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.

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.