that they are abusers when they behave in this manner. Absolutely under no circumstance is either acceptable.

Where it is the second, then by all means: indulge. And when you indulge, remember that you don’t have to sleep with them the first time, my love; and, you don’t have a de-facto obligation to sleep with them every single time after that. There is no room for coercion or obligation in the bedroom (or bathroom, or patio, or kitchen, or pier, or treehouse, etc.).

Sidebar: To those of you fundamentalist wanks who keep screaming that a woman is obligated to get busy with her husband whenever he so pleases — you are a rape rationalist and apologist. God has stipulated unequivocally that placed between a man and a woman is mercy, so if you need to get blasted, don’t simply demand it…try a massage. Or try cooking dinner. Or try running her a hot bath before you start angry yelling about her obligation to your man bits. (And if she still says no, then you need to chill your ass.) Please and thank you.

With all of the above in mind, I will close with one of my favourite quotes from Clarence Budinton Kelland, and leave the rest to your capable hands: “My father didn’t tell me how to live, he lived, and let me watch him do it.”

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Image courtesy of VoiceOfUnity(dot)com.

“Charity. To love human beings in so far as they are nothing. That is to love them as God does.”

“As soon as men know that they can kill without fear of punishment or blame, they kill; or at least they encourage killers with approving smiles.”

If you believe in humanity, compassion, awareness, and bearing witness to the pain of others, please help support this documentary. Read: Click here, and put your money where your belief is.

Thank you. Love you.
M
P.S. I am a part of this KickStarter campaign. I had a little Skype interview with the incredible Julia Haslett and you can see me raving in the above video at around the 3.55 mark. Clearly, I am a little excited about this doco.

The most important lesson I took from 2011, and which I have taken from every single year past is that life really and truly is precious cargo.

I am not one to begrduge another person’s hangnail, but rather prefer to nudge them to look at all of the amazing and incredible things they have, least of which is: life. Every single moment within our lives, even the most brutal pain has to be accepted as precious.

Sidebar: Some people reading this have been sexually assaulted as children. I can’t touch that, nor would I ever say that those moments are “precious.” What I can say is that YOU are precious, I am so grateful for your presence in my life, and I love you with every bit of my being. And if I were there when this was happening to you, I would have taken a crowbar to the men who inflicted such pain on your precious selves.

The darkest moments of this past year have been emotional, and I have been able to lift myself out sometimes alone, often times with the aide of the incredible individuals I have in my life. I do not live in an abusive environment, nor an oppressive one, nor a monetarily challenged one, alhamdulliLah. So really and truly, I am blessed, and everything above and beyond what I have is icing on the most decadent cake I can imagine.

A lot of the time, people send emails asking me how I do it. Specifically, “you seem so happy. How do you do it?” In short, here’s how…with the most important caveat that: it’s not fkn easy…
1. Most of my time is spent laughing at myself.
2. I am fiercely devoted to those I love, and with that comes a reciprocity (if not from them, then the Universe brings it back my way in some other incarnation). None of us are sovereigns, except the assholes.
3. I am genuinely happy for the success of others.
4. I give myself no more than three days to deal with a trauma. I figure that if we are to mourn death only three days, there is nothing in this world which should extend beyond that.
5. I struggle to ensure that there is neither hate nor bitterness anywhere in my heart. (Not even to those who hate me and tell me that my Faith is anything short of its beautiful self. Where these people are concerned, I only feel sorry for them, because hate is an ugly disease of the heart whose toxicity imbibes all aspects of who we are and how we see the world.)
6. I learn. Not knowing about something is another way of saying “I have been presented with a choice” to either fear it, or to learn about it. I choose the later.
7. I am never made happy by the pain or hurt of others, because I’m just asking for trouble if I do this (but this shouldn’t be confused with being pleased that someone has gotten theirs, deservedly, because everyone reaps what they sow, in time.)
8. I never allow my happiness to hinge on the hurt or pain of someone else. I am always amazed at how sick people are, who do this.

And most importantly…
9. I believe that Allah has my back. Simple. Even in the darkest recesses of pain, and even when I am angry with Him, and shaking my fist at Him and demanding WHY? and only coming up with “Because Allah knows best,” at the end of the day, within the corner of my little heart, I know He’s got me in the palm of one hand, and covering me with the other until there is no more from which to be protected. (And I floss.)

If you would like to share your own pillars of happiness, please do, as I would love to learn from you.

With the above, there are always things to change, to learn, to hone, to learn, to learn, to learn and to learn. As you enter into 2012, I am going to leave you with a lecture from my most favoured teacher. He speaks about our responsibility to our lives as precious cargo, and also our shared responsibility to our fellow humans, and to animals. You will be riveted. Trust.

Happy 2012.
You all are loved.

‘Verily, the most honored of you in the sight of God is the one who is most righteous.’ (Quran 49:13)

Each one of us defines “righteous” in a variety of ways, right down to the simplest thing, like helping someone on the street, or taking care of a best friend. Some people will argue that people should fend for themselves, and if someone is on the street, it’s because they deserve to be on the street, and so to help them is not to behave in righteous manner, but rather it is to enable.

The people who would argue the above are definitively: assholes.

Do you remember when you were growing up and people asked you what you wanted to be when you were older, and you said: “living on the street” or perhaps “sleeping beneath a bridge”?

No? Me either.

What about when you answered: “being alone!”

Yeah. Me either.

My mum tends to travel over the holidays, and most of my friends are usually out of town or at family Christmas dinners drunk and working out their issues. Basically, I have always been — more often than not — alone over the Christmas holidays. Almost everything is closed and a girl can only read so much and see so many films over the course of a few days.

Thing is, even though we don’t celebrate Christmas, I do love all of its accoutrements. On some level, the holiday resonates with me, and so when I’m alone, that resonance turns into sadness a little bit. I still remember last year, no one was even on-line or on bbm or over text. And I am someone who is very comfortable being alone, so imagine how bad it had to be for me to actually feel like it was too much.

A couple of tips for the holidays, which you should carry with you throughout your year if you can. (And please note, I am not at all comparing being inside, safe and sound and warm but alone, with being on the street. I am merely trying to make a connection for those of us who would never see a connection between ourselves and those who too many of us ignore on the streets.)

First, it’s the easy one: don’t leave your single friends alone. Surely, you must have room for one more. Surely.

To clarify: Possess enough emotional fkn intelligence to note that if they’re there for you 360 days a year, now is not the time to leave them alone. Even a simple “thinking of you” text message is better than nothing. And unless your fingers are broken, you need to do this, you morons.

There’s something really sad and alienating about being left alone at a time of year that’s meant to be about family, love, peace, and forgiveness. There is a reason that the highest rate of suicide happens around this time of year. And this is the time of year you are meant to be thankful and loving — that doesn’t only hold true for your blood kin. Don’t forget about us who may not have family in the City, or who may not normally celebrate Christmas and so are de facto outside of the circle of Noel.

Go through your friend list in your head, and you will find at least one person who fits this description. Now, make a point of reaching out to them and engaging them. Trust me on this one. Please.

Second, it’s the harder one, the more important one of this article: if a regular everyday Maha with a full social schedule and a loving circle of friends can feel so alienated and sad over the holidays, imagine someone who lives on the street. Imagine someone who is already alienated and troubled. The majority of homeless have come from childhoods of abuse — more often than not, it is sexual. Another great majority has mental health issues.

Don’t ever kid yourself about this fact: No one wants to live on the street by choice.

Here’s something I came across recently, which is amazing, and what better way to teach your children about righteousness, than by leading by example? (Thank you, MJ.)

“Guerilla Giving,” started (and still happening) by a garbage man in Edmonton:

Each year his family & friends fill backpacks for individual homeless people
In each backpack they include:
A wallet with $25.00 cash (optional if you don’t have it).
A personalised Christmas card, signed by the family.
Christmas treats and snacks or granola bars & lipton soup.
Things like long-johns, gloves, hoodies, tea light candles, thermos, toiletries.
They target individuals, not those in groups.
They avoid churches and shelters, as they want to give with no pre-condition.
They always shake their hand, or hug them, and wish them well before they leave them to open their packages.”

You don’t need to do this at Christmas. In fact, you don’t need a reason to do this at all, except maybe the active choice to be thankful for your shelter. To be thankful for your food. To be thankful for your ability to have a Christmas tree, at the foot of which your family sits. To be thankful that you were not abused. To be thankful that you do not have a reason to be on the street. To be thankful that you can purchase a backpack and fill it.

And aren’t these reasons truly in the spirit of Christmas? More so than the twenty gifts beneath your tree?

You don’t need to do this at Christmas. But I am placing my bets on this time of year, when people are meant to live within the spirit of this holiday, and I am betting that you may be a little more open to the above suggestions today than you would be on a random day in April.

I guess this coming year, maybe our resolutions should be on a foundation of: I resolve to not look away.

Happy holidays dear readers. Thank you for sharing your stories and your hearts, for uplifting mine when it has been prostrate on the ground, confused by Heaven’s will. May your season be filled with love, light, and warmth. And may you have the generosity to share these things with those less fortunate.

