Syazwina Rants

Moving.

2008-01-12T13:27:00.000+11:00

2007 was a year for change. Noticeable change, if more subtle than those experienced in the previous year. A year for new friends and acquaintances; more inside jokes; new family-away-from-family. I will remember 2007 as the year I became more confident of the person I am, because I became more of the person I always was, instead of a person I thought I believed in. If that made sense.

In 2007, I grew to be more myself than ever before.

In 2008, I expect a new precedent for change. A more confident me. A more diplomatic (if a tad political) version of the tactless klutz of high school years before. I don't remember a year in which the Roman and Hijiriah 'New Years' coincided so closely. Maybe it's symbolic, I wouldn't know - I honestly don't care much for new years, symbolic or otherwise. Who needs New Year Resolutions? New Day Resolutions. Now, that's more my thing.

2008 will doubtless be memorable. If I want a decent shot at doing my honours, this is the year to buck up. This will be my final technical year in Melbourne. I began my New Year in Ireland, and spent the next day falling in love with Edinburgh, a place I know I will one day visit again - the city where I rediscovered the beauty of living, and a new faith in dreams. This year I take on new responsibilities with a fresh outlook on life and with far more self-confidence (which may often border on arrogance, in these early, early days) than I have had since I was four years old.

This year I turn 21, and God help the person who prevents me from voting in the upcoming election, because I will not forgo this right I have waited 10 years to qualify.

This year, I've found that I have outgrown Friendster in lieu of Facebook. And in the same way, I have grown tired of Blogger, and effective today, I am moving to the greener virtual pastures of Wordpress.

http://www.syazwinarants.wordpress.com

In the next few weeks, expect more changes as I get the hang of Wordpress through my usual way of never reading the manual.

Till then.

what's the matter here?

2007-12-02T15:34:00.000+11:00

Despite the pounding ache in the back of my skull, the stabbing needle-pins in my right ear and the steady and constant ache that results from overworking all motor muscles in a massaging chair, I feel stubbornly compelled to write. No, make that rant. Because I shall live up to my blog name, and also because I find myself unable to communicate well in any other way. Let’s chalk it up to awful social skills.

I have been, ever since I got to Malaysia from Melbourne, growing increasingly antagonistic. My first 24 hours here started out splendidly, with breakfast and mall-hopping and Facebooking my girlfriends 6545 kilometres away over the seas. It was all good.

And then I came face-to-face with Malaysia.

In my family and our extended network of friends and acquaintances, local politics is a common topic. And quite frankly, having come fresh from my first brushes with an actually democratic national election (which, surprise of surprises, did NOT take place in the Land Which is Truly Asia), I am nothing less than DISGUSTED.

Shameless, is what it is. Embarrassing, is what it feels like. Frustrated, is how it gets me. And close to murderous is how I end up being. And despite my voice being the marginalised one, seeing as how I’m not old enough to really matter anyway, I made no qualms about how I feel. I mocked and winced and joked and ranted, because I needed to make them understand that my peers and I understand the shite that has been recycled through the political garbage heap, and that we do not agree.

For the last 24 hours, I have been on edge. I’ve found myself comparing Melbourne and Malaysia endlessly, which has made me increasingly upset.

I have found that I feel distinctly odd here – as if I am the jigsaw piece misplaced in the factory, and I just won’t fit in the picture. I find my voice gaining a cynical, angered, furiously passive and passively furious tinge to it, which has been disconcerting. I have been quietly, rather incoherently passing snide remarks at everything. I secretly suspect that I prefer being angry to being sad and sympathetic, because the former provokes me into striving for the better, while the latter just makes me sigh and stare out the window.

I have seen my generation at large, and I am not amused. I am disappointed, and I am sad, and I feel like punching people where it hurts most. Because we are acting like we are more stupid than we actually are, and the ridiculousness of the situation just begs some serious slapping. My generation has become pathetically apathetic. Maybe it’s my fault for having friends in Melbourne who actually care. They set the higher standard to the point that anything less infuriates me.

My chest feels constricted and my eyeballs start to ache and my teeth clench and I pump up the volume on my iRiver and refuse to look at people, in fear that I might finally crack.

I see my generation huddled on the steps, sharing a drag among twenty people, and I cannot look beyond that. I see them acting like idiots for an unwitting audience and I feel sick to my stomach. I hear them shout and howl in packs in shopping complexes, as if trying to prove the Darwinian theory by acting worse than animals.

I can feel my heart pumping faster to keep up with the mass of adrenaline stuck somewhere beyond my ribcage before I finally seek refuge and peace in a desperate prayer.

I am disgusted at the condition that is incumbent upon me to change – because I am Muslim and human, and the situation and its nearness calls on me. I feel the draw of Melbourne, with my amazing friends and the abstract simplicity of it all, where in between sunny picnic and bike rides and thoughtful chattering and heavy brownies and afternoon ramblings, I know I found myself.

I wonder if the extremity of my emotions is not because I am torn.

I asked my mother once again, this time my eyes not quite looking at her face, about working and living in Australia after I graduate, God willing. And she repeated her reasonable hope that after I do whatever it is I shall, that I come home to fix things.

Maybe that’s why I feel so hopeless. I think I’m trying to figure out a way to fix things now, and pushing myself away from it by longing for what is better and easy and already there.

I grew up here eighteen years of my life. But I became myself away from this place. Maybe that’s what’s the matter here.

define democracy

2007-11-14T01:44:00.000+11:00

Democracy, to me, is everything a secular government stands for. In fact, democracy is the basis of current government, and is the least that is required of the ruling institution of a nation.

And speaking from a place where actual, real democracy is in full form, I must say, I am angered and sad and disappointed.

I am angered that we have left things as they are for as long as we have. I am angered at our apathy and our neglect that has allowed things to become as they are. I am angered by condescension -- the almost unimaginable stupidity that deems the people to be seen as scum enough to lie blatantly to.

I am sad that self-denial perpetuates itself to the uppermost level of our nation. That at the behest of defending one's mistakes, we portray ourselves as insolent, blind idiots to the rest of the world. I am sad that my generation does not care - that we are selfish and passive and ignorant, and that by all means, we chose to be this way.

I am disappointed that it had to come to this.

But most of all, I am embarrassed. Because when I speak of the need to protest for fair elections, my Australian friends find the idea beyond them. Because the idea of freedom of speech is alien to us. Because fear and ignorance are so inherent in the make-up of our nation, that when it comes our turn, we fail to speak up.

I am embarrassed, it seems, beyond words.

I currently reside in a country where policemen's secret conversations of scuttlebutting are revealed to the public.

The prime minister and his opposition are both fair dinkum to debate, discussion, and when occasion calls for it, yes, even ridicule (in the form of hilarious and hardly flattering caricatures).

Where constructive criticism -- or heck, criticism period -- is the order of the day.

Where self-deprecation is a means of self-expression, so it seems.

And to go from all this, which was once so alien to me, to go back to what is now so strange, so desolate, so burdensome and heartbreaking...

Call me melodramatic, but it seems almost too much to bear.

There is too much shame now, too much shame.

So when will we begin to open the doors for change?

Fool me once.

2007-11-12T00:17:00.000+11:00

This was appalling. To say the least.

And compare this to this feeble excuse of reporting:

Illegal gathering causes traffic chaos in city

Shame on you. You know who you are.

In honour

2007-11-10T22:24:00.000+11:00

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

Since I can't change the layout of this blog to suit the theme of the day (take note, Drogue Designs), I've decided that a tribute of sorts is apt.

May God reward those who fought the unprovoked tear gas, water cannons and police arrests to uphold justice and a better future for their children.

Amin.

broken fallacies and brutal honesty

2007-10-04T12:32:00.000+10:00

Something about the quiet pain in Lior’s Bedouin Song as he cries, ‘Heading East/Turning into calm seas/Like a river release’ has made me homesick. Amidst the sudden bout of patriotism my countrymen have been struck with lately (what with Merdeka flag-waving and all), and the frequent calls from home (often made in a spur of the moment by my empty-nested parents) have got me thinking a lot more about home. I know that a bare few months ago, I had doubted being able to fit in back home, in Malaysia. I never had. Maybe never will.

But something Lubna said in reply to my soliloquy struck me as true – that I have to return home, at some point, if I expect people like me to ever feel like they belong.

Ah. A few months ago I thought I was so worldly-wise, hypocrite that I am. It was all about comfort and belonging and finding that little niche I could fit in, like repressor proteins in the transcription factors of an eukaryotic gene regulation system. It was about relinquishing responsibility. It was about being able to stay in a far corner of this small, small planet and wipe my hands off the whole mess and say, “Not my problem anymore.” And being content to relegate myself to the egotistical role of distant analyst.

I once told a friend (who was formerly an acquaintance) that criticism was easy. Too true. It gives one the fallacy of feeling as if something has been done, despite the fact that even when those words are oft-repeated, they are nothing without action.

And I am that hypocrite, in the annoyingly selfish way that I talk, and that my brain accepts it as already settling whatever issue I had a problem with. And it is also annoyingly selfish the way I say things, and then I do not do them. Subconscious self-damnation, if you will.

"O you who believe! why do you say that which you do not do? It is most hateful to Allah that you should say that which you do not do." (64:2-3)

When someone I love dearly told me, in what medium as may be called the epistle of brutal honesty, of these very flaws, I was, as Australian colloquialism put it, cut. I was hurt. I wouldn’t say righteously hurt, but I felt like I had been peeled raw. Because I don’t think many things chill you or shake your core as much as seeing things you’ve only suspected of yourself, pointed outright as fact. It’s distressing, because who likes to be shaken off one’s personal pedestal, especially in a time when self-confidence is an endangered species?

And so, in this cut, self-indignant cloud of emotion, I went about the rest of the noon. Slightly more determined, because nothing spurs one on like being proven small. On my way, I bumped into another loved one, who, upon seeing me in a state other than cheerful, thought that my father had gotten run over by a car (or something). And when I confessed to her the source of my distress, I could see that she was slightly torn between laughing out of relief and being a comforting friend.

I love it when someone else makes my quibbles less significant that my ego says they are.

And when I was about town, doing my own chores and still enveloped in my force field of misery, I was halted by a girl in a walker. Her legs were limp and unassisting, as she pressed onto the shaking metal frame at hip-length and dragged her feet forward to move. Her father lagged behind, his eyes keeping watch at her feet, hoping to catch her before she stumbles. Her mother moved ahead, blowing her semblance of nonchalance by the regular glance back.

I love it when God reassures that my quibbles are less significant than I think they are.

After seeing that wonderful resilience, I couldn’t be cut anymore. Not barely.

And so, there you go. I am a hypocrite. And yes, although I barely acknowledge it in my subconscious, it still hurts when someone says I am.

But things need to be said. And words are not the end of the world.

It took a metal walker and a heart of gold to prove it to me.

"Nay! you prefer the life of this world, While the hereafter is better and more lasting." (87:16-17)

Tag, you're it.

2007-09-23T23:42:00.000+10:00

The title I'm using seems strikingly eerie, as are many things I've been doing thoughtlessly. Nurin's tragedy shook me - it was the first time, in a long time, that I have been honestly affected by news. I wouldn't have thought that the abandoned girl was her, and I was still holding out hope that it wasn't, until her family finally relented and claimed her from the mortuary. That was the first time I, the aspiring geneticist, refused faith in the exact science of DNA (I was holding out for that 1/1,000,000 error to pull through).

Talking to my mother after iftar and taraweeh last night, she put the Malaysian situation so simply, it had to be true:

"The whole country is in grief."

This was supposed to be a post in response to Lubna's tagging me. But on second thought.

Maybe when the pain is less raw, and her eyes don't haunt my waking hours any more.

Al-Fatihah. May Allah place her in the Garden, where she will no longer remember pain and suffering. Amin.

on the way back to the garden

2007-09-10T22:27:00.001+10:00

Ramadhan is coming.

Maybe that's why the tears have been free-flowing tonight.

I've been mildly homesick for a while, but lately, it's for that Home of a different kind.

And it's been a while since I've cried; Sheera can testify to that (although our laughfest was not bad at all, eh?).

So tonight was surprising.

And I'm sure it's not due to the reading material either (Lehninger's Biochemistry on the Principles of Bioenergetics -- compelling stuff, and not really examinable, pity).

And these people made me cry:

BrotherhoodBand

Idris Phillips

Dawud Wharnsby

while this bloke (who's related to another really famous musician) makes me homesick:

Yoriyos

(Anyone guessed his musical lineage? Surprising, innit?)

Walking the earth.

2007-08-28T23:27:00.000+10:00

The flowers bid me into Spring

And your absence clings to me

Like the scent of the buzzing creatures

Keeping busy and awake

Only you are busy

Answering questions that I fear

And though your sleep extends beyond existence

Your loneliness is terrifying

Even to me

Not alone, but afraid

Reminded of callous pasts

And mistaken fortunes

And reckless selfishness

And the now

And the here

And tomorrow

(Will it happen?)

And my future

(Is it written, or does my memory end

Here?)

The shaking goes back and forth and

Back and forth

Amidst the tears

Flowing for the eyes they shall not see again

And the love they will not hear expressed

Except for whispers in the wind

Tricks of the memory for the heart

They do not mean to call you back

But to bid your journey well

But to grant you Love and Light

That your solitude is less painful

Than ours shall be

I tread upon the living soil

Caressing the shrieks of the dead

Crying out for past regret

bigger on the inside.

2007-08-17T21:50:00.000+10:00

Sometimes, there’s no better way to travel than by tram. Sure, it’s a bit stuffy – reeks of cheap beer sometimes, too – and granted, there’s always the odd chance that you’ll either get (a) hit on (b) cussed at (c) stomped on, or (d) held up by other passengers and miss your stop. But looking at its green factor and being as how it’s a cheaper alternative to parking on some overpriced concrete slab of borrowed land, sometimes, you watch as the cars drive past behind tinted glass and think, ‘If they knew what they’re missing…’

Like the children who choose to stand along the windows, giggling heartily as they squeal out familiar landmarks. They make you and the other commuters smile, and when you catch each other’s eye, you silently ask the same question, “Where has the child in me gone?”

Like the young lad in school uniform, who automatically stands to give his seat away to the madam with the bad leg. He doesn’t make a show, and you think no one sees it but you – he unknowingly gives you hope for the world’s future. Impulsive chivalry isn’t quite yet dead. It’s only you who thinks twice to be selfless.

Like the young friends who talk of high school days past with calculated cool and affected manners. They mock mutual acquaintances, who have yet to embrace adulthood. They laugh at the odd shared memory and rattle names away. You long to shake your head in disdain, but you remember that you’re no better, and you are humbled.

Like the mother who feeds her struggling toddler chips in the moving, shaking tram. That’s dinner, because going home takes too long. He has the bluest eyes and ambling limbs, climbing all over you and the seat. He’s tired from daycare; she’s tired from work, but they both make do. You can only give what you hope is a comforting smile, as you say goodbye and he begins to cry for the company of a stranger who merely pointed out the moving buildings in the darkened sky.

Like the woman with her eyes seemingly bound shut, her front teeth gone away and her raspy voice drunkenly wooing the cautious young men who walk past. She puts you on your guard, and you shrink away from her and the ruddy man alongside her. Then you hear them chat loudly and profanely. And you realize he doesn’t know her, but with his coarse, kind words, he treats her more humanely than you ever could. Your heart burns with shame and you try to look away.

Like the elderly gentlemen who guesses your nationality on the button where so few can, and discusses politics as if you were brilliant and wise. He admits that there is too much evil in the world to wake up to – you tell him you find beauty in the rare good. And he calls you beautiful in return and makes you cry a little when alone, because he is the first to tell you so.

You lean on the heels of your feet, balancing yourself as the carriage swerves the corner, its creaking helplessly betraying its age. You look beyond the person’s shoulder, into those four glass walls set into its metal frame, so lonely and so cold. Almost patronizingly, your mind tuts away and thinks, “If only you see what I see.”

Who invented this, anyway?

2007-08-08T22:20:00.000+10:00

I have never been 'tagged' before (see: Cbox).

It's like a Friendster thing -- one of the many annoying ones you succumb to after a while. Granted, my blog was never that popular, so the complete absence of tagging was understandable. But, I suppose, some things are inevitable.

I'd explain a little further about the whole concept, but it's self-explanatory, anyway. Also self-indulgent, to an extent.

And so, as requested by my darling Shadoro:

Eight Random Things about Me.

1. Ever since coming to Melbourne, I've bought many books that I have not finished reading. The few I count amongst the Done list are HP7 (which was unexpectedly brilliant, despite some lapses in pace and syntax), the Qur'an, No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency, Howl's Moving Castle, and... Yeah, that's it. I find it intriguing how I could finish more books during a summer in Malaysia than I can for all the 14 months I've lived in Australia. Must be something in the air.

2. I have a thing for Moroccan mint green tea and dark chocolate. And for coffee from cafes. Specifically, the cafes in my uni, all of which deserve honorary doctorates in the art of java.

3. I find Doctor Who completely brilliant. The fantastic storylines, the dry Brit-wit and the amazing David Tennant have me utterly hooked. I am so keeping my eye out for blue wooden emergency police phone booths when I visit London.

4. By the way, did I tell you? I'm going to London come December, insyaAllah. I have YanYan and 'Izzah to thank for the trip. (Sorry, Alev. But I had to go to SOME part of Europe...)

5. Shopping with people makes me highly strained. Somewhat self-conscious, and constantly embarrassed. I feel like I have to explain my shopping all the time. Which is why my best shopping is done alone, after sufficient planning and strategics.

6. The last thing that made me choke was reading in Surah al-Maarij:
'No, that is not like that! Verily, We have created them out of that which they know!
So I swear by the Lord of all (the three hundred and sixty (360)) points of sunrise and sunset in the east and the west that surely We are Able
To replace them by (others) better than them; and We are not to be outrun.
So leave them to plunge in vain talk and play about, until they meet their Day which they are promised.
The Day when they will come out of the graves quickly as racing to a goal,
With their eyes lowered in fear and humility, ignominy covering them (all over)! That is the Day which they were promised!'
(70:39-44)

7. I have always felt a sort of kinship to Britain, which, yeah, explains my mostly reason for going. Everything about the British identity fits me -- the weather, the accent (which is so much less stressful to the nasal system than the American twang), their innate need for tea (yes, Alev, my caffeine used to be restricted to Earl Grey, I'll have you know), their look-the-other-way sense of humour, and their literary heroes. And the Doctor, of course. If only they weren't so obsessed about taking over the world way back when.

8. I have to start on my Biochemistry notes soon. That said, I mean to edit this particularly disjointed rant, if I can bother to get to it.

Sigh. Procrastination is so much harder than it looks.

Heater moments.

2007-08-08T00:56:00.001+10:00

While I was satiating my post-exams winter craving for fudge brownies, I curled up in front of the heater and continued reading Soe Hok Gie’s diary, Catatan Seorang Demonstran.

I stumbled across Soe Hok Gie while I was Youtubing during SWOT-VAC. I saw the movie overnight, and while I was taking a break in the Bailleau, decided to search if there was anything on him. And I found his diary (and also that his brother, Prof. Arief Budiman, is teaching at the university’s Asia Centre).

For someone who wholeheartedly swallowed fiction when I was younger, reading about him has reminded me of how far I’ve matured since the time I used to be gullible enough to believe the written word as truth. My dissection of Gie as a person distances myself from him with our differences, but I’ve also found within me respect and to an extent, affection for the tragic young revolutionaire, which extends beyond our shared surname and ancestry (so my father, the Chinese pseudo-culturalist, believes).

Sometimes, I feel like he has written the words away from my mind, and this was one such moment:

… Segi lain adalah segi ras. Mereka percaya bahawa ada mentalitas (naluri) yang tidak bisa berubah lebih-lebih bila bertengkar dalam segi orang Tionghua. Mereka katakan bahawa orang Tionghua itu semua materialis, pengkhianat dan sebagainya. Aku mengetahui semua tadi. Tapi aku juga menunjukkan bahwa tidak semua begitu dan itu dapat berubah. Kepribadian bangsa bagiku adalah suatu proses yang lama dalam situasi tertentu, tapi dalam situasi lain itu dapat berubah. Juga kami ribut dalam soal nama dan seterusnya, dan seterusnya, dan seterusnya.

…Another aspect was the topic of race. They believed that there exists an unpliable mentality (instinct) that remains unchanged, especially in regards to the Tionghua (Chinese). They claimed that all Chinese are materialistic, traitors, and so on. I acknowledge all that. But I also know that not all are such, and that it can change. (The formation of) Racial identity, to me, is a long process, but which can be changed when provided a different situation. We also debated issues like names, etc. etc. etc.

I admire Gie for his intellect, astute psychoanalysis of the moralistic society, and his blatant honesty. He was brilliant, no doubt, but he had too little faith in the world. He was a self-proclaimed atheist and pessimist, while simultaneously being a moralist with relatively idealistic principles (he believed that sex tainted true love, and often declared that love was the only reason left for living). He pushed forth his ideas on the crucial need for democracy but stopped himself short from politics (eventually becoming part of the Angkatan ’66, the Indonesian student uprisal which brought along the Orde Baru under Suharto’s military rule). He adamantly debated his opinions with his educators, and his refusal to compromise with tact cost him his friends.

Mari sini sayangku.
Kalian yang pernah mesra, yang pernah baik dan simpati padaku.
Tegaklah ke langit luas atau awan yang mendung.
Kita tak pernah menanamkan apa-apa, kita tak ‘kan pernah kehilangan apa-apa.

Come here, my dear.
Those of you who were my mates, who were kind and sympathetic to me.
Look to the heavens wide, or the heavy clouds.
We never vested anything, we shall never lose anything.

