your art

your art
is a crazy messed up love story
creating, collaborating
crumbling, cutting
crafting, controlling high notes
intense colors
cue harmonies
a medley of emotions
then tones of silence
pregnant pauses
lights fade
cue discord  
hanging throughout the dark room
spilling over the music sheets
and drafts and drafts of words
thrown to the wind
hidden in a reel
burned in the fire
delete, trash, permanent delete
exit stage right
and begin
again.



Written 28 October 2014 // 5 Muharram 1436

broken lineage

He roars when he speaks
His wife watches and weeps
"Traitors!" "Betrayal!"
He cries out in his sleep

His fierce demeanor
Strikes fear in the stranger
Arms thrashing and flailing
He paces alone in anger

But in a moment of stillness
             look at his face.

Those wild, blood-shot eyes?
Expose the brokenness inside
Of centuries of inherited dreams
Shattered
by a lie.

Speaking in Public

Dedication: To the news that evokes memories one works through by writing

The first time my husband and I took the LIRR from Penn Station, a tall, 6-foot something, middle-aged white man with graying hair aggressively interrupted our conversation and said, "Hey hey, we're in America. Speak in English."

Our conversations are usually a mix of English and Bangla -- and I'm not even sure if we were speaking in Bangla at that moment. We were standing in the area where people wait to see their gate number flash. It was incredibly crowded -- and it was as if this man came out of nowhere. Maybe the stranger took a look at my headscarf, overheard his accent, and then put the two together to mean 'not English?'

...but how could someone overhear anything in Penn Station during peak hours unless he stood very close and strained to listen in?

I was so mad. On behalf of MY country -- which I felt particularly entitled to claim because my husband was visiting from Canada -- I was especially mad. 

The Mad Hatter, Central Park, NYC

I had waited long for his first visit to the U.S. and was so invested in him having a wonderful experience -- that it pissed me off to have to meet a racist THAT DAY.  

They could at least give us a few months and THEN come out of the woodworks.

(It was also the fall I took kung fu and probably had an unrealistic vision of my "skillz.")

So I told the stranger I must have learned incorrectly from public school my rights; that I wasn't aware there was an official public speaking language; and that we could speak any language we want. 

He didn't stop. He moved closer into my space, lowering his voice, saying something like "Don't you know what's going on these days? This is America." 

It was dumb - but I couldn't help myself. Maybe I should have walked away. I've done that many times before - hold my tongue and walk away. For some reason, at that moment--I couldn't help myself. 

That moment of anger -- it was the kind of anger that comes from protectiveness. At that moment, I knew between me and my partner, I had more power. In spite of my gender, race, visibility - I had the idiomatic language, the sense of entitlement and belonging. 

I raised my voice and said repeatedly he needed to mind his own business. He then nodded at a white family standing nearby and said, "See? They agree with me." By that time, the father (I assume) spoke up and said, "WHAT?! Absolutely NOT. I agree with her." 

That's when I realized people were listening in -- because then an Indian-American guy spoke up. And then a Latino. And then the Huntington gate opened and everyone began running toward the train. 

---

It didn't/doesn't feel heroic; it all feels/felt absurd -- the way someone could/can storm in and out of your life, leaving destruction and debris in its wake without accountability. In our case, we live with a story to tell and with me slightly entertained that the men around me suddenly began to speak up once they heard an older white male give voice to an opinion they shared. 

---

While on the train, I still felt unnerved and looked around to see if we were followed. I even questioned whether the whole thing was staged, a mise-en-scène orchestrated by secret puppet masters... because as fast as the stranger seemed to come out of nowhere, it also felt like he disappeared into thin air.  

War, Rifles and Flags: Fútbol Fever Part Deux

Every human love and hate has a context.   

U.S. students debkeh to Yankee Doodle in Jarash, 2006.

I have now witnessed fútbol fever first-hand while living in four different countries. I was in Egypt during the African Cup when Ghana was hosting; and I was in three different countries during three consecutive World Cups -- first in Jordan when Germany was hosting; then in Bangladesh when South Africa was hosting; and most recently in the United States with Brazil hosting.

Some symptoms of this particular fever include temporary madness (if love is a temporary madness); peculiar manifestations of patriotism or transnational loyalties on one’s body, home, car, children, and pets; fickle bandwagonness and accusations of bandwagonning; erratic and ecstatic fangirling; sudden onset of hot sweats during the male pageantry; and increased levels of pious devotion including extra prayers, kinder behavior, and generous charity. 