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Photo from FinancialJesus(dot)com.

In The Hands of God from Mustafa Davis on Vimeo.

At a time when y’all are preppin’ to throw down some cash in the name of Baby Jesus (♥ + peace be upon him), please consider extending your definition of family to include those whom you have never met, like Leford Kamoto. If you donate over the coming near three days, via the The Big Give, they will double your donation.

Also, please remember that while you spend many a night feasting this coming month, there remains a famine in East Africa. For those of you in Canada, you may donate through:
Oxfam
Human Concern International
or
CARE

Peace and love to you and yours.

This is one of the most amazing things I have seen in a very very long time. I just can not tell you how hard I love this, or the message within.

For me, the messages being:
1) You can not judge a book by its cover (which signals the very critical belief within Islam that only Allah is the Judge, as He is the only one who sees into the hearts of wo/man).
2) That all roads lead to Allah.
3) Islam as inclusion rather than exclusion. Which, I believe, is the message of each of the great faith traditions, until they are manipulated at the hands of humanity to meet political, class, gendered, and / or power ends.

“Since masculinity is defined through separation while femininity is defined through attachment, male gender identity is threatened by intimacy while female gender identity is threatened by separation.” -Gilligan

Women are defined through attachment.

Yesterday, I wrote that there is this thing which weighs me down. And yesterday, this very thing crushed me. This is something that happens from time to time, only yesterday was the first time I chose to write about it. Always and unequivocally, it is triggered by a conversation about marriage with my family. The last time it happened, I didn’t write about it, and instead spent eight days, evenings in bed falling asleep at 8pm. I promised myself I would never let that happen again, because my life is so f/cking blessed as is without a man and a stretched uterus and what a luxury that this is what depresses me, right?

Now. Because it is only when I understand things that I can put them to rest, and because I understand things best after I have written about them, I put fingers to keyboard and wrote about it.

Subsequently, I was overwhelmed by the love that people chucked at my head, and the incredible amount of women whose private messages amounted to shared war stories: “I hear you. I understand you. I too have had to fight this battle,” and also to the slightly more hysterical ones who wrote: “I hear you. I understand you. PLEASE DON’T GET MARRIED BECAUSE OH MY GOD I WANT YOUR LIFE AND TRUST ME YOU DON’T WANT MINE!!!!”

Two particular shout outs: First to SW who sent me statistical information on how most women who are murdered, are murdered at the hands of their spouses. Second, to JJ who very clearly hates her own children, and managed to make this hatred hilarious.

The bottom line is, I am relatively accomplished.

Measured by the same stick used to measure a successful man:
an excellent job and publications,
an exceptional higher education in an extremely difficult M.A. program,
property,
savings,
etc
I am well beyond accomplished.

Measured by the same stick used to measure a successful female:
wife,
mother
I am not so accomplished.

Couple the above measurements with my culture (not to be confused with my Faith), which says that completing our Faith is half of our deen (religion). Said another way: If unmarried, you are incomplete.

Here’s the reality: Islam does not discriminate.
And because I am a Believer, and God knows best, there is no way in hell that God would create such a discriminatory hierarchy within Islam, because Islam is the un-gendered discourse. There is the male, there is the female, and then there is the divine which is genderless.

In fact, there are 99 names of Allah, and the one to which Muslims refer to most, is al-Rahman (the most merciful), within which is rahm (womb). Reflect on that for a second, then get back to me.

To discriminate means to sideline and marginalize those of us who — for whatever reason — have not yet been married, or who never get married. And this is not my Faith.

And if the above logic isn’t enough for you…then how about…
Those who get married and then abuse their partners?
Or those who get married and then cheat but never get found out?
Or those who get married and then divorced and never marry again?
Have they completed their deen more so than those who simply never get married?

The f/ck it does.

As to the “science” which places all women at a disadvantage sooner or later, then to you I send a big fat hey! Remember the time you thought the earth was flat? Or the time you proved that “white people” were better? Or when you were adamant about the classical elemental theory? Or that time you believed ether was a carrier of light waves and radio waves?

One last time: Allah does not discriminate, and on any day, I will gladly take on anyone who speaks to the contrary.

Society however? Men and women will gladly create such a hierarchy, if only to make themselves feel better, while making others feel less. And men, as has been proved time and again, will decry it as their fitrah to shun the women with whom they are most compatible for those whose t/ts sit higher. But God, my God, the God who does not discriminate, and the God who does not favour one gender above another? He would never.

Those of you who believe that He would, then you need to re-situate and re-evaluate. And you need to ask yourself what part of your nafs it is that your perspective feeds, because my guess is it ain’t your piety.

So on most days I believe that, and I internalize it at a much louder frequency than the other side of that coin. But yesterday, the other side took my feet right out from beneath me.

Usually, unlike yesterday, and because I do believe that Allah knows best, I believe that whatever He has in store for me, it will be precisely so that I might reach my full potential. And the reality is, that my full potential may have absolutely nothing to do with marriage or having a child.

To be even more frank, looking at nine out of ten couples around me (Muslim, Arab, and not), on most days, I am pretty relieved I am not married. Because men? Well…they’re not all they’re cracked up to be when they perceive a woman disrespectfully as their property. And I would hazard that less than 5% of all men carry women in their hearts as Allah intended and instructed.

I wanted you to know this, because so many of you are worried about me. And though I was desperately sad yesterday, I am like one of those Bozo the Clown inflatable bop toys, filled with enough air to bounce back harder and faster than most. Only, I am prettier. Obviously.

Thank you.
Love you.
Owe you.

This morning, I woke up an underachiever.
Who still has not accomplished much of anything worth discussing or worth feeling good about.

This morning, I woke up worthless.
A useless bit of space not contributing to anything, or adding any sort of value to the lives of those around me or to my own life.

This morning, feeling like sh/t, I walked to work wiping tears, and catching my breath and repeating over and over and over “Allah knows best.”

And this morning, I thought about how I every day fight to live my life doing good and being good and respecting the rules and living within a toxic-free heart, and I do it out of nothing more than a love for Allah. And when I fail, it is because I am short on strength, not because He is ever short on Love and Guidance.

And this morning, I woke up confused by those who have not lived well and yet, they have been graced with the one thing — the only thing — I wish to have.
Because Allah knows best.

And this morning, I woke up thinking about that one time my cousin told me that women who don’t have children? Something changes in the composition of their brain. That they’re not “normal.”
Because Allah knows best.

And this morning, I woke up thinking about the biological imperative that men wave around: That they are naturally built to be attracted to young women.
Because Allah knows best.

And this morning, I woke up thinking about the fact that I have loved wrong but at the right time, and loved right but at the wrong time.
Because Allah knows best.

And this morning, I woke up thinking about all of the times I have been told don’t laugh so loud, have less of an opinion, pretend you don’t know, don’t argue even if he’s wrong, be less of what you are, look to the floor, do not aspire, stop at a Masters degree. Because most of the men of my culture? They do not like these things in women.
Because Allah knows best.

And this morning, I woke up thinking how everything above culminates into one single reality: That I have not yet found a partner with whom to play scrabble. And because I do not want a man of my culture, but rather a man of culture, because the men of my culture have made me feel less, too old, too strong, too opinionated, too Western, too this and too that, then this must mean I do not really and truly cross my heart and hope to die want to find my scrabble partner.
Because Allah knows best.

And this morning, I woke up recalling the advice that I should just get married, get pregnant and who cares about the rest? Because there are only two measures to successful living: A partner in my bed, and a used uterus.
Because Allah knows best.

And this morning, I woke up fighting all that I hate and all that I have internalized, thinking how I carry a weight so heavy that it crushes me on days like this, and on top of my own expectations I must also bear the weight of the expectations of my family because I need to be crushed a little more.
But Allah knows best.

Because Allah knows best.
Because Allah knows best.
Because Allah knows best.

So this morning I woke up battling myself, half as written above and half encased in “Allah knows best,” a suit of armour, a mantra of internalized glue to hold me together.
AlhamduliLah.

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The follow up article to the above is: Alright Bein’ The Single Non-White Female. (Trust.)

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Photo from employscoop(dot)com.

I have known some women who — while in the throes of preparing for their weddings — have praying mantis’d their partners.

I have never been a fan of weddings. In fact, I am among the few women who loathe weddings.

As a little girl, I imagined crossing the world with a partner in adventure; I did not imagine a wedding, but rather being a part of a team. I imagined calling my parents with the great news, and then assuring them I was not pregnant as response, that I had in fact waited until marriage to get down.

Truth be told, I have never been drawn to wedding dresses either, though maybe the tiara (which, I mean, I could wear anywhere). When I thought of partnering, I thought not of the wedding, but rather of the beautiful man who gets my mind and wants to raise babies with our shared value system while we make one another laugh. Occasionally we fight, and then he apologises. Obviously.

