Humanizing the mothers of Gaza: written by H.B.

"GAZA

I can't tear myself away from the T.V. screen. News clips of people, normal people, desperate people, devastated people.

Mothers crying. People bleeding. Body parts. Running, running. Men grabbing people off the streets & rushing to the ambulances, and bringing more and more people. The news reporter tells me that there's no more room in the hospital for any more people.

Little Bodies wrapped in white cloth. A father breaks down crying next to the body of his dead child. I think of my own children, in bed asleep. Thank God. I should go in. I should sleep. I got up early . . . I wonder how long they've been up. I wonder if they will sleep tonight. If they will wake up tomorrow.

A mother is talking, her face is wet and tired. Her eyes are puffy. "They took away my children. This morning. I have 3 daughters and one son left. They took my 5 daughters this morning." Her daughter talks about this morning. She was telling her sisters "we're all going to die."

Five daughters. Five sisters. Five. Who will they mourn? How will they mourn? When will they mourn? They have to keep running from the soulless, pilotless planes dropping randon bombs. But where to? Where do they run to?

"There's no safe place in Gaza, we've been told," an aid worker said.

I grab the remote. I want to see the coverage people are getting in Canada and the States. Is it like this? Do they see the suffering? Or is it watered-down, political collateral damage?

I'm searching for CNN. Finally, I find it. They're talking about Gaza, about the air-strikes.
They're being sympathetic with the Palestinian people. They talk to an Islamic Aid Worker who's barricaded into his house. At first, I feel relief - 'they're acknowledging them - these poor forgotten people who's humanity is so rarely portrayed'.

But wait, I watch longer. No, no. They're rolling the same 5 clips over and over again while they talk about the atrocities: a burning building, people standing and shuffling in the street, ambulance workers gathered around something, a clip of the hospitals, people in the street. Again and again. No close-ups of people. No sadness, no tears, no children, no breakdowns. The rubble and the destruction of buildings, of overcrowded hospitals. Where are the pictures that I saw on the Arabic channels? What about the mother who lost her children? What about the little boy crying & trying to run? The look in their eyes? The fear? The loss?

"Ninety-three per cent of communication is non-verbal," I remember from my university days in psychology. "Only 7% is the words that we hear".

I flip back to the Arabic channel. They are human beings and I must see their humanity. I don't know, after what I've seen today, how I'll sleep tonight. No. I know, deep down, that even if I stir for an hour or two, eventually, in the safety of my home, and the warmth of my blanket, and the company of my children, sleep will come.

How will they sleep, without safety, without shelter, without having had dinner, without knowing wen the next bomb will drop, without her daughters, without her husband, without his baby, without their their father? After they have seen today, how will they ever sleep?"

Back to school is over

In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind,

* * *

"Yellow line, yellow line, yellow line is calling," sings one little boy, the song weaving its way around his friends, falling over each other as they put away books and toys in the li'l corner that is a respite from the routine of the day.

The children, some dressed in uniform, others in bright clothing, their hair well-groomed (well, the girls, anyway), squirm as they try to still limbs to sit correctly on a yellow line that creates a square at the front of the bright room. In front of them, the white board boasts flashcards showing pictures that start with "C","A", and "O", as well as clear pictorials on what to do or not to do in Kindergarten.

As the class settles down, the usual interruptions erupt.

"Teacher, teacher, bathroom."

"Teacher, teacher, howa darabni," (he hit me, in Arabic)

"Teacher, ma ha nafa'al?" (what are we going to do?)

My colleague is a dedicated educator with little experience but a determination to transform these runny-nosed, fidgety, Arabic-only-speaking kids into refined pencil-holders who, at the very least, understand "go to your cubbyhole; get your bag for going home."

We've made incredible progress.

At least two boys who had probably never seen other children had finally learned to interact with people their size - the first used to poke others, put his finger in their hair, and start fights - now he is as docile as a cat in the sun, and just as adorable. The other, a slow and clearly underdeveloped boy who's grip on a pencil is softer then a paralyzed mouse, at least follows the other children into the line-up and knows when to go the bathroom.