The exact expressions of happiness and grief may vary according to context, but the intensity of delirious partisan adoration of team sports – regardless of context – mirrors each other in a way akin to the strife of kinship rivalry. 

************************

While I was studying Arabic at Yarmouk University in Jordan, the games coincided with the 2006 Lebanon War (also called the 2006 Israel–Hezbollah War, also known as the July War). There were moments my roommate and I thought we could see through our windows smoke clouds from the Israeli airstrikes in Lebanon.

Located near the northern border of Jordan, Irbid is also very close to the borders of Syria, the northwest of Israel, and Southern Lebanon. The fear and anger during the war — and the flooding in of refugees — was palpable in a characteristically quiet town. The flags of loyalties went up as if to both express and shield the crushing feelings of helplessness in the face of human suffering. 

... So when I first heard shots of gunfire and men shouting loudly at night, I was terrified. They felt close.

Too close.

My roommate and I ran to look out our apartment windows. The night in Irbid was dark — and it was too dark to see anything.  We considered whether the war had crossed the border, because, really, what were those borders without their guardians' machine guns and wars other than lines redrawn on a map by men who lived on another continent?

Our terror, however, soon changed to relief.

World Cup 2006 had begun, and fans were celebrating the first goals made — by shooting their rifles in the air.  Over a single night, flags representing team loyalties went up.  More Italian flags could be seen covering storefronts and cars than the usual Palestinian flags and paraphernalia of the Jordanian King.

Although in other contexts we might have been angry with this absurdly ridiculous waste and dangerous nuisance, we could not help but feel grateful that it was only celebratory fireworks — and not the fire of war.

Raad Adayleh/AP

Love in the Time of Fútbol Fever

Exactly four summers ago, after a quick and unexpected turn of events set in motion by the U.S. Embassy in Ottawa, I was in Bangladesh for a second round of wedding festivities.  Elders, cousins and new family who were unable to attend the first ceremony in the frigid Arctic North (i.e., Canada) celebrated with us and arranged a series of family feasts. Our families' beloved matriarchs, who have now all passed on, joyously placed mehendi on our palms, slyly whispered jokes about sex and marriage, and piously recited prayers when their audiences requested them.  

This was also the summer of World Cup 2010 when South Africa was hosting. It was when the whole world learned about the vuvuzela; when one of my new uncle-in-laws had Shakira’s “Waka Waka” uploaded as his ring tone; and when Spain's team dominated on the field rather than in hilarious fútbol jokes on twitter. 

That summer, as was to be expected this summer, Dhaka was covered in Argentinian and Brazilian colors. There was not an apartment building in Old Dhaka that did not have at least one flat proudly displaying a Brazilian or Argentinian flag.  Bangladeshis are diehard fans, and even though the teams to which they pledge their loyalty are probably not aware of their unwavering support (let alone where their own country of over 154 million souls was located) -- they did not care.

Such fútbol love is mad, and the madness of Bangladeshi summers alone could make one delirious enough to mistake love for hate -- or hate for love.   

As hot and humid as the capital is during the summer months, the city shut down electricity use during the day to avoid a shortage at night when people religiously gathered to watch the games. 

The city’s wealthy who owned private generators managed to get on with their air conditioners continuously circulating cool air inside and radiating more heat and noise outside; the poor, as always, bore the heat of others’ excesses.

The thing is — fútbol fans, rich or poor, were serious about the games. So serious that even a wedding celebration getting in the way could be an offense. So serious that a photographer reported with exasperation that he had to shoot a wedding in which the groom insisted on setting up a large screen during the reception so that the game could be projected and he and his guests would be able to watch and not miss his wedding.

The bride had tears in her eyes but did not protest.

In spite of all this, my mother-in-law organized a gorgeous evening reception. The fresh red roses and classy white lilies adorning the hall were perfect; the mouthwatering kachchi biryani was fragrant and the lamb was tender to near perfection.

Being as detail-oriented as she is, my mother-in-law considered and planned for any and all possible mishaps. Contingency plans included things like bringing along another pair of shoes in case the first pair did not match and considering a switch of gold and blood red hand clutches if necessary.

My father-in-law knew his wife usually took into account every detail a normal human being might miss, so he rarely interfered in such affairs. There was, however, one thing on his mind.

