Memories of a Muslim - Day 2 of Ramadan

Today I found myself missing my mother more than food or water. Okay maybe not water. But trust you me, my momma is a whole lotta mother. Her absence right now is like an enormous kick in the teeth. Here's the thing, my parents have always been the embodiment of faith to me. Their foolproof conviction, steady faith and rock hard belief in self improvement has crafted those parts of me I am most proud of. They probably don't know this, nor will they because, and let's face it, I also got my stubborn pride from them.

My utmost favourite Ramadan endeavour always took place in Egypt about an hour before sunset. My mother and I would get into the car (avec chauffeur - the days of my mother the Datsun speed monster are over) and make our way through the herd of cars slowly encroaching their destinations. At every intersection we would roll down the windows and pass envelopes to the traffic wardens. Those envelopes contained a small stipend and a humble collection of Quranic chapters put together in loving memory of my grandmother. What you should know is that a traffic warden often working 12 hour 7 day shifts receives the equivalent of about EUR 20 a month. They usually send back about half to their families back in the village and end up with very little for food and shelter. In fact I have no idea how they manage. So, the idea behind this enevelope is that the warden would have the means to buy food to eat and upon reading* the verses would in fact be reading them for my grandmother. My mother's mother. I already know without a doubt that I too will carry on this tradition. And I would certainly hope my offspring (as crazy as they undoubtedly will turn out) will too. It is in this simple act of giving that we have perfected the art of paying forward a blessing to our most loved ones.

My mother and I would continue on this saga daily, interspersing our travels with visits to orphanages, elderly homes, shanty towns, hospitals, etc. My favourite part was whenever my mother would stop to buy lemons off the side of the road and bargain with the woman till she got the price she wanted only for her to moments later hand the woman an envelope worth more than the whole lemon basket. So why bargain in the first place? A spot of light sport as recommended by the Ramadan Booster Pro app.

It is unfortunately fortunate that Ramadan is during summer this year. This means that most of the orphanages and other public institutions that normally suffer during the summer months on account of increased expenditure by the middle to upper class on holidays and cars (fat 4x4), have less to worry about. This is the peril of the Ramadan generosity fever. People give for one month and then forget to give for the rest of the year. A lot of institutions have started buying dried food with the money donated in Ramadan and storing it for the rest of the year. The quintessential 'whatever works' principle. Luckily the tri-faith nature of Egypt means that the Copts will pick up the slack during Christmas this year, leaving the Jews to tend to the Autumn months and the remaining faiths to deal with Spring. Theological cost sharing is what I call it.


On the way back home we would swing past my aunt's house to pick up dinner (iftar). My aunt -maternal obviously - is lovely. She is the kindest, softest, most amazing cook of a gullible woman in the world. And this is an understatement. I truly believe that her prayers for me (all of us!) are the reason I make it home daily. Every time I would leave the country she would drag my cousin to drive her over to our house, regardless of the time, only to light incense around me, read the Quran and cast a million blessings my way. And try and stuff a roasted chicken in my luggage. Bless. Stocked with auntilicious food, mother and I would make the trek back home, usually harbouring an additional stowaway in the form of one or two cousins. Once home we would start making plates of food to give to our neighbour upstairs and our flat guardian (baow'ab) downstairs. Our neighbour upstairs is another one of those incredible people that make this month worth every strand of endurance. This monolith of a man takes a month off work in order to cook and feed the neighbourhood for the duration of Ramadan. At the bottom of our street, everyone is welcome to grab a seat at the long tables to break their fast, quench their thirst and fill their bellies with some amazing home cooked food and drink. This is a common tradition in Egypt - Ma'2edet al Rahman - which translates into the prophets table. The idea being that during Ramadan no one should go hungry... after they break their fast that is. All over Egypt these tables (often under a rather ornate tent or open air) are run by locals, restaurants, and on occasion the famous person. Who would not want to break their fast at the food table run by Egypt's most famous belly dancer ey? Sign me up! This practice is also to be seen all over the world - maybe not as flamboyant - it is often the case outside of Egypt that these 'tables' are associated with mosques and not belly dancers. See here (picture taken from Kuwaiti blog):