And so I suppose that we will all share the same fate, us like-minded people. Those who believe that the world is worth better – that things should change. Those of us who still hold on to ideals despite pessimism, and understand that ‘change will not come to a people unless they change themselves’ – we may never be understood. But that ultimately, it is not the end, but the journey which matters.

Pada suatu saat dimana kita berhenti.
Memandang ke belakang.
Dan memberi salam.
(Mesra tetapi sayu).

Masa lampau adalah seperti mimpi.
Terlupa dan berat menarik ke belakang.
Terkadang kecewa.
Yang bilang, semua hilang.
Seperti Usus yang lenyap kelemasan.
Dan kecewa seperti Asvius yang patah hati.
Kemasakan, dan juga kenaifan.
Keberanian dan pengkhianatan.
Apakah kita bisa bicara tentang nilai-nilai?
Sebelum dewasa?

When the moment comes in which we halt.
Look behind.
And greet each other.
(Amiable but melancholic).

The past is like a dream.
Forgotten and heavy, pulling us back.
Sometimes disappointing.
The counted all are gone.
Like Usus who disappeared, drowning.
And disappointed like the broken-hearted Asvius.
Maturity and naivete.
Bravery and betrayal.
Will we have time to talk of virtues?
Before we grow old?

Something real.

2007-08-02T16:00:00.000+10:00

Assalamu'alaykum,

Well now. It's been a while, innit? The past month has been a blighter of a winter. I was barely alone, which is saying something, seeing as how I am so elusive. I only had a proper week to my own (necessarily) selfish pursuits. Had quite a few accidents and injuries (much to the worry of my pharmacist-housemates). Pulled a few muscles, had countless cuts, strained a few tendons, but it's all good. I think.

My reading list is only half-done i.e. I've only read half of everything. My new semester has got off on a very promising start, which has seen my brow creasing constantly during lectures (signaling knowledge-processing) as opposed to a look of glazed acceptance (indicating daydreaming), and many, many lunches with Alev, who just can't quit the law library.

That said, it's easy to lose track of what is important.

And since dinner shall not cook itself tonight, I shall leave the video below to your good judgment:

Note to Alev: Ehem. I truly did read about it in The Age, before you posted it on Freakazoid Times. Really.

icover

2007-06-26T17:03:00.000+10:00

A dear friend once mentioned, casually, that she didn’t think that she would ever wear the hijab. When I approached the topic with great caution, she told me that the hijabis she knew were dressed just like her, save the fact that they covered their hair. I took it to mean that they behaved no differently – with no great distinction in respectability or modesty –than their non-hijabi counterparts. “Is it just about the hair, then? I don’t think it’s just that.” As I stared ahead into the highway, I felt that I could understand.

Before I wore the hijab myself, I fancied myself a liberal. Educated, open-minded, and a true feminist. It only fit. I hated guys for their chauvinistic arguments and general combination of stupidity and immaturity, and I thought that my hair looked pretty nice.

And then, with the emergence of reborn Muslim, Wardina Safiyyah, came the hijabi boom. Suddenly, it was fashionable to be covered. That woman and her scarves changed an entire fashion industry. It was no longer prudish to want to be covered. It was an assertion of willpower and strong faith in the physical sense – proof of self-actualization, if you may. All of a sudden, my respect grew for the hijabi, who I once viewed as unliberated and choosing to remain hidden. I did not know then that wearing a hijab was one of the greatest means of exposing oneself.

Thus began my relationship with the hijab. I started wearing it the way my ‘covered’ peers did – with reckless abandon, thinking it enough to just retain my hair from being seen, and not caring however I dressed either way. The clothes I wore had not changed. I just didn’t have to bother with my hair anymore (or so I thought). Truthfully –and this is not just a retrospective view, but a continuous nag at the back of my mind back then – I wasn’t comfortable in the tight clothes I wore. It’s just that it was fashionable. It was what my friends did, and the conformist within decided to play along.

One day, before the family left for a day out, I decided to expose the beading on the front of this shirt I was wearing. It was – is, since it still exists – very nice beading, and the top fit me well. So in the name of fashion, I didn’t pin my hijab across my chest as was becoming my usual manner.

My mother noticed, and she scolded me. I was slightly taken aback, because previously, she had never objected to the way I wore the headscarf. I had always thought that she was fine with the idea. “The purpose of the hijab is to preserve your modesty,” she told me sharply, “not to flaunt your chest on full display. What then is the purpose of the piece of cloth you wear?”

Startled, I hastily grabbed a pin and mulled over her words as I studied my reflection in the car’s rear-view mirror. From that day on, the hijab was something I needed to think about, not just accept in passivity.

Despite this, I had a love-hate relationship with the hijab. On one hand, I liked the superior air I felt I deserved; there was an unspoken understanding that I thought I was the better Muslim merely because I was covered. On the other hand, what modesty I retained prevented me from being just like my peers, and I often stood in front of the mirror, wondering how differently they would see me if I was just like them.

During that time, I had tried not wearing the hijab. It was within the hostel compound (although there wasn’t just girls) and it was a quiet day, with no one outside. I dared myself to step outside without my hijab, for a quick dash to the washing machine.

I felt stark naked. I had to look down to make sure my clothes were still there, because psychologically, I felt bare.

It took me a while to understand the jurisprudence behind the Muslim dress code. The only way I had read the Qur’an was by recitation, and I did not know its meaning. Only in the past few years have I started reading the translations of the Qur’an, and I was surprised to read a verse with the instruction for the hijab to be worn.

With the years that passed, my sense of proper dress began to be ruled by instinct, and that instinct was becoming harder to satiate. I began to constantly cover my chest (after learning that the instruction in the Qur’an was for the head and chest to be covered), and that became an innate requirement of dress for me. Again, anything other than would constitute psychological nudity. I began to enjoy wearing tunics and loose clothing, which were more comfortable and feminine (this was after my unfashionable tomboy phase). After a while, I couldn’t stand it if my arms were bare – I became conscious whenever they came into plain sight, even by accident.

Shopping became more and more difficult, especially in metropolitan Subang, where religiosity has remained fashionable and accessible only to the housewife and elderly demographics. Just ask my mother, who has to deal with her daughter, the anal shopper with scant fashion creativity.

To me though, what I wore was important on the basis of modesty. Wearing the hijab automatically enforced on me behavioural changes, which I took a while to quit rebelling against. I became more courteous towards guys, even, and some of the more uncouth mannerisms that were second nature suddenly felt out of place. It was never a means of ‘preserving myself from the lewd gazes of men’, although having been harassed verbally and on the streets, one can’t help but feel protected by the hijab, even though it isn’t a safeguard from unwanted attention.

Neither is the idea about rebellion, as the secularists in France argue against the hijabis. It is about distancing oneself from all that nonsense, where women play second fiddle to men, but are free game to sexual exploitation. The hijab forces men to look at women via standards other than lust, and to respect that they are not objects, but people. I was reminded of this when I caught glance of a classmate’s mobile phone – adorning its screen was the image of a women’s cleavage, unidentified. Her chest was the only thing he bothered to notice and thus, to be reminded of. It was disgustingly chauvinist and disrespectful, and as my hand caught hold of the fabric that covered my head, I heaved a sigh of gratitude that when God asked me to do something, I did.

Other than the fact that it is a religious obligation (which is not merely restricted to women, but to men as well – poor things, we always overlook them), covering is a statement – a bold declaration of one’s identity. A breakaway from the norm. A woman who dons the hijab is not shy by wanting to inculcate modesty. A hijabi cannot be shy, because by choosing to respect the Muslim dress code, she places herself out there for the world to see. She enables herself to be pinpointed in a crowd, easily recognizable. The first thing you recognize is her faith – after that, she forced you to judge her for what is within. She does not merely cover her hair from sight; she upholds modesty and courage.

That is a hijabi.

antara bintang-bintang itu

2007-06-21T11:27:00.000+10:00

Ada satu bintang yang dicari gamit wajahku

Tanpa sengaja ia memanggilku

Dan bintang ini bukannya luar biasa

Kecuali pada kaca mata yang inginkan kelainan

Dan bintang ini bukan selalu gemerlang

Kecuali didodoikan sutera sayang malam

Bintang ini terlalu jauh untuk dicapai

Anganan boleh mencuba

Tetapi aniaya

Hati yang terpanggil menerpa sendiri tanpa ditanya

Di kalangan bintang yang jauh lebih indah

Pada bintang itu pandangan terserah sudi

Segan sudah tiada untuk memuji atau mengkritis

Kerana bintang itu adalah itu cuma

Hati yang terobek pada yang tidak sempurna

Wahai purnama yang saksi!

Kuserahkan salam ini pada Khaliqmu

Maha Agung, Maha Kaya

Maha bagi yang indah semuanya

PadaNya semua semesta kembali

PadaNya pulangnya hati ini

Yang hina membuat perhitungan

Bisa lagi tertarik pada rindu

Lalu tercamping pada robekan fana

Hanya padaNya layak hati ini menjadi hamba.

standing by the sea

2007-06-17T11:13:00.000+10:00

Calluses have formed over knuckles
Hardened with the gently caressing winds
Fingers trace the deadened skin
As they trace regret back to its source
For the wandering mind thinks of that beyond it
The unexplained
The unseen and hidden
Plainly written Somewhere
Long before
This
The heart holds secrets mystified within itself
A vagueness farther than the seas
That carries bottled melancholy beyond that distant shore
Abandoned
Chills bring tears to the fore
The musty smell of yesterday seeps hard and deep
Beneath the surface
Protecting selfish dreams with realism
Disappointing, for fear of hope.
Tilt your sight and see the Light
Emitted in plain horizon
Taken for granted
Ignored
The dark holds boundless sympathy
But the soul needs empathy and Love
Sorely missed from distant moments
Amid raging Sun, raging Light
Raging passion for Truth
Today
Cynicism is the fashion
Contemplation far and few
The past is made anew
While history stares you in the face altered
Which is why today
You do not shy away
From dastardly blows so humanely cruel
So humanely blatant
So humanely
You
Pull your chair towards me, dear
Let our calluses mark each other’s
As a reminder of those ruthlessly selfish nothings
We solemnly kept to ourselves
Bottled beyond that distant shore
They will never account for anything
More.

two of us

2007-06-10T14:45:00.000+10:00

My mother often laments after my brother, Amir and I have had one of our nasty yet regular spats, that we were so nice to each other as children. And for some reason, whenever she does, I can see it in my mind – an old snapshot of the two of us (for it has always been just the two of us) in our pajamas in our parents’ room, plastic containers on our heads, pretending we were at the market, just before breakfast.

With that excellent memory of hers, my mother can recall the days when I actually anticipated my brother’s birth (something I find hard to believe now). I was so keen on being a big sister, I had volunteered to do away with my Pampers far before my time – a decision much regretted by my parents, as they apologized to the cleaner lady at a shopping mall, after my first attempt at being diaper-free.

My mother says that I was a doting sister, who took pride in my brother’s full Beatles’ 60’s mop and constantly showered him with kisses and hugs – a scene I would have even greater difficulty believing, were it not for the many pictures of us as toddlers, my arm dangerously positioned in a strangle-hug around my brother’s neck. There were clearly no homicidal tendencies; just pure sisterly affection.

And then, my mother recounts in a slightly wistful tone, I went to school and started yelling at my brother. Everytime she tells us that bit, I almost don’t have the heart to tell her that as far back as kindergarten, I played by social rules. And the sick social rules back then was that younger siblings were uncool. Basically, all younger kids were uncool. And I lived with one, so I was in the high-risk category. Or so my twisted six-year-old mind thought.

I used to bully Amir all the time. We both learned Taekwondo from a young age, and I was especially generous with my punches and slaps. I distinctly remember a regretful encounter that ended with my brother having an imprint of my palm straight on his back – which lasted for some time. We feared our mother to a fault, and that meant that anything bordering profanity – even the word ‘idiot’ – was forbidden. Physical revenge (hidden from Mama, of course) was the only means we had, and we were well trained in it. I took advantage of my age and size all the time.

It horribly backfired by the time I reached twelve, and my brother started growing at a faster rate. All he had to do was pull my arm back in a fierce lock, and I would start apologizing for anything and everything profusely.

It can’t have been nice, being him. I’ve only recently learnt how awful the teachers at school were, always comparing him to me. The first child apparently sets the standard. Right. He was never good enough, it seemed to be implied. But in every way, he was the better child. He had sound common sense (something I sorely lack), natural intelligence (another missing feature of mine), a critical mind (which people seldom listen to, much to their loss), charming genteel manners (which make even little baby girls blush with admiration), a solid religious foundation, and overwhelming patience and faith in the human spirit. He was never judgemental, except maybe to his own flaws – but never in others. He always saw the good in people.

I always forget that behind his rough exterior, he has a huge, warm heart – tender and easily hurt when betrayed.

My big little brother is strong in many ways; fragile in others. And I can’t believe that he’s all grown up. He got accepted into Law Matriculation at the International Islamic University. He’s happy, going off to do something he excels at (talking his way out of messes) and he’s doing something I never had the guts to. It’s unchartered territory. He’s slightly scared but excited, I can tell, even a continent away.

I’ve taken to the habit of looking up old Beatles’ hits lately, and as I listen out for the familiar chords and drum cues, I’m constantly struck by the image of my brother and me, arguing over Paul or John’s lyrics as we struggled for elbow-resting space on the seven-hour car trip to our mother’s hometown.

And when I found this song, I knew I could share it with no one else.

You and I have memories

Longer than the road that stretches

Out ahead.

selfish, much?

2007-06-09T12:14:00.002+10:00

The Signor asked me an important question, which belied its nonchalant appearance:

“So, are you going back home? To Malaysia?”

And I faltered. It was, I think, the first time I was asked that question, and wasn’t sure of my reply.

I have always had ideals. Big dreams. Of how I’m going to go home to Malaysia and fix things. Make the world a better place to live.

I know it sounds selfish. But now? I’m not sure I want to go home.

Home is where the heart is. I’ve repeated that phrase more than once. And the answer to that would be the same, except that the priorities in my heart have changed places.

Right now, my heart lies here.

It’s not that I don’t love my country. It’s not that I don’t see what an addled mess it is, and how badly it needs a fixer-upper. It’s just that I have a life here now – a busy existence where I actually have things to do; where to some extent, my voice actually matters. Where the things I do matter – where what I do makes a difference (or so I think). Where I am not demeaned or undermined or imposed on.

Where it seems enough for me to be me.

Back home, I’m never good enough. I’m never enough. The things I do don’t matter, and my words don’t count.

It can’t be that I’ve grown so much in three months. So I surmise that it’s just the way things are here.

Here, I’ve come into my own. I feel like I belong someplace.

Whereas in Malaysia, I’m the outsider who never has – maybe never could – fit in.

And so when my mother drummed into me the oft-repeated study mission for my finals, late last night, “Study hard; do you best; come home and help your nation –“

I cut her short by saying, “What if I don't come home?”

I could almost hear her shrug over the phone line.

In essence, I could never leave Malaysia alone. Not just like that. But I know that in the near future - in the here and now, which is the only realm I dare plan - I don't feel yet like going home.

"Where will you be?"

2007-06-05T10:48:00.001+10:00

From FAMSY:

Islam: My Way, My Purpose

14th July 2007
Old Arts Building - Melbourne University

Assalaamu alaikum (Peace be upon you),
Welcome to the official website of the 25th National Annual FAMSY Conference, entitled "Islam: My Way, My Purpose"

Muslims can no longer afford to be passive bystanders within society. The Australian Muslim community needs to develop a vision that fosters commitment to community participation and recognition of the importance of political awareness as an essential element of communal contribution. Reaching out and engaging the community, and contributing positively to the wider society - without compromising our religion - requires building strong leaders.

For these pertinent reasons the 2007 FAMSY conference focuses on the issues that matter to us today – Community participation, political awareness and Muslim leadership. The conference will include an exciting mix of international and local speakers & community exhibitions.

News :: 4th June 2007

Website officially launched!
New international speaker: Anas al-Tikriti
New location: Old Arts - Uni of Melb

Expected speakers:

Ustadh Anas al-Tikriti (UK)
Imam Mahdi Bray (US)
Dr. Tariq Ramadan (Switzerland)
Dr. Zachariah Matthews (Sydney)

the rebel's qalb on trial

2007-06-03T12:23:00.001+10:00

These past three months, I have been torn, I will admit as much here.

For a long while, I used to be a follower. I used to follow the crowd; try hard to fit in. Someone once asked me, “I thought you said you didn’t care what people thought of you."

Right I didn't.

Early this year, I came back to Melbourne, finding that once again, the kaleidoscope with which I viewed the world had changed. I had visited reality - it wasn't pretty, but that reality was mine. And I knew that certain things that I had taken for granted - from this point on, they had to be questioned and re-evaluated.

And so I tried to tread my own way – to listen to the 'real' me inside, that I seemed to have lost touch with some time ago. The one that didn’t like mindless conformity. The one who questioned before judging, and definitely before accepting. The one who balanced everything with moderation. For Muslims, we walk the middle path between two extremes, the Furqan as our guide.

And I learnt that just because I didn’t think like everyone else, did not mean that tolerance was out of the question.

It’s true, at times I feel almost singled out. I feel like I am the weird one for questioning and searching for answers. I feel like an outsider, for not necessarily adhering to the societal mores (for I feel like I never have, anyway).

So I see my past lives (for I have had several), and know that God has prepared me to be a ghuraba’ either way – to be a stranger, walking foreign lands.

Political theory has always been my thing. And so I delved into it. Bediuzzaman Said Nursi once wrote in one of his many treatises, “...a person sometimes gets carried away by paying attention to the enticing broad sphere of politics and conflict.”

And yes. I was carried away by it, for a long while. I started looking into everything and anything at the same time. Somewhere along the way, I lost focus, despite my eye always on the main aim (my darling housemates made sure I had my head stuck in reality). I became wide-eyed by big names and ideals, which though pressing nonetheless, had sucked me in and whirled my mind.

All of a sudden, talk and action was all that mattered.

And so alhamdulillah, a little bit of dialogue occurred not too long ago, which had me seriously considering the balance between the mind and the heart. A fellow blogger I had come across had negated my opinion, which was that the dealings of the human heart (in its spiritual form) sometimes held higher importance when it came to matters of religion. His claim that even traditional scholars had not classified the mind and the heart unsettled me.

Not confident of my own knowledge, I turned to a learned and trustworthy friend for clarification.

Just the other day, I managed to catch him for a brief discussion on the topic. And having braced myself for his blatant, uncompromising honesty (which, I had thought, might be amazed at my incredible ignorance), I asked him about the theoretical separation between the intellectual mind and the spiritual heart in the context of Islamic spirituality. We discussed the work he had recommended me, which was Sheikh Abdessalam Yassine’s dissection about the Muslim’s understanding of the position of the heart and the mind as mentioned in the Qur’an. And I asked him if my understanding was right; that the heart and the mind, in all its simplistic terms, had equal credence in understanding religion.

“Well, you know, the mind is definitely important… it’s just that the heart, it’s more so.”

And that sentence, more than anything else, struck a chord within. They were simple words, yes, but they related to me more than so many other things I had heard these past three months – the ideologies and the huge plans. All the political theory I had been keen on digesting sounded impressive, and no doubt they made me think, but they did not fill the little furrow that was beginning to dig deeper within me. By instinct, I felt that his words were true.

I was too busy with doing the physical, that I had abandoned my heart for a bit. I may not have lost my way, but my heart was suffering out of malnourishment. For the longest time, I had felt as if my lungs lacked air, and I desperately longed to go away for space to breathe. I think that other times, my intention may have gotten skewed.

After discussing the study of Imam al-Ghazzali’s Ihya’ Ulumuddin with him, it dawned on me just how much I have been neglecting that most important part of my life – the spiritual one - that part of religion that the secular world despises for its ability to transcend minds, and expand the soul.

And I suppose that Banoffee, in all her maternal concern for me, had it right:

“Sometimes, when you don’t feel at ease with yourself, when your heart is uneasy, ask yourself time and again – how is my relationship with Allah? For if that part of your life is good, then everything else should be as well.”

Allahu'alam bithawab.

P.S: - Title duly borrowed from Sheikh Yassine's book, 'The Muslim Mind on Trial', available here.

nak cuti (aka i want a holiday) pt 3

2007-05-29T12:07:00.000+10:00

Some of my friends are already on holiday overseas (2 months is not. Fair.).

Sema is leaving for Turkey right after exams.

Turkan is leaving for Turkey during summer.

Alev is leaving for Turkey in the winter of next year.

Papa wants me to go during summer, so that I will just go to Malaysia on the way back from.

Thus I hereby announce that travel companion selections have begun. One must be female, with sufficient money in the bank, free early this summer. With a good pair of sneakers, and a keen ear for tongues.

And yeah. If you've a good camera, that would help :)

Wassalam.

it's official

2007-05-24T16:18:00.000+10:00

Today is the day. That day. D-Day.

The day it pretty much all comes to an end.

We've all had a good term together, alhamdulillah.

And forgive me for being a sap, but I loved working with those people.

And now we're all in the background.

Which is as things should be, this time around.

And today, I've realized that as much as I love to pick fights with some of them (ahem) and get poked by some of them (ehm) and shop with some of them (uhm) and discuss spirituality with some of them (cough) -

We've had a good time together. We've shared the same aims. Definitely the same Love. And I wish for them all the best in this world and the next, insyaAllah.

"You must be in it next year. Okay?"

"Haha. Because I'm fun to boss around?"

"Na. Because we all see in you something that you don't."

Awww.

because there is far too much to say

2007-05-21T15:02:00.000+10:00

At the risk of sounding utterly philosophical (the ambiguity of which I scorn):

Some talk of methodology and adhere to it, fearing the unknown.

