tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-526218472561078212024-03-13T17:14:30.272-07:00Scanning the horizon: a mother's view of the world beyond & within". . . Females, having a more
suspicious and careful nature, feeds with her eyes scanning the horizon for the slightest hint of danger."Umm Fatimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641646719484659822noreply@blogger.comBlogger32125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52621847256107821.post-76193209912856936342013-03-18T06:31:00.000-07:002013-03-18T06:33:43.369-07:00Catching Sunlight<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYMUNl0D2TouRIslhnccz7P0dKJojKPx7m5ohqVXoUrRJEtjeqUp0z3fHYRCgpJvCHmbR4i4-Lq4aA_iI1SnsiRXMY5rIeUfmlkWFMhezQCso4uNrpj6MEaMg8FiJHCYtQbNxbq4dHzQ/s1600/wave.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYMUNl0D2TouRIslhnccz7P0dKJojKPx7m5ohqVXoUrRJEtjeqUp0z3fHYRCgpJvCHmbR4i4-Lq4aA_iI1SnsiRXMY5rIeUfmlkWFMhezQCso4uNrpj6MEaMg8FiJHCYtQbNxbq4dHzQ/s320/wave.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
At the bottom of the pool,<br />
A sliver of light shimmers.<br />
<br />
I try to stand on it, to be in it, to feel its warmth. In front of it<br />
there is regular blue,<br />
behind it and sideways there<br />
is regular blue.<br />
<br />
How can I be in it? The change<br />
in temperature is so slight,<br />
but I feel it and I crave it<br />
and I stare at it, it looks<br />
so bright. Should I fix myself on it and<br />
embrace its fleeting presence?<br />
or, enter into the expanse and forget about its shine, and how it brightens<br />
a moment?<br />
<br />
That shifting light reminds me of something distant, though still familiar<br />
and thinking about it offers<br />
that slight change in temperature, warmth,<br />
though the memory is fleeting;<br />
&<br />
from day to day I enter the regular blue<br />
where my existence is typical, comfortable.<br />
<br />
I stretch out, dive below,<br />
feel the cool water pass.Umm Fatimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641646719484659822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52621847256107821.post-86942260717552880142011-12-05T15:45:00.001-08:002013-03-18T06:31:53.570-07:00Soakingi go to sleep in my street<br />
clothes<br />
i dream about work<br />
and mean-spirited<br />
foes<br />
i shout when it comes to<br />
blows<br />
and run<br />
into the thick of the<br />
throes<br />
<br />
these days are all<br />
the same<br />
the push and pull seems<br />
not to tame<br />
but exacerbate<br />
the pain<br />
i long to stay<br />
sane<br />
<br />
and then a moment<br />
stolen<br />
by chance<br />
away from the<br />
rants<br />
the endless needs<br />
the constant stance<br />
<br />
in the water<br />
i float<br />
i sink<br />
around my knees a<br />
moat<br />
far away hangs the coat<br />
<br />
escape<br />
<br />
the bubbles fade<br />
the water falls<br />
cascades<br />
<br />
my mind is clear<br />
my moment so long<br />
it's as if you are here<br />
listenin' to a<br />
rare song<br />
<br />
though it ain't coming back<br />
that love<br />
that i lack<br />
that i hold on to<br />
in the deepest black<br />
and the shouting comes back<br />
on<br />
cue<br />
<br />
and it's back to what i<br />
need to do<br />
turn off the tap<br />
<br />
<br />Umm Fatimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641646719484659822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52621847256107821.post-44576139160893685672011-11-27T18:28:00.001-08:002013-03-18T06:32:32.904-07:00i can imaginei can imagine<br />
that you are here<br />
<br />
and that i'm sharing<br />
the things that float<br />
here and there<br />
<br />
coming up in quiet conversation<br />
what was that thought?<br />
did you read that<br />
i read it<br />
<br />
what did you think<br />
hmmm, me too.<br />
it was in English<br />
wasn't it<br />
<br />
but that's okay<br />
because<br />
there's a saying<br />
about this<br />
<br />
there's a peace one must<br />
make<br />
with our choices<br />
<br />
and i've made peace;<br />
uneasy.<br />
good night<br />
we won't talk 'till morning<br />
okay?<br />
<br />
right now<br />
there's another conversation<br />
going onUmm Fatimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641646719484659822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52621847256107821.post-66551403674812204642011-11-26T14:05:00.000-08:002011-11-26T16:34:50.419-08:00visitoryou were counting the years<br />but I had forgotten<br /><br />life went on<br />and you went on<br />and here we are<br /><br />separate<br />moving<br />forward<br />significant accomplishments like babies<br />now children<br />to show for it all<br /><br />happy?<br />sort of<br />despite unions<br />that weren't as planned,<br />plans<br />that veered off course<br /><br />growing up<br />while moms sighed<br />sometimes fretting<br />finding comfort with others left behind<br />all watching from afar<br /><br />our lives shifted with days and nights that brought<br />change as constant<br />as the leaves that swirl outside these windows<br /><br />standing with space and time behind us<br />content in this current moment, despite the grey;<br />fleetingly wondering what might have been<br /><br />circumstances<br />kaleidoscope away<br />towards<br />away<br /><br />you were counting the years<br />and you reminded me<br /><br />now<br />you'll go<br />counting again<br />and I'll head home<br />rememberingUmm Fatimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641646719484659822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52621847256107821.post-22379678796150784902010-02-18T17:03:00.000-08:002011-11-26T14:09:09.218-08:00In search of Muslims to tell their stories<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 16px; font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;" ><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 25px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; font-weight: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-size: 12px; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font: normal normal normal 11px/1.5 Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.5; "><a href="http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/opinions/in-search-of-muslims-to-tell-their-stories/article1471738/">http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/opinions/in-search-of-muslims-to-tell-their-stories/article1471738/</a></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 25px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; font-weight: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-size: 12px; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font: normal normal normal 11px/1.5 Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.5; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 16px; font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;font-size:16px;" ></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 25px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; font-weight: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-size: 12px; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font: normal normal normal 11px/1.5 Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.5; "><span class="first-letter" style="margin-top: -5px; margin-right: 7px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; font-weight: inherit; font-style: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; color: rgb(255, 0, 0); font: normal normal normal 70px/1 Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; display: block; float: left; line-height: 1; font-family:inherit;font-size:70px;" >A</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" class="Apple-style-span" >minata Diallo, the fictional protagonist in Lawrence Hill's bestselling novel </span><i style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span">The Book of Negroes</span></i><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" class="Apple-style-span" >, realizes early on that she had better cling to the details of her bondage so that she can later recount what she endures. “See, and remember,” she tells herself as her painful journey into slavery begins.</span></p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 25px; padding: 0px; border-width: 0px; outline-width: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; font: 11px/1.5 Verdana,sans-serif; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span">Years later, she fulfills her vision, becoming a </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span">djeji</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span">, or storyteller, sharing details of her life with people of myriad backgrounds and persuasions. Her story humanizes her to those who would otherwise view her as either a threat or a victim.</span></p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 25px; padding: 0px; border-width: 0px; outline-width: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; font: 11px/1.5 Verdana,sans-serif; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span">Though fictional, the book is one more testament to the critical importance storytelling plays in bridging psychological distances. This is how outsiders become insiders: by retelling their history, reminding other citizens of their shared experiences and offering their own perspectives.</span></p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 25px; padding: 0px; border-width: 0px; outline-width: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; font: 11px/1.5 Verdana,sans-serif; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span">It's something Canadian Muslims need to do more of.