Nothing quite compares to Ramadan in Egypt though. The clashing sounds of prayer call and Nancy Ajram on the radio, the smell of exhaust pipes mixed with the provocative scent of freshly baked bread moments before sunset, the bitter sweet taste of tamarind juice to wash down the spring onions in the serving of brown bean stew, the raging insults of the taxi drivers versus the loud screams emitted from the schoolbuses, the turning of the clock two months to soon to pacify the people, the sunset traffic rush followed by the most unexpected calm before yet another vehicle storm ensues, the Ramadan soap operas that by the end of the month have everyone in a visual lock-down, Boogy & Tamtam Ramadan Special!, the people, the humour, the excessive street lights and the Ramadan lantern key chains...Ah! If ever there was a month to signify the goodness of this land, it would have to be Ramadan. What a great pleasure it is to be a part of it all. Even a cynic such as myself can give humanity the benefit of the doubt this month.

*of course we weren't pushing religion on anyone - if ever we reealised the warden was not Muslim we would simply remove the little booklet before passing along the envelope. And sometimes we ran out of booklets, envelopes and/or change. In which case we improvised....

Musings of a Muslim on Day 1 of Ramadan

03:30 the brick of a phone woke me up to the sound of none other than Bryan Adams ranting on about his six string in a place where summer exists. Unlike here where the only glimmer of summer is to be seen between the clouds and recorded by way of the tardy "sun"sets. The latter adding to my temporary chagrin.

I stumbled out of bed in my most ladylike manner nearly tripping over the dead cow I convince myself is a rug to complete a ritual my mother takes 2 hours over in less than 15 minutes. I ate, drank, showered, prayed and even checked my mail before finding my way back to the warm cave of a bed to try and get a few more hours in.

07:20 my phone insisted I once more vacate my bed. This time to work towards paying more taxes. Not a happy thought but in the spirit of this good month I conceded. Before I knew it my linnen pants were canvassing the wet seat of my bike en route to work. About 10 emails, 3 reports, 1 long meeting, 3 harrassment calls and a photoframe theft later I found myself running out of steam around 13:45. I was by no means really thirsty let alone hungry just very sleepy. More sleepy than I usually am around that time of the day building a fort of files to hide behind on my desk. After attempting to write the same 3 line email about 5 times to no avail, I pretty much knew very little was going to be achieved today. No worries I thought, 29 days to make up for it!

By 17:00 I was out the door and speeding (slowly cycling..) home. My neurotic Woody syndrome kicked in once home and I found myself doing laundry, cleaning the kitchen and arranging furniture. Luckily by 18:00 I was considerably tired again. Before I knew it I was taped to the couch enjoying the heat from the laptop and downloading rediculous free apps I know are worthless. My fellow fasting peeps have developed a Ramadan Booster Pro application to give you tips and hints on how to improve your 30 day religious stint. Unfortunately I was not going to pay 2.50 to have a software programme randomly tell me to feed my neighbour, do some light sport or visit an elderly home. I have my sister for that. And she's free. Mind you I did download the iPray and iQuran apps in the hope that somehow my iphone was going to make me a better Muslim this month. If Steve Jobs only knew what he started...

It is rather incredible how we suddenly turn into uber hypocrites this month. And by we I mean I. Let us not assume to know what others wish to make themselves believe. Somehow during Ramadan I suddenly become more aware of my roots, my faith, my bad breath and my absolute and overwhelming 11 months long hypocritical way of life. I will say however, we are all hypocrites, whether we like it or not. I sort my trash, I try to conserve energy, I even buy into the whole green electricity fad and yet I drive a fat 4x4 on asfalt because I loathe the prius and civic. Why did they have to make them look like hopeless school children you hated to be seated next to in class because they always slowed you down? Did I fail to mention that unfortuntely this month does nothing to abet my foul humour.