Some talk of keeping to constants, and scorn the outer core.

Some refrain from saying – they remain quiet but not quiescent.

Some find a way around with their socks firmly on; they do not compromise, nor do they blatantly agree.

Some sputter ideals into the polluted air but fail to retrieve them – to plant so they may grow.

Some prefer to analyze with bemusement and will get there when they can.

Some chase after things halfway, but earnestly concede defeat.

Some prefer to work uncomplainingly, letting the hurt fly in passivity.

Some hunch over with the burden of responsibility, remaining stoic and resistant – become bluntly passionate when provoked.

Some chase philosophies and mantra to repeat and digest and repeat, but into what fruition?

Some keep smiles on tired faces and prefer to follow the choppy seas.

Some are indignant and astute, but fall into the ordinary at the end of the day, their shield swallowed dry.

And I?

I take all this in, and follow the wind. Fate leads the way, and I am the active passenger.

the road to affection

2007-05-15T16:23:00.000+10:00

Does admiration = affection?

Dearest habibti Sema, self-elected matchmeddler, likes to think so. Because apparently you can't admire someone without such simple feelings leading to more exhausting ones (sigh).

Woman, if you're self-googling, take note: Give it up already.

To think of it, a lot of people I admire, I have come to love. I admire their principles and the way they carry themselves, but I believe that my ability to care for them was only slightly influenced by their virtues.

Because I happen to love a lot of people that I don't necessarily admire, or agree with.

And then there are some people that you REALLY don't agree with, but you admire their veracity all the same. It takes a lot of guts (and stubbornness) to be so principled, and if you love a person selectively, then you can admire one in the same way.

There are those who you may never be able to understand, but you end up loving wholeheartedly anyway. Take family, for instance. One of the more apparent truths that you don't have to like someone to love them (as my cousins may attest to in reference to me, the overall girjiksen)

My recent foray into the realm of Sisterhood has made me realize that love is a subjective thing; one that you may never totally understand, but you come to accept. The human heart is a wondrous thing to observe, and recent weeks have taught me that God owns our hearts, and shall make them feel however so He wishes.

Upon reflection, though, if admiration had nothing to do with affection, Islam would not stress that our Prophet was the one to 'perfect noble manners'. Looking back, I remember the first time I felt tremendous love for Rasulullah (pbuh) - and it was due to something he did (I can't remember what, he did so many fantastic things), not just the fact that he was the Messenger.

And so I suppose (in my case), admiration does help lead to affection. But not always so.

(Further and better reading must be recommended: Muhtar Holland's translation of Imam al-Ghazali's Ihya, The Duties of Brotherhood in Islam. Haven't gone past the translator's note, but it should explain a lot.)

on the (radical middle) road to find out.

2007-05-13T12:10:00.000+10:00

Ini patut dibaca.

Thank you.

Note: Ah. Technology has failed me. If you get the 'must log in' message, simply click 'In the Press', and go to The Christian Science Monitor article by Asma Khalid. Harap maklum.

because this tribute is not fitting for al-qalam...

2007-05-12T19:44:00.000+10:00

Our leader is calm and rational; a wise and deep old soul. He pulls the reigns whenever we stray too far off track, and he always has a steady head on his shoulders – for he always sees the storm in the distance, and the solution nearby. Few people can make others listen, and even fewer can make them stand in line. But this person pushes us to our best, while never being far behind.

His deputy is the everywhere man – because that’s where you’ll find him. Volunteering is like a hobby to this bloke, and when he is not around, we find ourselves a little lost. He is the Keeper of the Many Keys, Master of the Many Passwords, our little Yellow Pages. But he is playful and brotherly – firmly tongue-in-cheek with an innocent face, which only fools you now and then.

She is a whirlwind, which speeds past you and leaves you slightly breathless. Always on top of things, our sister organizes and sorts in her mind, and she holds your hand firmly when you test waters for the first time. Always supportive and sweet, she is passionate and sharp, and makes you wonder about the limits of selflessness.

She is quiet, but behind her serenity she hides a wicked sense of humour. She is steadfast and true, always knowing the right thing to do – she solves problems and sorts us all out in turns. This person shares her heart and mind with trust, and shows you by action just what sisterhood is all about. She is intelligent and astute; patient and kind.

He is a serious character – principled and impassioned when the occasion arises. His depth of ‘ilm serves to awe, and his diplomacy disarms you. Articulate and intelligent, he commands instant respect in all of his quiet modesty. He will tell you the truth when you ask for it, in the bluntest way. But one can seldom disagree.

She is a firecracker who sets things off with a loud bang, and never apologizes for it. Her pace is fast and furious; trying to keep up with her leaves a person breathless. She has confidence in the constitution of laughter, and there is never a dull moment when she is around. Even when she’s feeling blue, she never lets you get off doing so.

He is quiet and observant and pretty much new. Always there to help with an apologetic smile, he is now a part of us as any other. He is earnest and eager to help with anything, yet does it so diplomatically and with such patience. Watching him at work inspires kindness.

She is sweet and delicately maternal; caring and soothing in her own way. She always keeps her eye on us, knowing where to steer us when we get too ahead ourselves. Keeper of the Bank, she's right there when you need a quote. Just ask.

Our term together is almost over, and this past week, I’ve realized just how much I love them all. They are my brothers and sisters, and they will always be. In some ways, I feel like we’ve grown on each other. Symbiosis, I think it’s called. And I can’t imagine working with others in the same, united force we operate in. And it might sound odd, but I am certain that I will miss them, even when they are there.

Thank you for an awesome first term on the committee. Jazakumullahu khayran kathira.

things that should remain in cupboards

2007-05-12T19:27:00.000+10:00

There must be something written on my forehead.

Several Aussie sisters are keen on setting me up with a much-respected friend (a by-the-book Mr Darcy who is beyond my league, in all honesty); my best friend is trying her level best to persuade me towards a mutual acquaintance (I cannot afford lengthening my case against it by phone call); some girlfriends have questioned me over suitors, assuring me that they can arrange something with guys from any ethnicity (over which I vehemently opposed to); another girlfriend has asked me if there is anyone particular in mind.

I will not be the person to say the word out loud. Not when it relates to me. NO.

In the not-too-distant past, I did seriously consider marriage being part of a very near future. It wasn’t that long ago that I decided against dating, and now that it isn’t an option anymore, I do admit that the thought of matrimonial bliss being the solution to particular quandaries has crossed my mind more than once. Plus, I have a theory that getting married is contagious, and there is only so long before the thought of it starts to infect me, as well.

A brother who recently claimed that he would not marry until he gets his degree (in 14 years, by his calculations) went back on his word about a month back (mubaarak, akhi). A close friend is saving money for his walimah. A sorely missed sister has just given birth to Muhammad Fatih a couple of weeks back. My cousin just got through her engagement extravaganza. My housemate’s eldest sister is getting married in exactly two months. Every wedding I attend, the makciks claim that the next one they meet at will be mine.

So yes. The pressure is pretty intense.

However, just a week ago, I learnt of people I know who got married while studying (for very long degrees), and when they had children, having to send the kids back home to Malaysia, while they finished their degree.

In my opinion, there are few things sadder than that.

In one instance, the mother had to leave her child with his grandmother, and when she came back, her baby could no longer recognize her.

It’s stories like these that warn me against such impulsive matchmaking. Stories that tell me that there is more to marriage than emotions and ideals – that it involves reality, which is seldom predictable, and full of compromises. It’s more than just sharing the same ideals and principles (ahem, Arveena, you should listen to this), and more than just about two people living together in legal terms (although that would be problem enough already).

I won’t even pretend to know what the underlying issues in marriages are. Just that they’re plenty, and that until that horribly fine day (if it ever) comes, I am very grateful that I do not have to deal with it yet. Because for now, my weekend plans involve my habibis, and frankly, I wouldn’t want it any other way.

Besides. Which poor guy would want to torture himself by committing to ME, anyway? Hah.

Okay. You may stop rolling on the floor with laughter now.

nak cuti, pt ii

2007-05-10T21:56:00.000+10:00

Salaam.

Turkey.

Turkey?

Yes, Turkey. I want to go.

I have the dough, maybe, if I make my money work for me.

I've been told that if a person were to go travelling, this would be the time, when one has the money and the time and the lack of responsibility (haha) and the student card for discounts.

I have an invitation from a beloved habeeb who's going to balik kampung. But she's going on a tour with family, and I don't want to intrude.

I have to get jabs.

I'm learning the lang. "Sama chakagim, tammim?"

But I don't want to travel alone.

I think my parents are cool with it.

So maybe summer.

As for this winter, another habeeb is planning a skiing getaway. Mount Buller?

Mount Buller.

Maybe.

Nak cuti.

2007-05-08T16:44:00.000+10:00

Assalamua'alaikum wrh. wbt.

Talking with my Turkish sisters has made me weary of Melbourne. I have been for some time. I have felt this very real, very pressing need to run. Away.

Ms. Chef is going to have her hands full with her guests. Nunu is leaving for LITW and her sister's wedding.

I want to go to Turkey. Travel, learn a new language, get jabs, all that jazz.

It's all in planning. I have no idea how I'm going to get there. I should start planning soon. I should get contacts. I should warn my parents.

It's either that, or go for the Leadership Training (if by some long shot, I get it).

But I need to run away. Distance, I've been told, puts perspective on things.

And second option would be New Zealand. I have a thing for mountains and snow.

Kerana rindu itu semalam

2007-05-06T11:43:00.000+10:00

Rinduku dahulu pada pungguk

Yang rindukan bulan pula

Yang indah semesta pada purnama

Cahayanya melitupi maya

Serta aku, yang merindu sendiri.

Bulan lebih layak memiliki rindu itu

Kerana hadirnya rindu itu tidak dicari

Tidak ditempah separuh mati.

Kini rinduku pada bebintang pula

Yang datang pergi, datang pergi

Tidak tentu rasa atau masa

Kerana bintang itu tentunya akan mati

Mengusir pergi zulumat yang dibisik

Dan aku rela melepaskan lalu.

Kini rinduku itu, aku sedar

Tentunya bukan milik aku

Kerana hadir dengan taqdir

Dan sapanya dengan ujian

Maka serahkan saja rindu itu kepada

Kasih yang pasti.

Kerana pada akhirnya juga

Tidur yang lama sudah menunggu mimpimu

Yang berakar saraf di bumi

Tempat lahir dan tempat kembali.

Pena sudah lama terhenti

Maka ikuti saja kisahnya

Hingga tamat cerita.

*Belatedly discovered, and nice to listen to:

"I want the old awin back"

2007-05-03T01:36:00.000+10:00

So here we are.

Over twenty.
Studying.
Healthy (if slightly hungry).
Alive.

At this point in time, with 13 hours before a test and 16 hours before the case analysis is due, I think that counting my blessings is best.

I'm sorry Banoffee. The old Awin is trying to bounce back up. It's just that she's doing so many things she loves, and it just so happens that right now, they all collide. But the new Awin, insyaAllah, will no longer hide under tables.

Or at least, I will promise to try.

:)

jarang-jarang, kadang-kadang

2007-04-30T14:47:00.000+10:00

I have found, over time, that people tend to surprise me at the oddest intervals. I think of it as Allah's way of keeping me entertained. It stops you from losing faith in the world, which I had, at one point.

For instance, old cowboys can learn new tricks.

If my one-time-political-hero-turned-villain wants, he can ask his people to check out OUR people. 'Our' meaning the University of Melbourne Islamic Society (UMIS), of course. It is, after all, Islamic Awareness Week, and we ARE shorthanded. Not to mention short on speakers. Hint. Hint.

And I know some fantastic people I'd like him to meet and talk with. Ho, that would be fun.

Ah, nostalgia.

tahukah kamu tentang ijok?

2007-04-29T13:00:00.000+10:00

There is nothing like getting lost in the city with a decent tank of gas and Banoffee as your paman, to kickstart one's day.

But hey. Hidup ini roda.

Sekejap naik
Sekejap turun.

But I do believe many I know in LITW would have to say,
"Hm. Selalunya turun."

Maka

Exhibit A

and

Exhibit B

chilling.

2007-04-28T13:23:00.000+10:00

I hear so many things about the land from my Turkish friends, but this has to be the saddest of all:

This was the call to prayer in Turkey, thanks to Mustapha Kemal Attaturk, 'Father of Modern Turkey', from the 1920's to the 1950's. For some reason, it chills my heart to the core.

It is not my adhan, that's for sure.

And thanks to him, an entire generation grew up not knowing how to read the Qur'an, or the difference between culture and Islam.

The things they don't teach you in school, eh?

post-discussion syndrome

2007-04-26T16:13:00.000+10:00

I had a long, long conversation a couple of days back. It seemed to go on – oh, forever, and before you knew it, the same friends had passed by us about six times, probably wondering why the heck I was taking so long to make a point. My knees were just about ready to buckle under the pressure for standing as long as we did, and alhamdulillah, when we decided to sit down for a finish, my thoughts came to me in a clearer, more logical manner.

Surprisingly enough, that long conversation that centred on politics, activism and basically, principles, was scattered with few personal details which helped explain ourselves to each other. Still, it was surprising how just talking – with raised voice, at certain points – helped me better understand the person I am. To the person I talked to: I am sorry, but it seems I do most of my thinking after I say the first thing that comes to mind. Thus revision is rather important in regards to me.

I have learnt that:

I do not believe in passing cool judgement (for the matters that truly count) without considering all sides at once. Life is never monochromatic, but the greys are the hardest to swim through. And in matters other than the obvious, I do not favour a particular solution being better than all others, but instead that we can all hold to what we believe is the best way. We were made different, and absolute insistence that one particular path is wrong is, well, wrong.

I do not believe in passivity or ignorance. I do believe that the greater danger lies in ignorance, for the person who acts and yet does not understand is harmful to all those around him, but to resign oneself to passivity while knowledge and conscience resides within seems mere stupidity, to me. I believe in actions, though they may not always speak more loudly than words. Because when things are being done, change is being made.

I believe that the here and now holds the future for me. True, extrapolation of the self does not guarantee anything, but I believe in working towards the future with set principles in heart and sheer will in hand. What I work for now will set my pace for the years to come. And if doing so means retaining ideals, I do not see the harm in them. For nothing was ever achieved that did not require dreams and ideals.

I believe that reality is what you make of it. I do not condone shutting one eye to the world around you, but merely to understand that reality is a flexible creation – what is now may not be tomorrow. I believe that everyone plays a hand at shaping reality, and that not realizing that role is a great loss to humankind.

I believe that what I believe may be different from what you believe (‘you’ not meaning a particular person, of course). I believe that the road may even take us to divergent paths. But I do sincerely hope that wherever we tread, we may come across each other, for in the end, the Destination is but One.

*Note: Sorry if it seems a little self-absorbed. I just feel like some things have to be clarified.

Aspire2Inspire. Do you?

2007-04-24T16:45:00.000+10:00

Last Saturday, after another wonderful Clayton slumber party with our habeebs, we found ourselves catching a train back to the city. The weather was wet and wonderful, if one weren’t stuck outdoors with no apparent shade and semi-formal wear to boot. As it were, our shoes were on the sloshy side by the time we arrived at the Union Theatre at the University of Melbourne, just in time for the start of the A2I (Aspire 2 Inspire) Youth Conference, the preceding event for the Young Australian-Muslim of the Year (YAMY) Awards 2007.

After the AAIC’s workshop for young muslimah, Aisha and I had met up with Monique Toohey and Tasneem Chopra, where Aisha briefed them about the social problems afflicting the predominantly Muslim Malaysian youth and asked suggestions about the little steps that can be taken to counter such behaviour. After going through the predictable and oft-unsuccessful possibilities (parents, elders, counselling, awareness campaigns – been there, got the souvenir), she suggested organizing an event that would appeal to the youth – something that would entertain and educate them simultaneously, while providing inspiring and do-able examples for them to emulate; something that would make being a true-blue Muslim appeal to them. She asked us whether we have ever attended the YAMYs.

So Saturday afternoon, we trudged our way through the autumn shower and into the darkened, segregated Union Theatre, where everyone (well, mostly the girls) were dressed up to the nines. It looked like there was going to be a huge, dizzying party but without the booze and free mixing.

The itinerary was interesting, and in truth, it was most definitely a youth event; something with the manner of a prolonged party, but with inspiring talks by various youth leaders, all garnered around a not-too-subtle theme of encouraging youth participation in the community. In between, there were giveaways and the traditional chatter of the co-hosts, Saara and Nazeem, both of whom are widely known in the Melbourne Muslim youth circle.

The official opening of the event was Qur’anic recitation, and the chosen verses were, from what little I understood, relevant to the night’s theme of youth activism, so it was disappointing that there was no translation provided. It could’ve sobered up the audience a little, which started antsy and continued to progress so throughout.

The fantastic parody of The Simpsons opening sequence, The Ahmeds, set the pace for the self-deprecating humour presented through the A2I, also apparent in the format of the panel judging the various speakers, mocking the Australian Idol trio.

The first speaker was Assad Ansari, ICV Vice-President, talkshow host and hotshot lawyer, who touched on the importance of involvement in the community, drawing example from the apartheid and the Australian movement against it. Next was Dounia Lahouile, part of the national taekwondo team and hijabi, who talked about her experience representing her country and her motivation for accepting the bruises and fractured bones as part of her everyday.

There was a play set up by the YAMY team and several volunteers after the Asr break, ‘The Day in the Life of a Young Muslim Male’. It was funny enough, while highlighting the cultural and generational breakdowns, as well as the typical temptations faced by young Muslims, but what could’ve been a promising ending ended up as a feeble punch line, which took a while to sink in anyway. What could’ve made a lingering impact became a flitting interest instead, which is a shame, because the play was on the right track, what with the scene with the ‘thug brothas’ and all.

There was a surprise video recording of an interview with the famous Essendon FC player, Bachar Houli, who garnered the loudest whistles and applause (again, mostly by girls) and my ardent respect for all that he’s done in the name of the Australian fair-go. What with the current sledging controversy and sexual discrimination claims within the league, it’s heartening to learn of a man who will go to great lengths to pray five times a day and demand his halal food, and yet admit to it modestly.

The youngest speaker and winner of the UNHCR Oration Award, Medina Hajdarevic from Werribee Islamic College was original and concise on her belief in the human potential to do good by others, merely by tapping into themselves. Sister Saara Sabbagh, community youth worker and quite easily the best speaker of the night, brought talk back to the Heavens and the theme full circle as explained the sufi concepts of closing the bridge with Allah via himmah and khidmah, or aspiring and rendering service, respectively.

At the end of the event (due to travel exhaustion, Nu and I gave up on the awards part of the evening), I could see the main purpose and intention behind the YAMYs. Much like its more traditional counterparts, it focuses on getting the grassroots back to its Islamic identity, by making it cool to be Muslim. Unlike its traditional counterparts, it takes the contemporary approach, taking things slow and easy and being highly careful not to impose. Good messages are stressed frequently throughout (the idea is, after all, for good wholesome entertainment and simultaneous education), but at times the marketing strategy was a little obvious, and mostly, there was a sense of compromise. But it did good enough, considering its wide target audience and approach to the more assimilated Muslim youth – from the proudly practising to the hiding non-practitioners. It could have been better organized and the jokes could have been less corny, but maybe it’s just me.

The practicality of applying something like this in Malaysia is something to be entertained, for sure. The fact remains that not enough youth are attending Muslim events in Malaysia. Monique was right in suggesting that there could be a way for something to be made that can breakthrough the cultural meltdown and plant the suggestion of ‘coolness’ back into the young Muslim identity, which will hopefully lead to the winning of hearts and minds.

That said, it needs to be stressed that the Malaysian reality and the Australian situation are similar, yet starkly different. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that in Malaysia, we are already given the label of being a Muslim nation and we often take it for granted. Staging anything akin to the YAMYs would be seen as a show of ‘poyo’, or overdoin it. And for another, I highly doubt that we would be given absolute free reign by the powers-that-be, like the Victorian Government has.

And for another, there has yet to be a nasyeed-only rap group to emerge from urban Malaysia like The Brothahood, who sound promising enough to be the next Outlandish. Of mention is also 18-year-old revert Zaid Boyd, who runs along the veins of Dawud Wharnsby.

30:49

2007-04-18T11:12:00.000+10:00

The rain poured hard and true.

She knew that the rain had its passengers – angels, who went back to the Heavens, bringing with them wishes and prayers, hopes and dreams. Maybe that was why she had always loved the rain. It was her favourite perfume, this scent of fresh promises and new adventures. It was as if each torrent opened up another page in a different life. Like everything had been fixed and washed away in little streams of aftermath. Like the way God brought the flowers and the grass and the trees back to life with the drizzle.

As was the case, she welcomed rain. She had needed many fixer-uppers in her life; many washes to get the dirt all clean. And with each downpour, she felt like the rest of the world was born anew. She felt like she could hope again, rebuild again, live again.

It’s as if the rain tells her each time, with a little whisper, that there is nothing she cannot do.

Smiling to herself, she remembered lonely rains that she spent with the piano in the alcove of her home, when no one else was there. She would revel in the disguise of rainfall, knowing that her mistakes on the keys would be saved from all but her, but in the spirit of the moment, she wouldn’t care at all. The piano keys were hard on her fingers, and in them, she lay out her one-sided tales of heartbreak and adolescent pain, wondering why God had made her the way He did. She had reckoned that she must have been special, to warrant so much disappointment in her being. She had skimmed through her feelings and her thoughts and theories as her fingers padded the wooden keys, her eyes focusing on the wet, pallid grey of the world outside. Smiling a special one, she would not feel so alone anymore.

