Prolific Immigrant

Once upon a time, there was a group of friends. Amidst these individuals was a girl whom we shall call “Maha.”

On a sunny Saturday morning, Maha left for a ten day holiday, bidding the beloved kingdom in which she lived a sad goodbye, eager to travel and equally eager to return home when the time came. And my oh my, did the time come…

At which she found that she could not communicate with any of those who called themselves “friends.” All of them, being of a particular Tribe — let’s call them “Eh-Rabs” — would not take her calls. Except for one boy. He took her call, playing the role of Judge, Jury, and Executioner.

On trial Maha stood, unaware that a girl, Cleptomania, had spun a web of lies so deep and so impenetrable, that all others in the group had left Maha for good. Cleptomania had found filth and run it across Maha’s words. The girl had found hatred and run it across Maha’s words. She had found judgement, and criticism, and ugliness, and smeared these things across Maha’s words.

Cleptomania wore hijab, and so those in the group misunderstood this piece of cloth for piety, eagerly believing that Maha — who wears curls instead of scarves — must be as filthy as was told by Cleptomania.

Not only did this little man crush Maha with his words, but so too did he take it upon himself to crush Maha Momma, believing it was his Muslim duty to let Maha Momma know that she had not done a proper job of raising her daughter. And that by default, he would be receiving God’s blessings because of the filth which had dripped from Maha’s mouth and onto his life story.

How could this happen, you ask? Maha was so distraught on the phone, that Momma came in to understand the ruckus, and when Maha could not hold the receiver because she was shaking too hard, Maha Momma held it instead, and the creature on the other end decided to have a go at Maha Momma.

Maha begged him: I will pick this girl up right now. I will bring her to your home right now. I will sit her in front of you and your mother, and you will see who is lying. Please. Please. Please. Please let me defend myself against these claims.

Only. He would have none of it. And he would not allow it. And Maha, weeping and incapable of comprehending what in the fucking hell she was facing, collapsed.

The collapse didn’t leave me for nearly six months. I was paralyzed emotionally, and crippled physically by what had happened to both myself and my mum. I was terrified of going out in public in case I ran into one of these people. I became a recluse of sorts, not really seeing anyone or going anywhere, because if these people — who I had welcomed into my heart and my home — could so easily set me adrift, then what guarantee did I have that others would not do the same.

Not one of these people defended me. Not one of these people called me. Not one of them reached out to me. Not one of them gave me the chance to speak to the lies which had been spun around my ankles and used to pull my feet out from beneath me. Not. One.

And I wish I could tell you that all of the lies told by this sad and demented girl had a hint of truth to them, because then at least, I would have owned it and accepted the consequences. Only, there was not even a hint to anything she said. But still, the individuals in this group were eager to believe that I was the sort who would say such things, and that — I understand 12 years later — is a greater reflection on how they felt about me, than anything to do with my sense of self in any way shape or form.

By an amazing twist of fate a few months later, my mum and I were lost in a building. And who found us, but Cleptomania’s very close relative. Who brought us into his office and shared some stories over coffee. He told us the truth of Cleptomania. That she was a thief, that she was a liar, that she had been cast out of her family’s home. In short, he called her “a Bollywood film,” a “pathological liar.”

In another twist of fate, later that very same week, I ran into one of the original “friends” in the above circle, who told me that very soon after Cleptomania had spun her web about me, she also began spinning webs about all within the group. And within less than two months, everyone came to hate everyone. And this woman was sorry she did not stand up for me when she heard what was being said about me. So sorry and could we please be friends?

My answer was no. I accepted her apology, but rejected her friendship with honesty: “You let me hang out to dry. You know I would have had your back, and I would have never walked away from you, but you let me hang out to dry. So no. You don’t ever get the pleasure or loyalty of my friendship ever again. That was a decision you made long ago.”

When these people see me now, I usually turn my face as I am not interested in reliving the trauma their actions inflicted on myself or my mother.

Amazingly. The boy in question? Well…I ran into him recently on the street. I had not seen him in years, and he has never apologized neither to myself nor to my mum, though I know that he has admitted to others that he was wrong. Or so others say, which means nothing so long as he doesn’t say it to me.