I digress. This month is brilliant. I stop everything I normally justify is fine (because it is) during the year, I don't even drink coffee and I certainly stay clear of too much sugar and spice. And of course I curb the social enthusiasm significantly. Why? Because I can. On some level I hereby prove - a bit like Aquinas really - that God has succeeded in crafting our futile existence. I am far removed from a perfect human specimen but I like to think that when it came my turn to be handed patience and will power I got a couple of scoops too many. We are quintessentially flawed because we choose to be flawed. During this month I can show to myself (the rest probably thinks I am scoffing down energy bars in a corner) that I can live on very little, that I can give alot and that I can be a better person. Its not just about not eating, this is by no means an Atkins diet gone wrong, its about the feeling that for a month you are connecting with over a billion people without having to sign up to a website and ignore ugly friend requests. Its about digging into your pockets and giving as much as you can (2.5% is the minimum when you think about it) to help. Its about realising the importance of family and good friends. The importance of keeping each other motivated to try that little bit harder.

19:30 I was on the football pitch for the first training of the new season. I ran two giant laps and wanted to collapse. I survived an hour of intense training and got into my fat car and drove to pick up dinner. It felt good to excercise despite the fatigue, the hunger and the copious litres of sweat I was sharing with my teammates!

I arrived 20 minutues to sunset at my sister's place with food and all. The three sisters sat together watching tv on mute, content to be together but also missing our mom like we do. 21:20 we broke our fast, prayed together and ate thai food. I am sure tom yom soup was a big hit back in the prophet's days. Driving back home my trusted iphone randomly selected to recite some Quran after Florence + the Machine. Now to make sure I find a big enough parking space.

Honesty

Intrepid.

The desire to be candid can be overwhelming. We convince ourselves that if we do not engage in an explosion of truths we will remain perpetually captured in our own web of guilt.

Some of us feel no guilt, most of us dabble in the thought and some of us are Catholic. Regardless, most of us engage in an internal struggle to balance our good and our lesser selves. My father once told me that our physical construction is a reflection of our internal struggle. The way our blood is filtered reflects the way our thoughts are filtered between our selves and our souls. Our self being that portion that controls free will and is fully capable of making wrong decisions. Our soul, of course, being our pure connection to all that is good.

The fact he was telling me this as his lungs were filtering heavy tobacco did not aid his resolve much. On the other hand it supported his statement. We all do have a filtering process; however, it does not necessarily entail complete purification. If what you put in is malice then what you get out will most definitely resemble malice.

As such, be weary of your influences, be weary of your substance; if not be ready to lose your sustenance.

Ode to the Old Man Certainty

My dear Bedouin Uncle, I never knew your name.

You made sure that I was always welcome in your little room and squinted at my pudgy fingers through your leather creased skin every time I tried to reach out to grab hold of your cigarettes. "These battas don't do you any good" you would say as you pushed the packet further. You would take my hand and lead me through the streets whenever I wanted to buy some liban or karate. You had such bulbous finger tips atop those slender used fingers - darkened to perfection by years of hard labour in a scorching sun. A time you rarely spoke about. And why should you. I was only 3. I could always come down to play and you would pick me up under my arms and swing me round like those rides at the fare I saw from the car. You would set me down, pat my head and point to the house. And I would run to my mom. You would bring the paper, ward off the dog snatchers and keep the roudy youths at bay. You cared for our home as though it were a temple. One we suddenly left. And you waved us off when we did. I was then just 5.

Every year upon our return the only certainty I had was your presence. The house may have suffered the ills of time, the family may have crumbled, friends may have gone, even the country may have lost its charm but you were always there. When I stepped out of the car from the airport ride the first thing I looked for was you dear Uncle. You would shake my hand with both your rugged and tar baked hands and welcome me and tell me how the country had lit up due to our arrival. You would ask about the family and every year I asked you the same two questions about your age and if you still smoked those bata cigarettes. And every year you would reply the same -- well beyond your years and that battas were the only kind to smoke. You must have been 75 then.

I will never forget the kindest words that you passed on to me when I returned after having been gone for many years. You took my hand and raising one hand up and allowing one tear to trail down you told me 'By God, I live to see you grow up little one'. I wanted to hug you but formality and foolish rules kept me at bay and instead I put my hand on yours and said 'and I keep returning to one day see you quit those battas!'. He laughed a hearty laugh through his toothless mouth and with that I ran up to the house.