Is this a place for development or for catching up?

The stronger kids, physically and mentally, are the ones whose parents obviously show some interest in them. They are the ones with confidence, drawing swirly lines, firm lines, filling up photocopied stars with their certainty. The others don't want to fill in the star on a personality test - or their lines are cautious, even scared.

Who these people will one day become is being shaped before our very eyes. The angry little boy, whose mother admitted comes from an area where tempers constantly flare, will learn to keep his emotions under control here, and not fly at his companion for taking the horsey.

The girls with the overprotective mother, aunt, will learn that no one will feed them here; that they needn't wait for anyone to do their work for them. It's the law of the jungle - okay, okay. A baby zoo.

The children are oblivious to the bell that interrupts an impromptu puppet show about sharing. The kids don't notice, but soon they are cut off from the activity and herded off to the bathroom, and then snack, another unscripted moment that lets them be themselves. The remainder of the time, they are colouring and tracing and sometimes trying to write letters that are really, really hard for their inexperienced hands.

And, as one peers up helplessly at me, the same one that gets angry real quick, and says, "Miss, I can't do this," I wonder whether throwing in all these children into one place and asking them to walk the same pace, to the same finishing line, is really the best way to teach them anything.

My own daughter's attention span has shrunk considerably, but is that my fault? Is it the daily videos she watches when I need my break -- seven hours with over two dozen 4-year-olds needs some kind of rejuvenation -- or is it that activities don't finish naturally, that -as John Taylor Gatto, a public school teacher and author notes in his book 'Dumbing us down' - the school bell creates artificial interruptions and creates disjointed individuals who never really think what they are doing is worth finishing.

And what about her English - not improving in a room full of ESL students? What about the kids in my class who understand the language but have to speak in snippets so the other children understand - if they bother to speak at all? What about the fact that everyone moves at the same pace, even if some have long outpaced the crowd? What about the children who obviously need one on one coaching but will never get it - because it is impossible? And their parents are usually the least interested in their children's immediate needs - they put them in school, didn't they? Their responsible parents, aren't they? What more can a parent do?

And on the other side of the class, the homeschooling option gleams, and deep down inside, I pray I'll have it in me to one day take over the education of a child that needs to move beyond four walls, no matter how honourable the intentions.

i'm back at work on Saturday....: )

. . .couldn't help it. They're short on teachers & I couldn't say no. Pray for me.

To working-out-in-the-real-world mothers everywhere

In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind,

* * *

How do you do it?

For one brief day, nay - for a couple of hours, I joined the countless mothers who balance work, home and family on top of their heads, hips or fingertips and I came home absolutely drained.

Okay, perhaps it had to do with the nature of my stint. A junior kindergarten teacher's assistant on the second day of school. Sounds easy enough, but let me (finger) paint the picture for you:

"Waaaaah!!!!!!!"

"He cries and cries like that and then he throws up!"

"I want my baba, I want my baba, I want my baba!"

"Okay kids let's colour -- oh, you don't understand English -- uh....."

Whimper, whimper.

"Bathroom, please."

"Oh, he's throwing up. Call the dada!"

"Tell the mothers to stop looking into the windows!"

"Mama, I want to go home, it's too noisy."

"We only have an hour longer. Should we play a CD?"

"The CD player says it's on but nothing is happening. . .what about the blocks?"

"Waah, I want the blocks!!!!" "No I want the blocks!"

Of course, to complicate matters, I had my youngest with me at the time, a two-year-old in the midst of a class of four-year-olds (though I suspect a few of them were actually manipulative ceo's in disguise), and she wasn't all that impressed that mom was running around calming child after child like a firefighter dousing flames that keeps leaping from house to house.