There were many times when she would deliberately forget her umbrella on a darkened day, and find herself having to walk through the rain. It was never long enough to appease her hunger of a proper shower, but it gave her a sense of syukr – maybe for being able to shiver in the cold and tilt her head up to the pouring sky. Not that she had anything against a clear-blue sky with its smattering of clouds, or the sunshine that pours onto the earth and warms her back. Its just that rain and wetness and dull skies made her feel lonely and also comfortable. Maybe it was the knowledge that it would always be temporary; that it never lasted long.

Rainy days were an excuse to curl up under warm blankets with a good book in hand. It gave her a chance to slow down and reflect – something she had wanted to do for days, but never found the time for. The stunted act of an autumn shower made time go still and the rest of the world cease from haste.

She could feel the folds of her hijab flopping to one side with the weight of the damp, but she marked it as fate that she should be stuck out here, in the middle of nowhere, without an umbrella or some form of shade in view. Because the rain would wash her troubles away, if only for a while.

And the angels would bring the blessings of Paradise with each drop of rain.

royal parade in autumn

2007-04-18T11:04:00.000+10:00

She heaves a deep sigh.

The diaphragm shifts forwards and up; the lungs expand; fresh air gushes through the trachea and into the lungs, expanded at ready; oxygen makes its way, weaving through capillaries and into the veins and arteries, assimilating with the rushing blood; it weaves out everywhere, spread all over the body. The heart beats a single motion in time.

But that is not the amazing part.

What is amazing is how when she does so, all the worries – all the tests, assignments, projects, frustration, responsibility and trust weighed on her single person – all of it is shoved behind in a single breath, as a single word pushes ahead to the front of her mind, enrapturing her entire being:

Rabbi.

word on the street

2007-04-17T14:12:00.000+10:00

I do not quite get the video clip. But I do love the song.

(Please, ya habibi, do not drool over your keyboard. You know who you are. Yes, thank you.)

Callin' U

"Word on the street is You've changed me
It shows in my behaviour
Past
Present
Future."

taking charge

2007-04-16T13:36:00.000+10:00

At the risk of repeating myself, here goes something written a week ago and revised a million times over:

Last week marked the 4^th anniversary of the occupation of the American military in Iraq. The general indignant emotions at such blatant international travesty seems to have died somewhere along with time. The growing death toll has ceased to be but an extrapolating figure lost in the media. The focus is shifting to its neighbours who still hold strongly to their soil and refuse to make way to bullying on a global scale, which instantly leads them to be branded with that tired but instant label: ‘terrorist’. In fact, this particular label has become so common, its usage has extended to random passers-by in the street – directed towards hijabis, as well as anyone who has a semblance of five-o’clock shadow.

Welcome to being a Muslim in the 21^st century.

Last Easter weekend’s 1^st Annual Australian Islamic Conference (AAIC), organized by Mercy Mission, highlighted this sad situation clearly and succinctly. It triggered a media flurry, with journalists flitting in and out of the conference, its international speakers being interviewed (of particular interest was British journalist or as the Herald-Sun would call her, ‘firebrand’ Yvonne Ridley) and unjust accusations falling in like the long-missed rain.

The speakers featured were diverse, each representing their own area of expertise, but all carrying well-balanced views of the international community and each able to present Islam without sounding defensive (except for maybe sister Ridley, but she had valid excuse to launch a verbal defence anyway). There were Mesheikh Shabir Ally and Jamal Badawi (no relation to a particular political figure) from Canada, Sheikh Waleed Basyouni the PhD Oxford scholar living in Houston, Texas, Sheikh Tawfique Chowdury from Melbourne’s Mercy Mission and al-Kauthar Institute, and sister Yvonne Ridley from Great Britain.

There was an intense and almost uncomfortable focus on the conference by the Australian media, especially when two of the planned speakers, Bilal Abu Ameenah Phillips and Sheikh Jaafar Idris were denied visas into the country. However, the event went on smoothly and excellently well, with only some apparent distress expressed by the organizers on the attendees’ seeming inability to be punctual. And right, misquotations of sr. Ridley by the press, The Herald-Sun being the party of note (and of much verbal assault by the person in question).

If nothing else, the conference highlighted the severe scrutiny being placed on Muslims of the 21^st century, where electron microscopes would serve as the proper analogy. We are being monitored unscrupulously, and with a biased mindset in check. As Waleed Aly observed at the Red Cross’s forum on ‘International Humanitarian Law and the Muslim World’, the term ‘Muslim’ itself brings to the mind of the ignorant public majority an image of a political entity, rather than mere individuals trying to get along with everyday life.

All of a sudden, the opinion of one particular Muslim becomes the staunch and unfailing view of all. The popular notion seems to be that there is no such thing as individuality in Islam, and that adhering to Allah’s Divine Laws equates becoming part of an unthinkingly loyal club of zombies, which is most definitely not the case, as further inspection would prove. Although difficult to comprehend at first, the local media’s obsession over Sheikh al-Hilaly’s media faux pas makes some sense – they seriously view his position as ‘mufti’, as that of a leader over Australian (and New Zealand, let’s not forget) Muslims and thus, that his thoughts directly reflect those of other Muslims. The truth of the matter remains, that he is merely a form of community leader for the Lakemba district of Sydney, and his words – though they may undeniably affect the mindsets of some people – hold no direct consequence to the continental Muslim population.

There have been some dire miscommunication on both sides of the conflict, but it has also highlighted the fact that in today’s world, individual Muslim opinions have gained more focus and importance to the non-Muslim majority as represented by the media. A single Muslim is capable of garnering more political furore over his/her personal political views than an entire African nation steeped in humanitarian conflict is able to. In light of recent news headlines, one wonders: if a non-Muslim were to proclaim support for Tehran’s policies, would he/she be so much a concern as a Muslim who shared such an opinion?

Let us be honest with ourselves and underline the all-too-obvious: there is a bout of Islamophobia in the world, and the media perpetrates it with all too much eagerness. One thing the speakers at the conference and in particular, the ever-diplomatic Sheikh Jamal Badawi stressed upon, was that this blatant ignorance and stereotyping has to stop, and this change will only begin when Muslims start to become proactive, and counter such ignorance by taking it upon themselves to play a part in the community at large. We take the beatings everyday, but this increasing resistance to such attacks has made us dismissive and unaccounted for. We read and hear about ourselves in the media every single day, but allow such ignorance to pass by us unchecked. The worst of all is when we choose specific agendas and then react in such a manner that simply reiterates the stereotype, such as happened worldwide during the Denmark cartoon issue. You do not defend your image by living up to the stereotype, much less a false one.

Thus, if we cry out victim, we must check ourselves and where need be, share the blame.

Admittedly, doing da’wah in a secular world is not easy, mostly because the definition of religion used in most lands is not that of Islam’s dynamic meaning. As brother Mohamed Acharki noted in his article for UMIS’s Al-Qalam (April 2006), ‘Connotations of Religion’, we must reconsider the very different meanings that the word ‘religion’ entails for these two worlds on either spectrum. We need to look back on history and see where the Western image of religion originated, and where the secular mindset was derived from. We must review the meaning of Islam as a religion, and strive to clear the misunderstandings by being staunchly politically correct, so as to better convey the message of Allah’s Deen as we are meant to.

There is now an urgent need for knowledge and for learning the means of getting it across, especially in today’s world, where prejudice and ignorance have become joint lawmakers. Muslims need to wake up from the self-destructive cocoon we’ve been building around ourselves. We have to realize that change has arrived, and it’s caught us by surprise. To repeat the same mistake would only prove that we have failed to see the warning signs as they escalated all around us at alarming levels – war, poverty, genocide, political anarchy. We have to quit apologizing and start setting the record straight – that we are what we are, and that the few strays do not denote the entire ummah.

One conclusion surmised from the three-day convention was that there needs to be reaching out from both sides of the world; we have to seek and understand the ‘other’ so that we can let ourselves be heard clearly and justly. Even if there is no eminent ‘clash of civilizations’, there is an urgent need for dialogue and proactive action, if we are to safeguard peace and uphold justice for the generations to come. If history can teach us nothing else, it is that complacency is one of the most dangerous sedatives of civilization.

Kadangkala lagi.

2007-04-13T19:35:00.001+10:00

Kadangkala

Rasa semacam tidak larat

Rasa semacam tidak sanggup

Rasa semacam tidak mampu

Untuk berfikir

Berfikir lagi.

Untuk hadam

Hadam lagi.

Untuk pilih

Pilih lagi.

Kadangkala

Di luar sana terlalu sejuk beku

Untuk diredah semua

Terlalu jahil

Untuk diubah molek

Terlalu laju

Untuk ditempuh

Terlalu asing

Untuk didiami.

Tapi

Katil ini keras

Dan aku sudah tidak mampu

Untuk terbaring di sini

Menunggu gong yang datang

Menerkam dan mengejut

Dari lena yang terlampau lama.

Dan di saat rindu itu hadir

Di mana tangis itu sayu

Di mana hati itu remuk

Memikirkan rindu yang belum bertemu

Penat.

Hampir tidak mampu lelah sepertinya

Tetapi dirintih juga

Kerna rindu.

Ada bunga yang dititipkan kasih

Bagaikan peringatan yang tersendiri

Bahawa indah itu sebentar

Yang sakit itu sementara

Yang kekal tetap menanti

Tetap pasti.

Sudah termeterai dalam mimpi

Maka yang fana

Kerjakan saja

Sehingga penat

Penat lagi.

Newsflash

2007-04-12T10:38:00.000+10:00

From A Kadir Jassin's article viewable here:

"Sekarang pembesar Zainuddin Maidin selaku kepala jentera propaganda nasional mahu blogger didaftarkan kerana kononnya ada blogger yang cuba menjatuhkan kerajaan. "

Wow. I didn't know that. Gee.

(Book, I demand that lencana now displayed on most Malaysian blogs. You know, the one that displays ardent patriotism. Ko tahu yang mana kan?)

"Wither Muslims?"

2007-04-04T10:01:00.000+10:00

An acquaintance said to me the other night, “Wither Muslims?” When I beckoned further explanation, he replied and I quote him, “All talk no action.” I thought it an ironic phrase coming from him, but other than that, I refrain from further comment. Admittedly, that choice twist on Shakespeare, I believe, made my brain move at a furious pace, and I duly credit him for the choice of my topic.

Wither Muslims, indeed? Have we all hidden behind the mirage of anonymity of blogs set up to spread the word? Have we all sought refuge in our scholarly items and have found no other way out? Have we submerged ourselves in the familiar enclosure of culture and refuse to crawl back out?

As Muslims, we are oft-reminded (and in turn, remind others) of how we live to serve only one purpose, which is to worship the Almighty Lord, and that in so doing, we strive to do all that is deemed worthy of acceptance of God.

In other words, we have been set forth to do good.

Now, there seems to be a misconception amongst this particular generation of Muslims, where we tend to contain shallow perspectives of how this good is to be perpetrated into the world. The distinct lines between blatant selfishness and general goodwill have somehow been blurred by the wonder that is the human mind. Where our purpose in life is to do good by all, we find it sufficient to do good by ourselves and appease our own conscience.

Which leads me to the question: Are Muslims allowed to choose their battles? To pick among a lot and select the most convenient to champion? To pay attention to those that interest Muslims alone, and to blatantly close an eye to all others?

Shame on me, and shame on you.

The word Muslim itself is an adjective, which means ‘one who submits to God’. And as for acts of submission, God did not tell us to only pay attention to the matters that concern us most, but to do good by all. And the definition of ‘all’, the last time I checked, meant something in its entirety. So when we talk about all of mankind, we really should mean it.

As bearers of God’s deen, it surprises me at times, how ignorant we are by choice. Granted, we have been persecuted and demoralized beyond belief in the past century alone, but it is no excuse for the level to which we have secluded our concerns – into and unto ourselves is where the world ends. Selfishness was never part of Islam, and should not be within the Muslim ummah.

Therefore it pains me to see people rant on and on about Palestine and Iraq and ignore Afghanistan and Kashmir. Or for them to talk about boycotting Zionist businesses but fail to advocate fair trade in defence of global child labour. Or for them to talk about Sudan but neglect to care about the FTA, or the happenings of the UN. Or for them to continue to discuss international/local politics, but refuse to attain positions of responsibility, where differences actually begin to be made.

It is this placidity and acceptance to mediocrity that helps shoot my blood pressure past the safe level. Because I’ve come to learn that Muslims should not succumb to mediocrity. We should not choose our battles, or limit our concerns, because humankind is our concern.

This reluctance to act has prompted many of our contemporary scholars to remind us oft and again of the need for Muslims to play a part in the community, before they dare speak of the building of an ummah, much less an actual caliphate. They keep reminding over and again, on every platform they can reach, that change begins from the individual – that we have to stop being selfish, and to go out there to give more, and without thinking. That in everything we do, we should stop and consider about how our next action can be done to benefit other than ourselves.

In short, they are advising us to quit being hypocrites and to begin walking the walk. Because we are Muslims, and the only limit for a Muslim is perfection as depicted in the Beloved, Prophet Muhammad (peace and blessings be upon him), which while may never be attained anyone else, should not remain a lofty dream, but to be retained as a standard model for us all – of modesty amidst greatness, of humanity amidst apathy, of courage amidst oppression, and of the negligence of impossibilities in doing what is right and true. He taught us to always reach for higher than what we knew, but to never hold the world in our hands. He was never selective in doing good, nor did he ignore one aspect of life in committing to the other. The Prophet never encouraged selfishness, not even in the most dire of states.

I feel that on the blessed day of his birth, we should at least pause from picking at the flaws of others and to peek a look at our own nafs, and re-evaluate our position and our intention in working and living as we do. There is nothing wrong in comparing ourselves to the Prophet, because it would only serve to humble and humiliate, rather than to feed the ego. And then in doing so, maybe we would progress, instead of just talking about it.

For if we wish to live in the shadow of the Prophet, then we should at least work to deserve the shade.

To further my point, I recommend this audio clip by Dr. Tariq Ramadhan, al-Azhar scholar, celebrated author, and incidentally, grandson of the late Imam Hassan al-Banna. (Coutesy of TheRadicalMiddleWayProject)

Keep up.

2007-03-30T15:35:00.000+10:00

This article got me thinking:

'FIQH AWLAWIYYAT : ANTARA GERAKAN ISLAM DAN KELOMPOK MANUSIA

Di kalangan manusia itu terbahagi kepada beberapa bentuk, iaitu seperti berikut;

a. Golongan nususi (tekstual)

Golongan ini adalah golongan yang tidak pernah melihat kepada maqasid hukum yang sehinggakan mereka mahu menyampaikan Islam tidak mengikut kepentingan awlawiyyat.

Kebiasaannya, golongan ini mendakwa bahawa mereka adalah golongan yang berpegang kuat dengan Al-Quran dan As-Sunnah, tanpa merujuk kepada pemahaman “Istidlal” atau pengambilan hukum yang betul.

Maka dengan demikian, mereka mengemukakan pandangan-pandangan yang tidak “bercaknakan” Fiqh Awlawiyyat, sehingakan kadangkala merugikan kepada kemenangan islam, seperti menimbulkan isu-isu khilafiyyah dan menyembunyikan isu-isu utama, seperti kenaikan harga tol yang bercanggah dengan Islam[11], kenaikan harga barang, “mengkondem” institusi-institusi agama yang tidak sehaluan dengan mereka, membuat tuduhan jahat terhadap gerakan Islam dan sebagainya.

b. Golongan Liberal

Golongan ini pula adalah golongan yang dikenali sebagai “muktazilah moden” yang sedang kuat menyerang agama dan umat Islam di seluruh dunia.

Golongan ini hanya mengambil pemahaman Al-Quran dan As-Sunnah berdasarkan kepada kehendak hawa nafsu semata-mata. Mereka juga kadangkala berhujjah dengan menggunakan kaedah Fiqh Awlawiyyat, tetapi penggunaan fiqh Awlawiyyat tersebut lebih kepada kehendak hawa nafsu, tanpa di asaskan kepada wahyu Ilahi.

Sesuatu kandungan nas Al-Quran dan As-Sunnah yang tidak bersesuaian dengan nafsu mereka, mereka tidak menerimanya, ataupun mereka mewujudkan penta’wilan-penta’wilan terhadap maksud nas-nas syarak tersebut dengan tujuan untuk menguntungkan kehendak hawa nafsu.

Tindakan mereka ini adalah “ciplak” dari tindakan yahudi terdahulu yang telah dinyatakan oleh Allah didalam Al-Quran.

Firman Allah;

أَفَتُؤْمِنُونَ بِبَعْضِ الْكِتَابِ وَتَكْفُرُونَ بِبَعْضٍ فَمَا جَزَاءُ مَنْ يَفْعَلُ ذَلِكَ مِنْكُمْ إِلَّا خِزْيٌ فِي الْحَيَاةِ الدُّنْيَا وَيَوْمَ الْقِيَامَةِ يُرَدُّونَ إِلَى أَشَدِّ الْعَذَابِ وَمَا اللَّهُ بِغَافِلٍ عَمَّا تَعْمَلُونَ

Maksudnya;
“Apakah kamu beriman kepada sebahagian Al Kitab (Taurat) dan ingkar terhadap sebahagian yang lain? Tiadalah balasan bagi orang yang berbuat demikian daripadamu, melainkan kenistaan dalam kehidupan dunia, dan pada hari kiamat mereka dikembalikan kepada siksa yang sangat berat. Allah tidak lengah dari apa yang kamu perbuat”

(surah Al-Baqarah : 85)

c. Golongan kesederhanaan

Golongan ini adalah golongan yang dinyatakan oleh Allah “umat yang pertengahan”, iaitu golongan yang mencari keadilan melalui pemahaman nas Al-Quran dan Al-Hadis.

Firman Allah;

وَكَذَلِكَ جَعَلْنَاكُمْ أُمَّةً وَسَطًا لِتَكُونُوا شُهَدَاءَ عَلَى النَّاسِ وَيَكُونَ الرَّسُولُ عَلَيْكُمْ شَهِيدًا

Maksudnya;
“Dan demikian (pula) Kami telah menjadikan kamu (umat Islam), umat yang yang pertengahan – adil- dan pilihan agar kamu menjadi saksi atas (perbuatan) manusia dan agar Rasul (Muhammad) menjadi saksi atas (perbuatan) kamu”

(Surah Al-Baqarah : 143)

Menurut Imam Fakhruddin ar-Razi, makna “umat yang petengahan” yang terpilih adalah umat yang pertengahan dalam semua urusan[12]. Iaitu umat yang mengambil Al-Quran dan As-Sunnah sebagai asas perjuangan, disamping “cakna” kepada tuntutan fiqh awlawiyyat.

Gerakan Islam yang berjaya adalah gerakan Islam yang berada dibawah pengkategorian “golongan kesederhanaan” ini, yang menjadikan wahyu sebagai dasar perjuangan, disamping fiqh awlawiyyat dijadikan sebagai “teknik-teknik” dalam menyampaikan kehendak wahyu.

AGENDA PERIBADI DAN AGENDA JEMAAH

Mementingkan “agenda peribadi” berbanding “agenda jemaah” sentiasa menjadi bahan “polimik” dikalangan ahli jemaah yang menyebabkan jemaah islam lambat mencapai kejayaan dakwah islamiyyah.

Bandingannya adalah kenyataan Allah didalam surah At-taubah ayat 19-20 yang menyatakan bahawa amalan berjihad lebih utama berbanding menunaikan haji di Makkah.

Firman Allah;

أَجَعَلْتُمْ سِقَايَةَ الْحَاجِّ وَعِمَارَةَ الْمَسْجِدِ الْحَرَامِ كَمَنْ آَمَنَ بِاللَّهِ وَالْيَوْمِ الْآَخِرِ وَجَاهَدَ فِي سَبِيلِ اللَّهِ لَا يَسْتَوُونَ عِنْدَ اللَّهِ وَاللَّهُ لَا يَهْدِي الْقَوْمَ الظَّالِمِينَ * الَّذِينَ آَمَنُوا وَهَاجَرُوا وَجَاهَدُوا فِي سَبِيلِ اللَّهِ بِأَمْوَالِهِمْ وَأَنْفُسِهِمْ أَعْظَمُ دَرَجَةً عِنْدَ اللَّهِ وَأُولَئِكَ هُمُ الْفَائِزُونَ

Maksudnya;
“Apakah (orang-orang) yang memberi minuman orang-orang yang mengerjakan haji dan mengurus Masjidilharam kamu samakan dengan orang-orang yang beriman kepada Allah dan hari kemudian serta bejihad di jalan Allah? Mereka tidak sama di sisi Allah; dan Allah tidak memberi petunjuk kepada kaum yang zalim * orang-orang yang beriman dan berhijrah serta berjihad di jalan Allah dengan harta, benda dan diri mereka, adalah lebih tinggi derajatnya di sisi Allah; dan itulah orang-orang yang mendapat kemenangan.”

(surah At-Taubah : 19-20)

Ayat ini membuktikan bahawa amalan jihad fi sabilillah itu lebih di utamakan berbanding haji di Makkah, ini kerana, manfaat jihad itu untuk manusia ramai. Adapun haji pula, ianya sekadar manfaat diri individu yang pergi Haji sahaja.

