Providence

What can I tell you about the anger…? About the way it pools in your fingertips, rushing hot up your cheeks, sitting heavy behind your teeth.

For all those injustices you were subjected to. The ridicule.  The broken promises.  The clear-cut advantage that was taken.

What can I tell you about the pain…about how you strained against the sharp end, your forced smile reflecting white against the blade. About the absolute terror right before you succumbed over and over and over again.

What can I tell you about frustration…tears scalding down the inside of your throat, a small dilution of your own overbearing insufficiency. Nails clawing, scratching “why why why?” into the edges of your palms.

What can I tell you about despair…

Be still because I can’t tell you, not without having her place an icy hand on my shoulder again.

But I will tell you. I will brave her again.  For you.

I will tell you about her desolate house and eyes and serving platter. The way she makes the night a void and the morning a slur.  You will graze your knees when you come crashing to them on her floor but she doesn’t want that.

She wants you to stay.

She wants to draw the curtains and lock the doors and she wants you to stay.

But you must leave, come morning. You must take your shackles with you and you must walk out.  Because for all her grip she cannot keep you there unless you are complicit.  Promise me that you’ll leave.

And no, you won’t find your way back to the places you recognize. By the time you get back, you would have changed too much anyway.  But for now…

For now bring your shackles. Let the clamour of your anguish make more noise than is necessary – it is the sweetest music where you’re going…

Walk to where the light is harsh and the air pierces your battle-worn lungs.

Now let the pieces fall, now let them slip through your fingers and shatter, everything you so carefully held on to. You’re at the altar of Strength and the way was long but first you make must make a sacrifice.

The anger. The pain.  The frustration.  The masks too.

And for the first time you will realise how tightly you clung onto them. It wasn’t the other way around.

It was always you.

Though your grip may tighten and though you may squeeze your eyes shut for fear of the unknown,

I ask you…unwind your fingers, look up.

The time has come to surrender to a Will other than your own.

Some, more equal than others

What is a human life worth? A young man picking up a half-smoked cigarette from the gutter. A child lying dismembered and blank-eyed in a puddle of her own blood. The same blood, the same breath that thrums its beat through all of us.

The same, for the slick-haired MD hands gripping firmly the back of his chair. The same then for the manicured university student pushing her pedicured feet into name-brand sneakers.

What is a life worth? Two dimes on eyes, a vivid red slash across a wrist. Is it the softened blanket buffering a baby against the world, the silver equivalent to its shaved hair?

No. Life is worth much more than this.

It is a new car, a house with iron-clad pillars. It is a bank balance that sits heavy in your pocket giving you weight amongst your peers.

It is hair burned straight into the submission of society, a society that worships skin a lighter shade of pale. Skin that is not cracked, or bruised, or dimpled.

Skin to sheath only the diet version of your soul.

There is no room here for the undulating layers of womanhood. For freckles and frizz.

There is no place here for the Muslim. The poor. The dark-skinned.

Can you hear me?

Maryam lay quietly for a bit. Yes, it hurt all over, but Ilhaam was still sleeping and Zaakir had to get ready for school. Sleepy cereal time every morning, a little pocket of time when hope still skimmed the edges of her day, a few moment of peace before reality hit.

A prayer preceeding the getting out of bed.

A prayer everyday.

Maybe today, maybe today, maybe today…

But it hadn’t happened yet. That elusive something or someone that would shatter these walls and bring light and life and comfort and happy-happy. Not yet. So Maryam knew she would keep looking out the window, at the shadow of moods passing over Yusufs’ face. Hoping for a phonecall, a letter…something else from somewhere else would make it better.

I’m broken. Broken to bits. Crushed to smithereens. I can’t put the pieces back.

Zaakir said “Mummy why do you kiss us so much?” his head popping out from under the jersey “because I love you baby”. “Does daddy love you mummy? Daddy doesn’t kiss you…”

Straighten his bag. Push his hair out of his face. Don’t answer him.

“Guess what? I put a caramel custard for you in your lunch box”

Smile, dammit, smile.

Unknot my shoulders

Babies and at home fights. Stifled shivers and eyes wide open at nights.
Responsibility, inability, frailty.
I try for strength at length,
But the bruise tells the news of the pain that I gain.

Reckless Abandon

Here’s to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels. The troublemakers. The round pegs in the square holes. The ones who see things differently.

They’re not fond of rules, and they have no respect for the status quo. You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or vilify them. About the only thing you can’t do is ignore them because they change things. They push the human race forward.

And while some may see them as crazy, we see genius. Because the people who are crazy enough to think they can can change the world are the ones who do.

– Jack Kerouac

An Excerpt

The girls were named. One became Ayesha and the other Atika. Atika was smuggled out of the hospital in her fathers jacket while Ayesha was left behind looking at her sterile world from the the blurry walls of her plastic mould crib. At three-days old, tears ran down her cheeks unaccompanied by crying sounds and a young nurse who knew of her tragic birth sobbed into her uniform, her still blooming heart broken into a million pieces. She needn’t have cried much, Ayesha was taken to a house of her mothers relatives a few days later. “She’ll ask questions” Maymoonah said. “Hmmm” agreed Bilal. And they both knew there would be no way to hide the childs fair skin against their cinnamon-brown, her red gold hair against their jet-black. Ayesha still held little pieces of heaven in her tiny newborn fists and slept peacefully in the Cressida that took her home.

where You are

I found God in the tiny clenched fists of a newborn.
I heard him in the timbre of a workmans song.
When the suns rays stroke my cheek and when a storm lulls me to sleep, I know He is there.
He is the warmth of just baked bread, a cool breeze on a summers night.
He is the weighty silence in a place of prayer, in a waiting room, and in the leagues under the sea.
He is the sound in the hum of asking, in the laughter of giving, in the shattering of tears.
My Lord I saw You in the curved green bough of a tree, in the deeply etched lines of the old womans hand.
All the universe seems to say;
This is for You, this is for You, this is for You.