By the time I stumbled into our deliciously quiet apartment, my kids were pooped, I was pooped, and all I could think of was -- sleep. My husband was gleeful.

"Now you know! Now you know! Work sucks the life right out of you."

Yeah, yeah, okay, okay. Work is hard. VERY HARD - especially with children who need you in tip-top shape for the rest of the day. Thankfully, I had my sleep, but if I hadn't.......

And so I am brought back to women's studies class, first-year university, where there was only ONE student who had the guts to admit she WANTED to be a housewife. We all stared at her, mystified that anyone with choices would choose that one.

But oh, how wise she was. Isn't it better to be a full-time mom, able to chill out when the tension gets too thick and everyone's fighting over the one drawing board in the house and you just don't want to give in and buy another because how-oh-how-will-they-ever-learn-to-share? Pop in a video and escape with a cookie in the kitchen and forget all about their cares. . .

For a mom whose scrambling to get home on time to get dinner ready, homework done, kids bathed and dressed and ready for bed --- not to mention getting that quality time in somewhere - the thought of a cookie in the kitchen all by herself may seem awfully optimistic.

And yet, because of my upbringing (mentioned a few posts back), I still find myself harkening to the world of work - struggling to remain at home base where life is so much less stressful but somehow less satisfying. It seems I've got nothing to show for my day -- "what do you do all day, anyway?" Sigh. How to change society's view of the ever-important role of 'mom'.

Oh, working mothers of the world - I salute you. I admire you. I pray for you. But I surely do not want to join you - at least if I can help it.

What my five-year-old has taught me (so far)

In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind,

* * *

In a few days, my eldest daughter will clasp my hand, and we'll head into the bright space that is her new school.

A whole world of learning unfolds before her. Or should I say 'us'. Already, I've been amazed at all the little one has taught me, including knowledge rooted in prophetic tradition, though she doesn't even realize it:

1- Give people the benefit of the doubt.

"Maybe they just didn't know," suggests my daughter, as she tilts her head to one side, eyes wide. We could be talking about anything - the garbage strewn on the street, the bad driving all 'round, the images of scantily clad moms in my parenting magazines. She'll find an excuse for one and all, reminding me of my own faults on this one, especially considering this lovely saying from Prophet Muhammad, may peace be upon him:

“If you hear about your brother something of which you disapprove, seek from one to seventy excuses for him. If you cannot find any, convince yourselves that it is an excuse you do not know.”Narration reported by al-Bayhaqî.


2- Be patient with li'l ones.

When the youngest of my two wants to change outfits for the fourth time in a few hours, it is my eldest who guides her back to her room to choose the clothing. She finds a way to put up with her persistent fashion needs, and I have to swallow my frustration. "Mom, she is just a baby," she says of her two-year-old sibling. Yes, sort of.

The Prophet said: 'He is not one of us who does not show mercy to our little ones and respect to our elders.' Reported in At-Tirmidhî.

3- Housework is fun.

Okay, I doubt I'll ever internalize this one, but you've got to admit, soaping up dishes isn't all bad if you really lather it up. "Mom, look how shiny this is," she'll say after spending five minutes soaping up a teaspoon. Ahh, to be young and without a care in the world. Why she wants to scrub the toilet, though, is beyond me.

"Cleanliness is half of faith," said the Prophet, according to an authentic narration.

Yeah, I know. It's the bubbles.

* * *

Speaking of learning, I was surprised to hear a recorded announcement running over the loudspeakers at our local grocery store encouraging parents to read to their kids. After complaining about the lack of commitment to reading in the Arab/ Muslim world a few posts back, I have to admit that I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions. And I'm scheduled to visit a library one of these days with a lady who's actually been inside one here. Can't wait!

Little ladies in waiting

In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind,

* * *

"You need to learn to stay at home," was my father's mantra throughout my high-flying high-school and university days, when home was akin to a hotel. Many parents would sympathize.