It was, after all, the summer of another World Cup. The timing of the reception had to be just right. As a new father-in-law, he could not stand idly by and risk overlooking the fact of the ongoing games. Word has it that my father-in-law took it upon himself to ensure — and double and triple (and probably quadruple) check to confirm — that there would be no match during the reception. More than a mismatched pair of cute heels, that would have been embarrassing. My father-in-law was the unsung hero of the event.

That evening after the reception, as tradition would have it, I was taken for the first time to my sasurbari. Greeted at the door by new in-laws with sweets and cold drinks, we were escorted to our bedroom which was covered in more roses and lilies. After a few more photos, the bedroom soon emptied out and I was left alone to change and rest. Having fulfilled their obligations, the men quietly but quickly gathered in the guest room next door to begin watching a match which they were grateful for not having missed. With their shouts of panic and joy in the background, I soon fell asleep. 

Being witness first-hand to fútbol fever in four countries and four years later reading a recent Time piece "You'll Never Guess Where Some of the Most Fanatical Fans of Argentina and Brazil Soccer Teams Can be Found," I must say -- Your sensational headline is wrong again, Time. My first guess was absolutely correct.

Photo of Dhaka in 2010/Instagram @sanahungry

Romance

27 June 2014 / 29 Sha'ban 1435

It’s the old man stopping to smile
On his stroll through the park
At the four sisters' reverie

And the sudden cool breeze
On a still summer’s day
Waltzing through the trees

And the sudden music to my ears
Perfectly Canon in D
Played on the strings of my memories

When again I'm hopelessly in love
Because the world's romance fills me.

The Hustler

24 June 2014 / 26 Sha'ban 1435

But peace destroy'd what war could never blight,

And laid those proud roofs bare to summer's rain -- 

On which the iron shower for years had pour'd

In vain.
  - Lord Byron

Overwhelmed by the animated chatter and networking buzz floating above and around her, expanding and contracting in rhythmic waves of excitement and hushed silences, the Writer quickly scanned the ballroom. She soon found two empty seats which she could comfortably occupy with her partner and eat dinner, retreating into the quiet world she imagined only they occupied between the edges of their two plates and the rims of their two glasses of ice cold water. Reflecting on their good luck, the couple proceeded to enjoy the generosity of their meal.

When the crowd began to peter out to a far corner, an elegantly dressed young woman in a carefully selected ensemble of statement accessories approached them.

"I wanted to introduce myself. I'm familiar with your work and have heard much about it."

She introduced herself as a local artist and expressed a shared appreciation for a novel the Writer had mentioned during her talk. Intrigued at the possibility of discussing a novel she loved, the Writer asked the stranger to pull up a chair. Between introductions, her partner motioned that he was going to survey the dessert table.

Not adept in small talk, the Writer expressed plainly and passionately her appreciation of the novelist's bold depiction and celebration of his fictional saints considered fallen women within the world he crafted. It pleased her to find a novel that resonated with her so deeply.

She was, after all, constantly considering the impact of her own craft on her audiences. 

The artist looked at the Writer, smiled slightly and then asked. "Yes, yes. That's wonderful, but...don't you believe certain stories are simply inappropriate to share? You've said yourself just because other Muslims might have written about certain things does not mean we should follow suit. I mean," she leaned in, "Don't you think it's wrong to celebrate stories of sin?"

The Writer wondered if this artist was in fact asking her a question or making a statement--because she was familiar with both the question and the statement. Before she could understand the impact of the conversation's tone on her emotions, the Writer instinctively tucked in the passion she prematurely laid bare. Examining her interlocutor's face continuing to comment on something or the other, the Writer quietly noted, "It's not a 'celebration of sin' to create an avenue of empathy when confronting reality." 

The artist suddenly noted the time and that it was a pleasure to meet and walked toward the crowd to rejoin the din of chatter.  

The Writer's partner returned with two bowls of rice pudding. Unsure of what had transpired, she was quite sure that she was agitated by an exhausting sentiment that lingered after what felt like a tiresome game -- but of what?

She again retreated into the world she imagined that only they occupied -- this time between the edges of their two bowls and half-emptied glasses of melted ice water.

