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...

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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.

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