I still have the picture you allowed me to take of you in your pristine white turban - face as proud as your Bedouin ancestry and eyes that revealed the strength with which you faced all that life threw at you. But in them hid that twinkle you only allowed some to see, a hidden twinkle alluding to the cheekiness within as you shared anecdotes and told allegoric stories to a little girl to make sure she heeded life's warnings...

time will tell.

May God rest your soul, widen your grave and bless your family for giving certainty to those around you Uncle.

Inna li ILah wa inna li Ilahi raje3oun :)

Cat's Cradle

Cats have a funny way of welcoming you back into their lives and their environment. They adorn you with their lingering pong smells, bestow upon you the gift of shed fur and above all else share with your their best of friends-- the flea.

Ah yes, the majestic flea. Here today, bringing the family tomorrow. It travels through your trousers, through your vest and into your head peeking every now and again to check for more fertile breeding ground. I sprayed myself with enough citronelle to deter an entire ark of mosquito species but that irrational reckless flea and the idea of an itch.. well that never sprays away easy.

In fact I sincerely feel like spraying every inch of my habitat but since I also plan to sleep there I reckon a nose is more precious than the presence of a few strategically detonated red spots here and there. Strategic in that they will ofcourse reflect my constellation. Do not underestimate the artistic flair and ingenuity of fleas. They get around.

Thing is, even if I get rid of the fleas, the cat's still around. And when it starts to purr and growl and curl up by my feet well.. its a free blanket. And since when do free blankets come free of fleas?

So be it

I saw this competition online for international students to give prospective students a impression of university life in England in the form of a letter to anyone back home. Or something equally mundane. I considered the few emails I sent explaining the ever so fascinating cotidial journey I endure in this blissless land. And decided to write the following:
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My fellow international students to be,

Let me take you through a mild journey of academic bliss, lethargy and challenge. Let me tell you about the epitome of friendship and the perils of an English social life. Let me open your mind to the conditions of employment and the embraces of voluntary work. Let me tell you about my England. For after all the British Museum holds my history and so must British history hold me too. Let us begin.

I have had very little choice in my presence in England. Three long summers ago I was under the impression that I was applying for a teaching job in Spain only to discover that in fact I had applied for a summer job in none other than Somerset, England. Oblivious to English geography I contented myself with the thought that if indeed London is the centre of England than Somerset could not possibly be too far off it (all matter of speaking). I accepted after telephonic verification of my ability to ‘speak’ let alone deliver English as a foreign language. Days before leaving my old career’s counselor (who I still discuss my life with) told me to apply for universities in England, while I was at it. He had a point. So I threw darts at a map of England (still oblivious) and they landed on the few universities I subsequently applied to rather late. This of course is not the way to do it. And this of course is an exaggeration of the truth. As the offers fluttered through the post I chose wisely based on faculty profiles. (Yes, this is the way to do it). I arrived by ferry, youngest of three in the first generation of university goers in the family, found the university (4 miles off centre), found my dorm and waited.

If we consider university to be a production line than the first year is the design stage. I saw students come in as blank canvasses upon which their designs were painted by the end of the first year. I watched and waited and saw their intricate life balance change with time. For some their consumption increased as their enthusiasm decreased and vice versa for others. For me, I watched and gained invaluable experience that no psychology degree can deliver in a 90 week course. I quickly etched a spot in the campus community as I became student representative in the second term by dumbfounded luck (hat draw I am guessing). I got to know the students and the faculty better and enjoyed the fluidity of the experience. Soon after I took on a job as a finance clerk in the student union and discovered just by how much students consumption had increased for my hourly minimum wage. My most notable experience was when I applied for my national insurance number. Treated with the utmost hostility until the interviewer noticed at which institute I had previously worked over the summer, suddenly I became worthy of the digits that minutes before I was blatantly denied as I could not answer why I had moved from my colony to this civilizational cesspool. So be it. That summer, after I finished my first year at university I taught again at that very same institute.