---

Intrigued by the title of a YouTube video, the Writer pressed play to give it a three-minute opportunity to move her. As the camera widened its field of view, the small screen on her laptop displayed the faces of a large audience and several speakers. The clip cut to one speaker passionately encouraging her audience to not hold back in their creative endeavors for fears of moral policing and uncharitable judgment.  The camera zoomed in closer and suddenly, the face became familiar. 

It was the face of the artist the Writer had encountered that night several months ago who had stated, in the form of a rhetorical question, "Don't you think it's wrong to celebrate stories of sin?"

Relief washing over her, she could now identify that tiresome game.  The Writer had met an expert hustler. 

---

*cue "Empire State of Mind"*

WorldCup2014: Rules of Team Loyalty

Dr. K wanted to know which teams I'm supporting at the #WorldCup2014. 

The thing is — I am unabashedly superficial and non-committal when it comes to sports, so the logic of my loyalties goes something like this:

1. Who collectively has better looking players?
2. Who collectively has more melanin? See #1.
3. Always most recently colonized/war-torn/occupied over most recent colonizer/occupier
4. Who is the black sheep of the family no one expects to succeed and everyone expects to fail - or become a failed state? Or drug lord (unless you’re Brasil)?
5. Africa over everyone. Also see #1-4.
6. None of this applies if your team has a disproportionate number of obstinate jerks - or entitled drama queens who don't know how to act but believe they are worthy of a Tony. 
7. Always go back to #1.

Halalapalooza

Being raised by an incredibly clean mother who regularly feeds the masses AND miraculously keeps a spotless kitchen, it was only to be expected that I would be incredibly dubious about all halal carts when I first moved to NYC.

(Regarding shifty Trini cell phone vendors named “Mack" who offer “special discounts" if I would only pay $300 in cash - not so much.)

My suspicion of food trucks, however, quickly changed when one day, one of the homeless guys in my new neighborhood noticed me taking a long, suspicious look at a halal cart. As I stood there next to him examining the menu, he recommended, “You gotta try the chicken and rice. It's good - especially with white sauce and hot sauce.” I’ve followed his recommendation ever since (after a quick inspection and usually with a preference for lamb). I even have a favorite cart.

So although I feel wildly competitive on behalf of Hoda’s Halal after reading this piece of news, I salute you, Halal Guys. You're probably horrifying some Islamophobe right now, and truly, I love overhearing, “Yo, let's go hit up some Halal.” 

The New York Times: The Halal Guys cashing in on street cred 

Teaching Notes

Mid-semester, I asked my Contemporary Islamic Civilizations section* to write down the first thing that pops in their mind when I say, “Name a fictional Muslim character.” I gave the students a minute, collected the names and then read them out loud.  

This is what they wrote (and how they wrote it):

1. Aladdin: 4 students (one student also wrote: maybe not Muslim?)
2. Salah al-Din/Saladin: 3 students (one specified Saladin from Kingdom of Heaven)**
3. Malcolm X: 2 students**
4. Scheherazade: 2 students
5. Can’t think of anyone: 2 students
6. Jafar (Muslim or just Arab?)
7. Jasmine (Disney princess)
8. Marjane Satrapi**
9. Marji (from the book/movie Persepolis)
10. Rumi**
11. Amir Khan in Fanaa (Bollywood film)***
12. Lead male actor in Kite Runner (not sure if he’s Muslim)
13. Characters portrayed by the Palestinian actor Mohammad Bakri
14. Changez in The Reluctant Fundamentalist
15. Abu Nazir in Homeland
16. Muhammad Ali**

*All the students are Ivy League undergrads majoring in various subjects; most of them were raised and educated in the U.S.   

**These are not fictional characters. I definitely expected the Aladdin characters, and I was not surprised that Saladin was listed. I was surprised to read names of 20th century North American historical figures...especially since the Autobiography of Malcolm X was required reading (in addition to Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi).  Was it a result of mishearing the question (i.e., the student listed the first name s/he could think of rather than consider whether that figure was fictional)? Was it a reflection of their age? Or was it from ignorance of more recent American history (i.e. post-World War II) and that American high school students rarely get more than a cursory treatment of the Vietnam War, Civil Rights Movement, Cointelpro, Immigration Act 1965, etc....if they reach that time period at all? 