We ran into each other and he treated me like an old friend. Like a warm, old friend. And he invited me for a drink. If Shock and Awe had a face, it would have been mine. I declined graciously, and managed to escape as fast as I could because I had to call my best friend and say: “You are not going to fucking believe what just happened…and let me tell you…life has clearly not been kind to this dude…”

The moral of the story is? Don’t be a fucking asshole. Especially not to a girl with a blog. And if she has a blog, hope that she has enough class to not call you out by name, no matter how many years later. Especially where her blog ranks really high up on Google search.

Very often, women are pitted against one another, so many represented as not being “a girl’s girl.” You know these women, we all know at least one woman around whom we are uncomfortable when they get too drunk and start show-boating for male attention. The woman who would justify sleeping with the man on whom you are crushing because “it’s not like he was into her, and why shouldn’t I? If I avoided every man who every one of my friends liked…, there’d only be 30 billion more…”

You know her. And she turns your stomach. And you should pity her because usually, her self worth rests entirely in the realm of how men react to her. And woah is her when her looks shift.

Listen. I too need attention from men. When I don’t even know I need it, and I suddenly get it, I would be a lying liar who lies were I to lie: It doesn’t affect me, I don’t even notice it. And when it’s from a boy I actually like, even better. I am overrun with a hysteria that amounts to a mass email / text to all of my female friends, and where my phone is broken, I will send smoke signals that HE SMILED AND SAID HI AND DO YOU THINK MY OUTFIT IS OKAY, SMOKE SIGNAL LOOKS A LITTLE BLOATED, etc.

But for a normal healthy woman with her self-esteem recipe in good shape, this comes in measured doses. It is not a daily thing, but rather a once in a while thing. Our self-worth is composite of an awareness of what we bring to the human table, rather than what we bring to — specifically — the male table.

That girl mentioned above, contrary to what media keeps trying to shove into my head, is not the norm. Or maybe I have just been blessed with most of the women in my life. (And I hope that you are, too.) She is not the norm.

The norm is women who love one another deeply.
Women who love one another even when we want to punch the other one in her stupidity.
Women who support one another when there is nothing left to say, but only the deepest most heart stopping pain to manage.
Women who tell one another that they are better, that they deserve better, that they can do better, that they will do better, and that they don’t have to show their boobs to get there. But if they did, “then I’ll help you get the right bra, but I would just like to raise my hand and say that I don’t think you need to show your boobs to get this. Let’s go shopping! I love you.”

That is the norm; these women, are the norm.
And if you don’t know these women, then you need to seek them out, to learn from them, and to become one of them. Trust that they will enrich your life, as they do mine.

All of the above to say, please read this article by Emily Rapp, an ode to the beauty and power of female friendship, the love story that all too often goes unsung. A snippet: I was that desperate mother now; it was my baby who was going to die, and soon. It was already too late. I literally could not bear it. I asked for help and I got it. My friends stood with me in the middle of the scary, sky-howling road I was on, knowing they couldn’t take away the pain of the experience, but promising to be there when I emerged on the other side of the grief tunnel when my child would be gone. I feel them, every day, standing there as I stumble through the blissful, heart-breaking hours with my son whose brain and body fail him a little bit more each day. It is not an exaggeration to say that I would not have survived – that I will not survive — without my women friends.

Share it with the women you respect and hold dear. Share it with your daughters to lead by example, and to remind them that their strength is not in how men react to them, but also — if not more importantly — in how women who know them, are women who respect and love them.

Thank you for your friendship.

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**As balance to the earlier article about when to pull support from friends, this is a necessity.

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.

Is one of my favourite questions to field.

When was the last time this question was put to a man? Think about that for second…

Right. That’s what I thought.

Where etiquette is concerned, this is a rude question and it’s not yours to ask, you ignorant hysterical interloper.

Please. Let’s not confuse the question with the statement. From those who love us and hold us in warm and cushioned places, it’s never ever a Question, but rather, it is a statement. Like, “I just honestly can’t begin to understand how it is that someone as amazing as you is single.”

I say this all of the time to my girlfriends. And I mean it every single time I say it.