That said, I have always wanted a ring. I have always wanted that plain boring traditional gold band. Which I love so much, and which I have always wanted to see on my hand, knowing that it is from a man who has chosen me to be his booty call for life, because that’s just the kind of romantic ideal to which I aspire.

But then recently, my world was dislodged.
B informed me that the ring situation? It is not a Muslim tradition.
My father confirmed this, and then laughed when I became visibly upset.
In fact, really very devout Muslims do not wear bands.
(CATHOLICS!! CALL ME!! (I am totes single, and I heart Jesus (blessings and peace be upon him).)

Listen, I know what you’re going to say, that just because it is a Christian tradition, it doesn’t mean we can’t adopt it. And we have, in fact.
But I am still stressed out entirely by this news, because I can not un-know it, now that I know it.
It’s not a sin; so it’s not like if I request a ring, I will burn in hell. But still, this really upset me.

I can not explain to you the ‘why’ of it, only to say that now that I know it is not a part of Muslim tradition, I feel dumb for wanting it. I feel foolish in my hope for a little slim gold band given to me by my partner, and I can not get over this impasse, because I want to carry something tangible from my man. I want to always have something on me, an anchor if you will, which grounds me to the man who calls me his woman. That may sound Neanderthal to some, but this is a solid want in me, one of the few physical things I have ever consciously wanted, in fact. And trust me, I am not a “wanter,” I have never been a big consumer, opting instead for experiences rather than things. But this? This is different.

And it may have to do with my parents being divorced. Before which, my father gave my mother a little golden ring with a heart on it, inscribed on the inside was that he loved her. This ring she gave to me after the divorce, and I wear it on a chain around my neck; a chain which is never removed, a chain on which there is one other ring and Allah. For the longest time, I wore this ring hoping that one day I would be able to give it back to my mum.

Even though their marriage has dissolved fully, and even though there will never ever be reconciliation between them and I will never be able to hand this ring back to her, the ring still represents something extremely visceral and tangible to me, the daughter of this divorce. Bottom line is, at one point, this ring was real, and so were the sentiments inscribed within.

Although perhaps? Perhaps I should aim for a date with a man before I start worrying about the specifics of what he will / will not let my infantile side have so that she may not pout every time she looks down at her left NUDE hand. And we all know — nudity in public is haraam.

Boo.
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Photo courtesy of the brilliant Cathy Thorne, who gave the world Everyday People Cartoons — Cartoons about women, and the people who love and annoy them.

To Mothers
By Baraka Blue

To those mothers who buttered sandwiches
and lit loves lanterns when
sweet dreams turned into nightmares-
and cloaked us in radiant safety net bear hugs under covers and
sacrificed many a-night sleep like a coat over a puddle so our pillows stayed dry
and evaporated tears when we would cry, and
smiled at the clouds till they bowed gracefully to a blue sky
and answered all the times we asked, “why?”

to all those mothers who allowed faces to hide in pant legs
when we were shy
from strangers or neighbors or distant
family members who just wanted to say, “hi”
and who explained with true amazement
the transformation of a caterpillar to a butterfly

to those mothers who peanut buttered sandwiches,
and read books… over.. and over… and over again.
until she could noose Dr. Seuss
but when that, “please, mommy, please” eyes plead mouth squeezed chubby cheeks… gapped teeth
her heart melts and she reads….
just one more time.
and those words become sweet in her mouth because that warm
ball of innocent trust in her
curls up on her shoulder and she knows no sound sweeter than hearing him breathe.
and when the breathing gets deep… she looks deep into that glowing innocence and her heart weeps with overwhelming mercy-
for she is accessing the feeling nearest to God a human being can experience.
Love.
unconditional mercy… compassionate love.
true selfless, gentle, nurturing, life giving, soul cleansing, spirit raising,
Love.

for all those mothers who buttered sandwiches
and taught young boys in a society so sick and deprived of Love- to Love
and young girls to find Love deep within themselves and watered seeds to full flown flowers unfolding petals gracefully in concrete habitats and old rusty ramshackle shacks in any desert or countryside anywhere and everywhere that mothers…
butter sandwiches
or split coconuts, or make curries, or milk goats,
or steam rice, or warm bottles on stoves, or microwaves,
or hang clothes on lines in the sunshine

this is for those mothers…
who raise children to be lovers
and let youngins hog all the covers
and go to sleep last
making school lunches
and wake up first making breakfast and assembling outfits
who struggle and strain and bear the pain and don’t complain…
but smile.

this is for mothers
who had to be fathers…
and mothers….
and had to hide tears because there was no time for her own
when she was wiping away everyone else’s
this is for mothers… who never knew selfish
and never felt they deserved a congratulations, or a celebration, or a high station, or a standing ovation
but you do….
all of you.

and this is for mothers who bore abuse…
both physical and mental… from men who…
had mothers too… who raised them like you
but forgot what you taught…
and this is my pledge.
I promise I will not. ever. forget.
for every woman is a potential mother… and is a daughter who was an innocent ball of trust
who was held by a mother
who buttered sandwhiches…
if she was lucky.
and if not, all the more reason to treat her
like a mother would treat her….
who loved her
and peanut buttered sandwiches.

and this is for my mother. the one i owe love to.
because you are the one i know love through.
you are the closest thing I’ve ever known to purity.
to sincere over-whelming, overpowering, unconditional love and mercy over flowing
from your heart through your eyes when you look at me.
everything good in me
is from you.
and it is such an understatement to say….
but it is the most powerful thing language can display….
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.

Every day is mothers day. Happy Mother’s Day

Love,
your baby boy

If you are Muslim, I need you to today please read Al-Fatiha for a little baby named Youssif, only three months, flown up to heaven this early morning. If you are not Muslim, please send your love in an easternly direction to Gaza, to first-time mum named Ola and first-time dad named Salaam.

Ola is my baby cousin, and I didn’t think my heart could break this hard or this much for a little person I had only seen in photos. This is my family, and I need you to give her your heart today. Thank you. Love you each and all.

Comments closed.

A little girl, asked where her home was, replied, “where mother is.” ~Keith L. Brooks

Often, I have teased my mum about the weird seeds she saves in her fridge. Every once in a while, she’ll pull out a little baggie filled with stuff and share a story that usually begins with a fruit or vegetable in her family’s garden in Gaza.

On October 25th, 1999, her mum passed away. I don’t remember what happened, I can not tell you where I stood or how I learned of this news, because I was too terrified to let it register. I was too terrified by the pain inside of my mum, which I could not remove.

The blocking runs so deep and so extreme, it is as though an entire few weeks of my life have been omitted. In this, there is heartbreak for me. Because no matter the trauma we experience, and the hurt we carry, from everything there is a lesson to be learned, and I didn’t learn mine.

What I remember is what I see still.
Sometimes, even 12 years later, my mum cries over this loss, and tonight was one such night.

Oct 25, 1999.

The photo here is of dried mulukhiyah, ‘jute’ in English, leaves cooked quite often in a Middle Eastern home. Tonight, my mum was in search of this little baggie filled with dried mulukhiyah, and was sent into a panic when she couldn’t find it. I didn’t pay much attention to her fuss and casually directed her to a drawer, in which this baggie was safely tucked.

She pulled it out and held it to her own heart, catching her breath, calming herself.

The leaves were picked, cut, and dried before October 25th, 1999. The mulukhiyah was prepared by her mum for a meal she would never cook, but which her daughter would savour 12 years later.

Have you ever tasted anything better than your mum’s cooking?
Neither have I; nor has she.

Having gone to Gaza very shortly after her mum’s death, she found this small bag inside the fridge, and asked if she could bring it to Canada. It has survived the Rafah Border crossing at Egypt. It has been been transferred across from our old apartment, to two refrigerators in her new home.

I didn’t share in this dish tonight, rather thinking it was best to let mama have a private dinner with her mum.

Allah yir7amik, ya teeta.

I recently wrote something, of which the following is a small bit. I never made it public because it felt too raw and because I was arguing with myself while I was typing it out as in essence, I didn’t really believe what I was writing:

I just don’t care anymore. Not about any of it. Nothing really matters > not who we are, or who we aspire to be or how hard we try and how much we care. Nothing really matters, not anywhere and not anytime.

I’m exhausted and struggling and I’m exhausted of struggling.

Tonight, I’m shaken to my core and I’m terrified.

I woke the next morning still arguing with myself re the above sentiments and I decided to go a-mosque-ing because I felt as though I were being fragmented awake.

I went early and the doors were locked. I banged and banged and went from door to door but no one came. I prayed outside behind the mosque and laid my forehead to the pavement and cried. I felt so alone and I was terrified and shaking and incapable of taking a proper breath because I didn’t know what – if anything – could start to heal the fragments floating within me.

It began to rain while I was praying, and in this way, He guided me back into my car. As I was pulling out of the parking lot, a gentleman was unlocking the door to the mosque. I rolled my window down and he greeted me with the friendliest ‘Al-salamu alaikum, sister!’, his voice dropping at the sight of my tear stained face, and red scratches across my forehead. Immediately, he gestured for me to ‘go go, park, sister, and then come in. You will have the mosque to yourself. Come, come!’