Thankfully, my daughter's teen years are a long ways away, and yet I've become super sensitive to the mistakes of the past - mistakes in raising the little Muslim ladies of our communities and the problems that can result.

You see, I'd shoot back the following response to my Dad's plea - "Why? What for?" I could see absolutely no logic in the need to keep close to home base. I was a young, busy student, with tons of extra-curricular activities and a hectic social life, plus a part-time job throughout my studies. Picture perfect princess of the modern-day: Doting parents. Comfortable finances. Car. Next to zero responsibilities.

All fine and dandy 'till I got married. WOAH! Who rewrote the script? Daily chores? Thinking of someone else? Dare I say -- MOTHERHOOD!!!

Yikes. The shift was not pretty. It took a few years before I realized I had to think of a family unit - and I still struggle with it. My time. Time for me. My needs. My wants. Sigh. It ain't flying.

So what went wrong? Well, individualistic Western societies shoulder some blame. But what about Muslim parents who adopted an alien concept of female accomplishment? Even Western women of old used to learn to perfect their domestic duties, and to polish the additional artistic touches - piano, embroidery, singing and painting. Higher class ladies had social teas, and sewing circles. Not sure what the rest of them did. But I'm sure it didn't have anything to do with hopping on a horse and spending the day gallivanting around town for a school assignment.

Not to say that female education and emancipation is a bad thing. Of course not. Problem is, modern-day women are groomed for a different kind of life -- one that emphasizes their public role. Very little is said or done to prepare women for life as married women - for those who marry - and for motherhood, for those blessed with children.

So what to do? Time for emphasizing more than the typical school workload. Our daughters should love to cook, clean and take care of their little siblings. They should enjoy reading up on home remedies. They should love to sew their own clothing. Perhaps they should even redesign their homes. Point is, young ladies should be ready to make their home their main sphere of influence and enjoy doing it. Funny thing is, my five-year-old loves helping me out around the house. It comes naturally to her, and I think it is me who would potentially drive her into the arms of the modern-day woman's syndrome.

As for me, I've learned to stay at home and appreciate my Dad's prescience. I just hope my daughters believe me when I give them the same advice.

Where are the book lovers?

In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind

* * *

"I don't want any books, I am sick of books," and with that quick statement, my relative made a beeline for the women's clothing section and I stood frozen in my spot, mouth agape.

Don't want any books? I thought to myself, as I wheeled the cart piled with fruits & veggies and my two girls over to the modest little reading section in this foreign superstore. I shuddered to imagine my own daughter one day telling me something similar.

Ever since I can remember, books have meant a lot to me. Not having access to them was akin to being at a seaside pool without a bathing suit. No chance for refreshment. No chance for participation. No chance for anything.

Or maybe it was like being in a desert without any water. Perhaps then you understand the urgency of my need to read.

Books are a part of my life. From my mother's loving instruction on how to connect the letters of a story about a butterfly, to the dozens of teen books that my father would help me fill our suitcases with on a family posting to Indonesia, books have provided me with special bonding moments with my world, and the world beyond it.
___________________________
Children are made readers on the laps of their parents.
~ Emilie Buchwald ~
______________________________________________

When my own children were born in Ottawa hospitals, I was reminded immediately of the need to read to them. Bless those eager beavers at the City of Ottawa, they offered every new baby a brand new book from the library - to keep - as well as a video on the importance of reading and a great little book for me called "Reading Magic", written by Mem Fox. In it, Ms. Fox makes the compelling case for reading daily to our children in order to give them a love of reading that will carry them through a life filled with questioning and wonder.

That has been my life - one of questioning and wonder - and so when my teen relative shrugged away the chance to pick up books that would otherwise cost too much for her family to consider, I felt something inside me cry out in disbelief.

When we recently traveled back to Canada for a visit, the library's 'for sale' section, made up of discontinued books, was one of my first stops. There, I picked up half a dozen titles for my girls. Used book stores were also high on the itinerary, where I even managed to pick up a treasure: "Teach your child to read in 100 Easy Lessons", which had just been recommended to me by a dear friend - who reads a lot, may God bless her!