***Out of all the Bollywood movies with identifiably Muslim characters, a student who watches Hindi films first thought of Fanaa.  It does make depressing sense. The film flattens the local and material context of the Kashmiri struggle with India as a powerful nation-state by crafting a narrative which echoes narratives on U.S. national-security and the War on Terror. In a way, it's another commercial film giving a Bollywood flavor to a Hollywood story. In this case, violence is de-contexualized and subsequently generalized under the category of "Muslim violence." Here, Indian nationalism as love of nation (and national security) is made relatable to an American palate which has acquired a taste for the "Islamic terrorist/national-security threat" as a popular character, making Amir Khan's Kashmiri character as a terrorist easily identifiable (and insidiously memorable) as "Muslim."

Encounter with mrlovermanlover, fiqh class and the utility of a mahram

24 October 2009

It all went down in Maadi, see?

I was nearing the end of my stay in Cairo, trying to get in as much class time as possible. That day, my friend told me to meet her at the Maadi Cilantro. You know, the one near the metro stop?

Yeah.

We were supposed to go over aHkam al-nikaH wa l-talaq.

She was running unusually late, so I ran the usual errands--went to the bank, exchanged dollars for Egyptian pounds, bought a phone card.

I stood outside the Cilantro, which was bustling with customers, and gave her a phone call. “I'm here. Inti fayn?” She informed me she would give me a ring as soon as she was in the area.

Soon after I got off the phone, a very thin, dark man with somewhat disheveled hair and clothes approached with a wide smile. "Are you Egyptian?”

Considering I was in Maadi where Westerners abound, English was spoken aplenty, and lattes passed over kitchen counters more frequently than ful and ta’miya, I said: “No. Mish masriyya.”

“You speak Arabic…you live here?”

“Yes," and I added, "I live with my family.”

“Aaah…ahlik? Wonderful! What is your name?”

“What is YOUR name?”

“I am Ayman, kharreeg min kulliyat tigaara. From Cairo University.”

Over the two years I was in Cairo, I found the time lapse between my hearing and understanding Arabic became shorter…but there was still a time lapse. I often relied on my mu’addab stance—because nothing takes you further than adab—smiling and nodding to substitute for the time between kalam wa fahm.

In short, sometimes my ambition to have a substantive conversation in Arabic led to me digging holes for myself.

“Ma sha Allah! That’s wonderful! It’s such a ni’ma to have an education!”

“I also have a shaqqa mafroosha in Doqqi!”

“Education wa shaqqa! Bismillah masha Allah! That is truly a fadl min rabbee!”

(So, no, Mona, it was not a car.)

I quickly considered all those articles we read in CASA and discussions on radio programs, Bayt Baytik and ‘Ashara Masa’an about unemployment, young men unable to afford apartments, etc.--hence, my impulse to respond in congratulatory fashion.

I know.

I'm slow.

“And you,” he said, “you are…murtabita?”

“Mur..ta..bi…ta?”

I considered the literal meaning.

Then I considered the figurative meaning.

“YES!” Dear Lord. “YES, I am TOTALLY murtabita. Alhamdulillah!”

“Oh…he is from your country?”

“Oh, YES of course. He is far far away. In MY country. Which is, uh, FAAAAR away, alhamdulillah!”

“Well, I’d like to meet your family!”

Excuse me?

“I just told you I’m murtabita.”

“Oh, that is okay.”

What?

“Uh…That is NOT okay.” In my mind, I wondered why I continued with this language exercise. The smile on my face stiffened, masking my discomfort.

My mind raced: Did he follow me from the bank? Did he hear me speaking English earlier? Oh, stop being so paranoid.

“Oh…am I scaring you? I just thought shaklik bint saliha wa wishik munaw…”

“Yes, YES you are scaring me.”

“Oh, I don’t want to scare you bas if you are interested…”

“I am NOT interested.”

And then he did it. He pulled out a carefully torn slip of paper. “Here is my information.”

There was something very sad about it all. The makeshift business card I immediately crumpled in my hand. The disheveled look. My delayed reactions.

At that point, my friend called: “Come to Beanos, instead.”

@!*$&

I reiterated, “I am NOT interested and must go.” As I walked away, I looked over my shoulder a few times.

--

My friend found a seat in the Beanos patio, under a tree, and gestured for me to join her. Before beginning our lesson, I reprimanded her first and then told her I had a new story. I opened my fists to show her the crumpled piece of paper, which I found included a phone number and two email addresses – mrlovermanlover@yahoo.com and mrlovermanlover@hotmail.com

That’s right. MR LOVER MAN LOVER.

