Monday, September 29, 2008

Goodbye Ramadan

Eid Mubarek! BBC confirms the end of Ramadan in the Kingdom, and for much of the Muslim world.

May God Accept our fasts, our prayers, and keep us on the Straight Path.

Um Fatima

p.s. Check out my other blog if you haven't seen it already....it's all about motherhood.
http://fromabovetheacaciatree.blogspot.com/

Thursday, September 18, 2008

Heading down, soaring upwards

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

* * *

A tiny prune of a woman, bent over in half, moves steadily amidst a white and black throng that circulates the
Kaaba, the symbolic House of God, built by Abraham and Ismael, may God be pleased with them.



Her coloured robe and long head scarf drape over a shriveled body that garners sympathetic looks from the pilgrims moving alongside her
. She can't see their glances, though, as her head is a foot away from the ground, and it is a miracle that she is able to move at all, surrounded by bare shins and flowing robes.

"She is bent over today," I say to my husband, who clings to the two pieces of white cloth that every male pilgrim must wear on this lesser, optional pilgrimage to the Holy House in Mecca. "But she may be of those standing straightest on the Day of Judgement. . ."

He nods, as we think of all those who suffer from ailments only God, Allah in Arabic, could remove and which are meant to purify and bring them closer to Him.

"Certainly, We shall test you with fear, hunger, loss of wealth, lives and fruits; but give glad tidings to the patient—those who, when afflicted with calamity say, “Truly to Allah we belong, and truly to Him shall we return.” It is those who will be awarded blessings and mercy from their Lord; and it is those who are the guided ones." (Qur'an, Chapter 2, The Cow, verses 155–157)

"Hardships continue to befall a believing man and woman in their body, family, and property, until they meet Allah burdened with no sins,” said the Prophet Muhammad, in an authenticated narration. He also reportedly said: “Whenever a Muslim is afflicted by harm from sickness or other matters, Allah will drop his sins because of that, like a tree drops its leaves.” [authenticated in the Bukhari and Muslim prophetic narrations].

We move along, grateful for our blessings in health, family, life and livelihood, swept up by thousands of worshipers who circulate the black, cubic structure, draped in the history of monotheistic faith.

"And (remember) when We prepared for Abraham the place of the (holy) House, saying: Ascribe thou no thing as partner unto Me, and purify My House for those who make the round (thereof) and those who stand and those who bow and make prostration."
(The Qur'an, Ch. 22, The Hajj, verse 26)

I am relieved at not having to cover my face today, it being prohibited during acts of worship, as we move in the early morning sun whose rays build in strength with our every round. I gaze at the people around me, as I've gazed before whenever I've had the privilege of being in this protected sanctuary - Saudi families whose women are coloured in midnight black, their hands peeking out to hold those of their tiny sons and daughters dressed just like either parent; Egyptian wives and daughters, shoulder to shoulder as they whisper from prayer booklets; Indonesian and Malay groups, in quasi-uniform, arms linked, repeating Arabic words that fall clumsily off the tongues of their guides, who may or may not be totally aware of their meanings. So many people, from so many disparate backgrounds, united around one act: worship.

Then I think of God, the Creator of everything, and I lower my head, fixing my eyes on the marble ground. I ask for forgiveness, for me, my family, my friends, my community. I ask for good things, in this world and the Hereafter. I ask for God's Mercy, a Mercy that has no end.

Prophet Muhammad, may peace and blessings be upon him, reportedly said that when God ordained creation, He wrote on His Throne,

“Verily, My Mercy outstrips my Wrath.”
[authenticated in the Bukhari and Muslim prophetic narrations]

Sigh. This is what I am counting on.

* * *



When I bring my forehead down onto the cool, thick carpet in the first mosque ever built by Prophet Muhammad, "Quba" in Medina, I feel an intense, indescribable feeling of calm. It is as though all the negative energy welled up throughout various parts of my body are sucked into the ground, and when I lean back into the kneeling position to end the prayer, I am changed. It hits me: nothing really matters - except
Allah - the One God, and, by extension, doing Right.

