Prolific Immigrant

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’.

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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!

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