</span></p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 25px; padding: 0px; border-width: 0px; outline-width: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; font: 11px/1.5 Verdana,sans-serif; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"></p><blockquote style="margin: 0px 0px 15px -140px; padding: 10px 0px 10px 140px; border-width: 1px 0px; outline-width: 0px; font-weight: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-size: 16px; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; border-top: 1px dotted rgb(102, 102, 102); border-bottom: 1px dotted rgb(102, 102, 102); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; font-weight: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-size: 12px; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; font: italic normal normal 20px/1.4 Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 1.5; position: relative; "><span class="dquo ld" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline- font-weight: inherit; font-style: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; position: absolute; top: 0px; left: -12px; font-family:inherit;font-size:20px;" ><span class="Apple-style-span">“</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span">We can produce press releases and absorb widely reported religious rulings, but what about poetry, song, art or literature?</span><span class="dquo rd" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline- font-weight: inherit; font-style: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; font-family:inherit;font-size:20px;" ><span class="Apple-style-span">”</span></span></p></blockquote><p style="margin: 0px 0px 25px; padding: 0px; border-width: 0px; outline-width: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; font: 11px/1.5 Verdana,sans-serif; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"></p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 25px; padding: 0px; border-width: 0px; outline-width: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; font: 11px/1.5 Verdana,sans-serif; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span">As Black History Month activities cluster in cities across the continent, one realizes that a rich tradition of art and storytelling has helped the wider society understand the black community's struggles.</span></p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 25px; padding: 0px; border-width: 0px; outline-width: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; font: 11px/1.5 Verdana,sans-serif; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span">Muslims have yet to explore, share or appreciate their own experiences on the same level. We can produce press releases and absorb widely reported religious rulings, but what about poetry, song, art or literature? There are lots of books on Islam, but not many books written about everyday life, fictional or otherwise, that are based on Muslim themes or perspectives.</span></p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 25px; padding: 0px; border-width: 0px; outline-width: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; font: 11px/1.5 Verdana,sans-serif; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span">The problem is that far too few Muslims themselves pay attention to storytelling. For example, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span">The Book of Negroes</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span"> is relevant to the Muslim experience in Canada – the main character was born into Islam – but where are the book clubs to acknowledge it?</span></p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 25px; padding: 0px; border-width: 0px; outline-width: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; font: 11px/1.5 Verdana,sans-serif; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span">In fact, there is not a single, well-known national Muslim community newspaper, magazine or website in Canada. There are a few local ones, mainly run by volunteers, in a handful of cities. In Ottawa, one of only two weekly radio programs was cancelled a few years ago.</span></p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 25px; padding: 0px; border-width: 0px; outline-width: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; font: 11px/1.5 Verdana,sans-serif; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span">And unless Muslim writers are commenting on the overemphasized angles of the community's experiences (security, terrorism, women's rights and/or foreign politics) or railing against the faith, few of them will ever be widely read.</span></p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 25px; padding: 0px; border-width: 0px; outline-width: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; font: 11px/1.5 Verdana,sans-serif; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span">Besides, there are not that many trained writers to begin with. A journalism bursary for Muslim students at Carleton University sits unclaimed. Where are those who will tell our stories?</span></p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 25px; padding: 0px; border-width: 0px; outline-width: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; font: 11px/1.5 Verdana,sans-serif; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span">Yet there are hopeful threads in this narrative.</span></p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 25px; padding: 0px; border-width: 0px; outline-width: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; font: 11px/1.5 Verdana,sans-serif; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span">For the past two years, an eclectic group of Muslim women – retired teachers, engineers, PhD holders, artists, singers and scientists – have been gathering in Ottawa for a night of poetry, music, theatre and art. This year, Monia Mazigh, the wife of Maher Arar, launched the evening by reading an excerpt from her powerful memoir, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span">Hope and Despair</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span">.</span></p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 25px; padding: 0px; border-width: 0px; outline-width: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; font: 11px/1.5 Verdana,sans-serif; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span">Rukhsana Khan, an award-winning children's author, continues to bridge cultural and religious divides with a growing collection of books that speak to and validate the multiple identities and experiences of Muslims.</span></p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 25px; padding: 0px; border-width: 0px; outline-width: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; font: 11px/1.5 Verdana,sans-serif; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span">Her stories and novels are in demand in schools and libraries across North America and as far away as New Zealand. Ironically, she is probably better appreciated among non-Muslims than within the Muslim community itself, which is slow to recognize achievements that are beyond the purview of engineering or science.</span></p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 25px; padding: 0px; border-width: 0px; outline-width: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; font: 11px/1.5 Verdana,sans-serif; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span">Thankfully, the fixation on career success that permeates the community has not prevented young Muslims from exploring their artistic sides.</span></p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 25px; padding: 0px; border-width: 0px; outline-width: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; font: 11px/1.5 Verdana,sans-serif; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span">In Mississauga, spoken-word artists, writers, singers and musicians converge annually for MuslimFest. It is a rare display of the community's under-promoted talent and attracts thousands of people to the Living Arts Centre, generating both buzz and revenue.</span></p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 25px; padding: 0px; border-width: 0px; outline-width: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; font: 11px/1.5 Verdana,sans-serif; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span">“Muslim youth are increasingly realizing their creative potential,” says Taha Ghayyur, a festival board member.</span></p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 25px; padding: 0px; border-width: 0px; outline-width: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; font: 11px/1.5 Verdana,sans-serif; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span">Some people conclude that it is, indeed, the second and later generations of Muslims who are finding their voice. The excuse is that their parents and grandparents were just too busy setting up house in a new country to tell any story at all. The reality is, though, that many Muslim immigrants come from places where fiction writing is not even taught or from places where the arts are undervalued or ignored.</span></p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 25px; padding: 0px; border-width: 0px; outline-width: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; font: 11px/1.5 Verdana,sans-serif; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span">When Hawa Kaba, a grandmother and celebrated artist living in Ottawa, held a special event for local Muslim women to share their stories against the backdrop of her African and Arabic-inspired collage, not one showed up.</span></p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 25px; padding: 0px; border-width: 0px; outline-width: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; font: 11px/1.5 Verdana,sans-serif; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span">“Art is not a luxury,” Ms. Kaba explains patiently to me a few months later. “And we do have a space that we need to fill.”</span></p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 25px; padding: 0px; border-width: 0px; outline-width: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; font: 11px/1.5 Verdana,sans-serif; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span">It's a space that requires far more than press releases, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span">fatwas</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span"> or forceful commentaries to convince others that we truly belong. Only our stories can testify to that.