Juga hadis yang di nyatakan oleh Rasulullah SAW;

عَنْ أَبِي أُمَامَةَ الْبَاهِلِيِّ قَالَ ذُكِرَ لِرَسُولِ اللَّهِ صَلَّى اللَّهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ رَجُلَانِ أَحَدُهُمَا عَابِدٌ وَالْآخَرُ عَالِمٌ فَقَالَ رَسُولُ اللَّهِ صَلَّى اللَّهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ فَضْلُ الْعَالِمِ عَلَى الْعَابِدِ كَفَضْلِي عَلَى أَدْنَاكُمْ ثُمَّ قَالَ رَسُولُ اللَّهِ صَلَّى اللَّهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ إِنَّ اللَّهَ وَمَلَائِكَتَهُ وَأَهْلَ السَّمَوَاتِ وَالْأَرَضِينَ حَتَّى النَّمْلَةَ فِي جُحْرِهَا وَحَتَّى الْحُوتَ لَيُصَلُّونَ عَلَى مُعَلِّمِ النَّاسِ الْخَيْرَ

Maksudnya;
“Daripada Abi Umamah Al-Bahili berkata; di sebut kepada Rasulullah SAW berkenaan dua orang lelaki, salah seorangnya seorang yang ‘Abid (ahli Ibadat), dan satu lagi seorang yang ‘Alim (Ahl Ilmu). Berkata Rasulullah SAW; kelebihan ‘Alim berbanding ‘Abid adalah seperti kelebihanku atas manusia yang paling rendah dikalangan kamu, kemudian Rasulullah SAW bersabda : sesungguhnya Allah, Malaikat-Nya, Ahl Langit dan Bumi hinggakan semut di atas batu dan ikan-ikan - dilautan - berselawat kepada sesiapa yang mengajar manusia dengan kebaikan[13]”

Hadis ini menyatakan bagaimana kelebihan yang ada pada seorang yang ‘Alim berbanding seorang yang ‘Abid. Seorang yang ‘Alim, mempunyai ilmu yang dapat disampaikan kepada manusia. Adapun seorang yang ‘Abid, ibadatnya sekadar memberi keuntungan kepada dirinya, tidak kepada manusia ramai.'

I have, admittedly, been whingeing on and on about my new daily dependence on coffee (which has made my pharmacy-student housemate worried enough to look it up) and how I've hardly had time to breathe. I've been going on and on about how my newfound experience of keeping busy has been taking its toll on me.

The question I think I've failed to ask is: Should it be this way?

Which is why I'm very grateful for this current bit of being able to chill. Time away from the rest of the world can actually give you time to keep up; to relax and breathe a bit. To think things through, and try to let your mind give its reasoning under no pressure.

In my case, I've been re-thinking my niyyah, my intention, a lot. In everything I do. Because my heart has not seeked time to rest in a long while, and I'm worried.

Maybe I've been going through life as though I'm the victim. Maybe I've been too calculative, too selfish, taking offense at everything and thinking it's all about me, me, me.

While reality does not agree.

Going through one_g's article yesterday made me rethink things for the first time in a while. It was not the first time I had read about the topic. But the bit about the difference of an 'alim and an 'abid hit me hard, especially I had just seen it before in Aisha's copy of 'Al-Hikam'.

Has my intention thus far been for the better good of those around me, or merely for my own sake?

Maybe that explains my heart's restlessness and lack of focus. In theory, it shouldn't be this way. I've seen busier people (see: UMIS, FAMSY, MSA, YMA, MCCA). I know busier people, and they seem fine enough to me.

They don't seem torn at all.

I've been telling people, if your heart feel unease, remember that Allah loves you in ways you can't even imagine.

Maybe I've forgotten to heed my own advise for a while. It's far time I did.

Untuk mereka yang makan cili...

2007-03-25T18:49:00.000+10:00

Aku masih belum sanggup
Untuk meluang sedikit lebih kurang masa untuk
MengingatiMu
Kerana pada firasat aku
Mati itu lama lagi
Aku belum kepingin gulai kari masakan ibu
Yang semestinya akan aku minta
Sebentar sebelum ajalku.
Jadi
Tolonglah faham, Tuhan
Jikalau bacaan ayatMu, aku hadkan pada Yaasin sahaja
(Bila aku santai pada Khamis malam Jumaat)
Ataupun bila solatku terlanggar hadlaju
Yang ditetapkan oleh RasulMu.
Itu zaman itu
Ini zaman ini
UmmatMu bukan semuanya di padang pasir kini.
Islam sudah bergerak maju.
Agama itu kan mudah?
Maka haruslah disesuaikan dengan waktu
Duniaku ini bergerak secular
Takkanlah mampu Islam mengejar sama?
Kapitalisma lebih menguntungkan
Hedonisma lebih memberangsangkan
Lebih memuaskan nafsuku
Yang makin lemau dikunyah umur.
Solat sunat itukan
Tidak buat pun tak apa?
Aku belum tua
Belum rasa mahu menyarungkan kain pelikat
Atau duduk lama-lama di surau.
Aku ingin masuk syurga, tapi
Bukankah cukup sekadar shahadah
Sebagai penyaksian bahawa aku ini
Seorang yang membawa Islam?
Asal cukup syarat
Aku puasa, solat, bersunat
Aku target untuk buat haji
(Selepas menonton di Chelsea)
Aku bayar lima ringgit itu yang perlu bila orang meminta
Cukup bukan, TuhanKu
Sebagai saham syurgaku
Di akhiratMu
Yang masih jauh lagi
(Bagiku)
?

randomness.

2007-03-22T11:42:00.000+11:00

This is for my housemates, who have been amazing thus far. Surprising me, and everyone else. Much love:

The coffee is warm and burns my taste buds

Your laughter is happy and fills me with gladness

For despite the uncertainty

The flowing waves between now and eternity

The both of you stand here before me

Offering me strength

Filling me with hope

Of better things

Yet to come.

We sit and talk about the future

That foreign, alien, odd, ridiculous entity

Which threatens you and me

Only maybe at different times

You share my worry

You feel my fear

(Insert joke here)

And I feel fine.

We walk in a row

You, me and her

And we laugh and scramble our sentences together

As if between you, me and her

There is only youmeandher.

People look at us and smile with amusement

At this melding of souls

Simultaneous and overflowing

As our words mingle together in the smokey breeze

Rarely a serious tone in check

Various nicknames abounding

What have I ever done to deserve this

To be

Youmeandher?

*To be read with this ditty played in the background:

BananaToffeeCake and Me

2007-03-19T15:30:00.000+11:00

Yesterday, while looking over the CBD skyline at sunset, I poured my heart out to Banoffee.

It was a summarized version. Three minutes, tops. But I felt so much better afterwards. When she placed her tiny hand on my back, I felt that yes, she actually understands.

Today, I gave her a longer version of the tale. And believe it or not, she actually managed to stare down at me. I was impressed, and also distressed. I suppose it showed. I was afraid that she might begin to worry for me, and she had a class to go to, and so I trudged over to the computer lab alone.

Which brings me here, thinking about all I have and all I have yet to do. This week will be impossibly busy, much like the ones before. Homesickness has yet to knock on my bedroom door, although nausea most certainly has. At times, stopping to breathe calmly is so foreign now, that I even think that I am about to have a heart attack.

How's that for zikratul maut.

This computer lab is swelteringly hot, and I feel like I am about to pitam soon. But before I make my escape, I would like to share a hadith which has been on my mind for quite some time now:

“How amazing is the case of the believer; there is good for him in everything, and this characteristic is exclusively for him alone. If he experiences something pleasant, he is thankful, and that is good for him; and if he comes across some diversity, he is patient, and that is good for him.” [Muslim]

Don't worry, Banoffee. Tawakkal tu 'al Allah. I will be fine.

Saturday afternoon.

2007-03-17T16:29:00.000+11:00

Have you ever felt like your life is centered around a whirl, and that you can barely stop to catch your breath?

Have you ever felt like each day has gone by so fast, and yet you feel like last Thursday happened a month back?

Have you ever gone a period where every single person who says hi to you follows it up with, "You look tired. Are you alright?", and yet you don't notice that you are?

And then you take a break. You take a day off. Away from it all, but only figuratively, because the spinning never stops. You just step away from it.

And the day starts out with meticulous planning and timing, and attempts at fixing broken words.

And then you slow down, and you feel as if you cannot be bothered anymore.

And then your head hurts, because everything has become too much, and you feel left behind. You almost just can't be stuffed.

Then,
You step into an empty room.
And you breathe.

And you wash your face and feel the worry lines rinse away.
Your shoulders can be eased; the burden has been lifted.

And then you fall into rhythm and motion.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
Again.

And then you lift up your hands and just pray.
Sometimes, when it is quiet, and you're sure that no one else is there, you can feel your heart speak to you. Or hear it say something greater than you ever imagined.

And you can just cry.

But the rest of life awaits you on the other side of the door.

This time, though, when you step out, you will take your time.
And breathe.

A glimpse of Paradise.

2007-03-14T14:44:00.000+11:00

Today, I witnessed my first shahadah.

Sister Saraa, who I was surprised to see when she came to Frank Tate during lunch hour, announced after the Zohor jema'ah that we were going to gain a new sister, and I instinctively knew it was the girl I had met during O-Week. I had noticed her in the musolla many times, but I had never had the time to stop and say hello.

As it turns out, Saraa was here to help Isabella declare her faith in Allah.

Right after the jema'ah crowd had settled down, she called us all to sit down and witness the process. I made a mad dash for my glasses (which I had misplaced, as usual), before settling myself next to Banoffee Cake. Linking my arm with hers, we let quiet settle among us as Saraa gave a short briefing about the ceremony to Isabella.

When Saraa mentioned the Five Pillars of Islam one by one to Isabella, I apologized to Banoffee for my sweaty palms.

When Saraa ticked off the Pillars of Faith as Isabella affirmed her belief in them, Banoffee tugged at my hand.

And when Isabella recited the shahadah after Saraa, three times in succession, Banoffee and I started to cry.

'I believe that there is no God worthy of submission but Allah (God)
And I bear witness that Muhammad is his Messenger.'

What better gift do I need for the day? This, upon my brother's fantastic SPM results and my new phone arrangements?

Praise be to Allah, the Most High, the Great.

As my parting words, I would like to quote sister Saraa:

"Now, I would like to remind everyone to make it easy for our sister. She does not need rules; she needs love and compassion."

Wassalamu'alaikum.

Wa amitha 'alaa syahaadati fii sabilik.

2007-03-12T11:10:00.000+11:00

Sometimes you need inspiration to help you pull through the days.

And I find that inspiring people help me learn to place the world in my hands, not my heart.

Much thanks goes out to ukhti Lubna for giving me this lovely surprise on a Sunday morning:

Ghazi Anwar Pasha's Last Letter to his wife

Ghazi Anwar Pasha was from amongst those great Mujahideen of Turkey who had spent all his life fighting against the enemies of Islam. Eventually he was martyred by the Russians. Only a day prior to this he sent a letter to his wife, Najiya Sultana. This letter was published by her in the Turkish newspapers, and after being transferred was published by her in the newspapers in India on the 22 April 1923.

This letter is so touching and thought provoking that every young man should read it. An inspiring account of Mujahideen from the Ottaman period.

My Dearest Najiyya,

My life companion and fountain of happiness and joy dearest Najiya. The Almighty Allah is your guardian. Your last letter is in front of me at this moment. Believe me, this letter of yours will always be close to my heart. I cannot see your face but in between the lines and words of your letter I can see your beautiful fingers which used to play with my hair in the dark interior of tent, occasionally your picture fills my eyes. Alas, you write that I have forgotten you and that i do not care for your love.

You say that I have broken your loving heart and playing with fire and blood in a distant forsaken and I am unmindful of a woman who spends the night anxiously counting the stars.

You also say that I like war and my sword. But little did you realise when writing these words of yours, which undoubtedly were written with sincerity, out of deep love and devotion for me, will my heart.! How can I convince you [words are inadequate] that there is no one dearer to me in this world than you. You are the culmination of all my love and affection. I have never loved anyone before but you have stolen my heart.

Then what has separated me from You? O the joy of my heart! You can ask this question in a proper manner. Listen! "I am not away from you because I desire material gains of wealth nor is it because I wish to establish a kingdom or throne for myself as my enemies have publicly intimated. The only reason that I am away from you is that Allah's Obligatory Command has brought me here [battlefield] There is no greater fardh of Allah than Jihad Fi Sabilillah{to fight in the path of Allah}. It is this command of Allah, the intention of fulfilling it entitles a person a place in Jannah.

Alhumdulillah I not only have the intention to fulfil this command but am actively carrying it out in the battlefield.

Your absence{judai}, like an arrow is cutting my heart into pieces every moment. Notwithstanding this I am happy in this separation as it is your true love, and your love which is the greatest test, a challenge to my intention and resolution of fighting in the path of Allah Subhanu Wata'aala.

I thank Allah Ta'ala a thousand times that I have been victorious in this test and have been successful in putting Allah's love and command before my live, love and the pleasure of my desire{nafs}. You also, my darling must thank Allah Ta'ala and be happy that your husband possesses such a strong Emaan that he can ever sacrifice your love for the love of Allah.

Although Jihad with the sword is not compulsory on you, my love lest you are not exempted from it, no muslim male or female is exempted from Jihad. Your Jihad is that you must put Allah's love before your love and pleasure and you must make the bond of love between your husband and you stronger.

Look, never ever pray that your husband must come safe and sound from the battlefield into your loving arms. This prayer is selfish and Allah will not be pleased. Rather let your prayer be this, that Allah accept the Jihad of your husband and bring him back successfully otherwise let his lips imbibe the cup of martyrdom. These lips you know my darling have never been touched or dirtied by alcohol, but have always been kept busy with reciting the Holy Qur'an and hymming the glory and praises of Allah Subhanu Wata'aalah.

Dearest Najiya! How blessed will that moment be when in the path of Allah this head which you affectionately called beautiful will be separated from the body which in your eyes was not a soldier's body but a beloved's body!

Anwar's greatest wish is to be martyred and be judged on the day of Qiyammah with Hadrat Khalid bin Waleed {R.A.}, This world is a temporary one, Death will definitely come, Then why fear death? If death is definite, then why should a man die lying on a bed? Death in the path of Allah is not death but indeed life everlasting life.

Najiayya listen to my will! If I am martyred you must marry by brother Noori Pasha. After you, the dearest peron to me is Noori. It is my wish that after my demise he will faithfully care for you during your lifetime. My next wish is that all the children you bear tell them about my life and send all of them to the battlefield of Jihad for Islam. Remember if you do not fulfil this wish of mine, I will be angry with you in Jannah.

Farewell, my dearest! I don't know why my inner feelings tell me that after this letter I will never be able to write another lettter to you. It is no wonder that I may be martyred tomorrow.

Look! make sabr, on my death be happy and do not mourn, because my death in the path of Allah is an honour for you. Najiyya! I beg leave of you and in the world of thought I am embracing you.

Insha'Allah we will meet in Jannah and thereafter we will never part.

Your Anwar

*Ghazi Anwar Pasha was martyred the following day Insha'Allah*

My only summer piece.

2007-03-09T11:41:00.000+11:00

This is for my honorary BangLong. Because you were always in the story from the start, why not.

This is a du'a for everything to go on well for you and KakLong:

“There’s no excuse, you have to follow me,” Basirah insisted. Her twin brother, Basil gave her a wary look. He was a patient man by nature, but he was finding it hard to keep his cool right at this moment. He did a continuous istighfar, and absently wondered whether God had created his sister alongside him as a big trial on this earth, for him.

“Irah, can’t it wait? We promised to meet up with Mama and Abah at the deli in ten minutes. You know Ma and her punctuality. You may be up to a twenty-minute lecture on time management and/or keeping appointments, but I sure am not.” He took back his arm from her and made for the meeting place.

“But Basil, I have to meet this friend of mine, and if I leave you, I might get lost. I dislike this shopping mall,” she said with a scrunch of her nose. “So you have to come with. Please?” She shot him what he knew she hoped was her best pleading look. It made him cringe.

“Excuse me, but losing you on the way might turn out to be a good thing. I’m leaving for Dave’s. Good luck to you.” He turned his body around completely, hoping despite what he knew, that this would bring an end to it.

“You really like Ma’s half-hour lectures on responsibility, don’t you, akhi?” she called from somewhere behind him, sounding as though she had read his mind. He berated himself, finding the thought very cliché.

“Oh, fine,” he said, facing her again slowly. “Where are you headed to on your date?”

His twin gave him a satisfied glare. “She wanted to meet up at the bookstore. Just for a sec; she just wanted to pass something by me.” Much to his displeasure, she had taken to grabbing his forearm again, keeping it by her side in a half-dragging motion. Basirah gave a deep sigh. “She’s such a sweet, nice girl. Very thoughtful and quiet.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “Somewhat like you. With her pensiveness and your need for silence, the two of you would make a fine headache. For me, that is.”

At this, Basil wanted to stop in his tracks, but she had a vice grip on him which he could barely pull away from. “Basirah,” he said in a dangerously low tone, “am I right in feeling that you‘re trying to… promote her to me?”

Another long sigh. “You definitely aren’t my twin for nothing, dear Basil.”

“Irah!” he exclaimed in dismay, when all other words failed him. His twin, in turn, gave him an innocent look. He could detect slightly batting eyelashes and he rolled his eyes in return.

“You’re impossible,” he declared, trying to extract his arm from her hands. Basirah held on tight.

“That’s not true. I am possible.” Surely she didn’t believe that the upturned nose and measured pout were still cute and working. Basil smirked in the other direction before composing himself for further action.

“Well, I’m telling you, you’re impossible. I don’t have the needs or the means to follow up falling in love. We’re still studying in university, and I don’t need marriage. Not yet, Irah. Have patience, young one.” Feeling a surge of optimism, he gave another tug of the arm. No such luck. He sighed and tried not to think of the pain.

“But when will you have the time to look around if not now, akhi?” Basirah’s grip on him tightened. He winced, knowing full and well where she was headed. “You’re available and on holiday, she’s available and on holiday -- it’s like it was just meant to be, Basil. I mean, getting married young is a good thing; be rids one of temptation, and gives sufficient venue for the venting of romantic notions. What?” she protested when he simply goggled at her. “I’ve been talking to our cousins, okay? It’s the general consensus! Come on, Basil, think about it. It’s a great idea. You’re a great guy. (“Oh, so now I’m great.“) Why can’t you for once see things my way?”

“I could ask the same question,” he said under his breath. He stopped, grinding his feet to the floor and forcing his sister to a halt. “Basically, I’m not cut up for the job yet. When I am ready, I’ll make it known to the world, okay? But not now, and most definitely not before dinner.” He gave a gentle tug on her hijab, trying to soften her obvious disappointment, sagging shoulders and all. His twin was always the dreamer, while he had always been more pragmatic and sceptical. He liked to look at the yin-yang pendants they owned; his silver, hers in gold. They were birthday presents from a Chinese relative of theirs, who told their parents that Chinese tradition held it in belief that it was lucky to have one child of each sex, more so at the same time. Basil liked to think that placing two opposites into the world simultaneously was Allah’s way of keeping balance in the universe.

“But I am still tracing the way back for you, ya habeeb,” he softly reminded her with a nudge at her elbow, his heart slowly melting at her emotional transparency, so immature for her, and yet so familiar. “I’m hungry, and you’re on a mission, remember? So lead the way.”

Basirah perked up a little at the new power vested in her. She stood on tiptoes and peered around her, hands still on her brother. “The thing is, akhi, I’m not sure just where we are right now. Iman told me to meet her by the 2^nd fountain to my left, right after the escalator up the third floor, but --”

“Basirah?” they heard a voice call out tentatively from behind them. They turned back in unison. There stood Basirah‘s friend, her face lighting up from polite intrepidity to sheer delight. Basil felt a sudden surge in his chest, but he told himself it was the shock from his sister’s sudden leap forward, his arm following suit until he remembered to pull it back in time.

“Salaam, Iman!” Basil stood where he was, rubbing his throbbing forearm, as his sister rushed forth to hug her friend enthusiastically. He tried to concentrate on his sister’s bubbling narrative, but he couldn’t help his eyes, which kept getting drawn back to the young woman next to her. There was something about her, he was afraid, which beckoned him for a look which was longer than either of them would be comfortable with. Trying to fight the temptation to stare, he looked down at the monochromatic marble tiling instead.

After a few seconds of focusing on the tiles beneath his feet, he realized that he was holding his breath. Tightly grasping one hand with the other, Basil began pacing in a small square. When that didn‘t work, he placed one hand upon where he reckoned his heart would be, and he started pressing hard. His head was spinning, his chest was pounding, his body tingling with the effort to try and keep up. He felt so alive.

Basil decided that given the right situation, he could live with this sort of feeling.

Muttering the istighfar to himself many times, he kept his distance, trying not to remind himself of how pleasant she had appeared to him, in her patterned hijab and her black abaya, her smile --

He shook his head and chuckled, looking back down at the tiles, reminding himself that he would try to never again openly express serious doubt at his sister’s assumptions. He had really been proven wrong today. God had really taught him a lesson.

He let himself glance at his sister and her companion, trying to make sure whether they were anywhere near done. The two of them were discussing spiritedly about something or other, with Iman gesticulating with her hands, causing his sister to cover her mouth in laughter. And although he personally thought that gesticulating was very unladylike, he found that he thought it perfectly appropriate on Iman. He tried to shake the heavy train of thoughts with a shudder, but it didn’t work. Soon enough, he found the girl peering at him curiously as she said something to Basirah, who turned to grin at him. Basil gave his sister a wan smile in return.

He felt his heartbeat double in speed when both of them started walking in his direction. “Iman,” Basirah was saying even before they properly reached him, “this is my brother, Basil. Basil, Iman.” He gave Iman a curt nod, while she acknowledged him with a quick smile which made his chest ache a little. “Assalamu’alaikum,” she greeted.

“Wa’alaikumussalam.” He lifted his hand to look at the time and come up with any valid excuse, but Basirah beat him to it.

