Detours, deep uncertainty

In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind

* * *

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.

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?

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. 

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.

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.

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?

I don't know if this is a local - global thing, or just my challenge to solve.

Anyway, I'll think about it later.

Wisdom's age

In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind

* * * 

The sun 

has set

and yet

The light still lingers in a sky

holding on

The fading blue

like 

clear water

against a blue 

pool

carries 

tinkling laughter

Perhaps the moment will not

fade completely away

Enveloped in the darkness

Instead carried on dots

that make it all up

Though

Even when

the glory is gone

the transformation 

will be deep, 

pierced with silver.

Melancholy thoughts on mom, submission and a polar bear

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

* * *

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. 

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.

"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.

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.

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.

* * *

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.

" . . . for in the remembrance of God do hearts find rest" (Quran 13:28).

* * *

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. . .

Submission. The struggle has lifted.

On Behalf of my Mom: Living with Multiple Sclerosis

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. 

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. 

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. 

It has changed our lives, and there is little hope she'll ever get better – though we're still waiting up. 

* * * 

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.

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. 

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:

“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. 

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. 

* * * 

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.  

But then, the image starts to change. 

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. 

* * * 

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. 

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. 

* * * 

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.. 

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”. 

* * * 

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.” 

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. 

Fighting natural forces in an unnatural world

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

* * *

What do moms fight about?

This one fights about the right to be more than a mother - to have an identity outside of the so-called mould.

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.

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?

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?

Okay, so Islam is about being altruistic, true. And motherhood, is about sacrifice. Yes. But don't I have a right anywhere?

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?

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.

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

"GAZA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back to school is over

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

* * *

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

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

As the class settles down, the usual interruptions erupt.

"Teacher, teacher, bathroom."

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

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

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

We've made incredible progress.

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

Is this a place for development or for catching up?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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