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 25px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; font-weight: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-size: 12px; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; font: normal normal normal 11px/1.5 Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.5; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><i><br /></i></span></p></span><p></p>Umm Fatimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641646719484659822noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52621847256107821.post-31909038694680037702010-01-16T04:06:00.000-08:002010-01-16T07:28:39.680-08:00Seeing Islam in Avatar<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7WbJ8XLeZZGYmpSdALWC1qdKJwWSunyip78xrlQH24rln-F6chcPnguunKK6ZNoXRUEvXEuv7XSBuQnDCV4ZYygj89iDf1kjwW5ppto6a1NJfs_Tka_Db15plX1LojO4H0abaF-kKQg/s1600-h/avatar-depth.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7WbJ8XLeZZGYmpSdALWC1qdKJwWSunyip78xrlQH24rln-F6chcPnguunKK6ZNoXRUEvXEuv7XSBuQnDCV4ZYygj89iDf1kjwW5ppto6a1NJfs_Tka_Db15plX1LojO4H0abaF-kKQg/s320/avatar-depth.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427309231012813394" /></a><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I must admit to having abandoned Hollywood blockbusters long ago, preferring a book, lecture or documentary to fill rare moments of leisure.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">So I was rather skeptical when my husband coaxed me out of my Saturday routine to go see the much ballyhooed Avatar in 3-D at the IMAX theatre. It’s a short ride down the salt-chipped highway of my cold Canadian hometown.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Surrounded by pop, popcorn and poutine, I silently predicted I'd be bored out of my skull from a sci-fi movie that would doubtlessly become a marketing juggernaut, created to lull the masses into purchasing something or other, and providing yet one more opportunity for blokes to shell out money for fleeting entertainment instead of sending that cash to the suffering peoples of the world. Yeah, I can be a downer.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">To my surprise, though, I experienced something akin to revelation. Truths revealed in multiple layers, symbolizing all that I hold dear in this world - the uniting power of organized religion, the value of ancestry, the sacredness of the earth and the bonds of humanity.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In essence, I saw Islam.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It is an Islam that is little known, and perhaps even Director James Cameron didn't realize how close he has come to representing the values of my faith in a movie that has already broken box-office records with its huge draws.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It isn't the plot that leads me to this claim, though it valiantly speaks to the oppression of peoples around the world and the nobleness of struggling against injustice. (Quick breakdown of the plot: A corporation, backed by a government's military, is after the wealth of a planet called Pandora. They are trying out "soft" diplomacy to trick the locals – the Na’vi - to move off the area beneath which valuable resources are buried. The locals reject the schools and “blue jeans” offered by “the Sky People”- after all, what use do they have for knowledge that has little resonance to their own ways? Certainly, they don't need to be rescued from their own way of life. The army moves in to take what they want by force, destroying the planet’s breathtaking environment, and attempting to sever families and shared histories. Sound familiar?).<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Beyond the political overtones that could easily point to recent conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan and in fact to most of the past colonial conquests that have decimated local cultures since time immemorial, religion is an important backdrop. It serves as the source of strength and guidance for a local community that is about to be wiped out by the marching orders of a secular, soul-less civilization. Echoes of pantheism reverberate here, but the Na’vi’s connectedness with all life forms, from animals, to plants to each other, represent the essence of a faith that recognizes the interconnectedness of all of creation – that we are indeed products of a one, unifying Creator who Has Decreed that we should be stewards of the earth.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“They didn’t need to die,” says a female Na’vi, Neytiri, after killing a creature that was about to claw apart Jack Sully, an ex-marine and avatar driver whose soul occupies a body that was artificially created through a combination of human and alien DNA. On his first visit to the planet, tasked with ingratiating himself with the local population to report back to the army, he is almost killed by wild beasts. When Neytiri sends arrows into the flesh of the creatures to stop their attack, she quickly uses a blade to slit their throats, as though she was in a halal slaughterhouse, murmuring a prayer and apology as the life rushes out of their bodies.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The Na'vi worship a spiritual force, the Eywa, which brings together the souls of their beings after death to the Tree of Souls. And while some of the spiritual practices are far removed from Islam, there are some remarkable similarities. The Na’vi face a central area of sacredness, to which they turn towards during prayer, and which unites them together in a brother and sisterhood just like the real-life House of God, the cube-shaped structure in Mecca, built by the Prophet Abraham and which Muslims face in prayer five times a day; And when the Na’vi pray, their worship is synchronized, in the same powerful way Muslims move in unison when the call to prayer has reverberated in city streets and over country sides around the world (and ringing out from cell phones and computers where minarets are hard to come by). <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The aliens also revere their ancestors and value their elderly. This constant awareness and maintenance of familial ties could have been taken right out of the Muslim texts where the Prophet Muhammad, may peace be upon him, constantly implored believers to maintain ties of kinship at all cost. A society without a history is cut off from its values and its sense of self.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Even when the two leading characters come together to “mate”, it is only after the young male alien has proven his adulthood, and earned the right to care for a family. Religion in the film, as most religions in real life, regards marriage as holy. We all know how far removed this concept is from many of today’s cultural messages about this sacred connection, where condoms are instead handed out willy-nilly in high schools, and girls are encouraged to define their worth through their sexual prowess.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">When the characters do eventually come together, their union is made known to the community, as though they had married, and the event signifies a final decision, not some adventure that starts one night and eventually ends. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">By the end of the movie, one of the scientists who had been studying the Na’vi and who deeply respects their spiritual beliefs, admits to feeling the presence of something greater. Even science must concede to the Supernatural. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">How many people could relate all of these messages to faith? How many more would know that Islam offers all of this and more? Very few, I’d wager if my faith permitted gambling. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Even as the Na’vi valiantly decide to fight against the Sky People on “martyrdom” missions, one wonders whether it is ironic that we are cheering on the aliens, who are, in essence, fighting back just as the Iraqis, Palestinians and Afghanis, etc., etc., consider themselves to be doing. Why does the world currently brand anyone who resists occupation as terrorists, while the aliens who are doing the exact same thing by defending their lands, their resources, their way of life, are quite obviously freedom fighters? This is not to defend the killing of innocent lives. In fact, when the Sky People bring down Hometree in which the aliens live, one need only remember the Prophet’s beautiful advice to anyone in armed conflict to know that Islam holds life sacred, and war must remain as humane as possible: </span></span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“</span></span></span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Do not kill an elderly person, nor a child, nor a woman, and do not exceed the bounds,” and “. . . Bring no harm to the trees, nor burn them with fire, especially those which are fruitful.” Terrorists are those who break the rules of engagement, no matter which side they are on.</span></span></span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Perhaps it is the final juxtaposition of the female alien cradling her struggling human husband, released from his avatar, which sums up the key message of the movie. “I see you,” she says, a statement that carries much weight in a society where individuals actually see all living creatures as valuable and honour them with gentleness and respect, even if they look nothing like them. How different from a place where the spirit is neglected and every group eyes the other suspiciously. It isn’t much surprise when the main character decides to convert to this “real world”, leaving the world of heartless machinery and self-centered acquisition. This is where life represents peaceful co-existence with all that has been created, in reverence to the Force that created it. That is Islam, though too few people will ever truly see it.