My exhaustion had nearly left me incapable of the physical capacity to stand, but I managed to pray five 2 ruk’as as I had intended.

Something happened while I was doing this. Something that’s never happened before in any of the times or any of the places I have prayed. Something that worked to carry me through the rest of my prayers and something that has carried me since.

I was moving to stand between one of the ruk’as and in that singular moment, I felt grounded. I actually and quite literally felt rooted. The mosque was my home; I was home and I was at complete and total peace. I understood who I was and what I was and I was finally calmed.

The night I was writing frantically the fragment I share with you above, was a night that found me defining Me not by who and what I was, but by exactly what I was not. I was mired in misery. Having experienced that, I can say that I don’t think there’s anything more challenging than not knowing who we are except, perhaps, when we define ourselves by what we are not. A negative positive, if you will. I never want to relive that night and I plan on fighting those sentiments tooth and nail if they ever turn their ugly faces my way again. Because of their hate-filled, they were crushing my insides.

Reading the sentiments that saw me move to mosque the following morning, I feel an overwhelming sorrow for the terrified girl who wrote those words, but…after praying, she was leaving the mosque and was met by the brother who ushered her in.

He was waiting, concerned, wanting to make certain she was okay and when she smiled, he said ‘Alhamdulilah’ before he introduced her to his four year old son who, through the smoothest chocolate skin, turned his curly eyelashes up her way and smiled to mend her heart.

When she got into her car, she started crying for a whole other set of reasons, for each of which she could only say ’Alhamdulilah’.

———-
If there’s anything to take away from this post apart from boredom, it’s that we all fight and we all struggle and we all most definitely hurt, but…we’re all, at the end of the day, are actually okay (in North America, where we need not worry about bombs and water and famine, etc). If not today, then tomorrow. Give yourself a break and the room to be fragmented; you will come out prettier on the other side, as t is through healing scars that we find our strengths and there is no greater beauty than that.

Originally published 07/07/17.

I box twice a week and do my absolute best to make every single class. Short of there being a natural disaster like a flat tire or exhaustion from the donation of blood, I get to class as a nod of respect to my word and to my coaches.

Approximately three weeks back, I was lazy and considered not attending class. Lucky that I went because that evening was the first one in a week that I slept like a (bad ass boxing) baby.

After finishing class, I had to walk through the weight area (hia, fellas!) to reach the change room. The first thing I saw was a man in a wheelchair. I’m not sure of the specifics of his paralysis, but by the atrophy of his arms, I think perhaps that he was once a partial quadriplegic who slowly regained the use of his arms. He was strapping one arm into the weight machine very slowly.

I didn’t catch anything beyond that because I’m not a complete idiot and didn’t wish to stare. Only people who smoke hashish would have stared. Or so I hear. Also, because over the course of the two seconds I used when I glanced at him, something caught in my chest, made its way to my throat and then exploded. I had started to cry.

As I am drenched in sweat by the end of class and usually look as though I forgot to take my clothes off before stepping into the shower, no one could see tears streaming down my face. I quickly bowed my head and ducked into the closest washroom. And I cried. And cried. And kept crying, weeping actually, because I had lost all control.

Boxing for me is a luxury I love to indulge. Truth be told, I don’t think about the healthy dimension it adds to my life – most important for me are that it attacks all of the stress in my life, kicking the shit out of it, and as equally important, vanity. Boxing makes my arms pretty and keeps my bottom fitting neatly into a size six jean.

(And on that note,

Dear Anna Wintour,

You recently plastered across an issue When Size 4 is too big: a curvy model’s struggle to fit in. You, without your carbs, are a sad and unhealthy creature, and I pray that you will soon be force-fed hamburgers, fries and much chocolate cake for your support and spread of such a devastating body image for the sisterhood.

Bite me,
Maha)

All I could think was how I had nearly not showed up because I had been tired. I had been tired and had considered not attending class, and instead taking my lazy self home and relaxing, while there is this amazing and incredible man who can barely move, who can barely make the smallest of movements, fighting and struggling to do just that, at the gym, busting his ass because he has to. Neither for vanity nor stress, but out of necessity.

He did it.
Repeatedly, he does it.
He makes it to the gym and fights his own body in order to rise above the paralysis one millimetre at a time.

I am still struggling to understand why it affected me as much as it did – even writing this has me near tears. I think, partly it’s because I am beyond expression moved by his strength, which outweighs my own, and also because somehow that little window that opened and let me look into his life was one filled with hope.

Before walking out of the washroom, I knew that I had to start getting to class for a different reason; out of respect for this man’s personal fight, because where he does not have the luxury of lazy, then nor should I.

I try my best not to take for granted anything, but mobility wasn’t something I had noticed before this day.

Now when I move and walk, and I am impatient walking behind the elderly (not to be confused with a slowpoke who still needs to MOVE IT), I check my impatient b!tch self and remember to respect all aspects of what I have, including the luxury to move freely and quickly on my own two feet, Alhamdulilah.

Consider doing the same.

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Photo courtesy of one amazing Antitude.

Originally published 09/12/16.

I was at a stop light watching a child who couldn’t have been older than four years old.

She was holding on to her father’s hand and hanging, legs and arms limp, then swaying, pulling, dropping her bottom back and her feet up, but never falling, occasionally looking up at her father and laughing in that way which only children can manage so casually.

The honest one that comes from deep inside their tummies.

She believed that grip was the only thing in the world she required to make her happy and safe.

I watched this little girl knowing that my father is the wall which protects me from the winds, the floor which protects me from the mud, and the roof which protects me from the rain. Once we become parents, the onus rests squarely on our shoulders to be the protectee rather than the protected. Recently, I have wished and prayed that I possessed the ability to be the reflection of this to him, but I could not; as his daughter, I will ever be swinging on his hand laughing.

Selfishly, I sometimes wish I could pass before my parents as I am incapable of understanding a world without them. And I guess this is where Faith kicks in strongest. Today, my parents too are children hanging and swinging from the hand of God…which is where I will eventually be, once they have crossed the bridge into Truth.

I love you, baba.

RIP Poppa Lloyd Wilson; may God’s embrace and mercy be all that our collective imagines it to be, multiplied by a million.

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Comments closed.

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 (or anybody else) 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, very few 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. And I will stand next to her and protect her should she choose accordingly in a hostile 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, 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.)

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Originally published 10/07/19.

Within the Quran rests utter indivisibility between faith and good works. (This is a critical point in Islam, and it differentiates religion from secular humanism.)

To grow within Islam, one must nurture and develop both of these aspects within the self. It is perhaps during this most important month for Muslims that one can see the reality of this. Were you to walk through the streets of any Muslim country, you would be met with the following…

Homes have in their front yards placed tables and tables of food, doors opened for anyone who wishes to step in and break fast at that location. There are no questions asked and no fees imposed; no one cares if you are fasting, no one knows how much money you have in your pocket, or what your name is and no one asks if you’re a Muslim.

At all mosques the world over, local Muslim families donate food and drink (or money to this end) to feed those who choose to break fast in the mosque. Although this takes place in all mosques across the globe, it is perhaps in Saudi Arabia felt most profoundly because of the sheer numbers involved. At ‘Masjid Al-Haram’ – where the Kabaa is located – nightly, at least one million Muslims break fast together in the Masjid over dates and milk, then pray maghrib (the 4th prayer of the day) together before they sit together to chat, ending their time together praying isha (the 5th and final prayer of the day).

This serves as only one example of the message of unity in community repeated and so deeply rooted within the message of Islam.

Precisely because we’re not here discussing secular humanism, this then must go hand in hand with faith. For Muslims, this ‘unity’ is the reflection of God Himself. From Him everything comes and to Him everything returns. Every. Single. Thing.(1)

This unity may be better expressed as the ‘Oneness’ of God, within which rests a deeper message for those interested in hearing and reflecting: the Oneness of humankind.

Malcolm X’s penetrating gaze saw and articulated it best: ”During the past eleven days here in the Muslim world, I have eaten from the same plate, drunk from the same glass and slept on the same rug — while praying to the same God — with fellow Muslims, whose eyes were the bluest of blue, whose hair was the blondest of blond, and whose skin was the whitest of white. And in the words and in the actions and in the deeds of the white Muslims, I felt the same sincerity that I felt among the black African Muslims of Nigeria, Sudan and Ghana.”

“We were truly all the same (brothers) — because their belief in one God had removed the white from their minds, the white from their behavior, and the white from their attitude.”

“I could see from this that perhaps if white Americans could accept the Oneness of God, then perhaps too, they could accept in reality the Oneness of Man — and cease to measure, and hinder, and harm others in terms of their differences in color.”

As already mentioned, within the Quran rests the utter indivisibility between faith and good works. Further to this, and important to Muslims (of no consequence to those who are not) is that ”faith should inspire righteous deeds, which, in turn, should nurture a more profound experience of faith, which should incline one to greater acts of goodness, and so on, with each a function of the other, rising in a continuous increase.” (Even Angels Ask, Jeffrey Lang, 35-37.)