God is the Light of the heavens and the earth. The Parable of His Light is as if there were a Niche and within it a Lamp: The Lamp enclosed in Glass: The glass as it were a brilliant star: Lit from a blessed Tree, an Olive, neither of the east nor of the west, whose oil is well-nigh luminous, though fire scarce touched it: Light upon Light! God does guide whom He will to His Light: God does set forth Parables for men: And God does know all things. (Qur'an, Chapter 24, The Light, verse 35)

* * *

Back in Mecca, as part of our umrah, I've asked my husband to recite this verse as we retrace the footsteps of Prophet Abraham's wife, Hajar, who long ago ran between two hills called Safa and Marwa, searching for water. Her husband, in typical fashion, had obeyed God's Command completely, leaving his wife and baby in the desert with a few dates and water.

"Are you going to leave us in this desert where there is no one to keep us company?" Asked Hajar many times, but her husband would not look at her. "Has Allah ordered you to do so?" she finally asked.

"Yes."

"Then He will not neglect us," said Hajar and Abraham walked away until he was out of his sight. He then raised his hands and prayed: ["O our Lord! I have made some of my offspring dwell in a valley with no cultivation, by Your Sacred House, in order that they may offer prayers. So fill some hearts among men with love towards them, and provide them with fruits, so that they may give thanks."] (Qur'an, chapter 14, Abraham, verse 37)

We walked back and forth seven times in the long marble halls, built atop those two hills, as she had once done, though in less lavish surroundings. The water coolers framing the crowded pathways were put away, as almost everyone was fasting, but the miracle that happened after Hajar's desperate run remained in the periphery. Her son, Ismail, started kicking in the sand, and below his foot, water came spurting out - 'zam zam', of which the wells have flowed unabated to this day, and which would be the source of growth for one of the most significant cities in the world, raised up from desert sand, in the centre of the world.

* * *

At the radiant doorways of the Prophet's mosque in Medina, I felt slightly indignant at the sight of elderly women and children forced to look for shade after being turned away from the overflowing prayer halls into the desert's merciless heat.

And yet, some of the elderly women, bodies thick with years of feeding others and taking in the leftovers, seemed not to mind one bit, as they sat comfortably in the shadowy corners of the building, eyes lined with wrinkles as they squinted at the sights around them. Among the African women who hid colourful materials beneath the standard black gowns & the Pakistani sisters who were usually satisfied with their shalwar kameez's scarf to cover up their faces, no matter how bold in colour, & the Arab women in either rumpled house dresses or carefully matched outfits, the East European women were most striking.

Their suntanned faces were rugged, like the villages they had left behind to make this once-in-a-lifetime journey. They sat comfortably, a little bit like men, and one could almost see them working the fields with their husbands and sons, without any sense of the male/female divide that haunts life here.

As we struggled to find a place to pray in the seemingly shifting sun, these women likely wouldn't flinch at the most trying difficulty, and their men would probably count on them to remain robust as the world crumbled. And their sturdy builds, healthy skin, and resolute movements, despite years and years on this earth, were enough proof that they had never let anyone down. No need to mention the word 'feminism' with them around. They were partners with the men in their lives, just as God Had described,

"
And among His signs is this, that He has created for you mates from among yourselves, that you may dwell in tranquility with them; and He has put love and mercy between you. Verily in that are signs for those who reflect."(Qur'an, Chapter 30, the Romans, verse 21)



And God is the Most Merciful. Just as the call to prayer sounded, we found a little girl seated under the shade of a wide, rainbow umbrella that had just enough room for our little ones, who we pushed underneath just as the prayer began. And so there they remained, shaded, as we stood solemnly on the most important day of the week, near to where the Prophet himself had prayed, and lived, and led - and passed away.




* * *

Another woman, thick with a life of bearing and raising children and grandchildren, starts out the seven rounds around the
Kaaba with her back only slightly curved. She shuffles, though, and so does her companion, and by the final encirclement, her back is hunched over, and she is hanging on to her husband, who gently coaxes her along to finish. They clutch one another, unable to slow down too much as the crowds move forward with a flow that rarely ebbs at will.

One day, that woman might be me. My face may graze the ground, too - I am no better than anyone else to be saved from such a fate. And while I pray for a good life, and a good end, I know one thing for certain, no matter how far away the ground seems now, we will all one day be held within it.