</span></span></span></p>Umm Fatimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641646719484659822noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52621847256107821.post-35851628286985231482009-12-31T08:05:00.000-08:002009-12-31T14:21:52.269-08:00Home away from home<i>In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind,</i> <div>* * * </div><div><br /></div><div>There was a time when home was more like a hotel. I'd drop in for some food, sleep, and to change outfits. On the rare weekends I would resign myself to self-imposed exile, it was to synthesize an essay or two from stacks of books.</div><div> </div><div></div><div></div><div><br /></div><div>I was typical of most young students who had yet to move out of the cocoon - for economic, social, or cultural reasons. And that was fine. I had my freedom. Sort of.</div><div><br /></div><div>"You need to learn to stay at home," my father would mutter, yell or growl, depending on the time of day the comment had risen up. I'd shake a well-coiffed head and head out the door, with a "what for?" trailing behind me.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ironic twist of fate that a budding career would be voluntarily cut short by marriage and babies. Voluntarily because I wanted to emulate a mother who was always home, always there. After all, it meant that someone valued me and my brothers enough to have a warm plate of food waiting for us when we came home; and valued us enough to be sure that it was a mother's smile that would pick us up after a long day at school.</div><div><br /></div><div>I taught myself to stay home for several years and it wasn't easy (the Internet kept me busy enough, with work on the side to keep things interesting). And though I'm once again working, my mother's smile must remain on my face when work is done, supper is required, and homework beckons. It's my turn to be the responsible one, the calm one, the one that can do it all. </div><div></div><div><br /></div><div>So it isn't surprising that the home I used to get away from eagerly, is now the one I return to with as much enthusiasm. It is in my childhood home where I truly find solace. While I didn't appreciate it so much back when I was young and free and careless, I am blessed to still have a place where I am coddled and cared for, and can explore being me. Even now, at 31, my dad does all he can to make sure I'm happy - and my whole li'l family, too (thank Goodness I have cute children, albeit messy and noisy ones!)</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, I have to say that you were right, Dad. Staying home isn't so bad. Especially when you are there.</div><div></div><div></div>Umm Fatimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641646719484659822noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52621847256107821.post-2332567301610454852009-12-03T15:29:00.000-08:002009-12-04T10:38:04.255-08:00Sickness purifies<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In the name of God, the most Merciful, the most Kind,</span></span></i><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">* * *</span></span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">When the Prophet Muhammad, may peace be upon him, would see someone ill, he would often greet him with the following words;</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“Do not worry. It is a cleansing and purification, if God so wills.” (</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Saheeh Al-Bukhari</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">)</span></span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">As I shrink within chilled skin, my body seemingly unattached from a head that pulses when in prostration to the Creator, I know that all I can think of is existence. No desires, no pride, no hope - nothing but existence and ultimately that I exist only because I was Willed to exist.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Blessed is He in Whose hand is the Sovereignty, and, He is Able to do all things. Who hath created life and death that He may try you, which of you is best in conduct; and He is the Mighty, the Forgiving</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">. [Qur'an 67:1,2 ]</span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It is in these moments, where energy is collected from recesses unimaginable and I am able to tend to a request from a child that has little thought to what her mother is going through, that one is amazed at the resilience that can exist, despite the battle being waged by invisible collections of microbes and viruses inside.</span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The determination to fulfill one's duty, when all that beckons is a blanket and mattress and silence, can spur mountains of cold and flu, and yet, when one submits, and lets it go, and sleeps . . .</span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 0px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 0px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 23px; "><span style="padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>"</i></span></span></span></span></span><span style="padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>In Your name O God, I lay my side and in Your name I raise it. If you keep my soul, give it (Your Loving) Mercy, and if You release it, care for it as You care for Your righteous servants.”</i></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:180%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-size:17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family:Arial, Helvetica;font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></span></div>Umm Fatimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641646719484659822noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52621847256107821.post-78943268444248371222009-11-22T05:04:00.001-08:002009-11-22T11:33:55.079-08:00Tell me<i>In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind,</i><div><i>* * *</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Tell me you have something to do,</div><div>Tell me you'll be back later</div><div>Tell me you've got a job somewhere</div><div>Tell me I've got to get supper</div><div><br /></div><div>Call me after it's all done</div><div>Call me when there's nothing more</div><div>Call me when the clutter's gone</div><div>Call me when I've controlled the roar</div><div><br /></div><div>Wait until I'm ready</div><div>Wait until I'm calm</div><div>Wait for the moment my anger and rage</div><div>Have been soothed by Faith's balm.</div><div><br /></div>Umm Fatimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641646719484659822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52621847256107821.post-53363628101914725722009-11-19T04:52:00.000-08:002009-11-19T04:57:43.265-08:00Wish I was there<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLDvKunaIMtXpkXN7MGeA1nWaARZKY-hRd6NAI76pmsALHFFkgkQkmbgCTyB413UOspmV-kR4-C-3r1LKRSR6QO12BOC6RLiPUnbhYDgSfIpuIeb6UllYYDaoc2gSzdsyAnt15hQgRaw/s1600/hajj1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLDvKunaIMtXpkXN7MGeA1nWaARZKY-hRd6NAI76pmsALHFFkgkQkmbgCTyB413UOspmV-kR4-C-3r1LKRSR6QO12BOC6RLiPUnbhYDgSfIpuIeb6UllYYDaoc2gSzdsyAnt15hQgRaw/s320/hajj1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405798057799978450" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i>"Labaykal lahuma labayka. </i></span><span class="GramE"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i>Labayka la shareeka laka labbayka.</i></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i> Innal hamdawan ni’imata, laka wal mulk, la sharikalah."</i></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i>“Here I am at Your service, O God! You have no partner; Here I am at Your service, O God. Verily, all the praise, the grace belongs to You. And the Kingdom, You have no partner.”</i></span></span></div>Umm Fatimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641646719484659822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52621847256107821.post-87545011730183650812009-11-17T01:29:00.000-08:002009-11-17T01:34:07.891-08:00Body of a bird<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAbndAci2aWjE2JTookPkPPFiOZeRf9zCFSBCAqu-ZFZcgUdM7WSpLX-t8gGA3yhgNqwq0a7OVwS0ASQWlr4FIQeWyHuFyLKpCX8bPYFHzx9GOhb71H1QsuxpBZ18Xty0gnz3w0yAHqQ/s1600/green-bird.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAbndAci2aWjE2JTookPkPPFiOZeRf9zCFSBCAqu-ZFZcgUdM7WSpLX-t8gGA3yhgNqwq0a7OVwS0ASQWlr4FIQeWyHuFyLKpCX8bPYFHzx9GOhb71H1QsuxpBZ18Xty0gnz3w0yAHqQ/s320/green-bird.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405003479259831378" /></a><br /><i>In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind,</i><div><i> * * * </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Surrounded by mist,</div><div>That is clearing,</div><div>and</div><div>The softness of a </div><div>rain,</div><div>I am here</div><div>while my soul longs</div><div>to merge with the simplicity of </div><div>God's creatures</div><div>Flying</div><div>in the body of a bird</div><div>But not </div><div>in that of a crow's.</div><div><br /></div>Umm Fatimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641646719484659822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52621847256107821.post-1628841643597282442009-11-14T16:15:00.000-08:002009-11-14T16:27:51.599-08:00Missing mom<i>In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind,</i><div><br /></div><div>* * *</div><div><br /></div><div>It was nice to be with you tonight,</div><div>To see my reflection in the black</div><div>surrounded by flecks of green that turn blue</div><div>Bright</div><div>And I tried to share a life so remote</div><div>from your existence.</div><div>I held up broken mirrors to a past </div><div>that still pokes through</div><div>the disconnected thoughts</div><div>that jumble</div><div>Making it hard for you to say</div><div>words that</div><div>stop somewhere</div><div>before they can be heard.</div><div>I liked being with you</div><div>Just me and you,</div><div>Like before marriage</div><div>and children</div><div>and work</div><div>and all of this chaotic business</div><div>separated us.</div><div>Though we've been separated before</div><div>And by God's mercy</div><div>You are never alone.</div><div>But you and me</div><div>we have</div><div>butter and honey sandwiches,</div><div>french fries,</div><div>sizing up dresses that would make Dad's bills overflow,</div><div>and running for the bookstore.