Watching my two daughters pore over pages where real-life or cartoon characters put feelings and information into words so that they can experience new things, is one of my greatest joys. That the eldest may soon do it on her own, is an absolute miracle. It is devastating to realize how so many people do not derive any pleasure from reading, especially when many of them are Muslim, coming from a faith in which "Read!" was the first word revealed to the Prophet.

Perhaps it is the archaic school systems, teaching by rote to disrespected minds that are unfulfilled and forced into studying things they have no interest and no affinity for that has deadened the love of the written word. In Egypt, for example, if a student does magnificently in Chemistry, but fails in an unrelated subject, her grade-point average will nonetheless bar her from from entering Science; forced instead into a 'lower' academic stream that often results in an arts degree she'll likely care little about. Talk about creating a dead end on learning. Especially when learning becomes a chore, usually done zealously by those who see the clear connection between doing well in school and "succeeding" in the material realm. At least what their parents tell them.

Or mabe it is the disconnection between learning and our Islamic identity as learners, discoverers & pioneers, that has caused the evident deterioration in Islamic scholarship. Educators like Elma Ruth Harder point out the growing reliance on secular teaching materials in both Muslim and non-Muslim schooling environments as something to think about. After all, when you see learning as an opportunity to know more about life, creation, and directly or indirectly, about the Divine, it becomes in and of itself, an act of worship.

"The ink of the scholar is more sacred than the blood of the martyr," said Prophet Muhammad, may peace be upon him. "He who leaves his house in search of knowledge, walks in the path of God," he also said. And there is so much more in the Islamic tradition that points to the value of learning and, by default, reading.

So while my little family wonders whatever to do with ourselves in this city of mega- malls and mega-mosques (though hard to reach because a woman can't drive alone) - I will call up the local library and see if anyone even bothers to answer the phone.

I'm almost afraid to find out.

Teaching faith & inter-faith

In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind

* * *

"Hijabi!!!" my five-year-old became accustomed to gleefully yelling out whenever she laid eyes on a woman whose hair was covered with a scarf.

We were in Canada at the time, having just spent a few months in Saudi where a person would grow hoarse by doing the same thing.

We hadn't realized how profound the experience of bringing our young daughters to the Muslim-majority kingdom would be. After all, one bouncy child is five, as mentioned, and the other little doll is just over two.

And yet, the effect was startling - not least of all to my family members back in Canada who were not happy that their minuscule relative had suddenly become a fundamentalist.

"I don't care about Christmas lights," she would announce, responding to my father's reminisces about walking around our neighbourhood during last year's holiday season. Yikes, all I had said was that we don't celebrate the occasion. I never meant to promote such an antagonistic view.

And then there was that little issue of statues. Oh boy.

"Mom," she would ask, peering at the window as we'd drive by Parliament Hill in Ottawa. "Why are there so many statues? I don't care about statues."

Well, that came from stories about Prophets warning their people not to worship stone idols. What could I do? Those were the stories I had grown up on and which had enriched my life as illuminating examples of righteous people reforming their communities into ones which upheld concepts like truth, justice, and faith.

"Statues are bad . . . oh, that one doesn't have a face. Maybe that's okay, mom?"

So here I was, having spent a few years trying to teach my daughter about Islam, and now, right before my disapproving family's eyes, she was displaying some pretty rigid ideas about everyday life.

What to do?

Ever since my experiences at Islamic camp - yes, there are such things, and no, they have nothing to do with terrorism - I had realized that the only way for a person to truly practice Islam was to love it. Love it for its simplicity, its magnanimity, its kindness. Unfortunately, Islamic camp, at 16, only proved that Islam was little more than "a bunch of annoying rules".

"Don't wear colours!" (Okay, it was the early nineties and anything really, really bright was in. Remember MC Hammer?)