(I nearly coughed up my Beanos cocktail “frrrresh” with laughter every time I thought of it. You really couldn't remain angry with a gentleman of such an awesome alias.)

Then my friend opened up her sharH of matn Abi Shuja’a and began going over where we left off from aHkam al-nikaH—the clear and direct khitba.

I interjected, pleased that I had an example to illustrate the daily applicability of fiqh: “Zay khitba mrlovermanlover?? Hal yu’tabar SariH am la?”

“Wa huwa kadhalik.”

Wa ba’dayn, I reflected on the fawa’id of keeping a growling mahram along when traveling for long periods of time.

Wallahu l-musta'an.

Fin.

Being Moses

He could not explain
The illumination within
This sincere man -

Tongue-tied by eloquence
Heart concealed
By articulate diction

"My Lord!"
He cried
"Remove this knot from my tongue!"

So when hearts expand
Even Pharoahs
Are overcome

By an illumination
Lit from a blessed tree
Clearer than words

Written in 2004, Edited February 2014

Spacing out

Written 20 Ramadan 1433/8 August 2012

Dedication: To spacing out while cooking

I sometimes space out when I cook.  I'm pretty sure I do it much more when I'm fasting.

Like, after I make sure I have all that I need in front of me and after I read bismillah and Surah Quraysh over everything, I go into the zone.

---

A few days ago, my brother-in-law invited twelve of his friends over to break their fast with us.  In between cooking and Facebook, my mind wandered to the summer of 2006.

--

I took a trip with a friend to the beautiful city of Aleppo--the beautiful Halab.  Her city, she called it.  We stayed with her family, and they took me in as their own.  I'll never forget it.

www.greenprophet.com/wp-content/uploads/pistachio-tree.jpg

We were roommates that summer in Jordan studying Arabic at the University of Yarmouk. She convinced me that we should spend our midsummer break in Syria, so I applied for a visa before we left the U.S.  We shared a cab with another family from Irbid to Damascus and then got on a bus from Damascus to Aleppo. 


The night we arrived at her aunt's home, someone quickly took my suitcase from my hands and carried it to the room in which I would be staying. Suddenly, I was surrounded by her little cousins who ran up to me and kissed my hands.  After dinner, the kids walked me to my bed and brought me water. I couldn't speak much Arabic at the time, but they kept me entertained and I imagined they told me about their amazing lives.  In exchange, I imagine I did something amusing.  Since I was still limping from a sea urchin encounter in the Red Sea, I may have dramatized my snorkeling adventure to explain myself.  I can't be so sure.  What I am sure about is that they were called away by the adults and reprimanded for keeping me awake.

...but I didn't mind.

One night, we went to visit another aunt.  She was a doctor and as soon as she found out about my feet, she told me she knew just the thing to make it all better--which is when I realized she began to sanitize a few needles to pull out the urchin spines in my feet.  I managed to escape.

Another night, another aunt set up a massive feast for us on her patio.  They had asked me previously what I wanted to do during our short visit in Aleppo. I said I wanted "to try Halabi food."  I think she heard, "I want to eat Halab"--because by the end of that night, I felt I had all of delicious Halab in my belly.

And another evening, one of the older cousins asked me about the history of Bangla as a language.  He was very smart, and I was the first Bangali he ever met.  (I'm pretty sure I made stuff up. I hope I said something about Sanskrit and Persian. Miskin.)

I learned that he loved his beautiful city.  He loved it so much that he never left it and the longest he had ever been away was for a day.

Another day, his brother took some time from work to show us around the city.  From a rooftop--was it at the top of Salahuddin's citadel or another rooftop?--we could see the green domes of saints' tombs.  I remember asking him about his favorite holiday.  Without hesitation, he said, "The Prophet's birthday!"

Of course.

Another day, his gentle mother took us to the old marketplace--the largest covered historic market in the world--to go shopping.  And shopping we did.  I still wear the scarves and jackets I bought there. (Have I revealed too much?)  Before we returned home after maghrib, she took me to visit the tomb of Zachary, father of John the Baptist.  "Go ahead and take your time," she motioned.  "I will wait for you."