For clarity: to ask them why they are single is in fact my asking them to (1) justify their single status; and then, (2) to expound on the real root of the Q, which is: what’s wrong with you that no one has gone near you yet? (I.e. what is/are your flaw/s?)

I will be the first to recognize that this is a highly sensitive matter. Sensitive enough that I have thought about it to the point of needing to write about it. Trust me: I am not immune to the tone of this Question. Every time I face it, I think love of God, haven’t you read Bridget Jones’s Diary?, before offering my standard completely and totally serious response: “I have a tail.”

1% of the time, this elicits a laugh. 99% of the time, people genuinely look surprised, and curious because if they’re dumb enough to pose the question, they are not smart enough to catch the humour of my response. To the 99%, I usually follow up with a “why are you not single?” posed in the same tone, intended to mean what’s so special about you?

It’s one of the very few situations in which I allow myself to be completely rude (with guilt-free enjoyment and abandon).

Like that one time:
“Why are you single?”
“I have a tail!”
“What do you mean?”
“Well. It’s small. Fleshy. Makes a squeaking noise every time I sit down.”
“Really?!”
“So. You’re married?!”
“YES! With children! You’re never completely a woman until…”
“Yes. I can tell you’ve had children. Extra weight around your tummy looks so cozy!** Tee-hee.”

(Look. I’ve never pretended to be an angel, so chill.)

The reality is there are a million reasons why someone is single, ranging from not meeting the right person, to not having the inclination, to not giving enough of a shit to actually put in the effort. No matter the reason, you, Interloper, will not receive a satisfactory answer, because there is no right answer to this question.

All that will happen is that the smart person to whom you put the Q will think you an idiot.

Bottom line is that the smartest men and women I have met, have never put this question to me, and the men and women who have, have always eventually proven themselves simpletons.

To conclude: Kindly take the above advice with you into the new year.

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**To my beautiful sisters who have had children. Don’t take this personally. Knowing your fierceness, you would have just punched her in her Mommy and not allowed me to interact further. Trust.

Editorial Note: The following views have nothing at all to do with either the official staff or volunteers of The Ottawa Hospital, but rather are entirely One Female Canuck’s. Because it is only the later who is dumb.

I love my day job, and for the most part, I admire almost everyone with whom I work. That aside, not all of it is what one could call “soul fulfilling.” Because of this, I have at times become extremely disillusioned, until I can once again lull myself into a state of numb and forge ahead pretending otherwise.

I have some time off this coming month and thought: what better way to spend it than with people who are sick and scared and might be alone?

To begin with, the holidays are a c/ntpunt for many people anyway, and when you add illness and hospitals to this mix, it can be devastating. Even though I have a stupid social schedule, Friday and Saturday night outings are not a must for me. I don’t need to spend Christmas eve with my family, and I am not so much of a party-goer which is amazing because I am so pretty that I have to celebrate the new year anywhere but with a good book.

So, I decided to volunteer at one of the hospitals, and to work with the patients.

I had requested work with either oncology or special needs babies, but they prefer that anyone volunteering with these patients be someone who has proven their worth and volunteered for a while. Which makes complete sense, because these areas are extremely demanding; so with them, inshAllah, I will be volunteering in due time.

At the moment, I will be volunteering with the regular patients. I will be reading them books, and maybe playing games with whomever is interested. I will be chatting with them, making sure they’re comfortable, and just generally: being an attentive new friend.

Honestly? I’m so excited, I could come out of my skin.

Because I am good at helping people. And I think that maybe my gift is — maybe maybe maybe — it is to be kind. And I think people who are alone, and scared and who are sad, they could use kindness. So. I am excited. Like, I haven’t been this excited about anything since I can’t remember when. And I just really hope I do a good job and make people feel like they’re not alone and that there’s one more person who cares about them.

Yay for volunteers!

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Photo from CareGiversFrienc(dot)net.

Said Oscar Wilde: “I am so clever that sometimes I don’t understand a single word of what I am saying.”

I wonder, do you take yourself too seriously? Like, do you sit around and ponder the fate of the world and think that you will be the one who saves it and changes it for the better? That every word you say holds the weight of gold?

I do. TOTALLY.
In my head, I am usually wearing a crimson cape and with a raised fist. Often, I have a very serious look on my face, and a box of crayons in my lowered hand.