As Lang goes on to describe, following are some examples of universally recognized virtuous acts:
Showing compassion. (2:83; 2:215; 69:34)
Being merciful. (90:17)
Forgiving others. (42:37; 45:14; 64:14)
Being just. (4:58; 6:152; 16:90)
Protecting the weak. (4:127; 6:152)
Defending the oppressed. (4:75)
Acknowledging wisdom. (20:114; 22:54)
Being generous. (2:177; 23:60; 30:39)
Being truthful. (3:17; 33:24; 33:35; 49:15)
Being kind. (4:36)
Being peaceful. (8:61; 25:63; 47:35)
Loving others. (19:86)

The one glaringly obvious link between all of them is that in order for us to commit them and grow in virtue, we must bind ourselves – via these acts – to others. Our own sense of self is directly linked to humankind. For a Muslim, humankind is further linked to God. (As stated earlier: Within the Oneness of Him is the Oneness of humanity.)

To understand this more deeply, extend this example to the famed Sufi perspective on love: one does not truly love until they call to their other by calling to themselves.

Essentially, one does not experience the fullness of love until one can see through the eyes of their lover and vice versa. Taken further, that means bringing into one’s own heart the pain and happiness and struggles of their partner. Experiencing love as the Oneness of the two, may be the fullest and deepest way to experience the love shared. No doubt challenging, but the rewards one-thousand fold gratifying.

For those who believe, raise your stakes this month and keep the above list with you – remind yourself to be patient and to make your heart bigger. Do it for yourself, for your faith, and for your community.

The bigger your heart, the warmer your community, the better you will be. Always remember that your relationship to God is empowered and strengthened by your relationship with humanity, and vice versa.

To those who don’t believe, do the same, only for the sake of your brothers and sisters in humanity. Whether or not you believe that God exists, you can not deny that community remains…and community is a reflection of you. Render it healthy and find relief within the space you’ve nurtured.

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(1) So then the obvious question becomes: Why not cut out the middle-man (God)? As with everything, this is an option, obviously. But, for Muslims, the ‘middle-man’ is an inherent part of the equation. I’ll try my best to articulate how Muslims view this particular circumstance:

(a) One has the choice to either
Believe in the existence of God, thereby entering into a relationship with Him

Or

Not believe in His existence, thereby not engaging in that relationship.

(b) As a Muslim, you believe that God exists.

(c) This very belief naturally turns you towards God and makes you party to a relationship with God.

(d) The relationship with God is strengthened by your relationship with humankind, and vice versa.

Whereas a secular humanist would erase God from the above equation, a Muslim chooses to engage in that relationship instead.

The following example will make sense more to a Believer than a non-Believer because it presupposes the existence of God, but I’ll throw it out there anyway: An analogy to the relationship between wo/man and God is the relationship between child and parent.

That both child and parent are, doesn’t necessitate an engaged (if any) relationship. For the relationship to be it’s most successful, neither one of these parties must have their backs turned to the other, but rather they must embrace one another and live out the fullness and potential of the love shared and found within that relationship.

Muslims – at least my understanding of Islam and how I try to live my life – perceive the relationship between themselves and God as precisely this sort of a relationship. Furthermore, Muslims believe that God is always facing each individual, but the choice to reciprocate that rests solely with the individual in question. And as the Quran clearly states, there is no coercion in religion and so the movement to face God and enter into that relationship is one that must be done entirely by the freedom of choice possessed by the individuals themselves (and in fact, interestingly enough: the Quran indicates that most of humankind will turn away from this very relationship).

Originally published 07/09/16.

As with the months of Ramadan past, I usually take this time to focus on faith matters. To present a slight logic to the ordering of what I will post, I think it’s best to start with the very core of Islam, the basis, the foundation upon which everything else is built. Essentially, it is the entry into Islam: the Shahada (rhymes with ‘armada’).

Unlike most other traditions, the entry into Islam is quite likely the simplest. It is the articulation of a few words in front of witnesses (two at minimum, I believe). This is the formal way, because I would argue that in keeping with the essence of Islam, one can be a Muslim in their heart quietly, before articulating it aloud.

This, I believe is because of a Muslim’s unhindered relationship with God – so, for example, Muslims are judged not on the outcomes of their actions, but rather on their intentions. The underlying message being that whereas wo/man – for the most part – judge what they see, God alone judges by what no one else can see: the intentions in one’s heart.

Another example of this is that there does not exist within Islam the concept of ex-communication. So, you see a man who professes to be a Muslim but does not pray, does not fast, does not pay zakaat – then you as a wo/man may not be the judge of him. You never possess the power to say: “You are not a Muslim”.

Furthermore, Muslims have neither clergy nor confession. There are both male and female scholars who dedicate their lives to extrapolating from within the Quran and the traditions of the Prophet greater expressions and laws for Muslims, but they are to guide, rather than to serve as God’s representatives on earth. No one has a more direct ‘line’ to God, no one speaks in God’s voice, no one forgives in God’s place.

Each and every single individual has – should they choose it – a direct line to God. When you turn towards God, that’s your open source. Period.

Back to the Shahada, which is rooted in the Arabic verb ‘to testify’. For the longest time, people would represent the Shahada as comprising the following two statements:
“La ilaha illa Allah” / “There is no god but God” &
“Sayidina Muhammad rasool Allah” / “Muhammad is the prophet of God”

Recently, I’ve been engrossed in reading more about this in order to widen and deepen my understanding of my own faith. I came across a very interesting concept, which I think deserves further enquiry. The idea being, there are in fact three parts to the Shahada, as follow:
“There is no god”
“But God”
“Muhammad is the prophet of God”

…and the more I think about that, the more it makes sense to me. Because this entire life is about choice. The ebb and flow of us is so greatly rooted in the cause and consequence of our choices – a charge from which no one is free and serves to speak equally to the beauty of the human condition as it does to the root of its greatest struggles and pain.

For most of us, we are born into a tradition that we never question. We are born Muslim, Jewish, Christian, Buddhist, Hindu, etc. and most of us live our lives passively reflecting the choices of our parents but never actively choosing which one suits us most, which one moves us and resonates most deeply within us.(1)

Based precisely on the above, I think to understand that the Shahada is in fact three-fold, is critical. In this way, it becomes the expression of a choice made based on critical thought and from a clean slate. It is to toil, before you conclude. It is to struggle, before you believe.(2) In any situation (not solely faith oriented), the freedom to choose and the choice made are perhaps the most empowering expressions of one’s self.

So, to those of you who believe, then I say: constantly renew your faith. Challenge yourself; you already know what your core is, and confidence comes from that awareness. You know your principles and your values and your ethics, and so you should harbour no fear in facing challenge. To those who are scared they might lose themselves; you will only be lost if you never knew yourself to begin with.

What will happen is that you will grow from this challenge, as I have seen myself grow over the last several months and I hope, Inshallah, for the rest of my life.

For those of you who are uncertain, the chances that you were born into one tradition or another is much more likely than not. And so you I applaud because you have already made an active choice that is fully and completely your own rather than one imposed on you by environment. May you too continue to challenge yourself and may that journey always be a safe one.

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(1) According to the US Census Bureau, approximately 85% of the world’s population has one tradition or another. The other 15% defined as agnostic, atheist, secular humanist or ‘none’. Half of this 15% category define themselves as ‘theists’ but non-religious.

(2) Here, I think the key is to search for something – be it a tradition such as Islam, Christianity, Judaism or the absence of one, such as agnosticism. Seek what’s out there, find the one that stimulates and resonates and moves you, and then pursue further knowledge in order to satiate the original desire born of the search. I did this in my early twenties and have been doing a great deal of this in the last perhaps three years. It is exhausting, but the rewards of it and the confidence stemming from knowing yourself is truly immeasurable.

The image presented above is Arabic Islamic calligraphy of the Shahada.

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Originally published 07/09/14.

And I responded with the following email, which I 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, like the Jewish one, is a lunar one. As such, and unlike the Gregorian (Christian) calendar, the dates are never solidified, but rather shifting, so the beginning of Ramadan precedes its last year’s beginning day by 11 days.

Say Ramadan 2009 began on August 12, then Ramadan 2010 will usually fall on August 1.

- In Islam, there are 5 pillars of faith:

(1) Declaration that there are no gods but God and that his final prophet is Muhammad (which, intrinsically also means that as a Mulsim, you must believe in all prior Prophets beginning with Abraham, and including Moses, Noah, Jesus (peace be upon them), etc., and also believe that there are over 250,000 Prophets who came down to mankind and whose names have been lost. This to me is God’s way of asking Muslims to respect all faith traditions, no matter what or who they come from since we can never be certain whether that individual (i.e., Buddha) was a Prophet whose message was lost / skewed by mankind over time);

(2) Paying an annual tax to the needy (they do not have to be Muslim and it most definitely does not have to be to a Mosque). I believe that on the highest rank of ‘needy’ is clearly indicated the orphaned. Specifically, one must pay 2.5% of the value of their *unused* assets;

(3) Fasting during the month of Ramadan, which means no eating, smoking, drinking (not even water or gum) from sunrise until sunset. No sexing, either during this same time, and if one is pregnant, menstruating or in poor health, then they are excused from the fast;

(4) Prayer five times a day; and,

(5) Performing Hajj once in your lifetime if you are able and have the money. Where one has neither, then the *intent* to perform Hajj is considered enough before God.