</div><div>We have that and so much more</div><div>and mom</div><div>I love you.</div><div>I love you.</div><div><br /></div><div>And I pray that we really will go shopping in Heaven,</div><div>both of us,</div><div>33.</div><div><br /></div><div>_____</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: x-small; "><i>"</i><span><i>In Paradise there is a market to which </i><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">the people</span></i></b><i> will come every Friday</i></span><i>. The northern wind will blow and shower fragrance on their faces and clothes and, consequently, it will enhance their beauty and loveliness. . ." Narrated by Prophet Muhammad, may peace be upon him, in the Book of Muslim. </i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: x-small; "><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: x-small; "><i> </i></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Umm Fatimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641646719484659822noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52621847256107821.post-12003758752145331622009-11-14T04:35:00.001-08:002009-11-14T04:39:38.431-08:00From the summer: On the water's edgeYesterday, I would have come<div>here with you,</div><div>And you would have been here, next to me</div><div>as I stepped from </div><div>rock to jagged</div><div>rock.</div><div>Searching for flat surfaces, but longing</div><div>to reach the </div><div>edge,</div><div>Where I could turn my back</div><div>and hear only God's creation,</div><div>Splashing against the shore.</div><div>But</div><div>buckets of emptiness</div><div>create similar sounds</div><div>and I wonder</div><div>if it is my fault?</div><div>Is it because I choose not to conform to another</div><div>standard that</div><div>I fail to make this 'us'</div><div>work?</div><div>Does letting my mind drift to where </div><div>bubble wands and rainbows unite</div><div>mean</div><div>I am not ready to embrace a stronger,</div><div>better</div><div>reality?</div><div>Am I holding foam?</div><div>Does this mean my surrender has too many conditions,</div><div>and so isn't really surrender?</div><div>So maybe all the gates I've gone through have only allowed me</div><div>to circle a wide </div><div>expanse that I still have not entered and in this march towards</div><div>my Creator,</div><div>my innermost desires, and my deepest, hidden faults are manifest;</div><div>acting as a barrier </div><div>to the wide, clear expanse,</div><div>I long to reach.</div>Umm Fatimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641646719484659822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52621847256107821.post-26316729535752155312009-10-25T05:42:00.000-07:002009-10-25T05:52:24.061-07:00Wish I was there (anywhere)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi58FA4JYzQRvt5o1h_g6iNP249zDB36rZV5a1AB8RitpeWTqjDaq5YM4Lt51PfIeFJa2m_S_MYB9WntGNorDueELC5ZZW_OresINliaSjNOLELESwl6yFi-eTgWydoXOXlIm4hYTMBrQ/s1600-h/pakistan.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi58FA4JYzQRvt5o1h_g6iNP249zDB36rZV5a1AB8RitpeWTqjDaq5YM4Lt51PfIeFJa2m_S_MYB9WntGNorDueELC5ZZW_OresINliaSjNOLELESwl6yFi-eTgWydoXOXlIm4hYTMBrQ/s320/pakistan.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396517291811803538" /></a><br /><div>In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind,</div><div><br /></div><div>At the risk of sounding ungrateful - I am thankful for the sunlight streaming through our windows this morning, of the promise of a fresh, fall day (even though I will not be able to enjoy it much because of two very sick kids); thankful that my children will, God willing, get better, and that we have many, many blessings .....</div><div><br /></div><div>I still long to be smack dab in the middle of this photograph. The point is that right now, I am not eager to be here, where I am, because of the chores that are already filling every nook and cranny of this Sunday; the realization that all the pounds that fell off in Ramadan are piling on once more (my exercise machine still folded neatly in its box; who knows when it will come out and if I'll be able to use it to total satisfaction without infuriating someone), and the fact that I have so much school work to do (oh, never did update my profession on this blog - I am now a full-time grade two teacher - more on that another time!!!! How did that happen?!!!) </div><div><br /></div><div>So, my intellect is starving for mental stimulation. Yesterday, there were three workshops at the writer's fest I longed to attend, but no luck. I managed a 10 minute jaunt around the neighbourhood while Dad and Brother watched the girls, one cranky, one bubbly. I am grateful for that.......</div><div><br /></div><div>But a winter that looms is hardly a comforting thought. Shuttling back and forth from school in the blizzard like conditions seems rather uncomfortable and then of course, the question - are we here to be comfortable? Of course not, discomfort, if tied to the remembrance of the One Who Can Remove all discomforts may actually be a good thing. We are not masters or mistresses (sigh) of our own universes. We must submit to the Will of the Creator. Hence, I have not exercised in over two months and it is driving me batty. </div><div><br /></div><div>Hence, so much that I long to do but the acceptance that it is not for now, maybe never. Remember, mom. The symbol of patience in the face of God's Will - and the realization that I can't be in the photograph, because that isn't my destiny.</div><div><br /></div><div>I thank my Creator for all that I have or don't have. He is the Most Wise, and Knows what's best for this miserable heart.</div>Umm Fatimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641646719484659822noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52621847256107821.post-11133436499198460342009-10-04T00:47:00.000-07:002010-03-13T04:58:43.649-08:00Random thoughts on fall<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1A_Et6dTlaAEkFFs9zA9Fqr3NyejzMWOPVYPwxRnDj5TM5nSAoOvU95fS5GTd1br-iMJENsaa-xAxQ6jiLA-sknV4vtbB7MffUIkqSgjkg4-R3Yjld4rE9nAe4VcoFZNab6XtNkynBQ/s1600-h/fall.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1A_Et6dTlaAEkFFs9zA9Fqr3NyejzMWOPVYPwxRnDj5TM5nSAoOvU95fS5GTd1br-iMJENsaa-xAxQ6jiLA-sknV4vtbB7MffUIkqSgjkg4-R3Yjld4rE9nAe4VcoFZNab6XtNkynBQ/s320/fall.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5388648818329746834" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">I was listening to the radio yesterday, and they interviewed a writer who had come very close to dying twice (he was in a semi-coma for 11 days at one point). At the end of the conversation, the interviewer asks him if his experiences shed any light on what comes after death. He quoted June Callwood and Carol Shields who both said that there was nothing after this world, and that the point was to just enjoy life to the fullest and expect little more than fuzzy gray after its over.<br /><br />I couldn't disagree more, and this is why:<br /><br />"Blessed be He in Whose hands is Dominion: and He over all things hath Power; He Who created Death and Life the may try which of you is best in deed: and he is the Exalted in Might, Oft-Forgiving;.... " (Qur'an, chapter 67:1-2)</span></span></span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br />We're here to be tested - to see who will struggle for goodness - the goodness within his or her soul, and who will struggle to see the triumph of good over evil in the world around us. As simple as a cartoon, but far more real.<br />"Nor can a soul die except by God's leave, the term being fixed as by writing. Many do desire a reward in this life, we shall give it to them, and if any do desire a reward In the hereafter, we shall give it to them. And swiftly shall we reward those that (serve us with) gratitude. "(Qur'an, Chapter 3:145)<br /><br />Gratitude is another big factor of our existence. Are we grateful for the bounties we have? Are we grateful to the Creator who Provided us with all of this - we could never make the rain fall on pastures where the crops are. Not me, not Bill Gates, nor Obama, nor anyone but the One who put us on earth to “Eat of the good things wherewith We have provided you, and render thanks to God if it is (indeed) He whom you worship” (Qur'an, 2:172).<br /><br />I wrote about dying with a quiet dignity, with a beauty that reflects an inevitable phase throughout the entire natural world - but it must be said that the transition from this world to the next is also a painful one. Even the Prophets suffered; Prophet Muhammad, may peace be upon him, had fever for several days and was sweating in pain as his soul departed - all while he was asking God to be in the uppermost Heaven. He died in the arms of his beloved wife, A'isha.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Once I witnessed the quiet passing of a man who was living in the hospital where my mother lives. He had been there 17 years, ever since being in an accident that paralyzed him almost completely. His name was Frank. He couldn't speak, he could barely move, and he stayed this way for all those years. His mother was his constant companion. Whenever I used to visit, he would smile. In fact, he would smile to anyone who said a nice word to him.<br /><br />The week of his death, his breath became slower, heavier. Everyone knew it was coming. Whenever I would visit mom, I would pass by his room, to see how he was doing. I would find his mother, his sister, sometimes other family members; all waiting for the moment, wanting to be there, to witness it.<br /><br />But when it happened, only a few nurses, his mother and sister were there. And me. We all watched as his slow, labouring breath got shallower and shallower. Like a frail bird, his body was almost twisted on the bed, frozen as it had been frozen 17 years ago. I prayed with the others as we waited - not sure for what, but waited.<br /><br />And then, after a breath, and nothing, his mother leaned over his face, and said, "he is gone, I think he is gone." It happened in such a tiny, minute instant, that the realization of what we had all just witnessed could barely set in. A moment ago, his soul was still amongst us - now, it was somewhere else, somewhere we couldn't fathom.