"Say: 'Truly, my prayer and my service of sacrifice, my life and my death, are [all] for God, the Cherisher of the worlds.'” (Qur'an, Chapter 6, the Cattle, verse 162).


Monday, September 1, 2008

French toast and other luxuries

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

* * *

I shouldn't start talking about food, considering that I, and likely many of my readers, are now fasting the month of Ramadan, but oh well, you can read this after sunset if you prefer.

Some time ago, I introduced French Toast, that lovely morning breakfast treat to my daughter's picky cousins, who would usually shake their head adamantly whenever I offered any other typical dish.

"Wanna try something kind of sweet?" I asked in my broken Arabic, as the older one, 9, wandered aimlessly around our sparsely furnished apartment in Alexandria where we only stay during typically brief visits to my husband's hometown. Somehow, boredom made her more compliant and she smiled in acquiescence as she balanced my toddler on her hip.

We walked over to our narrow kitchen - huge in comparison to many other kitchens in Egypt from which the most succulent dishes in the world manage to emerge (far better than the TV dinners my brother often pops in the microwave in our spacious kitchen back in Canada).

I pulled out margarine, toast, eggs and milk, some cinnamon, and got to it. Generously pouring honey (syrup being unheard of) over the top of two slices, I sat her down in front of our makeshift table, a rectangular cardboard box that had held the refrigerator and which was a pain to keep clean.

"What do you think?" I asked her, as she gobbled up the pieces off the red & white plastic plate. "Yes, this is good," she managed to say, between mouthfuls.

Later, her other siblings showed the same gusto as they cleaned off their plates and asked for more. "How do you make it?" asked their mom, amazed at how enthusiastic her picky eaters were. Eggs and beans had obviously lost their appeal. I congratulated myself on introducing a staple in every mom's breakfast repertoire.

But when we went to pick up the ingredients together, I realized my relative found it hard to shell out five egyptian pounds (about $1.50) for a bag of toast when the same amount would buy her family enough flatbread to last a month. She never bought the expensive margarine - so I suggested oil which I knew wouldn't be the same. Despite the high costs of items I never thought twice about, she stoically went home, laden with everything I had recommended. It was only later that I realized it likely meant another weekly staple would have to be forsaken as her grocery budget had already been stretched (I hoped it wouldn't be the already tiny amount of fruits and vegetables that grace her little table that she'd have to skip this week. The Canada Food Guide seems utterly depressing in these circumstances.)

You'd think that now that we're here in Saudi, the story would be different for most families. And certainly, anyone coming back from a supermarket during this holy month can't help but wonder at the shopping carts packed near to overflowing with everything a hungry stomach could desire.



But as we drive through even the most upscale neighbourhoods, you'll find women and men - foreigners from Africa or Asia - picking through the garbage in metallic bins that are left open and make for an attractive stop for the skinny cats too. As they walk past hulking SUV's and luxury sedans
,


these forlorn souls seem almost defiant as they eventually find little bags of leftover food for their families, or pile wheelbarrows with cardboard to sell somewhere for a pittance. After all, their obvious poverty is a stain on a society that is among the richest in the world. Who is to blame?

* * * * * *

"Here, Fatima, there is some new sand here," I coax my daughter away from digging in dirty, grey sand that is littered with cigarette butts, empty water bottles, juice boxes and other debris. There is fresh yellow sand under a few of the decrepit playground sets on this stretch of beach, used by the masses.


"New sand, oh I'm coming," my daughter scoops up her sand toys and rushes over. I feel relieved and wonder if this sand is a hint that someone is paying attention to the deteriorating state of the Kingdom's playgrounds - a reflection, I think, of the elite class's disregard for the rest of us. Or maybe, they just don't get around to these parts, busy in their enclosed palaces where freedom and luxury reign.

But I think that surely someone would listen, if I just wrote a letter (the Canadian's answer to everything). And so, my next mission is to find out just who to send one to, and let you know how things go.

I will give them the benefit of the doubt; I had only just finished railing about the garbage on the beach to my husband (who promptly got a headache) when a cleaner appeared and started sweeping away at the sand. He just needed some reinforcement but probably didn't have the courage to speak up - many more docile workers are waiting to take his place and collect a meager salary that seems like so much when you come from lands with so little.

It makes one feel grateful and sad at the same time.