(The above are not to be confused with the 5 articles of Islam, in which a Muslim must believe, and are: (1) Belief in God (obviously); (2) Belief in Judgement Day; (3) Belief in the books of revelation (Torah, Bible & Qur’an); (4) Belief in God’s archangels (Gabriel, Azrael, Michael); and (5) Belief in the messengers (Prophets).)

Fasting is the only one item of the 5 pillars for which God did not give Muslims a clear “why.” The others were all explained; fasting is said to be done for Him. Full stop. To the inquisitive and curious that may not be enough of a reason – for me, specifically, and so I understand it as a means to:

(a) hone my self discipline (fasting is no easy matter – but at the end of the 29 or 30 days, you wake up and think: I can do *anything*) and self-control. Essentially reaffirm that I am the master of my body, rather than slave to it.
(b) understand that it is a *luxury* to walk to the sink and grab a glass of water when we’re thirsty. That it is a blessing to feel hungry and run out and grab a burger or a pizza or a fruit, etc. When we consider the levels of poverty and death from starvation that occur at a sick rate on an hourly basis – this understanding is unmatched and critical in a day when apathy seems rampant.
(c) In the last few years, Ramadan 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.

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

But for the video, the above was originally posted on 09/09/10.

The saying “Paradise is at the feet of mothers” is rooted in the following:

A man asked the Prophet Mohammed whether he should fight in a war. To this, the Prophet asked if the man’s mother was still alive. When the man answered that she was indeed still alive, the Prophet responded with “(Then) stay with her, for Paradise is at her feet.”

I have just come home from saying goodbye to my mother. She’ll be in the Gaza Strip for the next month, and I already miss her so much it’s almost unbearable.

There’s no person on this earth who could provide me the sort of calm, kindness, shelter and warmth that my mother can. I hate that I won’t be able to crawl into bed with her when I’m too tired to fall asleep alone…

She is the only one who knows my darkest secrets and thoughts, the only one I fear to disappoint, the only one I would kill to protect. She’s also the only one who has never ridiculed even the most ridiculous of my feelings…and she’s never once not forgiven me for the most unforgivable actions.

There have been fights, yelling matches, angry words, threats and all of the usual suspects that make up a relationship of 31 years. But. Everything I am is because of her and the mere thought of losing her, breaks me.

I don’t want this to be a sad blog entry, and so I will share a funny scenario which occurred as I was driving her to her destination earlier this day. She recently acquired a global mobile phone (for safety while she is crossing the Rafah border into Gaza) that she’s still learning how to use.

She sat in the car and explained how she was having trouble accessing her voicemail. I asked her to walk me through the steps she followed in order to retrieve her messages. When the “voicemail lady” asked her for her P.I.N. number, my mother started chattering into the phone. For a moment, I had no idea what she was doing, until I realised that she was under the misimpression that she had to say her P.I.N. number aloud, rather than actually key it into the mobile. I was laughing so hard I nearly crashed my car.

She’s an incredible woman. Not to mention an absolutely (& sickeningly so) stunning woman. This photo was taken when she was my age (her eyes are a very unique shade of pale green that I have yet to see on anyone else):

…they took this photo of me on the same day:

Read here if you’re interested in learning more about (specifically) mothers in Islam…

Thanks to my Fiery M for the inspiration.

(Originally published: 06/01/06)

Dear Kirk Cameron,

My infantile crush was on the cartoon character Orion Quest of Grendizer. On occasion, I find myself still humming the show’s tune, and would today argue that Grendizer far outdoes Transformers.

NERDS! WE ARE ALL CAPS DISAGREEING.

When I matured, I developed my first ever really true-and-tried-though-never-tested crush on you, convinced that I was in the throes of passionately heady and unrequited love. This, well before you found your version of God and decided that humans have only been around for, like, 17 years or something.

When mum and dad punched one another in the marriage, I decided to take advantage of the wound which had swallowed my mother whole. (What can I say? She was vulnerable, and I wasn’t v nice.)

I breached the subject matter of moving to Los Angeles (Beverly Hills specifically) and dating you. I was so mindful and devoted to this idea that I drew up a contract on a napkin and made mum sign that I would be allowed to date you when we moved to L.A. Naturally, the dating would have been ever-lasting and we would have been married. I was 13.

I would have mailed you a copy of the contract, only I have now deleted your name and inserted Alex O’Loughlin’s instead accidentally flushed it away, which begets the inevitable: What if?

Having matured, I now know that we would have been ill-fated, you and I. You, eventually calling me a terrorist, while I repeatedly asked: Why tf are you scared of science?, and quickly following it up with: MUSLIMS HEART JESUS (pbuh)!!

Right. So yesterday, my Boss Lady told me that it’s not necessary for me to say everything out loud. Something about an inside voice. Because of her encouragement, I thought to write you this letter because surely, this is one quality — ♥ing you, Kirk Cameron — which I should never hide.

Love,
Maha
P.S. I believe in dinosaurs. See you in hell!

Comments closed.

As hard as I tried, I never saw beyond the squiggles of an austereogram and for a while was convinced — like a die-hard conspiracy theorist — that no one saw anything and that they were liars all a part of the charade. Also, that they were likely v high.

I don’t possess whatever capacity is required to suspend my eyes into not focus. My natural instinct is to see something and lock on it rather than looking past it.

Which is a metaphorical way of saying: my perspective can be really fkd.

I have always been an optimist. Some would argue: to a fault. And by “some,” I mean all of my pessimist friends whom I lovingly call a.sholes behind their backs. JUST KIDDING, YOU GUYS!! CALL ME!!

Exasperatingly, I obsessively believe that perspective is the primary key to our happiness, and that 90% of the pain we experience is self-mutilation brought on by our own chosen perspective. When we are facing trying work, relationship, friendship, or school situations, but not when we are having bombs dropped on our heads. Obviously, I am not fool enough to rumble on about how Iraqis ought to see the bright side: they no longer need wrecking balls.

When we have a sh.t situation settle itself into our life, we have to decide whether it will crush us for months and maybe years, or whether we’ll only allow the pain, confusion, and anger to settle in for a few weeks before we then pick up our sh.t, walk to the other side of the situation in order to bury it with a quick “thanks much for getting that sorted and out of my life for me.”

Listen. Before any of you start yelling at me, let me state the obvious: I live a v cushy and lush life. I am blessed and exist without real trauma or pain, but this isn’t reason enough to discount my perspective (see what I did there?) because pain and hurt are relative.

That said, by no stretch does my belief mean that I don’t stumble and fall, often skipping along on my tummy like a stone across a pond. Because I do; a lot. Also, I understand how v v difficult it is to haul our a.ses up and shift perspective.

More often than not, I am in a state of internal jihad (definition: struggle, the most important of which within Islam is internal struggle to self-awareness and improvement, you stupid fkn terrorists, and sensationalist news persons who have hijacked this term) trying to find the better, gentler, kinder and more optimistic angle to any given situation within which I am swallowed.

When I can’t find it on my own, my best friend in the whole wide world punches me in my perspective to straighten me out.

Perhaps the key is to begin by accepting the inarguable reality that we are presented with an infinite possibility of platforms from which to see any given situation. Then to — with time — slowly edge ourselves away from the Heart of Darkness of our minds, to the area with comfortable cushions and a secure place to rest safely. Rinse and repeat.

While always coupling it with the humility to support others as they baby-step from one platform to another if we are inclined to sprinting.

As most of you know, I was born and lived the first years of my life in North Africa where mama and baba were working at the time. In preparation of my daily travels, I used to lay out baba’s largest map which covered the entire floor of our living room. I would “travel” on my tricycle across the globe in that way, talking to myself and making up imaginary friends as I went and with whom I would have adventures.

Like Mark.

Mark was my friend and we met while I was in Europe. Mark was my height and he too had a tricycle. I would tricycle sometimes three times around the globe until I reached his home (Europe, any part of) where he would join me.

We went to Turkia together and made fun of the name, asking if we wanted it mashwi (grilled) or ma’li (fried). Then there was the one time we went to Amrica and met white people. They too were our height and had tricycles but we never let them travel with us. They always wanted to eat hamburgers and we wanted ma’looba. Mark was nice and never argued with me. He was also a Transformer and he was able to do magic tricks when he wasn’t saving the world.

Mark was my first crush. He was a cartoon character but I loved him anyway for his very large brown eyes and softly feathered brown hair. He was polite and never spoke back to mama or baba. That made for lovely dinner time.

We belonged to a club. Often times I would take Mark with me in my pocket – one of his hero superpowers, to shrink himself into a very small Mark so that I could carry him with me and tell him my secrets and share with him my dreams.