<br /><br />All I could feel, though, was peace. Frank had submitted to God's will. He left this world without bitterness, without desire, without wanting what was not his. He left this world in submission.<br /><br />This is the blazing colour that stains the dying leaves. The beauty of death. Our skin will be pale, our bodies might be frail, but I pray that we depart from this world in pure submission to the One Who Created us. This is the ultimate success.<br /><br />“And let me not be in disgrace on the Day when humanity will be raised up, The Day whereon neither wealth nor children will avail, But only those that come to God with a pure heart; it is they who will prosper”. (Qura’n 26: 87-89)</span></span></span></span></span>Umm Fatimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641646719484659822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52621847256107821.post-59202051897923273502009-10-01T16:41:00.000-07:002009-10-02T02:40:16.792-07:00When the reality dawnsIn the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind<div><br /></div><div> * * * </div><div><br /></div><div>The crisp night air </div><div>surrounds me </div><div>Cutting through thoughts</div><div>of worldly concern</div><div><br /></div><div>It isn't unfamiliar</div><div>My skin has felt this before</div><div>Many times </div><div>But I didn't really notice</div><div>Worldly concerns too thick around me</div><div><br /></div><div>But this bite that turns leaves</div><div>red</div><div>Marks the passage of time</div><div>And once more</div><div>I am alone</div><div>As the leaves swirl</div><div>And my concerns twist with them</div><div><br /></div><div>But the wind settles.</div><div>And the leaves are lifeless.</div><div>Brilliant colour</div><div>fades.</div>Umm Fatimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641646719484659822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52621847256107821.post-47969763978812638602009-07-19T17:01:00.000-07:002009-07-19T20:07:53.175-07:00Detours, deep uncertaintyIn the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind<div><br /></div><div>* * *</div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes I just try not to think anymore. It helps ease the moment to moment disturbances that stir waters seemingly calm but which conceal deep currents, carrying creatures with potential venom.</div><div><br /></div><div>At the end of the day one wonders if doing what others want you to do can and will achieve peace -- if you do it to honour family members and such. Or, does the inner voice that oscillates between trepidation, intense interest, passion, passivity need a custom response - sometimes beyond the comprehension of those you love. Does that inner voice take precedence? Or not?</div><div><br /></div><div>The great women of this faith -- they were living, breathing, human beings who had tendencies that were not flawless. Just the other day, I heard a story about one of the wives of the Prophet, may peace be upon them, who had followed him one day, thinking that he was going to visit another wife and responding to the jealousy that coursed through her. She followed him and found him at the gravesite, praying for the souls of those who had passed away. Without letting on her presence, she returned home quickly, pretending to be asleep when her husband returned. He knew that she had followed him, but played along --- "where were you?" she reportedly asked; one can imagine the wide-eyed innocence."You don't know?" asked the Prophet, likely with his beautiful smile. </div><div><br /></div><div>Real. Those women were real. Why then, are we expected to be beyond real? To be super-women - responding to house, family and internal struggles with a smile that is as present as the sun in a Southern summer. Clouds are forbidden - a sign of ungratefulness, of course. No chance for exhaustion - because one hardly does what the others do, and if one is exhausted - it is your own fault for trying to do so much. Okay, where's the meat and chicken then? Nothing to show for the coming week's meals, and I was too silly to think to pick it up on the way home. Yeah, okay.</div><div><br /></div><div>So all of this is about people who expect too much. Perhaps me first, but I can't shake the feeling that others refuse to acknowledge my capacity and instead try to shape me and perhaps others into a mould that was never meant for me.</div><div><br /></div><div>My eyes droop as I write. I swear I work hard for my family. And I'm sure so do others in it. But why must we participate in a tit-for-tat? Why can't we respect each other's space? Why can't we share successes and failures - mutually, full of support?</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't know if this is a local - global thing, or just my challenge to solve.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, I'll think about it later.</div>Umm Fatimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641646719484659822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52621847256107821.post-13904292906169593872009-06-22T18:29:00.000-07:002009-06-22T18:36:33.484-07:00Wisdom's age<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">* * * </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The sun </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">has set</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">and yet</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The light still lingers in a sky</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">holding on</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The fading blue</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">like </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">clear water</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">against a blue </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">pool</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">carries </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">tinkling laughter</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Perhaps the moment will not</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">fade completely away</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Enveloped in the darkness</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Instead carried on dots</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">that make it all up</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Though</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Even when</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">the glory is gone</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">the transformation </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">will be deep, </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">pierced with silver.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div>Umm Fatimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641646719484659822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52621847256107821.post-21520956632030062462009-05-07T05:44:00.000-07:002009-05-08T02:31:23.103-07:00Melancholy thoughts on mom, submission and a polar bear<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind,</span></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">* * *</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">The need to get words down and out of mind became urgent yesterday. After visiting my mom at the hospital where she lives, I felt a deep sense of sadness taking hold of my senses. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Her eyes were so huge as I told her I had to go - we'd just spent 2 hours with her, trying to comfort her about not being permitted to go for a whirl in her wheelchair because of an infection on her back from being in the wheelchair too long on most days.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">"Noooo, nooooo," she moaned softly, and I even had to get her nurse - a wonderful gift of a woman- to her bedside. That didn't help either.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Finally, adjusting her in bed by pulling the sheet gently beneath her so she would slide and face the other wall, she seemed settled for the disappointment. Cottage cheese and other soft foods managed to lift her spirits. A bit.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">As I pushed the girls out of the room in their double stroller, I felt completely wrong for wanting to spend so much time on other things when my mom is so obviously in need of constant companionship these days. I tried resolving to visit her every night - but that would be hard with children who need to be slowly eased into bedtime from about 8. And besides, she needs someone to help her escape the sameness of a room that occupies her mind for most of her days - and that is only possible during the day.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">* * *</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">I took the long but scenic way back to our neighbourhood, finding so much comfort in the shades of green that were starting to push their way off branches, dressing the trees for the first time since the fall. No matter how strong our souls are - or how strong we think they are - being in the heart of the beauty created by a Creator far more gentle and kind than any human, is the surest way to reinforce our convictions and feelings.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">" . . . </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">for </span></span></span><em style="text-decoration: inherit; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">in the remembrance of God do hearts find rest</span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">" (Quran 13:28).</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">* * *</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Two different scenes have carried significant weight in my mind's eye this past week; scenes from on screen, that I came upon quite by accident.