In case you haven’t noticed, I take myself seriously enough that I have A BLOG whereby I can share my brilliance, because where would the world be without me?

Well. Maybe not exactly, entirely.
Though I do like that this place has as its epicenter: ME…and I need an audience like a modern day court jester. Obviously.

That said, I have noticed an abundance of people who really and truly take themselves far too seriously. So seriously, in fact, that I enter a state of hysterical shock when I read what they have written. So seriously, in fact, that I have had to stop reading what they write. And let me tell you that since years, I continue to have regular, personal, in-the-flesh dealings with people who have every right to be full of themselves in this world, and yet they are not. When push comes to shove, they will make fun of themselves because they know it’s one of the only ways to keep their egos in check.

These other ones though, they’re fascinating creatures, no?
We all know at least one.
And if we know one, we know a few, because when they self-fellate, they want someone to hold their hair back and who better than someone for whom they can do the same?

They mobilize in packs (because normal people can’t stand them) and feed off of one another.

So what happens when we take ourselves too seriously? Most of the time, if not all of the time, where we refuse to genuinely laugh at ourselves, we instead lay the groundwork for others to laugh at us as they walk away. Even the nicest among them.

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Image thieved from NYPress(dot)com.

Recently, BB (as always) gave me excellent advice. Basically, it was for me to chill the fk out and stop asking “Why?” because it is an utterly useless question to pose.

Why this and Why that and Why is this happening and Why did that happen and Why isn’t this working?

Arguably, it is this as first question to which our minds default when we are facing a heavy emotional situation. Someone mistreats us, someone tries to cheat us, someone tries to pretend they had nothing to do with our pain, and our immediate response is “why?” Why did this have to happen (to me)?

I think we ask this question because it’s supposed to explain away our pain. Meaning: You are feeling crushed and ripped to pieces because (insert answer to “why”… And where we do not have the answer to this question, we enter into an exhausting near nihilistic state of: You are feeling crushed and ripped to pieces because for nothing… and holy sh/t when this is our answer at a time we are crumbled on the floor incapable of picking ourselves up. The inability to answer this question and all which are derived from it? It’s us, laying on the floor, with the weight of the pain keeping us flat, and then an additional 27 tons of metal randomly plunked on top of our heads.

Basically, not the greatest place to be.

The painful reality is that there is no really concrete answer to why, when it comes to human emotion. Because we are not math equations, and we do not 2 + 2 = 4. In fact, I would say that we, as humans, are maybe an approximation of 2 / 17 = (0.56 + red – a salt and pepper shaker x 712) to the 0.19th power. Or something.

To the extent of our rational capacity, sometimes shit just happens more often than not, and for no discernable reason. This is not to say that I believe in coincidences, because I do not. It is to say that I recognize that humans call things random only because we do not possess the capacity to see and understand and calculate all at once, the kabillions of variables which affect human action and choice.

Then what’s the alternative? The alternative is a variation of BB’s eloquent: Stop asking WHY? and my not so eloquent: Chill the fk out. A variation because the mere act itself is a cushioning to the blow we have just been dealt (and so necessary to a degree), and it is within the space of “why” that we can reflect on our own actions which may have led to the situation in which we find ourselves (and so necessary to a great extent).

I believe that it might be as simple as recognizing the dangers of asking “Why?” Being cognisant that becoming mired in it, obsessed with it, and losing yourself in it is potentially far more devastating than the pain which gave rise to the question. Flagging yourself every single time you ask it and subsequently cutting yourself off when your time spent asking this question is longer than the experience questioned, when you spend more time looking back than looking at how you move forward into a healthier space.

I’m going to try and do this, which means that I will have to actually cease and desist my relied upon behaviour. And because I am slow on the uptake, this will be a little bit of a challenge.

Godspeed to me, and to you with whom some of the above has resonated.

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Photo from the gorgeous family of Atikinka.

“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.

Do you love women? Do you respect women? Are you against sexualized violence? Abuse? Hate? Manufactured realities? Profit over people?

Then you need to watch the following riveting two part video, and you need to internalize every single thing said by the brilliant Jean Kilbourne, and then you need to share this with everyone you know.

Please find Jean Kilbourne here.