And every day, I enjoyed the most elegant food and generous hospitality. Beautiful juicy fresh figs, more kinds of kibbeh than I ever could imagine...stuffed cucumbers and mulukhiya...gorgeous salads...a local brand of peach iced tea...some enormous amazing sloppy joe-like burger with lots of fried onions...raw green pistachios...white string cheese peppered with black seeds...

--

When I looked at the pots on the stove, I realized the chicken curry was done, and it was time to move on to the dim bhuna and khichuri.  I called mom.  I told her how much I wished I could invite my friend's family today. They were so good to me.  I wished they were coming over. I wished I was cooking for them. I would make every dish I knew.  I wouldn't make it too spicy.  I would place water near their bedside if they decided to stay. I would speak with them even if they couldn't understand.

I told Mom, My friend wrote yesterday.  These days, her family is just grateful for the bread they can get.  Many of them have had to leave their homes and neighborhoods.

Mom said a prayer.  I couldn't speak after that.  Mostly because it broke my heart.  So I got off the phone and went back to the eggs.

----

Guests are from your rizq.  Guests come with their own rizq.  We plan, He plans.

As our guests ate that night, I prayed that my Syrian family are safe; that the gunfire they can smell and hear never touches them; that freedom is near; and that the bread they can get tastes better and is more fulfilling and nourishing than roasted lamb, honey, milk, dates and fresh juicy figs...

---

And now, I'm not even sure what I'm writing. My husband has already begun calculating our zakat for this year.  There are a lot of options...

---

And now, so many of you are posting about another mass shooting in the U.S. Last time in a cinema hall by a young white male who dyed his hair like the joker; this time in a Sikh temple in Missouri by a neo-Nazi discharged from the army. On the same day, eight people were shot across Chicago between 12:30 and 7 a.m  and a mosque in Joplin was burned down for the second time this summer.  A few days before, many white friends posted about Chick fil A and homophobia, and a few days before that many anti-racism activist friends posted former Florida Republican Party chairman's confession that the party had meetings "to suppress the black votes."

You would think there was a war out there, only I'm not really sure what we're fighting for...

---

In other news, NASA's Curiosity has landed on Mars; FoxSports.com said Baghdad is in Iran; Clifton Truman Daniel, former President Harry Truman's grandson, attended the 67th memorial of the world’s first atomic bomb attack on Hiroshima and Nagasaki carried out by the U.S.; and Texas has just executed a man with an IQ of 61. 

---

Last night.

Last night, I made khosa.  Before Ramadan began, I emailed Baby Auntie for her recipe.  Although Auntie grew up in Chittagong, her mother is a Burmese Muslim.  Auntie learned from her mom how to make dishes like this coconut curry beauty.

As soon as it was the perfect moment to space out about how much I love Baby Auntie and Burmese-Bangalis, the fire alarm went off.

...but that khosa sure was delicious…

Uno más del monton

24 February 2011/21 Rabi'ul Awwal 1432

Dedication: To writing before I forget

It was my first time traveling by train from New York City to another state.

Penn Station was crowded, and I couldn't figure out which gate I needed to go through in order to find my train.  I asked the tall, well-dressed man standing beside me for help.  He told me to watch the bulletin board for gate number announcements.  In any case, we had the same destination so he told me I could just follow him.

I called my husband, "I'll call you when I arrive.  I'm okay."  Then I called my parents to tell them the same.

I didn't want to follow a (handsome) stranger, but I also did not want to get lost.  As everyone began moving, I kept my eye on him.  He looked over a few times--perhaps to check on me.  By the time I reached the train, I lost him but a station employee told me I was at the right place.  "You'll find coach seats straight ahead."

I found an empty seat by a window, placed my carry-on above me and sat down only to see the same man sitting across the aisle.  I smiled a bit embarrassed--inwardly saying, I wasn't following you; I promise.  The man quietly moved and sat in one of the many empty seats behind me.

I was grateful.  I had work to do and lines to memorize.

I took out my dhikr beads.

A few moments later, another young man--this time carrying a guitar and large duffle bag--asked me if the seat next to me was taken.  I said, "No,"--silently hoping he wouldn't be talkative and also wondering why he didn't see all the other empty seats.

I continued my dhikr, looking out the window, taking notice of the train emerging from under the ground into the dreary urban light.

He must have tried his best to hold his breath but 20 minutes into the ride, he burst out--Do you believe in God?

His accent told me he was Latino.  He would later tell me he was from Nicaragua.

I said, "Yes."