"Don't talk to your brother because not everyone knows he's your brother!" (Come on!)

"Don't laugh out loud!" (I'm a girl, you see.)

"Don't ask questions too loudly." (Again, that unfortunate realization that I'm a girl.)

And on and on it went.

That is not Islam and it took me several years, and a lot of painful detours, to figure it out. In fact, it took a trip to Cairo, my birthplace, to realize that Muslims could be a pretty easy going lot. They could indeed love you for who you are, and overlook your short sleeves and make-up, but still appreciate your nascent beliefs.

So when I heard my daughter speak about all the things NOT to do as a Muslim, I realized that somehow my teaching methods had failed.

I changed tack.

"You know nurse Jacky, at Teta's (grandma's) hospital? She is a non-Muslim," I told her one day, as we were driving to visit my mother. Her eyes lit up. She loved Jacky - after all, she was the self-appointed grand-ma assistant, ever-ready with presents and balloons.

"Yes," she said, expectantly. "So you see, it is okay not to be a Muslim. Everyone has different things they believe in. She believes in something else, we believe in Islam. We can still be friends. Islam says we have to treat everyone with kindness and respect, especially if they are kind to us."

Little one nodded, while the other one started lisping, "Jacky, jacky!" They both adored her!

It wasn't easy but I slowly tried to explain how different beliefs didn't necessarily make for instant avoidance. Then I realized how difficult it would be to teach about other religions in a country where not only is the official religion Islam, but where other religions are completely ignored or driven underground. Unfortunate, especially considering that Islam was one of the first political systems to grant rights to minority religious groups, guaranteeing their safety and security. (It should be added, though, that there have been laudable steps taken by the King himself to promote inter-faith dialogue culminating in a couple of well-attended summits this past summer, including one held in Mecca.)

As we prepared to return to Jeddah, I managed to sneak in an Oxford children's book on different religions into our suitcase, fervently hoping it wouldn't be confiscated - likely an irrational fear. Nevertheless, having been told that Saudi customs officials sometimes confiscate reading materials to ensure they don't offend somebody, I sincerely hoped they wouldn't object to all the different manifestations of worship displayed in the book's colourful pages.

Thank God, we got through, with only one of my books examined by the curious agent who obviously couldn't read English so instead focused on my husband's Arabic books - published in Saudi anyway.

And when we sat down to go through the mini-encyclopedia on faith, my daughter skipped over the sections on Islam - wanting to know more about people, and places and symbols she hadn't already learned about.

And all I could think was, whew! That was a close call.

But it still leaves open the question: how on earth do I instill a belief in Islam without inadvertently making everyone else look bad?

Like the ladies who 'show their shoulders' -- a no-no for us, as modesty is considered a key branch of the faith, but hard to explain to a youngster.

Sigh. No easy answers and I welcome suggestions.

Consumers'R'us

In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind,

* * *

My kids tried out a hot tub last night.

"Mama, it is going to be so relaxing," parroted my four-almost-five-year old excitedly, nodding her pony-tailed head towards me and her doting grand-father.

We both chuckled at her eagerness and I let my skepticism give way to curiosity.

"Are you going to the hot tub?" exclaimed the younger one, a chubby basket-ball of energy who barely understood what we were saying. She laughed along with us as we readied ourselves to get out onto the deck and duck the cool air as we disappeared into the whirling, rainbow-lit luxury.

As we bubbled away, premium jet streams pushing at muscles I hadn't realized needed pushing, I couldn't help but once again wonder at the standard of living all around me. And my girls. . .what was this teaching them?

* * *

When the artifically-flavoured yogurt "tubes" (specially marketed at a discerning toddler public) run out, saf saf, my two-year-old, never fails in saying, "We'll get some more," speaking with certainty, not just optimism.

When tam tam, the other one, wants something, it is "let's go get it now". And sadly, I find myself going along with all this.