“He’s studying at England as well,” she explained out of the blue, “leaving me all alone in Melbourne. But he’s rich, thanks to that scholarship, so he comes down under all the time.” To him, Basirah said, “Iman’s reading law at the University of Hertfordshire.” Her friend only nodded, giving him a polite smile.

“I’m studying medicine,” he offered, figuring it was the least he could do.

“Oxford,” his twin piped up voluntarily, almost gleefully. Basil saw where this was headed, and felt the need to be proactive. His hand found the hem of her blouse, and he gave a sharp tug, which made her glare. “What?” she snapped, readjusting her top. From the corner of his eye, he saw that Iman had a smile hidden behind her hand.

“Dinner. With our folks. They’re waiting,” Basil managed to say, his hands moving around to try and make his point clearer. Complete sentences were never a problem with him before. He gave up and absently scratched his head, feeling the kufi he still had on from ‘Isya prayers at the nearby mosque.

Basirah, excited as she was to meet an old friend, was about to protest this, until Iman said, “Yeah, you guys should go. They’ll be wondering, and hungry. Not a good combination in parents, generally.” She gave a sympathetic smile to appease Basirah. “I’ll be here until September. We can meet while you’re still in town, no sweat. Figuratively speaking, of course.”

“Thank you,” Basil said out loud before he could think. And although he was inwardly knocking his head against an imaginary brick wall, he calmly gave Iman a thankful smile, took firm hold of Basirah’s wrist, and started steering her away, as reluctant as he was, himself.

“Oh, akhi ni,” she harrumphed. “Let me say goodbye?” She took back her hand and, turning her back against him, hugged her friend farewell. “I am so sorry for my prude of a brother,” she said. Basil could feel something in him protest strongly. “Nothing comes in between him and his stomach. Except for maybe death.” He winced even more at that, covering it up when Iman caught his eye and started to laugh.

“Basirah,“ she said in a rebuking tone, causing Basirah to smile at him sheepishly. “It’s alright,” Iman insisted. “Like I said, we can gab some other time, insyaAllah. So don’t worry.”

Basirah sighed dramatically, causing Basil to roll his eyes for the umpteenth time. “I suppose,” she admitted grudgingly.

“Alright then. We should get going now. Kan? Let’s go,” he said in one breath, giving Iman a curt nod and dragging his twin by the wrist. “Assalamu’alaikum.”

“Wa’alaikumussalam.”

Basil kept his grip firm and steady on Basirah, keeping his sight on the destination and trying not to look at his sister, even though he could feel her unflinching gaze on his face.

“Basil,” she began the torture, “I was right, wasn’t I? I know that look; those adorable flushed cheeks.” His blood vessels betrayed him by dilating even more. “I was right! Hoho, was I right.” In his peripheral vision, he saw her shake her head in disbelief at her good fortune. “Trust you to be the one to tell it to me, without telling it to me straight.”

He decided playing dumb was the only way through. “What were you right about?” he let out, giving in and shooting her a questioning look, taking care not to let go of her hand.

“Basil,” she said disbelievingly, “you haven’t being paying attention, have you? I meant that I was right about you and Iman, obviously. Although you may not know it, yourself.” She tugged her wrist hopefully. No chance. Basil was already immune to her glares to care much.

“Me and Iman. Okay. So…?” he trailed off, a little scared that Basirah might attempt to complete the sentence.

“Trust you to be clueless about things like this,” she scoffed. “I mean, you guys are so perfect together, okay? Like, perfect lah. I mean, you guys even met cute. Now, what else would you want in a relationship?”

“The sanctity of marriage,” he answered flatly. She laughed at that, like he knew she would.

“Of course I meant that too,” she insisted. “I could feel the chemistry, for want of a better word for it. I mean, there was definitely something in the air, and it was chemistry, make no mistake. I’m studying chemistry, I should know,” she said with the flair of someone who did.

“You do know that makes no sense?” he wondered out loud, not really expecting a direct answer. She responded with a tut.

“Oh, fooh. Come on. I mean, you’re both grown adults. You guys should definitely have marriage on your minds right now, so --”

“Why not to each other?”

“Exactly!” Basil chuckled at his sister’s predictability. “Heck, Abah and Mama got hitched at around our age, right? So they can’t object to it. Besides, this is the good way to do it. Halaalan toyyibah. Get to know each other legitimately, and when you feel ready for it (when your heart feels right), get hitched. Easy!”

“Listen to yourself!” he declared, making a sharp right turn into a walkway. “’Get hitched’? It’s not that easy, Irah.”

“Islam did not make it hard, either,” she reiterated.

“I know, but… there are other factors to it as well, you know?” He ran a hand through his head, pulling the kufi off and replacing it on his head. “I can’t just get married without considering the aftershocks of it. I can’t afford it, for one thing. I don’t think I can handle the responsibility yet, for another. You’re a girl, sure you think it’s all fun and games.”

“Well excuse me,” she said, pulling some syllables for effect. “You think girls have it easy? Right. And who is the one who grows another being on one end of her body for nine months and nine days, and then is mostly responsible for said being’s welfare? And has to take care of you as well? Don’t think we don’t have responsibilities as well, Basil.” She gave a deep sigh and swung their arms around. “All I’m saying is, you’re going to have to eventually anyway, so why not soon? I mean, the waiting game is a hard one to play. Oh, akhi, you have no idea, do you, what we go through, because of people like you? We wait for you to give hints, but you never do. And then we wait for you to be ready, but you never are. You factualize and think it over again and again, but the fact remains that there is a whole other person on the other end of the equation, waiting to be factored in.” She gave another deep sigh and used her free hand to adjust her hijab.

Letting himself be intrigued, he peered at his sister with caution. “But how can us guys tell when a girl’s interested, unless she makes the first move?”

“Girls can never make the first move without seeming either extremely desperate, or extremely brave.” She shook her head. “Unfortunate, I know, but that’s just how it is, nowadays.”

“And that makes it easier for the guy?” Basil looked at his sister. “We come off as desperate and/or brave too, you know. It’s just a stereotype that guys have to propose. And God showed that there should be no stereotypes in marriage when Ummul Mukminin Khadijah made the first move.”

He could tell that she could find nothing else to say, when she gave a tight shrug. “I know there shouldn’t be stereotypes. But they still exist, anyway, and… maybe you don’t realize just how hard it is for girls to accept rejection, especially since we’re such emotional beings, as Allah made us to be, you know?”

“I imagine that rejection wouldn’t be easy for me to handle, either,” Basil mused, with a tinge of sarcasm.

“Maybe,” Basirah replied earnestly. “Wait a minute.” She stopped in her tracks, resisting his tugs forward to where Dave’s Deli was, just a few feet ahead of them. “You’re very good,” she conceded, a tad bemused. “But not that good. You tried to veer off subject. So,” she said, picking up speed. “You. And Iman.”

“No such thing,” he insisted, trying to slow her down and prevent the risk of their parents listening in. “Not now, anyway.”

“Aha!” She turned and flashed him a triumphant smile. “I knew it! Chemistry…” she left off teasingly.

“And other factors too,” he reminded her, sitting down opposite their parents. “Meatballs, Irah?”

Of stories hidden deep inside.

2007-03-08T11:42:00.000+11:00

Yesterday was memorable for several reasons.

Before yesterday, never before had I encountered an onion pungent enough to bring my tear ducts to their metaphorical knees.

And yesterday, I was told the story of someone I shall call Walid.

He had had leukaemia once. At that point, he was a Muslim by name only, but by the time he was pronounced cured, he had made one of the greatest transformations anyone had ever seen.

He had proposed to my friend, the sister of his friend, but her parents were concerned by the state of his health, and he decided to step down.

Some time later, he found out that he was in relapse, and that the leukaemia was back. Even with the bone marrow transplant he’s having soon, the doctors give him two years.

But my friend, the one who could have been his wife by now, told me that no one was really worried about that. Not because the reality of his illness was lost to them, but because they knew deep down that he would be fine. That when the time comes, he would have no difficulty of entering Jannah, because he had done good in this world.

Another sister who was listening, reminded us of the hadith qudsi, where Allah declares that should He love a person, then He will grant that person the love of the world around him.

Which was why, even through the scant beard and his pale face, nobody really worried about Walid.

I hid the stray tears behind a fake yawn.

Another moment would be at the da’wah table at during the Islamic Society’s barbie, where several sisters and I were standing, chatting with the people who came. A guy with brown curls, big eyes and a leather knapsack came up and asked about what activities we held. He told us that he was Muslim, but that he had drifted from Islam a long time ago, with a level of honesty that surprised me. As he signed up his details on the green sheet of paper, he told us when asked, of how he stopped going to the masjid when he was about thirteen. That his mother was non-Muslim, and that he could not see the point in praying anymore. When he went to get a pita-dog, I looked at his name, written in a neat cursive. Yasser.

And it was at that point that I told my friend that I needed a good souk, right then and there.

Yesterday’s brief glimpse of Yasser reminded me of this bloke who came by the UMIS booth during O-Week. His name is Brian, and whenever memory brings him back to mind, I see dark blue eyes and a huge, pleasant smile. I remember his earnest explanation of how beautiful he found Islam to be; of his nocturnal fasting month in Egypt, and of how beautiful the masajid in Malaysia were. He proved me wrong when he named Masjid Jamek to be one of them – as it turns out, he marvelled in its function, rather than its form. For a second, I was embarrassed at my shallow suggestion of the infamous masjid in Putrajaya.

As it turns out, my deen can seem so different, and yet so beautiful, in someone else’s eyes.

Sometimes I feel as if I’ve taken Islam for granted. Sometimes I feel like I do not fully appreciate this understanding I’ve come to; this way of life I was born and raised with. Sometimes, I’m scared that I’m running away from it all, as if I’m trying too hard to find compromises with the world. As if I didn’t have to answer to Allah at the Mahsyar.

And yet even when my heart seems to forget, Allah showers me with reminders, so that my qalb will remember.

Parsou, the day before yesterday, brother Abdullah mentioned something during a rather heated UMIS meeting, which went something like this:

“InsyaAllah, all of us, we hold Islam dear to our hearts.”

And I thought, isn’t it wonderful, how a single line can take your breath away, and bring back spirit to your hearts?

“Verily, in the remembrance of Allah do hearts find rest.”

(Surah ar-Rad, 13:28)

New Favourite Hindi Song

2007-03-07T17:18:00.000+11:00

Moving into Baitul Avenue has exposed me to many, many Hindi songs.

However, I must say, this is my favourite of them all:

Slapping palm to forehead

2007-02-27T11:50:00.000+11:00

Assalamu'alaikum all.

Until I get proper broadband access, the overworked uni comp lab is all I've got. And the chocolate mocha lying near my feet (untouched, due to the 'no consumption' rule) makes me feel guilty for hanging around too long.

And so, feeling like the awful blogger that I am, I have decided to share a few interesting links:

a) This was just pathetic, man.

b) This feels a bit personal, thanks to current living situations (BTW, yes, I have moved in, but the unpacking will take a while).

c) This is going to freak Ijjie out, and make Raiyan upset.

d) This is just so sad, on so many different levels.

Sigh. O, my First-World-country-wannabe homeland. When I am far away, I miss you. But when I am near you, you give me a headache beyond all expectations.

Ummu Wafa', may Allah give you strength to face all that you will.

Wassalam.

Home at last.

2007-02-19T01:19:00.000+11:00

Assalamu'alaikum wrh. wbt.

The flight was memorable, even if I didn't get any shut eye.

I am now in my new favourite house, Baitul Arden (Faiqah/Wafa'), with my favourite kind of music playing outside (raindrops touching the glossy roads).

I am too tired to be much of a writer.

So instead, I will put it some of Habiburrahman El- Shirazy's work here instead. He's the authour of the book an ukhti recommmended, called Ayat-Ayat Cinta. I've stalled from buying the book for quite some time now, but with the recommendation of Ustaz Azhar (and his special discount), I actually did.

And although I already knew the ending, thanks to some thorough browsing at bookstores, I still found it a gripping, intelligent page turner. The Da Vince Code, it most certainly is not.

Although it is rather hard to believe that such a pious yet romantic soul as Fahri exists in this world. But then again, the author DID write the book as the mahar for his bride.

Ah.

Here. Enjoy:

'Juga selama di Cairo, sampai Aisha membukakan purdahnya di rumah Syeikh Utsman. Kuakui ada satu nama yang membuatku selalu bergetar bila mendengarnya, namun tidak lebih dari itu. Aku merasa sebagai seekor pungguk dan seluruh mahasiswi Indonesia di Cairo adalah bulan. Aku tidak pernah berusaha merindukannya. Dan tak akan pernah kuizinkan diriku merindukannya. Kerana aku merasa itu sia-sia. Aku tidak mahu melakukan hal yang sia-sia dan membuang tenaga.

Aku lebih memilih mencurahkan seluruh rindu dendam, haru biru rindu dan deru cintaku untuk belajar dan mentelaah al-Quran. Telah kusumpahkan dalam diriku, aku tak akan membukakan hatiku untuk mencintai seorang gadis kecuali gadis itu yang membukanya. Bukan suatu keangkuhan tapi kerana rasa rendah diriku yang selalu bermain di kepala. Aku selalu ingat aku ini siapa? Anak petani miskin. Anak penjual tapai. Aku ini siapa?

aku adalah lumpur hitam

yang mendebu

menempel di sandal dan sepatu

hinggap di atas aspal

terguyur hujan

terpelanting

masuk longkang

siapa sudi memandang

atau menghulurkan tangan?

tanpa uluran tangan Tuhan

aku adalah lumpur hitam

yang malang

Tuhan telah mengucapkan kun! Lumpur hitam pun dijelma menjadi makhluk yang dianugerahi kenikmatan cinta yang memuncak-muncak dan rindu yang membuak-buak. Seorang bidadari bermata bening telah disiapkan untuknya. Fa bi ayyi allai Rabbikuma tukadziban! Maka nikmat Tuhan kamu yang manakah yang kamu dustakan.

Di dalam syurga-syurga itu ada bidadari-bidadari yang baik-baik lagi cantik-cantik.

Maka nikmat Tuhan kamu yang manakah yang kamu dustakan.

Bidadari-bidadari yang jelita, putih bersih dipingit di dalam rumah.

Maka nikmat Tuhan kamu yang manakh yang kamu dustakan.

(Surah ar-Rahman: 70-73)

P.S:- My dear BananaToffeeCheesecake, I hope you find the passage as inspiring as I do. Hugs!

They say that sharing is caring.

2007-02-16T19:27:00.000+11:00

Tomorrow will be my last officially Malaysian day for a while.

Much thanks to everyone for everything. For all the food, for all the memories, for the pep talks and serious discussions I've missed for so long, for all the car rides and the sweet wishes, for all the laughs, and gee, for all the tears as well.

Praise be to Allah for all I have given to me.

Now that that's somewhat done...

I'd like to share you this link about what it's like to a female Muslim in the world.

And I'd like to share with you this:

In all honesty, I would've probably chosen the white doll. Even today, if I took the survey right after I woke up.

Gives you something to think about, innit?

Wassalam.

This is a reminder, lest I forget.

2007-02-12T15:08:00.000+11:00

From Imam al-Ghazali's Mukasyafah al-Qulub:

Rasulullah (peace and blessings upon him) once said:

"It will befall on my ummah, that they will love five things, and they will forget five things. They will love the world, and forget of the Hereafter. They will love wealth, until they forget of the Day of Judgement. They will love another being, until they forget their Khaliq (Maker). They will love to make du'a (pray) until they forget to taubah (repent), and they will love their homes, but forget their graves."

And this made me smile.

Wassalamu'alaikum.

The Radical Middle Way.

2007-02-06T17:33:00.000+11:00

There is an ongoing program conducted by the Federation of Students' Islamic Societies (FOSIS) of the United Kingdom, called The Radical Middle Way Project. From what I understand, it’s supposed to be a re-education of sorts for the British community, so that they may better understand Islam. The term ‘middle way’ is a direct reference to a verse in the Quran, where God explains Islam to be a moderate religion, easier and universal, unlike the ones He sent down before it. ‘Radical’ is obviously a direct reference to how most of the Western world views Islam, and together, they make for a paradoxical phrase -- my favourite kind to repeat.

In recent days, a series of little events have rocked this little world of mine, making me somewhat righteously indignant (if such a thing can be said), and reminding me of why I live as I do, in the first place. As a result of these ever God-sent events, there has been renewed interest in the spiritual condition of Malaysia. People are beginning to talk, think and absorb. That’s always a good place to start.

One of the main topics surrounding Malaysian life would be the unprecedented flooding of the southern-most state of the Peninsula, Johor. In recent days, there have been many first-hand accounts of what happened to, and what is currently going on with the people of that state. As a briefer, Johor was unexpectedly hit by massive flooding of most parts of the state, submerging countless homes, destroying crops and livestock. Hundreds of thousands were stranded, and eventually evacuated to nearby relief centres.

Our family friends who have visited the areas recently gave us a picture that is somewhat sad. One village has been submerged in thick, foul-smelling black mud, which volunteer workers say reminds them of Aceh’s tsunami waste. People are queuing up for a bottle of mineral water. Women don’t have anything to clothe themselves with. Children study in the barest of circumstances. Yet in the midst of all the tragedy, a news publication still had the gall to conduct a talent-search concert in the area.

The most appalling part? The concert was attended by hundreds of thousands of Johorians, clearly apathetic about the sufferings of their own neighbours. I mean, people are dying out there, and you’re still busy singing songs about heartache and pain?

Come on, people. Let’s get real. There is no greater heartache or pain than waking up one morning, and learning that your entire life, as you know it, is submerged under metres of stagnant water; that you have to start over from nothing at all, except pity and charity. And even that’s sorely lacking.

Another wake-up call for me would be watching the newly-established Al-Jazeera English news network, where they live up to their claim of ‘giving the other side of news’. Whereas before I had the excuse of not understanding a word, now I find myself going back to the channel. Al-Jazeera keeps things human, choosing to highlight the issues the rest of us prefer to skim over in the papers. Watching it reminds me that there are people out there who are suffering, and not just in war. It reminds me that the entire planet is in need of a fixer-upper, and that for as long as I live, it is my responsibility to do what I can to help.

It reminds me that the world does not centre around me, and that I should get over myself and off my butt.

And recently occurred the culmination of what I simply call ‘attacks on Muslims, by Muslims’. I will acknowledge here what I acknowledged before: I am part of an usrah. I feel no shame in it. I see no harm in it. I am merely part of something that has been established in countless government schools and masjids, which is to partake in a peaceful discussion of Islam -- to share knowledge and exchange ideas, and to be part of a small group of friends who care and look out for one another. In fact, ‘usrah’ is just a word in Arabic which means ‘family’. It was the main means the Prophet Muhammad used to educate people with Islam, at the advent of its revelation.

Don’t believe the last bit? I’m telling you to read back on history.

Ever since my mother started joining lessons organized by the local mosque (which is strictly monitored by the Government, but whatever), we’ve gone through some gradual changes as a family. Words like ‘halaqah’ and ‘usrah’ are common to our tongues. When I’d just finished with secondary school, my mother dragged me to her classes and usrah discussions as well, and much to my surprise, I had great fun. Being part of a mellow atmosphere, where everybody is a friend, is like therapy of sorts.

Well, the other day, someone I didn’t know just sent me an IM, claiming that ‘usrah’s are the number one cause of division among the Muslim society. I could tell straightaway that the comment was meant to provoke me, and after telling the dude to chill and lay off the hate, I placed him on my ‘Ignore List’ and moved on. I remember a time not so long ago when I would’ve been a lot more unforgiving. I was never the patient sort to begin with, and suppressing my anger was never an option. I even proudly walloped a fellow male classmate once, because he wouldn’t stop calling me (or someone else, I can’t remember) some idiotic name.

The ironic thing (for my virtual hater) is that being in an usrah taught me to be tolerant and to respect other people first, no matter what they’re saying about you. And if you can find no better way to clear the anger, then walk away. Take wudhu’, and walk away.

The point that I’m trying to make is that these are difficult times for Muslims. I’m sure everybody knows that by now. Osama bin Laden only used one word to justify his so-called attacks: Islam. Never mind that up till that point, he was heavily funded by the US government.

Now, everybody thinks that Islam is a religion of hate and revenge. Over what, I’m not exactly sure. As the guys at the ‘Allah Made Me Funny Comedy Tour’ would say, “you can’t be a Muslim and a terrrorist at the same time”. It just isn’t done. Especially not when God tells you to be peaceful. In the earliest days of Islam, when the new Muslims were brutally tortured by the Quraisy of Makkah, they did not even retaliate.

We seem to forget to tell others that Islam does not allow war, unless you have been attacked. And in the Qur’an, there is even a verse forbidding further retaliation when the enemy has stopped attacking.

Islam is an easy, uncomplicated religion, which ensures the easiest solution for every situation, in any era, in any circumstance.

And it pains me to say this, but some Muslims are too busy playing the blame game. We keep on forgetting that we should unite in the face of mounting international tension and undisguised stigma, instead of laying the hate around us. Political differences aside, we should set our hearts for what is right by the people, instead of placing emphasis on what ends up in our pockets. Listen to those around you and pay attention to what they’re saying. Quit playing hide-and-seek with God, because He sees right through our hearts effortlessly. There's no point being a hypocrite anyway, when all will be laid out in the end.

You talk the talk, but you don’t walk the walk. You say that you’re all for progress and change, but your mind is stuck in a ditch that collapsed into itself years ago. I’ll admit that this is a generalization, but it works, if only for the fact that it’s too general a condition now to be pinned down to any one sort of person.

You’re too averse to change, yet you lobby for it. You separate matters of religion from everyday life, saying that they cannot co-exist. You let lack of knowledge, and your refusal to think, mar your sights and your heart. You’re too busy trying to appease your greed that you forget about others.