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">The first was of my mother in a home video during a trip we had made to Canada while we were living in Indonesia. It was at the beginning of her illness, when the MS had only gone far enough to affect her balance, requiring she hold on to a cane.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Seeing her chatting with friends, talking to the camera after prompting from my dad (and grabbing onto the car door as she almost lost her footing); seeing her so full of ideas and thoughts and - life - made me feel strange. Almost like I was looking at another woman, at her past that is no more part of her reality.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">She is different. Twenty years, over 10 spent in hospital, have changed her - as I suspect they would change any one of us. None of her vivacious personality remains - although, once in awhile, I see remnants of what once was when I joke with her about her love of fashion --"you're always the most chic, mom" - or when I muse about having more children and her eyes light up. Sometimes a few extra, big kisses will bring that warm smile to her face - a smile she still shares but that now takes a lot of effort to muster.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">And then, I superimpose all of this on the scene of a polar bear, struggling to survive, swimming through frigid waters, half his body weight gone from a long winter searching for food while his family remain well-fed but far away. He spots some walruses and out of sheer desperation, lunges at the black, heavy mass of noisy flesh and fat and hasn't the energy to fight for a bite. They are too strong, too insistent that he is a mere annoyance. He moves away from them, head low to the snow-covered ground in this Arctic scene. He puts his heavy head on a rock and, after all the struggle he's made to live - after swimming for who knows how long, searching for land; after trying to find anything to sustain him in this cold, stark place - he closes his eyes. . .</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Submission. The struggle has lifted.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div>Umm Fatimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641646719484659822noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52621847256107821.post-37569382180328822362009-04-02T05:01:00.000-07:002009-04-02T05:11:37.427-07:00On Behalf of my Mom: Living with Multiple Sclerosis<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrQuIjY3OcLWogV6VRdmX1192Kd7tei2ZuwJVIyBlAKHM6Rzfky3QEkVS8wTe8tprCHZ0zk0lwI6j3VOXBpwBhF4V7h_2tlnbKf1Kqg2xgmMIhZ63ifju0BlvEp3PmJzdtZ4fhQn8R_w/s1600-h/Rose.preview.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrQuIjY3OcLWogV6VRdmX1192Kd7tei2ZuwJVIyBlAKHM6Rzfky3QEkVS8wTe8tprCHZ0zk0lwI6j3VOXBpwBhF4V7h_2tlnbKf1Kqg2xgmMIhZ63ifju0BlvEp3PmJzdtZ4fhQn8R_w/s320/Rose.preview.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320064502626652498" /></a><br /><span id="ctl00_ContentPlaceHolder1_lblStory" style=" ;font-family:Verdana;font-size:small;color:Black;"><p style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:13px;">It's 2:30 a.m. and I'm still up because my daughter's sick. I'm afraid to sleep and miss the beginning of another coughing fit so that I can hold her over some steam to clear up her airways. Or, maybe her fever will come back overnight and she'll need someone to bring it down right away. I'm fretting and nothing except her recovery will allow me to sleep easy. </span><br /></p> <p style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:13px;">My mom used to worry her nights away over me, too. Whenever I was sick, she'd be at my side, wide awake, pressing cold compresses to my forehead, or holding my head over the toilet while something wretched came up. Her soothing voice meant it was all going to be alright. </span><br /></p> <p style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:13px;">But now, I can barely hear that voice when she wants to tell me something. Multiple sclerosis, a debilitating disease that strikes the nervous system, has taken away much of her abilities – from walking to eating, to talking, to being. </span><br /></p><p style="font-family:Verdana;"> </p> <p style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:13px;">It has changed our lives, and there is little hope she'll ever get better – though we're still waiting up. </span><br /></p> <p style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:13px;">* * * </span><br /></p> <p style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:13px;">The MS Read-A-Thon was a big deal back in grade three. I had to ask people for money for every book I managed to get through over several weeks. My earnings would be sent to the local branch of the Multiple Sclerosis Society and the money would be used for research.</span><br /></p><p style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:13px;">I still remember carrying around the rumply sponsor sheet in my pocket, asking my friends and neighbours, and of course, Mom and Dad, for a quarter, or – gulp! - a dollar. They always gave a lot more. </span><br /></p> <p style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:13px;">I didn't really understand what the disease did but I figured it was pretty important, especially since the adults tried to make it fun to learn about. When the school called a special assembly to launch the fund-raiser, there was a cheerful cartoon dog talking about the mystery of the disease. I never forgot his description of how MS affected the body:</span><br /></p><p style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:13px;">“imagine a telephone wire that's all chewed up – that's the nerves trying to send information from the brain to the body. MS chews up the wire so the message can't get through.” I had no idea then how many times I'd fall back on that imagery to explain to people why my mom could no longer move. </span><br /></p><p style="font-family:Verdana;"> </p> <p style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:13px;">The read-a-thon happened years before we found out that mom's immune system was attacking the tissue around her nerves and that there was nothing anyone could do about it. It was a disease that struck suddenly and at random – though it was primarily women, between the ages of 20 to 50, living in colder climates that were the majority of its sufferers. That could mean that anyone of us could be hit with it, just like my mom, no matter how active and healthy we are right now. </span><br /></p> <p style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:13px;">* * * </span><br /></p> <p style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:13px;">Once, when our neighbourhood mall was about to close, and I had my heart set on a particular novel from the bookstore, my mom told me to run so we'd make it just in time. I was only eight or nine years old, but I'll never forget how much it meant to me to be running in the emptying corridors with her as we giggled like schoolgirls. Her laughter still lingers in my heart. </span><br /></p><p style="font-family:Verdana;"> </p> <p style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:13px;">But then, the image starts to change. </span><br /></p><p style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:13px;">The beautiful, agile mother who seemed to know just when to let go of the bicycle so I'd finally know how to ride; the mom who always had a warm plate of French fries waiting for our return from school; the mom who would often stop by class to sneak cookies into my waiting hands; she starts losing her balance, needing to hold on tightly to a family member whenever the distance stretched ahead. Then, her eyes start bothering her, and no one knows what's wrong, and then they tell her what's wrong and everything changes. But oh, so slowly. Both painfully and mercifully slowly. </span><br /></p> <p style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:13px;">* * * </span><br /></p> <p style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:13px;">I remember the canes, the walkers, the wheelchairs; The subsidized caregivers who would drop by to help with the housework, the cooking, and just taking care of mom. I remember her sadness at not being able to closely watch over my younger brothers and not being able to carry the youngest of them, as the disease began ravaging her body. </span><br /></p> <p style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:13px;">For a mother so used to doting over her children, watching them grow up from the sidelines was so obviously hard to bear. Her faith kept her going, though. </span><br /></p> <p style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:13px;">* * * </span><br /></p> <p style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:13px;">Our family coped as best as we could, but it was hard. We didn't know how to help, how to make the sadness go away. It took a few years for the disease to make it impossible for her to live with us, and she was soon surrounded by the four green walls of a drab hospital room, that still somehow radiated with her light.. </span><br /></p> <p style="font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:13px;">As the years of suffering rolled into decades, her ability to cope improved, as did her physical surroundings – they renovated the hospital to bring cheer to countless patients who were imprisoned in their own bodies. Her days of doing things were becoming a distant memory, and it was actually the “little” blessings that she missed the most: Taking care of her personal needs, eating for pleasure and not just survival, lifting a child into her arms. But nowadays, when Mom is really, really sad, all she will say is, “I fear God”. </span><br /></p> <p face="Verdana"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:13px;">* * * </span><br /></p> <p face="Verdana"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:13px;">The nurses and doctors who bustle about her bedside all day and most of the night know she is special. They remark about her gentle smile, her patience, her devotion to her family. They seem touched by the steady stream of visitors who fill her room with smiles, and flowers, and children and hugs. Everyone who meets her, loves her, reminding me of the days my five-year-old classmates would look at her wistfully as she handed me my cookies and say,“I wish she was my mom.” </span><br /></p> <p face="Verdana"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:13px;">I understand why they felt that way. Even now, as she lies in bed for most of the day, struggling to get her words out, her smile remains sweet and constant. I pray that someday she will find rest – and Paradise - after this sleepless, seemingly endless, night of waiting. </span><br /></p> <p face="Verdana" style="margin-bottom: 0in; "><br /></p></span>Umm Fatimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641646719484659822noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52621847256107821.post-36775233710013731912009-01-31T17:17:00.000-08:002009-01-31T17:30:23.173-08:00Fighting natural forces in an unnatural world<span style="font-style: italic;">In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind,</span><br /><br />* * *<br /><br />What do moms fight about?