How do we teach children to become more than simple consumers of a world where everything is seemingly at their fingertips if they simply ask, or cry, or beg? I've tried showing them pictures of children whose bellies bulge from malnutrition in Africa. I've pointed out the kids on Arab streets that wonder aimlessly with ripped shirts or torn pants. My daughter came with me to give money to a man who had no legs and was pulling himself along on a thin wooden plank with wheels that required him to be lying flat out on the ground. At least the older one is concsious of the reality of the world -- and sometimes even fearful of becoming like "them", "Mama, we can't give away everything, because we will be like them...." sigh. How to teach generosity in a society that is so me-focused?

* * *

Even I think I'm entitled. When we travel, we are shocked that we are not being treated as we were back home in Canada. This belief that we are somehow deserving of the blessings all around us is extremely problematic and symptomatic of a dominant nation that refuses to give more than 0.28 per cent of its country's wealth to the poorest of the world (Canada's foreign aid ranks as the lowest among G7, as of 2007).

A friend of mine once asked her mighty brood of five (now six, God Bless and Help her!), to toddle around the house, picking up every car, truck, doll, plastic knick knack, ball, etc., and stack them up in some empty boxes.

"We're taking these to the poor kids in our neighbourhoods," she relates telling them. "God wants us to share."

The kids obliged, perhaps not realizing that it meant that her modest two-story house would become almost free of any wheely, cuddly or accident-inducing thing-a-majig, from then on. When we visited a little while later, her two eldest, a shy girl of about five and a confidant boy barreling into his sixth year, blew me away.

When my daughter wanted one of the few toys left in the house, a spiderman flashlight that the boy happened to be in love with (can you blame him?) he very simply handed it over to her.

"Keep it," he lisped and leaped away. I tried not to choke on the food my hostess had brought for us to share in one big plate. And then, her daughter, responding to the tireless requests of the same little lady who is related to me, asked her mother if she could give away the lovely paper-mache flower she had made at school and which currently hung on their simple walls.

My daughter jumped up and down with happiness as the pair lovingly removed the only colour in the otherwise drab room and gave it to her, both smiling at their offering.

"Fatima," I said, not knowing what to do,"say 'thank you'." She did but I wondered how I could ever instill this love of others in the hearts of my daughters.

“You will not attain righteousness till you spend in charity of the things you love.”
——— The Qur’an, Chapter 3, verse 93.

Glimpsing possibilities

In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind.

And so, with a few rapid words, I jumped over the divide that had slowly been closing, like two cliffs inching back towards the other after a shake-up.

"Um, and what if someone is interested in teaching here," I asked the friendly woman, Irish to the bone and yet swathed in a love for the Eastern culture she had adopted almost two decades ago and for the place she had called home for just as long.

"Teaching?" she asked as she stood in the balmy office, bright with yellow paint and rainbow-filled bookshelves.

"You know, sometimes my friends are interested in teaching," I found myself trying to get out as my kids tumbled and stumbled around me, wanting to play with children who had gone home for the last time this year, a few weeks ago.

Okay, enough rambling. Time for plain speak. There I was, checking out the school I was thinking of registering my five-year-old daughter in, having abandoned plans for homeschooling once I had realized its futility in this seaside town where isolation is a natural state for most families and I also wanted to know if I'd at least be able to be witness to her childhood and just how she'd be shaped into the young, intelligent, empowered Muslim woman I longed for her to be.

"I'm interested in teaching," I finally heard myself say. "Oh, okay, yes, we are looking for teachers, what is your experience?"

Well, I had taught in Sunday school for a year, and there was that time I helped out at a summer camp. And besides, I'm a mom who was about to homeschool her kids so I have been reading up on the issue (when I pull myself away from politics and community news).

The woman, a teacher at the school for fifteen years before being asked to head up the KG program, kindly guided me around the wide space, framed with narrower classrooms where children between the ages of 2 and five would be filling in a few months time.

