Prolific Immigrant

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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