<br /><br />This one fights about the right to be more than a mother - to have an identity outside of the so-called mould.<br /><br />I'm frustrated because I was raised to have many (perhaps too many) ambitions, and now I've got to tuck them into bed every night - as I tuck in the l'il women who have supplanted those ambitions.<br /><br />I don't mind having to tuck the girls in, but I do mind having to suppress elements of my personality. Perhaps they hearken too much to a time long gone; but why must it be one or the other?<br /><br />Some parents put their all into their children's up-bringing, and I'm truly impressed with the results. But I have a hard time doing it. Does that mean I'm a bad parent -- that I want about a third of my time, for myself?<br /><br />Okay, so Islam is about being altruistic, true. And motherhood, is about sacrifice. Yes. But don't I have a right anywhere?<br /><br />Is this a Western-influenced upbringing talking? A diatribe of the well-to-do mommy who has too little of substance to truly worry about (thank God); or do I have a right to have some time to recharge?<br /><br />If only I could please everyone, equally, and not have to apologize for the li'l voice that struggles for a bit more than mommy duty.Umm Fatimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641646719484659822noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52621847256107821.post-33293604642113610222008-12-30T20:00:00.000-08:002008-12-30T20:07:47.572-08:00Humanizing the mothers of Gaza: written by H.B.<script type="text/javascript" defer="defer"> if (typeof YAHOO == "undefined") { var YAHOO = {}; } YAHOO.Shortcuts = YAHOO.Shortcuts || {}; YAHOO.Shortcuts.hasSensitiveText = true; YAHOO.Shortcuts.sensitivityType = ["sensitive_news_terms", "illegal", "adult"]; YAHOO.Shortcuts.doUlt = false; YAHOO.Shortcuts.location = "us"; YAHOO.Shortcuts.document_id = 0; YAHOO.Shortcuts.document_type = ""; YAHOO.Shortcuts.document_title = "Gaza"; YAHOO.Shortcuts.document_publish_date = ""; YAHOO.Shortcuts.document_author = "h.beshir@gmail.com"; YAHOO.Shortcuts.document_url = ""; YAHOO.Shortcuts.document_tags = ""; YAHOO.Shortcuts.document_language = "english"; YAHOO.Shortcuts.annotationSet = { "lw_1230695032_0": { "text": "Gaza", "extended": 0, "startchar": 1506, "endchar": 1509, "start": 1506, "end": 1509, "extendedFrom": "", "predictedCategory": "PLACE", "predictionProbability": "0.973378", "weight": 0.513346, "relScore": 2.35647, "type": ["shortcuts:/us/instance/place/ps/town"], "category": ["PLACE"], "wikiId": "Gaza", "relatedWikiIds": ["Cairo", "Egypt", "Fatah", "Gaza_Strip", "Hamas", "Israel", "Jerusalem", "Rafah", "Ramallah", "West_Bank"], "relatedEntities": ["cairo", "egypt", "gaza city", "gaza strip", "hamas", "israel", "jerusalem", "palestinian president mahmoud abbas", "rafah", "ramallah"], "showOnClick": [], "context": "Where do they run to? \u0022There\u0027s no safe place in Gaza, we\u0027ve been told,\u0022 an aid worker said. I grab the", "metaData": { "geoArea": "16.7925", "geoCountry": "Palestinian Occupied Territories", "geoCounty": "Gaza", "geoIsoCountryCode": "PS", "geoLocation": "(34.445702, 31.524099)", "geoName": "Gaza", "geoPlaceType": "Town", "geoState": "Gaza", "geoTown": "Gaza", "type": "shortcuts:/us/instance/place/ps/town", "visible": "true" } }, "lw_1230695032_1": { "text": "Palestinian people", "extended": 0, "startchar": 1945, "endchar": 1962, "start": 1945, "end": 1962, "extendedFrom": "", "predictedCategory": "", "predictionProbability": "0", "weight": 0.185301, "relScore": 1.58783, "type": ["shortcuts:/us/tag/other/wiki"], "category": ["WIKI"], "wikiId": "Palestinian_people", "relatedWikiIds": [], "relatedEntities": [], "showOnClick": [], "context": "about Gaza, about the air-strikes. They\u0027re being sympathetic with the Palestinian people. They talk to an Islamic Aid Worker who\u0027s barricaded into", "metaData": { "visible": "false" } } }; YAHOO.Shortcuts.headerID = "74774b8154f3957a339c8170278f3794"; </script> <div><strong><u>"GAZA</u></strong><br /></div> <div>I can't tear myself away from the T.V. screen. News clips of people, normal people, desperate people, devastated people.<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>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. </div> <div> </div> <div><br />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. </div> <div> </div> <div><br />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."</div> <div> </div> <div><br />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?<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>"There's no safe place in <span style="border-bottom: 1px dashed rgb(0, 102, 204); cursor: pointer;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1230695032_0">Gaza</span>, we've been told," an aid worker said.</div> <div> </div> <div><br />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?</div> <div> </div> <div><br />I'm searching for CNN. Finally, I find it. They're talking about Gaza, about the air-strikes.<br />They're being sympathetic with the <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1230695032_1">Palestinian people</span>. 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'.<br /><br />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?<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>"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".<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>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.<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>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?"</div>Umm Fatimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641646719484659822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52621847256107821.post-16376020169851692072008-11-29T16:02:00.001-08:002008-11-29T16:39:19.006-08:00Back to school is over<span style="font-style: italic;">In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind</span>,<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />"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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />As the class settles down, the usual interruptions erupt.<br /><br />"Teacher, teacher, bathroom."<br /><br />"Teacher, teacher, howa darabni," (he hit me, in Arabic)<br /><br />"Teacher, ma ha nafa'al?" (what are we going to do?)<br /><br />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."<br /><br />We've made incredible progress.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Is this a place for development or for catching up?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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.Umm Fatimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641646719484659822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52621847256107821.post-88344905988527268682008-10-28T03:21:00.001-07:002008-10-28T04:53:24.183-07:00i'm back at work on Saturday....: ). . .couldn't help it. They're short on teachers & I couldn't say no. Pray for me.Umm Fatimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641646719484659822noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52621847256107821.post-35799237084288612222008-10-26T23:20:00.000-07:002008-10-26T23:42:46.601-07:00To working-out-in-the-real-world mothers everywhere<span style="font-style: italic;">In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind,<br /><br />* * *<br /><br /></span>How do you do it?<br /><br />For one brief day, nay - for a couple of <span style="font-style: italic;">hours</span>, 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.<br /><br />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: <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span><br /><br />"Waaaaah!!!!!!!"<br /><br />"He cries and cries like that and then he throws up!"<br /><br />"I want my baba, I want my baba, I want my baba!"<br /><br />"Okay kids let's colour -- oh, you don't understand English -- uh....."<br /><br />Whimper, whimper.<br /><br />"Bathroom, please."<br /><br />"Oh, he's throwing up. Call the dada!"<br /><br />"Tell the mothers to stop looking into the windows!"<br /><br />"Mama, I want to go home, it's too noisy."<br /><br />"We only have an hour longer. Should we play a CD?"<br /><br />"The CD player says it's on but nothing is happening. . .what about the blocks?"<br /><br />"Waah, I want the blocks!!!!" "No I want the blocks!"<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />"Now you know! Now you know! Work sucks the life right out of you."<br /><br />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.......<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. . .<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">do </span>all day, anyway?" Sigh. How to change society's view of the ever-important role of 'mom'.<br /><br />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.Umm Fatimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641646719484659822noreply@blogger.com1