You’re too preoccupied with your dime-a-dozen life, relishing the cramped bubble you’ve built around yourself, that you won’t even share your space with thoughts of God, let alone Love for Him.

Come on. If you have to change; make a difference in yourself, get over your shame of admitting it. I’ve said this before, and I will say this ever again: CHANGE IS NOT A BAD THING.

Dang, I sound like a broken record.

Quit being scared of change. It’s not worth being afraid of.

Work the earth as if you will live on it forever; live your life as if every day is your last.

Before this is a reminder for you, please note that I am reminding myself first and foremost. I guess Michael Jackson got it right (although I can hardly believe I’m saying this):
‘If you want to make the world a better place, take a look at yourself and make the change.’

And to end my little indignant rant, I would like to quote someone I admire for his utter frankness and blatant individuality:

‘If you were dead, you’d have much bigger problems than what you’re wearing.’
-Owen Armstrong-

(He’s a character in a book, by the way)

Wassalamualaikum.

On why I write.

2007-01-24T02:13:00.001+11:00

In a world where I never measure up, writing is the place where I know what I’m doing.

I am socially inept, ever with the wrong thing to say or do. I am basically immature, although most people think it’s of my own doing. I always just barely scraped by school with As or Bs, and I didn’t really stand out that much -- not in the fields that mattered, anyway. I am temperamentally short-fused, with little patience and a very poor ability to concentrate. Physically, I never seemed to match up to the standard idea of beauty, or even prettiness, though truth be told, I never saw what was so unacceptable about me. In a world where I was beginning to be judged purely by how much I scored in my exams, I seemed to have barely failed everything else.

I’d always felt so lost all those years before I rediscovered my deen, my Islam, and in those times, where all I had were my emotions and my tears and God, I would find myself with paper and a pen/pencil, and I would write. I would live out my daydreams of ridiculously soap opera-scenarios in a small spiral notebook I hid under my sock basket. I would jot down my incoherent anger (although it seems a tad harsh a word) and frustration in my journal, and release my feelings of loneliness and ineptitude in my poetry, which was basically just metaphoric prose.

When I let myself down, I immersed myself in writing, where there are no rules, other than maybe making sense. In poetry, I could say even more, and still safeguard my private thoughts. I enjoyed my despair because it sounded nice in writing. It gave me an illusion of profundity I could hide from the world, and it showed me sides of me I never knew.

Looking back and reading my work, I can understand the pain, although I no longer feel it. I no longer loath myself, because learning and understanding about the person God made me to be has made me accept myself better. I face criticism with careless abandon where the occasion calls for it; otherwise I deal with it with (what I hope is) patience and tolerance. I relish the fact that God made me the way I am, and with a little effort on my part, I could be better if I wanted to be; if God willed it. But I could also be content with the fact that God made me the way I am for reasons I may not know, all the while knowing that it is what’s best for me. And when all else fails, God would be enough.

With these relatively new principles in mind (and heart), I can see my writing grow with me, or on me; depends on where you’re looking. I used to be obsessed about huge, impressive words not usually used amongst humankind; now I prefer simple words that say more. I used to want to relate to pop culture; now I want to relate to now and forever. I used to allow my imagination to run wild, justifying that it’s all unreal; now I hold responsibility for the things I say, and I prefer to keep my feet grounded on firm reality, painful though it might be.

I think I’ve said this before: I want to spark change, open minds and provoke thought.

Words are such heavy loads in our lives. People use words to tell a story and captivate millions; you can affect politics with the phrasing you choose; you can turn words into a war, or you can bring it to a halt. Mightier than the sword, I believe the saying goes.

In retrospect, I understand why the first verses of the Quran that were relayed from Gabriel to Prophet Muhammad were:

‘Read!
In the name of your Lord and Cherisher who created,
Created mankind out of a clot of congealed blood.
Read, and your Lord is most Bountiful;
He who taught men the use of the pen
Taught man that which he did not know.
Know, but man does transgress all bounds in that
he looks upon himself as self-sufficient
Verily, to your Lord is the return of all.’

It seems ironic to me, that a person who is so well-known for doing so little, should choose so important a medium. But I did not choose this, exactly. Were the decision up to me completely, I would have chosen something simpler, plainer, quicker to get over with, so that I could get on with my life, easy. But words, instead, pulled me in their direction; forcing me to take another look, another perspective; give another try and see what it means. At times, inspiration will come to me, and when I am done, I cannot believe all this came out of ME. It can get quite scary, although it makes sense. Scary sense, but still.

Now I understand, the way humankind understands everything -- from a purposely stunted point of view. I suppose that God wanted to show me from the start that life is a journey, not mere play, and as Robert Frost once put it --

-- 'The best way out is always through'.

Wassalamualaik.

These days, I wish I was six again...

2007-01-17T16:06:00.000+11:00

In a matter of days, I will turn into an adult.

That’s the idea, anyway. In less than two days, I will no longer have the number ‘1’ as the first digit of my age; no longer able to hide behind the overworked suffix of ’teen’.

It’s quite scary, the prospect of losing all valid excuse is.

The way my mother expects it, having a new digit at the front of my age will force me to mature -- to grow up into an working, functioning adult. How I wish to have the gall to say, “If only things worked that way, Ma”.

You see, I have always had this aversion against growing up. Now, let me get this straight -- I have no problems with becoming a year older; I just have issues with maturity. I prefer regression to cynism; naivete to jadedness.

I think Dawud Wharnsby hit it right on the dot:

I don’t wanna be a grown-up
Like the grown-ups I have seen
‘Cause the grown-ups I have seen
Don’t seem to have much fun.
They don’t get down on the floor enough
To pray, or play with toys
So when I’m a grown-up
I won’t wanna be one.

For as long as I remember, I have always been against growing up. In fact, when most of my peers had already hit the watermark of puberty, I was more than glad to be left behind. I was perfectly happy to be left to my hopscotch and Barney videos (nicely borrowed from my toddler cousin) while the rest of my friends were busy comparing ‘first period’ experiences and boy-hunting.

I suppose you could say that I was late. And happily so.

But now, with my mother heavily hinting about the cumbersome day, I’m becoming rather wary. She’s desperately waiting for me to grow up; become mature. In short, to become less of a worry to her and my father. And to the rest of my aunts and uncles.

And every time I hear about it, I get a twinge in the pit of my stomach. I know how much my family wishes I could learn to be an adult. I just wished I knew how.

Last night, I had a hurried chat with my best friend. She’s happy with where she is in life right now, and I’m glad. My life for the years since we left school has been somewhat lacking her perspective on things. So it wasn’t so surprising that when I asked her opinion of my blog, she gave it to me straight: She told me that I was a little biased, and a little idealistic.

I felt tempted to reply, “When have I ever not been?”

My trip back to Malaysia, which has changed so much and yet remains so familiar, has made me think a lot about how life has changed for me, throughout the years. Ever since I could remember, the mostly part of me grew up here. I guess the change of mailing address has given me a new perspective on things. Little bits and pieces of my past seem to be catching up with me.

Just when so many of my friends are struggling to step away from their past, I’m trying hard to recollect mine.

When I was in kindergarten, I was happy. I was talkative, sure, but I cannot remember a time when I never was. Life was easy, and I suppose that deep down inside, I knew it. Maybe I had an inkling that life then was as leisurely as it was going to get. I remember gymnastic lessons for the annual concert, music classes, and sort-of cheating during after-school Mandarin, and having banana cake for recess. I used to hate banana cake.

When I was in primary school, I felt my first taste of labelling -- I was the smart kid; the bookworm; the chatterbox nerd. I think I was even called weird. I didn’t really have much common sense (some things never change), and it was beginning to worry my mother, in particular. I didn’t know how to keep the friends I had. I guess I just valued my privacy too much. Maybe I was just lazy.

Wow. That was painful to remember.

When I browse through my Friends List on Friendster, little flashes of memories pop into my head. I see the classmate I used to hate (he is a guy, which was reason enough, back in the day); I see my first crush; I see winces from social faux pas; I see the first person I was rumoured to be dating (ever just rumours). But only barely.

I see the people I grew up with, for the better part of my life. And yet now, I can’t really see them clearly in my mind anymore, because to me, they no longer represent my world, or even a semblance of the reality I‘ve come to know since leaving the bubble that was secondary school. I used to think life was what we played at between classes, but it turns out I was wrong.

When I stepped into pre-U, I learnt that there was so much more to life than dating, and looking good, and staying in cliques. I immersed myself in the new environment -- the new, always nice people and I relished that we all came from such different backgrounds. I was happy that being a smarty-pants was a common thing we shared, and most of all, that being one had brought me into AUSMAT 16 of INTEC. I learnt so much, and I enjoyed life so much.

I guess that was where I learnt to celebrate life, and the person I am.

And just when I thought I couldn’t change anymore, I did, again. This time, it was nearing the end of AUSMAT, just before the exams. I suddenly found myself with a whole new set of principles embedded within me, all without my asking. I found a deeper connection with life, deeper than I ever expected. I also found new meaning in living. The intensity and almost suddenness of that particular change -- of me, becoming more of the religious sort I usually evaded all this while -- almost made me forget how transitional and parallel it was. In fact, it was that very change of outlook that made me decide on Melbourne.

Melbourne taught me to be ready to change my mind at anytime. The city and its people taught me to never judge a book by its cover -- a lesson I’m afraid I’m beginning to forget. Melbourne taught me that each person is like an onion -- deeper than the grubby exterior, with many layers to peel, each a different shade. The Aussies taught me not to judge, and the land taught me to be quick on my feet and to trust myself. And my fellow Malaysians taught me everything else.

There, I learned to earn real friendship. I learned about dealing with mistakes. I gained the confidence that was missing from me all those years past. I found myself with so much independence that now that I’m home, I feel stifled and limited. I’m counting down the precious days until I’m forced to leave my family, but at the same time, glimpses of Melbourne appear in my mind, beckoning me to go back.

I used to be so afraid of trying new things. Now I’m just wary, is all.

I used to view change like I did make-up: Nasty and avoidable. I’ve changed my mind some since then.

Now, I’ve realized that if I had looked back more often, the same way I’m doing now, I doubt I would’ve gotten this far. I would’ve been too afraid to do anything other than what I was used to -- I wouldn’t want to improve.

So having a poor memory can come in handy too, in turns out.

Seriously though, I’ve learnt that the only way to live is to live in the present. I know, it is an overworked cliché from Christmas-themed TV movies, but it’s true. If you look behind, you’ll lose courage to take that first step forward or away. If you look too far ahead, you’ll lose your footing and crash on your face.

The only way to push ahead is to be thankful for everything you have right now, and know that God has bigger plans for you, made of stuff you won’t even be able to imagine.

So enjoy the moment. And make way for the next one.

Praise be to Allah for my life thus far. I’ll take it all with no regrets, insyaAllah, for as Imam as-Syahid Hassan al-Banna said,

“Nothing is better than what has become.”

Wassalamu’alaikum.

P.S:- Should you happen to read this, this goes out to Najmina (4th of Jan), Sufia (10th, I think), Rizal and Intan Fairouza and Azza and Chie Chie (15th), Lyana (16th), Erin and Duck and Abang Pea (18th). If you happen to be born in the month, do let me know. Happy Birthday, all. Many happy returns.

Of things I leave unsaid...

2007-01-15T02:10:00.000+11:00

Assalamualaikum wrh. wbt.

Late last night, I had to get something out of my system. And I figured that like with all other things, I could do it by writing something. Anything. I didn't really care what is was about.

But somehow, I got this story that really wasn't my thing at all. It's so unlike me. But I figure that maybe I've been influenced a lot by the babies around me: the ones growing up like lightning, the ones I've only recently knew existed, the ones to come, and the ones who remind me so much of me and the fact that I really need to grow up sometime soon.

Maybe it's because I've stood by and watched my cousins get married and build families of their own, quietly sympathizing with the difficulty of growing up, and not wishing the same for myself.

Allahu'alam.

But this story is pretty weird, and pretty short. And also, pretty much the only I've written in so long. And in the present tense, too. An experiment, of sorts.

So here you go:

He simply stares as long strands of her dark hair flutter over her face. Allowing himself a small smile, he remembers a time when he couldn’t even so much as glance in the direction of her head without a hearty blush. This, this ability to do without the infamous blush, is rather liberating.

She is reading about physics as she sits by the wide windowsill overlooking their backyard. It is one of the books he‘s started using in his lectures. Ever since the day she weaselled out an eternal permission to use all his things at all times, she has taken liberties with his share of books in their joint study. It suits him, anyway. He rather likes that the written word is a passion they both share. She has a head filled with daydreams dating back to her childhood, while he favours factual works on tangible topics. Together, he knows that they make up a sort of balance, like the Yin/Yang ideogram he remembers from his schooldays.

She looks up at him and makes a face. She has a silly smile on her face as he throws his head back and laughs, before she turns her head to look outside. He knows what she’s looking for. He planted that chestnut tree back in July with a silent plea for it to live. She wants to see chestnuts in her garden. She wants to stand back and watch as their children run about among the tall trees in the yard. He wants to grant both her wishes, but can only see one becoming real.

At times, he gets scared of looking into his wife’s face, afraid to face the familiar loss he sees. It lacks the maternal glow he’s seen in so many other female faces; the soft, gentle care that appears on their features. Something in him breaks when he watches the quiet longing in her face for the only thing he cannot give.

She has never blamed him, although she could. She mentioned to him once of her fear that he blames her instead. It is beyond his imagination. He considers himself lucky to have gotten what he once prayed so hard to get. He still mutters his appreciation to God everyday. Anything beyond her would be wonderful, but he can be satisfied with only this.

They are still trying, although five years of doing so might tire other people. He knows of how young they are, still; they had married young, in college. Still, sometimes he feels a keen sense of failure, especially when they spend time with the children of their friends. He knows that she loves children, as he does. He once suggested adoption, and she had given her approval. But her eyes gave her away, as they always do, and he decided against it.

Another thing he finds so fascinating about her are her eyes. Sometimes, when they’re babysitting, she will be sitting in the backseat with the child, and he would glance in the rear-view mirror and instantly know what she is thinking of. He would know how she is feeling. Her eyes were so sad by nature before they were married, but he learned to look past the inherent sadness and to read the twinkle in her eyes like he would his most favourite book.

Tonight… he bends his knees slightly to that he can peer into her eyes from where he is standing, near but away from her. Tilting his head, he leans forward, suddenly unsure of what he sees. Again, he is amazed by her simple beauty, which she covers from being seen by all others but him. Before he knows it, he finds himself sitting in front of her, spinning the Tous ring on her finger, round and round, all the while studying her face.

There is something in her eyes; an emotion he cannot place.

Finally, she looks up, her soft smile hit by moonlight. She asks him if she looks different tonight. He shrugs in return, placing a finger on the page she is reading and closing the book around it, pulling it away from her. It surprises him that she is so wrapped up in the question that she doesn’t even notice this. He tries again to distract her by fiddling more with her wedding ring, but her intent gaze unsettles him. He gives her a definite answer; yes, she looks different tonight.

She makes him guess the reason why.

He is not able to; what is the matter? Now he is concerned, and wanting to know. But he lets her play this small game for a little while.

She asks him; what is the one thing left that she wants, but cannot seem to have? He blinks, stammers as he weighs this in his empty hands. He looks up at her, trying not to answer.

You know, she says; you always have. But now, you don’t have to be afraid to say it. You don’t ever have to say it again. She takes his hands, and he realizes he doesn’t quite get her. She says; I’m going to have what we want. She places his hand in the small space of her lower stomach.

It takes him a moment for reality to sink in. She smiles at the expression on his face. This time, he can take his time to celebrate.

Traveller's Guide to Living.

2007-01-10T15:07:00.000+11:00

I am a loner, I just thought you should know.

I prefer to be alone sometimes, and I only seek company when I desire it. I am so used to having a license to surrender in self-pity, that now when I no longer am forced to do so, I still retain the habit of keeping to myself.

I read a book sometime ago, where the young intrepid heroine claims that her entire machismo act is just a cover for her ardent shyness. I remember thinking, ‘she got it in words’ when I read that paragraph to myself.

And although I call it a habit rather than a negative attribute that I am so selfish, I have found that as a result, I am seldom aware of my surroundings.

So I guess it makes sense that my two favourite places are the cities I’ve visited nearly every year since I was born. I hope that they count, despite the fact that they are both my parents’ hometowns, respectively.

During the recent Eid celebrations, my family and I travelled to these two spots, and after years away from both, I rekindled my love for Pasir Mas and Penang.

Pasir Mas has always existed in my memory. The first realization I had that every year, I was going back to Kelantan, came when my mother announced to a friend over the phone that she was from Kelantan. I was six, and this discovery was something of a surprise to me.

“But Ma,” I couldn’t stop myself from saying, “I thought we went back to Johor every year.”

When I told her recently, she claimed that she wasn’t surprised, considering the state of the organization of my mind now, that I was so clueless, even as a child.

My grandmother’s mostly-wooden house was built from the highest quality wood (I forgot what kind) by my grandfather, who saw to it that it would last generations. Every year, on the way to my kampung, I fall asleep in the car, anticipating the solid thumps of the wooden panels as my young cousins, in the tens, run around indoors, either making barricades out of pillows and playing fort, or simply catapulting themselves from the window and onto the pebbly underside of the house. Much to the fear of their parents.

I look forward to the scent of mosquito coil smoke, staying put to our clothes and hair until days after we arrived back home.

I look forward to watching as old men work their trishaws past our house, or listening out for the tinkle of the homemade ice cream man on his bicycle, with wafer cones and tinny hot dog buns for ice cream sandwiches.

I look forward to watching wooden homes, each uniquely designed and painted, dotting vast spaces in between green bushes or yellowing paddy fields. In my mind, I would compare them to the ugly, bland uniformity of the housing areas back home, and relish the sights.

I look forward to slipping past my mother and her sisters and their respective husbands, as they flit through the kitchen, each bustling with getting kinder for the outdoor grill (which is still the best way to get anything cooked) or coconut leaves for the nasi impit, or peeling the onion and skinning the ginger. This year was notable for my being assigned kitchen duty. Dang.

This year was different. The house was coloured different, it was a different Eid, there were fewer people than I was used to, and my grandmother didn’t really favour the rich smell of the mosquito repellent coils anymore. But then again, I had not visited in years, no thanks to the awful timing of my exams. And I had been out of the country, so maybe everything seemed different, regardless.

This year was also different, in that I finally had a digital camera of my own, and as the competitive streak in me searched for bright, attractive photos for my Flickr page, I found my usually fleeting and random thoughts actually find some sort of continuity as they moved through my head, feeding me with comprehension.

I finally understand what I feel about my Malay heritage.

I guess it was also different because I was too old to camp out in the living room anymore. And also, my grandmother, Mek, could no longer afford to foresee the entire cooking operations down in the tiled kitchen. Her feet have been giving her some serious pain, and now she only moved from her room, to the telephone table overlooking the indoor kitchen, and if she could bear it, to the front.

It hurt me, to see her life so different from how I remembered it. I imagined having to change as much as she had. Looking back, I should have sat down more hours with her, and give mind to the guilty pang I felt every time I passed her by.

But I didn’t really, and before I knew it, it was time to kiss farewell to everyone, and make our way to Penang.

I have always had a particular fondness of that island-city. I was born there. I guess that’s reason enough.

But it’s more than that. It’s about how I’ve always known that when I entered Penang, I was entering another city, another state. There is a different charge in the atmosphere, a different vibe. It’s a land the rest of time forgot, until recently. I have never seen another city where everything took its own time to age and grown old. Penang really managed to age gracefully.

You know when a city is proud of itself. I see it in my Penang, where the current generation still live in the old houses they grew up in, even though they drive around in the latest Mercedez models. New businesses open up in abandoned Edwardian mansions. The same couple my parents used to visit for desserts still work where they left them, nearly two decades ago. And according to my parents, they look as young as ever.

The same ocean front, Gurney Drive, remains a famous dating spot, and an outdoors lounge for families at night. Not even the tsunami, which brushed up against it, could change anything much. Every time we leave the Evergreen Laurel, which overlooks the ocean, my mother glances up at her dream home: an apartment at Number One, Gurney Drive.

I cannot pinpoint my most vivid memory of Penang, but one of the stronger ones would have to be driving along the Penang Bridge, the third-longest in the world, with the windows rolled down and our heads jutting out, just so we could feel the face-whipping breeze past through our mouths, never mind that we whiffed more exhaust than ocean breeze.

Line Clear, the nasi kandar stall which operates in an actual alley, still makes the best stuff in the world. Near it would be the Indian clothing boutique, where I bought my most favourite peasant blouses. We would always pass the gorgeous Eastern & Oriental Hotel, and on cue, my parents would repeat stories of haunted elevators, and how Anna Leonowen’s husband was buried in the nearby cemetery. This year we didn’t visit Komtar, which used to be a modern landmark before I was born, mainly because nothing’s changed. At all.

I’ve always had the feeling that I, the directionally challenged, would actually succeed at driving in Penang, because I’d end up in the same familiar circles, going through streets with British names, and always passing the same girls’ school or kopitiam.

It is a small, cosy island, the soil I was born to. Now, I realize that the only fitting thing would be to visit the hospital I was born in, as I reach my twentieth birthday in eight days. It would be a trip I would go alone, because nobody else would understand. Also because I wouldn’t stand the company.

I guess now, compared to my primary school years, I am a loner by choice.

In any case, just like in Melbourne, I wouldn’t mind wandering the streets of Pasir Mas or Penang alone, safety reasons aside. I can just imagine it: Me, walking through the streets, snapping up photos of nearly everything and imagining what Helen would comment about them, and thinking --

-- as easy as God has given this to me, He can take it all away.