The second year is the production stage. Fabricating the design. My design was rather strong which can be a nuisance to fabricate to perfection. Thus the first term of my second year was spent erasing the strong lines. I moved off campus into a house with international students and professionals. I was finally going to discover the real England. The England that starred in many of my father’s stories. I was also to discover the importance of a tenancy agreement. I cannot stress to you the importance of a tenancy agreement. You could very well find yourself being kicked out of your house a month before the end of the year whilst in the midst of term papers and exams. This is not exaggeration of the truth. This a mild expression of reality. I found myself as a lodger in a house of rules where my water, gas and toilet consumption were closely monitored for elongated discrepancies. I have fond memories of dragging my dirty laundry to my friend's house up the road to get them washed to drag them all the way to university to get them dried to drag them all the way back down to subsequently get them all dirty again as they fell into a puddle of mud. I was Sisyphus and my dirty laundry was my great boulder. The term ended and before I knew it my books and dirty laundry were back in box storage and I was back in Somerset again teaching wealthy offspring about global inequalities... and the past tense.

Along came the third year. The final stage of the production line - marketing. Students are suddenly awash with the realization that this is it. In less than 9 months the bubble they call life will burst and reality will really commence. The first term I frantically spent applying for jobs, masters and internships. Any job - from law to finance to fashion to well.. even marketing. I picked my MA/MSc programs wisely and waited. And waited. And waited some more. And waited till I thought I would never ever get a response to any of my applications. And I had sent over 25 of them. Finally the responses came in. After plenty of rejections I finally got a few requests to attend interviews. Panic arose - I had no suit. This realization sadly came a day before my interview, I rushed to the streets and eventually found something that hung togethor and would blend in the City and all for under 50. I am a student after all. With every rejection another dagger fell through the roof barely missing my already dented ego. The last term is spent trying to find ways of spending the night at the library - out of sheer frustration with it shutting so early and opening so late. True to the style of the British educational system - its imminent lack. So, you give up on anything that once filled your day between 8am and 9pm and spend those hours locked up in the library (cept Friday, Saturday and Sunday--according to the library hours that is). You forget everything in those weeks. You forget your future, your past and only focus on your present. You forget how time works, you forget what food is for and you forget the meaning of the word shower. regurgitate what others before you have written and every opinion you think is yours becomes somebody else's as you assimilate references to your thoughts to authenticate them and authenticate evidence to authors who may have never said anything remotely close to what you think they meant to say. The circle of interpretation where certainty is always sought and never achieved. Before you know it its a day before the final deadline and you are locked in your room with an easypizza, 2 friends and an jammed printer panicking. The friends leave and you are left to disintegrate as your bones start to feel brittle and the wind howls through your single-glazed window panes firing insults of ice at you while you desperately try to reduce your word count and remember to double space. The result being a dead rainforest, a wired mind that keeps you up till 5 am and a face that looks like it has had all its pigments sucked out by the TF screen of your computer monitor. Eventually you fall on your bed and wake up an hour later, shower and hold on to your regurgitated rainforest of a dissertations like they hold the key to pandoras box. Before you know it you have signed them off and cheered like someone who hasnt seen daylight in weeks. You celebrate and spend the next 3 days sleeping off the fatigue in your bones. You wake up on day 4 to realise that you have to deal with your life now. The figment of freedom is suddenly revoked and there you are, back to promoting your own life. Life up for grabs. What have I learnt? What skills can I market? Patience.

So my dearest of students. Think hard, think long and then stop thinking completely. Give that mouse on the wheel in your brain rest, fire the oxbridge debating team in your psyche as well, delete the temp back up files of previous conversations with your id and ego and just for once realise you really have no choice. So go to university, do what they tell you, write the damn essays, do the damn exams, do them all well, join a society, become a president of one, go to lectures, go to seminars, get frustrated, take it out on a badly written article but do not give in . You are too petty to enjoy the "luxary of regret" by not doing it. Remember that.

Yeah.

H.

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So be it. So be it indeed.