I have to leave now

“Old Mother” Life whispered “you have worn me out, I ebb too slowly now through your veins to be of any use”. He looked aside wistfully “but you have borne me many times over…such is your making. The Creator created through you. Look at the children and their children and still others you will never know. All from your womb”. Life sighed, thoughtful.
“Age weighs heavily with you now, look at how possessively he grabs at your hands… draws a glazed veil over your eyes”.
“I’ve watched you Mother, witnessed your countless sacrifices as you shared me with so many others, ignoring that this day would come”.
“Remember” he said, presenting thrilling, glittering memories “remember…how you could make a lazy breeze race through your hair and the roughness of your fathers cheek against your own? Remember when your laughter was music and you proudly wore a shawl of hope and a blinding crown of dreams?”. “Do you remember the taste of love?” Life turned away and the Old Mother thought he might leave her forever with that memory. “Your lips and eyes carried her promise, while I bangled your arms…became evident in your womb, flowing through you in blood and milk and tears and all the while you thought your heart could contain no more. Yes, I showed you some of pain and loss and suffering too but this is written before time. It is the way it must be, will always be”. He trailed his fingers over her in a hopeless, thudding ache.
“This vessel of yours cannot contain me any longer. Listen to how I rattle against its hollowness looking for escape. Death will escort you now, though no matter how gentle he tries to be, he has never known his own strength – he takes you to meet eternity. And may it be well with you, Honoured Mother”.

Marriage-why cant we be friends

He’s confused, she’s confused. He’s non-committal, she’s right. She’s crazy, he’s a low-down-dirty…you get the picture. And with attitudes like these who can blame us for not finding Mr or Mrs. Ever after. Of course I do know that there are those of you out there who never ‘intend’ (like its up to you) on getting married, and to you I say…what the heck are you doing reading this post? For the rest of you, this is how its done.

Respect, ladies. Respect yourself enough to know his world does not revolve around you, invest in yourself (in other words get a life), do things you enjoy and make sure you’re a whole person before you get married. Respect your husband (don’t burn those bra’s just yet); as a fellow Muslim, human being and as the person who’s been tasked with clothing and feeding you. Don’t do things to antagonise him- I trust you’re older than 13 and can understand what I mean. Men generally behave the way you say they do.

Boys, your turn. Respect your wife. Brother, she’s courting stretch marks for you and that’s saying something. Respect her as a fellow muslim, human being and the person who has been tasked with trying to read your mind. Respect her enough to know she has a mind, opinion and talent of her own, she is not ‘back-office support’ to your broadway show.

All together now. Remember, the both of ya’s, that you are on the same team moving as a couple towards the same goal, and that is seeing each other grow in richness of personality, knowledge, comfort. Have a genuine intention for this person to have the best that both worlds have to offer. Play nice, say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘would you like/prefer…’ Instead of ‘Whaa tchu wan?!’.
Share tasks, watch and help the other wash out the fridge or change the cars oil. It’ll encourage appreciation at the very least.

Fight people, for goodness sake fight! Its better in all its fiery, acid-spitting glory than ego-breaking silent cold wars. Scream about how unfair it is, rant about how everything SHOULD favour you, but don’t EVER threaten. Especially not with the ‘T’ word.

Please bonk. I know couples who have gone a year without nookie. Couple’S. A YEAR. What the heck is that about? Did the wedding ring clamp your libido spring? Nothing breaks a person in a relationship like being rejected in any way. They WILL make you feel the shards of that brokeness.

Hang out together. It doesn’t have to be formal. Sit in the parking lot at the M1 Oasis, eat allsorts and listen to a new CD. You don’t ‘have’ to talk, honestly the world will not come to an end.

I suppose there’s a lot more I could teach you young ‘uns, but easy does it.

There’s one thing I would really like you to remember from all this and that is courtesy. If you can’t be genuinely polite, well-mannered and respectful to your partner, you’re sinking faster than the Titanic with Gods finger on it.

feeding my soul

Yes, it happens in the kitchen. A peaceful symphony of spices at different temperatures to bring out the many nuances of their personalities; garlic ground fresh with salt, sometimes with a bit of chilli, and all my foremothers know I’ve earned my place in this most sacred of domains. Vinegar soaking into the sinews of red meat and I’ve practiced a sunnah and handed down a tradition to my daughters. Oh don’t I think I’m grand, don’t I know it and don’t I prove it when I feed others and soothe a gnawing pain and satisfy a craving, both mine and theirs. Tomatoes grated into red, gloopy loveliness. Onions sliced finely as a measure of my expertise. ‘Zanjabeel’ peeled into slivers of warm aroma. They all whisper a melody of ages, of healing. Of comfort. Because what I make with my hands is all the more dear, the passion seeps through my fingers and the muted rosaries I utter mingle seamlessly with the sizzling pot. Flavoured steam winds its way through my hair and the fabric of my clothes becoming eternally a part of who I am and all I will do. Something out of nothing. A tale out of longing. Whhole dhana surrenders itself to all consuming heat and mustard seeds jump around uncomfortably finally clinging for all they’re worth to marshmallow-soft potatoes. A magic spell woven out of what comes miraculously from the earth. I cook beauty…peace…mystery and, therefore I must be by extension, beautiful, peaceful and mysterious at heart. A thought that makes me giggle and smile, a thought that brings happiness to my kitchen. Its just God and me in here and for once I listen and follow each instruction to the best of my flawed abililty. And when its all done I open the lid impatiently; an expectant mother, a proud architect, a nervous choirmaster. I hope; a taste that will tell a thousand tales.