Eavesdropping

18 Ramadan 1430/8 Sept 2009

While the adults discussed matters of women's empowerment and spirituality into the night, the two girls yawned, put on their pajamas and laid out their sleeping bags. One rolled over on her belly and played with her long silky black hair; the other quickly ducked under her covers. A few moments later, she peeked out from underneath and turned her face toward her friend. “You know what?”

“What?”

“I just thought of my mom again.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I thought it was morning. I thought Dad was standing near me, and Mom came to wake me up. Like she used to.”

She turned her face up and sighed, bunching up the blanket under her chin. With a slight quiver in her voice, betraying sadness far older than the soft skin on her brown face, she said, “It’s like she’s still here.” She then silently moved her lips – perhaps in prayer – and closed her eyes.

Veteran's Day

Dedication: To teachers and students of history and literature

A number of students in my Introduction to Islamic Civilization and Contemporary Islamic Civilization sections for the past two and a half years previously served in Iraq or Afghanistan. They decided they wanted to finish college which is what brought them back to school.

I know this because the first class of each semester, I say to my discussion section, "Tell me your name, your major and why you decided to take this class." We go around the room so everyone can get to know each other.

The wide-eyed and wet-behind the ears freshmen who were probably the smartest kids in their high schools mention interests in the world and ideals of knowledge; the seniors mention something about fulfilling graduation requirements.

The veterans always mention solemnly they served in historically Muslim lands; that they knew very little going in; and that they think it's time they learned something about where they were.

Every now and then, there have been moments as they listen attentively about Jahiz's love of books over people or Jabarti's disdain for Napolean's awful Arabic syntax that I believed a memory glossed over their eyes.

That glossing over is becoming somewhat recognizable as I get older. My parents are of a generation that experienced occupation and war. They saw family members, classmates, neighbors and teachers shot; knew women who were raped by soldiers and if they lived, could no longer speak. I've seen memories gloss over my father's eyes midway through some conversation about Dhaka University; while hearing the sounds of fireworks burst; during a song in a film; while watching the daily news about another day of occupation.

In the classroom, I have wondered if my physical presence ever provoked a memory. Do I look like someone? I often look like someone. Egyptian. Indonesian. Malaysian. Mexican (Sister Gomez?). Algerian. Pakistani.

I have wondered if the mention of familiar places provoked a memory. After all, how can anyone take a class on Islamic civilization without having to read about the vibrant literary and intellectual worlds of Baghdad, Basra, Kufa, Samarqand, Balkh, Bukhara, Ghazni...

In another class, an older veteran began to tear as our Iraqi professor spoke about arts and literature in Baghdad. He became so overwhelmed with emotion that he had to leave the room for a moment. Regarding his interest in Arabic literature, he said, "There's only so much you can learn behind a rifle."

I once had a student suffering from PTSD. I don't remember now whether he served in Iraq or Afghanistan. In the beginning, he was one of those over-achievers always wanting to chat about assigned readings after class. When he began to miss classes, he told me he was going through a bad break-up. Mid-semester, he no longer came. Later, he informed me about his PTSD, something about refilling meds, and that he needed some time off.

I wish I could write a conclusion, but nothing seems appropriate. I just saw all the Veteran's Day posts on my Facebook newsfeed, and it made me think of my students.

They could be saints

Akbar Uncle from the mosque was a loud-mouthed Pakistani man--most likely Punjabi--who knew better than everyone else.

He was obnoxiously opinionated. A large man over 6'4. A man of MANY words.

He dominated conversations to which he was not invited.

With a few businesses to boast of, he stood head held high and walked like a king.

When he entered the mosque, his presence--and booming voice which carried over to the women's section---was unmistakable.

And he had a lovely wife.

Auntie was calm. Soft-spoken. A woman of few words. Sometimes English, sometimes Urdu.

She walked gently with her cane. She would sit on a chair in order to pray. Her shalwar kamees was always pressed and spotless. Her dupatta draped her head and chest the same way every time. Her thick glasses, through which she looked to read her Qur'an and recognize the faces around her, were always shined.

She gave soft kisses and pats on the head.

And her husband towered over her. She barely reached his chest.

Yet before her, Uncle bowed.

After some years, Auntie and Uncle moved away to be with their grandchildren. One day, a few years later, Uncle returned to the mosque.

Only this time, he walked with a cane, back bent. This time, when the uncles argued over the price of gas and the economy, or another conspiracy theory, he did not intervene with his own argument.

His once rounded face had thinned leaving his cheek bones showing. His gaze wandered aimlessly as he stood alone.

Someone said, "Is that you, Akbar?"

Smiling back meekly, he seemed to be at a loss for words.

"You're back! How is your health, Akbar? Where have you been?"

Uncle looked up, his face contorted by the same pain that must have broken him and bent his back.

"Akbar, come have some lunch. Here, here's a drink. How is Bhabi?"

"My wife?" he asked, eyes wide open as if startled by a memory. "My wife...I think it's been a month now?"

He placed both hands over the knob of his cane.

"She had a heart attack...God bless her soul..."

A month later, we gathered to recite Qur'an for his soul.

--
30 March 2010/15 Rabi' Al-Thani 1431

Speechlessness

Dedication:  To speechlessness 

After finishing my tawaf al-ifada, I looked for a place to sit with a good view of the Ka'bah as my family proceeded toward Mount Safa and Marwah.

I found a spot next to an elderly Iranian woman on the steps leading to the center of the mosque.  Seated behind us were other Iranian women.  I sat and watched the Ka'bah until it was time for the late afternoon prayer.

(People often ask, "What do you think of when you see the Ka'bah?"  I cannot speak for others, but there were moments when I could not speak, when my mind was emptied of thoughts and noise.  There is a rustling; when all I see and think is the shining black image before me.  I felt tired; a wandering, wondering pilgrim; unable to formulate worded thoughts into silent sensible sentences; emptied but peaceful.)

The elderly woman beside me suddenly raised her hands, supplicating.  I turned to her and found her looking straight at the Ka'bah, her face full of pain.  I couldn't understand the words she uttered other than "Khoda-ya! Khoda-ya!" but that was enough for me to say "Amin" and cry silently as I watched the Ka'bah and she cried aloud, begging, as if she was completely alone with her Creator.

The way she put her hands out, the way she called—it was as if her entire state argued, "You must listen to me!"

She began to cough violently.  I placed my hand on her back and offered her zam zam water hoping to get the blessings of a woman who knew how to petition God.

May I never forget, when emptied and out of words, her words.

30 December 2006/10 Dhu'l Hijja 1427 

 

Belief

It was a wondrous thing

For Zachariah to see

The out-of-season fruits

In the cell of Child Mary

But the wisdom of the girl

To be Queen of Paradise

Reminded her Uncle-Prophet

What the Self must realize

For in reality, she Knew

The Generous One who gives

Who must only say a word,

"Be!"

And it is.

Written in fall 2004