At the club one evening, I didn’t feel like playing with the other kids and so I sat and had a lovely grownup conversation with The Man At The Front Entrance. He wasn’t a bouncer exactly, more like a valet and a welcoming committee rolled into one.

He was black (like Sharon whom I lovingly call ‘Brownie’ and who calls me ‘Miscellaneous’) and he was my friend. He always asked me about Mark. On this one particular evening, when I was no older than four years old, we had the following conversation that shaped the rest of my life:

“How’s Mark?”
“Alhamdulilah, he says Salaam!”
“Say Salaam back.”
“You can say it yourself – here…!” and I took Mark out of my pocket.
“Salaam Mark.”
“I’m teaching him Arabic!”
“I see it’s coming along very well.”
“It is! Mark’s really smart because he’s a Transformer and he’s from EUROPE!!”
“Transformers are smart.”
“Mark has a question for you!”
“Okay.”
“Mark wants to know why you’re brown and what it means!”
“I’m brown because Allah made me brown.”
“Why didn’t Allah make me brown?”
“Because Allah made us different colors to add variety and fun to the world.”
“But are we the same? Mark wants to know!”
“We are the same.”
“So can I be brown?”
“If you sit in the sun long enough, maybe.”
“And can you be pink, like Mark and I?”
“I already am. Look…”

…and with that, my friend turned his hand over and showed me his palm which was as pink as my own.

“Heeeeeeeeeeeey! You’re brown and PINK!!!! LIKE A RAINBOW!!!!”
“That’s right. There’s parts of each of us in one another.”
“Mark says thanks for your answer!”
“You can tell him he’s welcome.”
“I will! I’m going to get an orange Mirinda, do you want one?”
“I would love one.”
“Can Mark and I have a hug?”
“Of course you can.”
“Mark loves you.”
“Please tell Mark that I love him too.”

Originally published on 07/06/21.

My first boyfriend was Libyan.  Here we are at Jabal al-Akhdar (Green Mountain) picnicking with our families.  Ever arguing over his fetish for jogging pants and how he soiled himself publically, we were doomed. 
 

 
See, my family is Palestinian though I was born in Libya and raised between there and London before mum and dad scooped me up and brought me to Canada at the age of four when I began stealing Their jobs and bedding Their men. 
 
Islam has taught me: My blood is Palestinian and it is by grace alone that it has not yet been spilled because of this root.
 
Canada is my home and it’s her culture inside of which I am most comfortable and satiated.  While in Canberra last month, I walked to our embassy’s front doors and noted the etching of maple leaves throughout the stone.  To a girl who is a strong advocate for global citizenship, I found slightly alarming my deeply emotional response to these etchings; to the point of nearly crying, I was swelled with pride and sunstroke, overjoyed to find myself at the front doors of…my home. 
 
Islam has taught me: My blood is Canadian and it is by grace alone that I am not a creepy conservative.
 
Though this is where my heart lives, there remains a strong mix of both Middle Eastern and North African cultural references to which I am rooted and with which I identify.  More importantly, however, is the resonance of Islam within my world as it is this Faith within which I have chosen to find my own sense of worth and integrity.
 
Islam echos within me: Your blood is Muslim and it is by grace alone that you have not yet suffered at the hands of ignorance.
 
In the last few months, I have been reading the news with an unimaginable and uncontrollable sense of loss.  I have been reading all reports of torture in Tunis, Egypt, Bahrain, Yemen, and Syria while the “Muslim” leaders responsible invoked the name of my beloved Allah when addressing the masses.  
 
Islam has taught me: My blood is Tunisian, Egyptian, Bahraini, Yemeni, and Syrian and it is by grace alone that I have not suffered at the hands of such false prophets.
 
Moments ago, I watched the complete footage of Iman al-Obeidi being violently handled and threatened while trying to communicate to journalists how she was raped by 15 of Qaddafi’s men.  Her face is covered in scratches and she is — rightfully so — in a state of extreme emotional pain.  The Qaddafi regime labelled her a psychotic, a prostitute, and / or a drunk, none of which have stuck.
 
I watch the video to bear witness, because it is the only thing I have to offer Iman al-Obeidi.  In knowing her story, she is no longer isolated. 
 
Islam has taught me: My blood is Libyan and it is by grace alone that it has not yet been spilled because of this root.
 
I watch as a woman in hijab is the first to yell at Iman, and is also the first to physically grab her later in the video.  A second woman, also in hijab is who throws a cover over Iman’s face in an attempt to silence her.  I can’t help but wonder why God’s mercy and compassion have not made their way through the veils of these women and into their hearts.
 
Libyan men join the struggle and shove Iman outside and into a waiting car.  She doesn’t know to where she is being taken and I hadn’t realised that I was crying or holding my breath until my requirement for oxygen kicked in and a million thoughts flooded my head, the most searing of all Allah?  SOS.

I am pretty sure I am in love with this man. Please watch and learn and think and share…

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Last night, my cousin’s girlfriend – Mingchao, who resides in Hong Kong – and I tumbled through the SoHo district, though it was only I who on several occasions nearly pitched head first into unnoticed ditches and drainage ways. (Ultimately somehow remaining upright.)

For the above to make sense, I wish I could for you spin a web made of ice, copious amounts of local liquor, ramen noodles, and discussions of communism as religion.

Sadly, I have no such tale to hand you. Rather, the reality that I was merely jet-lagged in an area where ‘Beware. Street uneven’ should in fact be expressed as ‘Achtung! Falling off pavement highly probable’.

We visited Man Mo Temple, and storefront peeked at the gorgeous antique and art galleries across SoHo on Hollywood Rd, finishing our evening at Lil’ Siam (a place I highly recommend, as it is among the top three Thai restaurants I have experienced). I had pomelo salad with sliced shallots and dried coconut, while Mingchao feasted on a tofu peanut salad and a drink the size of her head. It was an entire fresh coconut, the inside of which had been shaved and crushed into a drink mixture; they leave a thick enough layer which you can work through with a spoon, in order to eat whole fresh chunks of coconut. The logistics of this drink are very complex, but well worth the effort. Have it at street address G/F, 38 Elgin Street, SoHo, Central.

Last Mingchao and I hung out was in Tunis, and so it was quite a wonderful night filled with the warmth of friendship and distant family.

Tonight brought visits to both an absolutely stunning Buddhist Temple, inside of which I said a little prayer and planted some incense, and the largest Masjid (mosque) in Hong Kong.

The Temple was breathtaking in its attention to detail, and fun as it was surrounded by over 70 stalls of fortune tellers (none of whom I stopped to visit, as I am entirely disinterested in knowing anything beyond what is present).

What was most interesting, however, were the multitude of deities I saw inside of the Temple, some of whom were animals. As I had always understood (in my own little way) that Buddhism was essentially a tradition of monotheism, with Buddha at the acme, I wasn’t certain what I was seeing.

For those of you who are regular readers, you already know that I attempt to see connections and similarities rather than differences; this is a key part of how I approach faith traditions, and so I was excited to learn that the represented deities were in fact different representations of the one Buddha; for me then, monotheism stands.

Kowloon Masjid, on the other hand, was nowhere near as ornate, but it was beautiful to me. I performed a small prayer – something which I have not done in months, sadly – and then made my way down to the harbor front to watch Hong Kong’s famed Symphony of Lights Show, before capping the night off with spicy kimchi and green tea ice-cream (the former I loved, the later too bitter for me).

Tomorrow evening, I am hoping to find a panda…or four.

Note 1: “Hai”, pronounced as the English “Hi, hello!” means “yes”, something I did not know until earlier today. Suffice it to say that my late discovery of this word’s meaning has made for a multitude of interesting, warm for me, creepy for others, and relatively confusing moments over the course of the last five days.

Note 2: The FKN escalators here function at break neck speed. A speed so high that it’s in fact nauseating, and ACHTUNG! worthy. If I suddenly stop updating, please note it is because an escalator ate me.

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I can count the number of times I have posted emails from readers, but this is one well worth it.

“Hi Maha, I am Ri7am and I always read your site. We are Copts and live in the US but a lot of my family is in Egypt and Ive been very moved that your posting about Egypt’s revolution thanks so much! I saw that you posted a pic of Christians around Muslims. I think its only fair that you know this was startted by Muslims during our Christmas celebration http://english.ahram.org.eg/News/3365.aspx

I think its important for people to know this so if you can post the link i would be evry happy. There’s problems with some people but it’s not MUSLIMS. Just some bad people.

Salam =o) !”

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For those of you asking after comprehensive information rather than mere reporting of current events, please take a poke through the Stratfor Global Intelligence website here.

In order to read the free articles, you have to provide your email address, but it is very well worth it. Their sourcing and analysis are both impeccable.

Additionally, to anyone who is trying to turn this into a Muslim vs Christian sitch, please note for the record: you are entirely misinformed. Here’s a beautiful photo – courtesy of AlJazeera – of Christians creating a ring of protection around Muslims praying out on the streets during this most amazing of times. Please share this link far and wide.