"Mama, where's the kitchen?" asked Fatima, wide-eyed and hopeful. The previous day we'd toured a smaller, Arabic school where a bright kitchen beckoned. Here, there was one we discovered and which we were shown through the window of a locked door.

Ever since reading "Dumbing us down" by John Taylor Gatto, read feverishly in just one night while baby slept on and off between feedings, I have been weary of school settings for my girls. I did enroll the eldest in a local Islamic school for a few months, and that went very well, but I continue to fear the possibilities that she might be "dumbed" down and unable to reach her full spiritual and mental potentials.

But I digress.

Homeschooling was an equally challenging possibility and when a friend here in the Middle East nipped it in the bud, saying it would be impossible here without a support group and/or places to actually go to for exploration, I realized structured school was the only way to go.

And so the tour at this girl's school, reputable and sturdy. Structured and perhaps limiting. But maybe, just maybe, uplifting....

and might I be a part of it?

* * *

A book called, Concentric Circles; Nurturing Awe and Wonder in Early Learning by Elma Ruth Harder, is my saving grace.

Educating children would otherwise seem a typical and almost mundane task. But this woman, a Saskatchewan teacher, mother and convert to Islam who has taught around the world, has managed to inspire in me a determined belief that education is indeed political and that it is time Muslims reclaim the tools to educate their own youngsters in a way that is in harmony with the true purpose of existence.

yeah, I'm serious.

"It can be argued that each civilization produces material which naturally advocates and reflects its own worldview, and thus there is nothing wrong with this industry churning out millions of copies of educational resources destined for markets where people freely choose to purchase what they buy. This may be true on a theoretical level, but as things stand we live in a world where people do not have this free choice. The educational material produced on this pattern by a well-established industry has advantageous marketing and selling strategies and its global reach is unmatchable by any other kind of material, not because of some inherent superiority of the worldview. . .but by the sheer economic and political leverage enjoyed by the Western civilization.

[...]This brings these young Muslims in direct contact with a worldview --and a value-system based on that worldview--that runs against the grain of the Islamic worldview. This, naturally and inevitably, affects learners in deeply-rooted ways which can lead to internal conflicts of a psychological and spiritual nature. This has in due course been recognized by many perceptive Muslim scholars, who have called for an epistemic correction of knowledge."

Wow.

So wouldn't it be something to flip the status quo on its head? Teach kids the 'why' of things, not just the 'what' and 'how'? In an Islamic society, mention of God will be inevitable, but a focus on a natural way of life; of understanding permeating the curriculum would be so wholesome and so fulfilling -- as reading this book has been.

Would Islamic schools be convinced for the need of stopping the use of those dastardly school bells that interrupt thought, as Mr. Gatto so accurately points out? Would children be encouraged to explore, discover, feel their way into the world instead of learning by rote as is much of the case in the Middle East? Would children by given the chance to truly understand?

Dangerous, because as some might argue, the whole point of school is the control of the masses and a Quranic worldview, just as Islam itself, is all about individual and communal empowerment.

....the kind of empowerment that isn't looked upon too well in the totalitarian regimes right now.

And so, perhaps this is as subversive as it gets. Teaching Muslim kids to think.

Hope I get the job, Insha'Allah (God willing).

being 'mama' through and through

Bismillah Al Rahman Al Rahim,
In the name of God, the Most Merciful, Most Kind.

A blog to figure out an identity that longs to run, leap and explore a world where motherhood is often a burden, a weight tied around the ankle, prohibiting further movement.

Resisting this unfair image of a role that is vital to societies sincerely hoping for a future in which compassion & humanity prevail.

Wishing that I could find the same kind of happiness from a quiet afternoon poring over puzzles and picture books that I do from writing down observations of other people, other families, other lives.

Is this symptomatic of the malaise of motherhood? Is it personal? A writer's crutch? A typical feeling that needs simply to be fought against?

This blog will, God willing, be a testament to the victory of the mother inside over all else.

At least I hope so.