"Oh.  Okay.  Me, too!"

I finished my dhikr and then took out the stories in my folder, thinking, Dammit, he wants to have a God conversation.

He waited a few more moments.

"So what's your religion?"

"I'm a Muslim.  My religion is Islam."

I was about to turn to the stories again, when he said,

"I love God.  I'm just crazy.  I would go anywhere or do anything to find him."

But he couldn't find God in religion.  He tried.  He tried Christianity.  He tried Judaism.  He tried Buddhism.

"I want to read about Islam."

Shit.  Now I have to give him book recommendations.

I looked up from my papers and turned my face toward him.  "Do you have a paper and pen?"

He bashfully said he did not have a pen but handed me a slip of paper.

I wrote down a few books.  I told him there are various translations of the Qur'an so I wrote down a couple.  I also wrote he should look up Rumi.  Then I handed the slip back to him.

I turned back to my stories.

...but I sensed, although he was trying his best to keep quiet, he was about to explode with questions.

So I said, "Would you like to read a story?"

"I love to read.  I like to learn about everything and anything.  If someone told me there was something great down a hole, I'd go in just to see for myself if it's true."

"Here's a story about someone searching for God."  Like you.

I handed him "My Son's Wedding Feast."

Several minutes later, he asked, "So, her son died, huh?"

I said yes.  He then told me he's gone through a lot in his life.  He said he never knew his parents.  They abandoned him, he said.  But he could never imagine losing his kids.  In fact, he was on his way to visit his little daughter.  "She's my world."

I then told him, I have a story about a daughter and her father.  Would you like to read it?

I handed him "Knock at the Door."  He read it.

He then said, "The world is crazy.  When I see something wrong, I just have to say something, you know?  The world is crazy."

I asked for his slip of paper and wrote down the Autobiography of Malcolm X.  Then I handed it back to him.

"Sometimes, people think I look Arab.  Did you hear about those Muslim pirates who attacked a ship full of Bibles?"

I figured he read a tabloid version regarding the Somali pirates.

"No, not really.  Here's another story."

I handed him "Light on my Face."

He paused in the middle--She's MUSLIM?

Yes, of course.

"She got pregnant?!"

Yes.

"But, but Muslim women...you follow the rules!"

Muslim women are human.

He continued reading.  "Amir, huh?"

When he finished, his disposition changed.  He laughed to himself.  I now would say--bitterly.

"You know what we say?  We say, Uno más del monton."

I wrote it down.  "Like this?"

"Yes.  You know Spanish?"

A little.  "What does it mean?"

"It means, Amir is one of many.  Like me."

Then he told me his story.  He had two daughters.  One from a woman with whom he fell in love, got engaged and almost married.  "We separated, but I still took care of my girl."

The second daughter was from a woman he didn't love.  "We were just seeing each other."  But she fell in love with him.

He said she tried to trap him by getting pregnant.

"I was so mad.  I left her.  But I thought, my parents did the same to me.  I never knew my parents.  Maybe that's why they ran away, too?  They were scared.  I couldn't do that to another child.  So I decided I have to be a man.  Take responsibility, you know?"

He was quiet after that.  No more questions.  His face became serious.

And the train stopped.

Destination arrived.

Dirt

In December 2008, a dear friend set my poem "Dirt" to music out of the kindness of his soul and made me a one-time songwriter.  He's something of a shy genius--musical, linguistic and many other things.  I dug it up out of the electronic dirt this December 2013 as a result of remembering things I had forgotten.  I'm so glad I remembered.  

"Dirt" by Brother Wren

Dirt

Written by me
March 11, 2006  

I've played in dirt
As a sandbox kind of child
Threw and spread it around
The substance
Of my bones

The element from which we come
To return to
Then arise from
Dirt of the earth
Of mud and stones

The elders say
From the beginning
Be certain of your end
And yet we shudder
Fearing the one known

They say—
Salvage every benefit
In every grain of dirt
Reminders of mortality
And an eternal home 

So I say--

When digging up the dirt
Make sure to feel it
The contours
On the dark walls
Of my simple home

When digging up the dirt
Smell and note its color
That will shade
And surround me
When I lie alone

Alone in the sandbox
Enclosed and questioned
Mingling in
With the substance
Of my bones

And above all
Every time you feel
See and smell
Sandboxes or dirt
Send me a lamp-like prayer
So I am never alone.