Enjoy!

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I recently purchased for the first time ever, Men’s Fitness magazine. Coincidentally, this was the cover:

If you have been reading me long enough, you know I have two types: (1) the Jaxx (Charlie Hunnam) / Tim Riggins (Taylor Kitsch) / (the absolute beast in Bronson) Tom Hardy type, serviced by long hair, facial hair, calm and quiet strength; and, (2) Coach Eric Taylor.

In the former category, the men tend toward a pretty ridiculous perfect physique, with the most obvious feature being that they can hold their own in a serious fight (as so many flimsy men exist, this is – for me – hotness to the nth degree), and a full often pouty mouth. As a joke, I would have usually posted the above photo of Hunnam with the caption Doesn’t he look smart?

Only apparently, he is. I have heard rumblings of this from friends who have met him, and now Lainey has spoken and so it must be true. Today Janey pointed me to this article, in which Hunnam throws down in terms of spirituality and belief in God.

I was reading the article while we were skype-ing and squealed at the religious portion only to choke and faint at the training to be a fighter portion.

I have since had to revise the script in my head re our first meeting, when we – Charlie and I – fall in love. Up until this early evening, the script was entirely about very discreet leopard print and long black hair. Essentially, the script was all about me, as much else is regularly. Now however, I must inject in to this script a conversation about God and the wonders of asking…always always always…asking and seeking out information. Because if one’s Faith is strong enough (like, say, one’s abs), then there can never be a question put to them that could shake their Faith.

Absolutely none.
To the (healthy) Believers, we understand – at least within Islam – that everything (sorry about that arrogance sitch, Dawkins) can never be fully within our grasp, because Knowledge of Everything exists solely within Him. However, it is a duty of the Believer to seek out knowledge at each and every opportunity, asking questions about everything, with nothing off limits. (If one’s roots are solid, there is no worry when limbs sway.)

With a few words, Hunnam stood facing the often thought but not always stated heart of a debate between a Believer and a non-Believer. Stripped down (pray yes, please), he places challenge to the notion that Believers are non-thinking, fundamentally unintelligent, ignorant beings.

Personally, I believe this divide comes from the underlying asinine and totally unfounded idea that religion and science do not and can not mix, and that science is an exercise of thinking, whereas Faith is not.

*sigh*
The two hottest things about a man, aside from well formed pectoral and abdominal muscles? (1) A man whose Belief is sophisticated, thinking-based and inclined; and, (2) none of your business, Reader.

Incidentally, do you watch Sons of Anarchy?
You should, for Kim Coates. Recall Kim Coates here, who has since had a very special place in my heart.

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2010 has been an amazing, exciting and hope filled year for me, and from many of your emails, for most of you as well.

Sadly, and no matter how much you will it, flour doesn’t wake up on Thursday mornings et voila! it is a baguette. It takes a lot of mixing and coaxing, and it is in this same way that 2010 become for me a fantastical year. (For the record, January – April were tumultuous, confusing and often times exhausting. Adding dumb to dumber, my exhaustion made me see the otherwise menial as gigantically difficult. But that’s so 2010.)

At some point in May, I tripped on to a pair of metaphorical big-girl panties and tried them on for size, and you know what? they fit pretty damn good-ly, they did.

In preparation for the new of 2011, here are five very small details I have either learned about myself or slowly integrated in to the filters which cover my already rose-tinted glasses and which have – as the title suggests – been extremely transformative:

.1. I don’t need to have the last word.

The asshole in me only needs to know she’s right, and doesn’t in fact need to share that with any one else.

The haughty bitch in me pities those who aren’t right. Which is everyone else in that specific moment. (I already wrote it, but will write it again: Haughty Bitch.)

.2. Just because I feel it and / or think it, doesn’t mean I need to say it and / or write it.

This goes hand-in-hand with number one. Essentially, I have learned that sometimes, it’s better to just listen & observe.

.3. It’s okay to not always give a shit.

Please note: I have just dropped the ‘Haughty’ from ‘Haughty Bitch’.

.4. I don’t need to control a situation.

This.
Is.
MONUMENTAL.
If you know anything about me.

And it is coupled with….

.5. I have learned how to let go of both what I want and what I do not want, when either of them happens.

I didn’t think it was possible, but apparently, somewhere over the course of the last year, my faith was made stronger.

I have finally put in to practice the belief that: if I want something which is good for me, and I am clear in that want, it will in fact happen. It is a lot easier to pay lip service to this, rather than to implement it, but it is most definitely do-able and it is freeing.

Here’s the reality of my life thus far, Alhamdulilah: when something has met the three above mentioned criteria, I have always seen it come to fruition be it within a week, or within ten years. Note here there is an ‘x’ factor, and that ‘x’ factor is what we do not know, but rather what only belongs within the realm of God’s Knowledge: if something we want is good for us. You all are smart enough to understand the finer nuances of what that means, and so I will not delve further. (There’s a Care Bear sitting on my lap as I type. Cross my heart.)

I have struggled with this for the short time I have been on this earth. I would look at a situation and try to paint it with my own colours, only to learn that my colours are my own and not anyone else’s. And frankly, who am I to want to paint anything over anyone else’s colours, when God knows some of my colours need replenishing and toning down and amping up and throwing away and water and oil and maybe even a piece of bread and a little bow tie around its neck, like this wicked sharply-edged-The-Sharps-bow-ties-so-that-you-never-tie-the-perfect-bow-tie from Artfully Disheveled?

Besides, and more importantly (for me), no one trumps the awesome technicolour of God’s palette and so really, who am I to even attempt?

Please understand that: it’s not to say there isn’t a window of time inside of which I struggle. Because the time-line dictates that The Event occurs, and then there is a road which must be navigated to Maha’s Happy Place. Getting to Maha’s Happy Place used to take weeks (my max was four months and change for trauma, of which I have had very little in this amazingly blessed life), and now it takes perhaps 48 hours. Slowly and most definitely surely, this 48 hour period diminishes the more I exercise this particular shade of sunglass.

Yay for evolution!

Happy holidays to each of you; thank you for another ridiculously wonderful year of emails and support and photos(!!) and personal stories (even though some of you really need to learn that sharing less is truly your better option) and requests for advice. Thank you for trusting me; thank you for caring after me.

Happy 2011!! Don’t drink and drive unless you’re a LOSER.

++++++++++
Gorgeous photo swiped from Sir Mervs.

Editor’s note: I love calling myself the Editor. I, EDITOR, would like you to know that I will very soon be writing about my experience in Berlin, and also posting the photos from both Paris and Berlin. Thanks for asking x

9 / 11 has become Burn A Qur’an Day.

On that same day, and while folks are committing this act, I will be posting instead a message about interfaith dialogue, respect, love and acceptance.

If you have a twitter feed, a blog, a white-board, a post-it, an etch a sketch, a banner, a name-tag…then consider doing the same.

Spread the word if you are so inclined.

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Dear Keith Olbermann – Will you marry me?

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Alcanaanite.

Politics, humanity & religion.

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.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, because you are unimaginative and still reside in 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.)

Dear Vatican -

I am doing this on the fly and so please forgive my quickness and really shit grammar and spelling; also, I am a Muslimah – and God is my savior, not Jesus. I hope this won’t make you wish to send me to Hell. Thank you.

A few things – primarily, your home is gorgeous and I thank you for letting me in at a cost. Really.

I have some recommendations on how you may improve your generosity. Primarily, I would ask that you improve your signage, because on a few occasions, I didn’t know whether my bum was to my left or atop my head. At first, I assumed this was because of my chosen Faith, until the Catholic with whom I was traveling shared that she was as confused as I.

Second, please consider contracting Disney to take care of ‘the situation’ of the staircase which leads one up to the Dome of the Basilica – your 551 steps are not the problem, but you should have both rest-stops for peeing and drinking. If not, then consider adding some cute pages who would throw water at us as we ascend the stairs (much like those who hang on the side of a race track).

Also, maybe consider adding a slide for the descent. Give your gatherers a choice to slide down…and maybe land in a vat of holy water? This would be fun.

Or, you could possibly have a ride (with ‘It’s a Small World After All’ in the background) that takes one up to the Dome while seated in mini Pope Mobiles, and with all of the different popes coming out and spinning around us. Naturally, your pages would be the ones who help us on and off in their Court Jester like suits. Adorable are they with their gorgeous thick luscious heads of hair. Did you choose them this way on purpose? Do you think they’re pretty? Because, really, they are very pretty, and very young boys.

Finally, my deepest apologies for the near international incident I caused. Two actually. The time when I was waving into your cameras on the stairway from the Dome, and which nearly led to the tumbling down of many of your Catholics. Also, the time I thought it would be fun to stand inside of your confessional and have my picture taken. If you had proper signage (please see above reference) then I would not have thought such a shot would make an excellent photo opp (although it did, as your boys were a little late on the tut-tutting).

Thanks again. All my sisterly – and not in a nun kind of way, although I did greatly admire their hijab – love in Faith and belief in God.

Peace,
Maha