Life is a celebration; a gift from God. Treat it with respect and dignity. And treasure it.

'Do they not travel through the land, so that their hearts (and minds) may thus learn wisdom and their ears may thus learn to hear? Truly it is not their eyes that are blind, but their hearts which are in their breasts.'

[Al-Hajj, 22:46]

Sound Advice

2006-12-18T14:32:00.000+11:00

“You are truly selfish, that’s all I have to say to you!”

“Hey!” she protested, thinking it was a bit unfair to be hurled such heavy accusations in the middle of the night, with a pounding headache to match. She rubbed the creases on her forehead that seemed to deepen by the day. She shut close the laptop and turned to glare half-heartedly at her roommate, Nadirah. Her head couldn’t handle full-fledged at this point. It was ready to buckle, and the lone pillow that lay just less than a foot away from her was beginning to beckon seductively.

“Well, it’s true!” her opponent insisted. “Look, you’re tired, you should take a break. It’s impossible, really, seeing you work at those letters all night long. Plus, it’s pretty hard to sleep with the light emitted from that machine distracting my eyes from its deserved rest.” She shook her head in frustration. “You won’t even share the load, even though we work in the same department. I mean, come on, it’s not as if you don’t ask my opinion for half the problems in there, anyway.”

Dania let out a sigh and leaned back against the frame of the bed. She wasn’t in the right mind to argue to win. She’d just have to mumble her way through this one, because she recognized that obstinate look on her friend’s face.

“Dirah, come on, it’s my job, and I’d feel guilty if I don’t finish it on my own. You know how strict Hazirah is,” she reasoned, giving a feeble raise of the eyebrows. “She nearly came down on me this morning for asking for an extension for my deadline. Regardless of the fact that the impact of her merely sitting on me would be enough to cripple me for life. She’d freak if I don’t complete this month’s column by tomorrow.”

Nadirah shook her head again and tutted Dania’s choice of words, making Dania squirm. “No ghibah; no backbiting our fellow sisters, y’hear? You should apologize to her tomorrow. Even if she is sleeping in the room next door and can probably hear you anyway, since she seems to NOT WANT TO SLEEP!!” Dirah rapped the adjacent wall sharply, to the retorts of, “Yes, Cik Dirah, I will sleep after I’m done fixing this issue’s margins, okay? You get some sleep; you’re driving us around tomorrow, sister, and there will be no arguments about it!” An ominous chuckle emanated through the wall, and then the furious tapping of keys resumed.

“Read the du’a for sleep first, Haz!” Dirah grinned and sat down on the bed opposite her and absently tapped the humming laptop. “But get some rest, okay Nia? I know you still have that oral presentation for Ms. Ng tomorrow.”

The monitor was back up. “Hm. I’ve got it under control.” She had barely typed two characters when she looked up, straight into the concerned eyes of her friend. “Look,” she reasoned, “I only have one letter left. I’ll try to make it a really long solution, so I’ll fill it up to the margin. Then I’ll get to bed. Okay?”

Dirah hesitated for a second. “Fine. But only one letter. Or I’m calling your mother.”

“I didn’t know you’d stoop that low.”

“Hey, we had an agreement. I keep an eye on you and make sure you get out of this semester in one piece, and she gives me all the chocolate cake I need.”

“Careful, you’ll get sick with too much of that stuff.”

“You’re just jealous because you tire of chocolate easily.” She stood up in a flourish, finishing with a bounce of her feet. Dania marvelled at the abundance of energy her roommate had, even at – she faltered, checking her computer’s clock – 12.30 a.m. “I’m going to wash up and get ready for bed.”

“Ya. Just get some sleep, will you?”

“Going, going, gone.”

Dania fingered the letter which contained the predicament she was addressing. The author of the letter was having trouble getting enough sleep at night. Dania could relate. she still had a term paper to complete, plus she had to add the finishing touches to the graphics accompaniment to her oral presentation. Sleep was becoming a distant friend.

However, she thought the Sleepless in Selangor’s problem was a bit more medical than it was logical. SiS had been unable to sleep for weeks. She was dead tired, but she couldn’t seem to fall into slumber. Dania really didn’t see how she could possibly give any advice for this problem.

Salaam Sleepless in Selangor,

Your problem seems to be more complicated than you think it is. Trust me, I completely understand your dilemma. Now that we’re in university, slumber seems to be the only goal in mind; maybe even the one thing that keeps us going through the endless lectures and tutorials. The way I see it, I only have two options:

I can be irresponsible and recommend you this wonderful sleeping drug you can get over the counter, and possibly get slapped with a manslaughter suit, or
I can tell you to go seek professional advice (I suggest a doctor, rather than a shrink because no matter what you say, insomnia is a medical problem) and end this response now.

I choose the latter.

Sweet dreams!

Cracking her knuckles, she stole another glance at her pillow in the corner, and fixed her eyes on the computer screen determinedly. She scratched at a mosquito bite at her elbow.

“Lisa, will you fumigate the room with Shieldtox for us, please? Thanks, dear!” she called to her housemates in the next room.

“We’re all out. Will Ridsect do?”

“I can’t care less, as long as you get rid of these nasty creatures!” She clawed ferociously at her elbow again, and plucked out the final letter for the night.

Covering her yawn with a free hand, she fingered the edge of the paper. She recognized the crinkle of the paper and the smudge of the black ink. The person wrote the letter in a hurry, and she suffered from a severe form of hyperhydrosis. Also known as ‘really sweaty hands’. She knew the side effects firsthand.

Dania quickly skimmed through the letter to determine what she was dealing with, so she could work out the generic reply in her head. She did that whenever she was pressed for time. Sure, she felt ostensibly guilty about it later, but there was always last-minute editing. Praise Allah for technology.

Tapping her pen on the temple of her forehead into a percussion beat from one of her nasyid, she wondered absently why their magazine even ran an advice column, anyway. And then she remembered how it all evolved from a few questions addressed to the editor, before it became a teensy slot in the middle of the double-spread features presented monthly, and then became the sleepless epidemic it now was. How had a magazine focused on the female Muslim college student get an anonymous ‘big sister’ like its other more entertainment-focused, intellectually-insipid counterparts? If Dania wasn’t only doing this to help her fellow ukhti, she probably would never have taken up this job. It had started out being only a few lines long, but then the letters kept on coming, and they soon lost track of where the problems ended and where the solutions began.

There would be no problems in the world if everyone would just focus on accepting whatever God has presented them with in life – the good and the bad. But as she formed the words in her head, aimed to address her blog audience, she realized that that sort of generalization was really quite unfair. Some people really felt lost and alone on campus. She was just blessed because she had chanced across a close network of sisters who supported each other through everything.

There were also those who really knew what they wanted to do, but were just looking for a second opinion; a person to aye or nay their alternatives, because despite what we say all the time, we actually like having a majority support for what we do. It makes us feel more sure of our decisions, and less afraid of the consequences. So really, Dania couldn’t blame the people who (unwittingly) turned to her for advice. She had no business scorning them, even if in her head, because they were all only human, and relied on other humans to get by. But it still made Dania wince when she saw that some people just do not realize that sometimes the faith and strength they truly needed and wanted can only come from God.

How many times was it that the dhikr would bring such calm into her heart? And every time she cried a little after prayers, during supplication, she would feel the pressing burden on her chest recede and lift away. Every time she sought refuge in Allah, it gave her renewed faith, because she was sure that everything from then on would be alright. Even if it wasn’t, she would be fine with it, because God would not give her something she could not handle.

'Allah does not charge a soul except [with that within] its capacity.' (2:286)

Dania calmly focused her now slightly aching eyes on the next letter. She was not really sleepy, but her head was throbbing a silent beat against her veins, and she felt sudden longing for rest. But she had promised herself sleep only after this letter was answered, and she could not do away with it. She soldiered on.

Dear Ukhti,

I know that this is not your usual run-of-the mill letter, and I would like to apologize firsthand, in case you do not approve of what I am about to say. I think I just really need to put my problem down on paper, before I can sort it clearly in my head.

I think I am in love.
I don't know if I'm in love.
But something that makes me suffer this much, it should be Love, shouldn't it?

I have what you may call a crush on someone. Actually, I've had a crush on him for years. Although I've spent most of my life trying to be an independent woman, I've found that a single man can still occupy the deepest threshold of the female heart.

My friends call it normal, but it worries me that so much of my emotions and my time should be preoccupied with him and his existance. I know he does not deserve my affections. He ignores me outright, even though the signs are all there. He looks away whenever he sees me. He talks to all my friends, male and female, but acts like he doesn't know me. If he can so callously treat my heart that way -- to pretend that I, along with all my feelings, don't exist -- then I know I should forget him.

But I've tried, and I can't.
Maybe I haven't tried my best.

I don't think I'm looking for advise. I'm not really looking for a solution. All I want is another person to know how I'm feeling, and not judge me for being me, but just for being another person in her life, who doesn't amount to much. I want my thoughts to be read by someone who does not know me, and cannot make the decision for me.
But I would really like to know what you think of this particular subject.

Wassalam,
Anonymous.

Dania realized that her gape was spreading, and that Dirah was giving her funny looks from the doorway. She decided to ignore Dirah, knowing that being the ukhti that she was, Dirah would not ask unless Dania said. And as for Dania herself -- well, she felt that she could find no way to explain this. Nadirah had not been a part of her world prior to university, and had not been present during Dania's more painful years. She found it hard to swallow as she contemplated telling her friend, who she knew would not judge her, of her old five-year heartache, pining over the same boy.

He was one of the more popular guys in school, back when popularity was the thing, and he had stolen her heart by accident, during that fateful afternoon when she had heard him sing for an end-of-year contest. It might not seem macho, the thought of a guy singing, but he did so in such a gruff yet sweet way that even though Dania had developed a resistance against all things superficial-cum-popular, she could not but think of him over and over again afterwards.

She supposed that was how all crushes began. With persistent thoughts, until a pattern, so hard to shake, developed.

Maybe she was to blame for nurturing what she had deemed to be harmless at the time. She had begun by confiding her person of interest in friends, and then allowed them and herself to create an obsession in her mind, making it fashionable and almost acceptable to be wallowing in self-pity over the level of his response. Dania could not suppress a groan from deep within as she recalled all the stupid things she had done to grab his attention, all of which were to no avail, because he had taken to studiously avoiding everything to do with her. This, of course, spurred on more indignation and depression. The painful cycle that came from having a crush -- the irony of the word's other meaning gave her a small smile.

“Nia, you okay, sayang?” Dirah ventured from her posting. “You’re being rather quiet, and it’s scaring me.” Dania could feel her grin without even glancing up. “That loud groan reminds me of when I wake you up in the mornings when you oversleep. Scary, by the way; don’t ever do that again.”

“Afwan,” Dania apologized. “It’s just…” She paused, taking in the scenario for a second. “Dirah. Do you remember your last crush?”

Dirah’s cheeks flamed on cue. “It’s definitely not something I like to talk about,” she admitted.

“Was it awful?”

She gave Dania a look. “That would be heading into the territory of ‘talking about it’.” She pretended to be miffed before relenting. “But yeah. It was pretty bad. I hate being in no control of my emotions like that. It was scary, being so uncertain all the time. I hope I never go through it again, insyaAllah… or if I do, that I’ll actually do something about it rather than sit around and mope.” Dania looked up from the letter to peek at Nadirah’s determined face.

“Taking a leaf out of Kak Basirah’s book, I take it?”

Another wicked grin. “For sure.” Kak Basirah was a senior of theirs, who had recently gained a reputation among their bi’ah for having proposed to her now husband. She had decided that she had had enough of letting thoughts of a guy cloud her head and her judgement, and felt that marriage would probably place them in a better perspective. She had reminded her sisters that it would be better to marry a guy and live with him for the rest of your lives, rather than to let obsessive emotions over him to weaken your memory and reliance on God.

Dania doubted whether she would ever have the gall to do such a brave deed, but she could relate, especially when she thought back to her school days. She gave another shudder. The things overreacting to feelings could make you do… Dania folded her legs under her and propped her elbow on the bed.

“Let me guess. The reader’s problem?” Dania nodded distractedly, handing over the letter. “What would you do without me?”

“Get less threats over chocolate cake bribes?”

“Su’uzon ke?”

“Eh, no. Only joking, dear.” Dania gave her an apologetic grin. “Forgive me?”

“Hm.”

“Jazakillahu khayr. So. What should I tell her, you think?”

“The truth.” She snuck a glance at Dania. “How do you feel about crushes and dating? Start with that. Be completely honest, as she wants you to.” She gave a reluctant yawn. “A’uzubillahi mina syaitan nir rajim.”

“I’m sorry, habeeb. I forgot you were on your way to bed.”

“Ah, relax. A little less sleep didn’t hurt anyone. Waking up early tomorrow?”

“I can’t,” she said meaningfully.

“Ah. Oh, well. Salaam.”

“Wa’alaikumussalam. ‘Night.”

Dania had wondered what she could possibly tell this girl. It’s at times like these, when the responsibility squared itself on her shoulders, that she was reminded of how things were, before she understood. Before she saw how things really worked, and before she started fully embracing everything about her religion that she had previously been scared of. Before she realized that Islam was a way of life filled with ‘can’s, and few‘cannot’s.

Things back then had felt easy, perhaps because she had not felt guilty about being selfish. She had no need to consider the consequences of her actions. She could’ve been inconsiderate, for she had felt good manners to be merely a moral chore. She had not felt the need to stop and think. The memories gave her an involuntary shudder and she felt a pang of annoyance at the person she once was.

Well, she thought, better to learn now rather than never.

Dania kneaded the back of her neck, knowing instinctively that this would be a very long reply. Hazirah would be happy, and should she finish this soon, she would get some sleep, which would make her effectively pleased as well. But how to start?

She listened to the steady, reassuring tap-tap of Hazirah’s keyboard in the next room, knowing that Haz would work late into the early morning and not sleep much. She admired that her friend would sacrifice so much of her own pleasures for the sake of helping spread the message around, knowing that Hazirah’s intention, insyaAllah, God willing, would always be on the right path. Sometimes Dania found herself questioning the state of her heart, and the heart of her niyyah. She wondered whether anything had come in between her doing this purely for the sake of Allah.

She pleaded silently to God to keep her on this path He loved.

And then it came to her. Slowly taking form at its own pace, the thoughts, rearranging into words, settled themselves at the edge of her mind. She cracked her knuckles with a sharp cry of praise, “Alhamdulillah!”, and let it run through her.

Salaam Anonymous,

Trust me, at one point in my life, my situation was almost exactly like yours, except that it took place during my formative secondary school years, which were awful at educating me about how the real world worked. Try placing yourself out and away from the problem, and tackling it from that sort of perspective. Look around you and see whether there are guys better than this guy you’re crushing on. Ask yourself why you’re still hanging on to something that he doesn’t want to happen, and don’t fool yourself by thinking that you know better than he does right now.

And as your sister, I’m telling you: When that daydream involving him arrives at your doorstep, crush it like the bug it is. Don’t let it live, because it’ll just feed something that does not exist, and thus, is not worth your time.

I know I sound awfully harsh, but the truth is, Anon, that I have experienced firsthand the life-sucking capabilities such crushes have, and I am keen on removing such fallacies from anyone I know with even the earliest symptoms. I refuse to allow anyone to look back at their lives and feel a pang of regret over having wanted to date a guy who isn’t even man enough to acknowledge that you exist. Don’t sink further into the manhole, dear.

While we’re at it, and since you asked my opinion of it, I’ll give it to you straight: I do not believe in dating. I used to dream about it, often with the question nagging at the back of my mind: After all the fun is over, and we’re married, where would we begin again?

Close observation of the people around me tells me that we’re not honest when we date. Of course we’re not! We just want to be happy, to enjoy each other’s company. That involves hiding certain things and making up others, either with intention or not. In the end, the person you choose to spend the rest of your life with is no longer the person you fell in love with. Which upon even closer observation, reveals that it hurts.

However, if you love a person, and a person loves you for the sake of God, and you both share a great love for Him, then you would, in your deepest of hearts, not want to damage either relationship. You would both do what God asks of you (which is to not to even approach anything that encourages pre-marital relations, as a reminder), and do what is right by the both of you. You would learn about each other before marrying, as per sunnah, but if your love is for God, if it is fillah, then by God, you would do anything in your power to make it work, wouldn’t you? Despite differences, and despite odds.

With prayer and love and tolerance and understanding -- basically by doing everything Allah asks you to do -- it would work, insyaAllah. And I know this sounds idealistic and somewhat unreal, but I’m telling you because I believe in it; because I’ve seen it work, and working still.

So worry not about the future till it comes. If you find yourself falling for someone, take that faithful plunge and go for it; make it worth something by the sanctity of marriage, and then make it work. Don’t allow opportunities to let something as wonderful as love, mess with your head and make you lose hope.

I’m sorry if I sound too passionate, but something about your plight struck a chord, and here’s to hoping my dear editor would not cut me too much slack in making this a tad long.

Wassalam.

Standing up, Dania trudged out the door and into the next room, leaning on the doorframe for a second, absorbing the sight of a person working harder than she was at 1.30 in the morning. Feeling someone’s eyes on her, Hazirah finally looked up from the thick pile of notes in her lap and gave Dania a nod.

“Yes?”

“I’m done.” She was glad she could say this, finally.

“You want me to see it.” A statement, rather than a question.

She shrugged. “If you must.” She offered a grin, surprised when Haz smiled back. Haz had just moved into the house, and Dania found that she was slowly bucking almost all of Dania’s ideas of her from the very day she arrived. It helped allay the odd feeling of having her previously physically distant editor separated from her by a single wall.

“I will, then.” They both made the few steps into the next room and plopped down on the floor. Dania purposefully looked away as her editor’s eyes quickly scanned the laptop’s monitor. Suspense never agreed with her.

“I approve.” Dania looked back at Hazirah in surprise.

“Seriously?”

Haz nodded, a half-smile stuck to her face. “I think it’s a good response. Could lose the last sentence, though.”

Dania gave a loud chuckle, making Nadirah shuffle uneasily in her sleep. “Alright. Sorry about that jibe about you being able to cripple me, and all,” she said earnestly.

Haz shook her head. “Eh, forget about it. And you can tell her you were merely repeating what I said.”

“And let her tutting get at you instead? You serious?”

She considered this for a moment. “On second thought.”

I want to write.

2006-12-18T01:10:00.000+11:00

Assalamualaikum wrh. wbt.

I was blog-hopping as I regularly am, and I was stopped in my tracks by a story posted by my fellow blogger (go hunt the tale down Circling Thought by yourself).

It has been so long since I sat down to write something. I mean, really write something I could be satisfied of.

Ever since I learned how to read, I had started writing. There are several book from my early years, where proof of my writing by sheer mimickry is still evident. So I suppose that though I was late in realizing my natural gravitation to the written word (thanks to much prodding from my dear Weili), it was always there, waiting to come out.

Right now it feels like I'm being barraged by inspiring and aspiring writers. A quick stroll in the local bookstore, and I see the Cerekarama-type romance novels given cute, modern bookcovers. I pick up the paper, and I read a review on a book about a novella by a Malaysian teenager who had attempted something along the lines of Cabot's Princess Diaries (which I can't believe I fell for hook, line and sinker). I look out the window along PJ old-town, and I see a billboard for a movie based on a fantasy novel written by a mere kid.

It's enough to make anyone with literary aspirations and a sore case of writer's block frustrated.

Back when being famous was all the rage, I decided that I would write a novel. And actual novel, mind you, with chapters, and credits, and all that. Not to forget the current must-have of pop culture name-dropping.

I was going to write about the main plot of the story, but it sounds so contrived, unoriginal and silly that I've decided I won't even bother embarrassing myself.

But I take it that maybe a few people have read it, considering I even put up a blog for it, hoping to be discovered by some talent-hunting publishing house from the States.

Yeah. I truly was that naive.

Still, I have to admit that the narrative was much better, and sounds far more natural than anything I so much as attempt nowadays. It makes you wonder, how much self-restraint is enough?

I like to think that I've grown up, somewhat (although my parents, upon listening in to my first argument with my brother when I got back, prefer to disagree), and true to nature, my mind has made itself up about a lot of things. It contains a whole lot more principles now that insyaAllah, I will try hard not to jinx.

Along with this new turn of events, I've realized that writing has to be more than just a means to be rich. It's more than just a way to be famous.

It's about carrying the burden named 'responsibility' as best as you can.

If I can scoff at horrid novels and half-hearted writing, then I sure don't want to be all that.

I want to carry a message.
I want to help educate.
I want to set things clear.
I want to stimulate thought.
(A little argument may result of this, but a little, I can handle.)
I want to spark change.
And oh Allah, I don't want to be a hypocrite. Na'uzubillah.

(O Allah, prevent me from doing something for the wrong reasons altogether -- please let my niyyah be pure. Amin.)

I just wish I knew what I could write about.

I am very welcome to ideas right now.

Help is very much appreciated.

Wassalam.

Isnim bina, wa nu'min sa'ah.

2006-12-16T21:49:00.000+11:00

Sometimes.

I feel as if little time has passed between before and after Melbourne.

And then a nagging feeling strikes me between the lungs and asks me:
"Have you forgotten everything you went through in Melbourne?"

And every time someone asks me about how it's like, studying overseas,
I wonder if I have.

The things I do seem to suggest that.

Have I tripped at the first step, yet again?

Sometimes I stop to think. I falter at the thought of nixing my principles.
It's hard to be the bearer of change.
It's hard to tell people that something is wrong --
Not by you, but by God.

The thought unnerves me.
What scares me more is conforming to what I feel is wrong, merely because I feel like I cannot overpower culture, not on my own.

And when I see what goes on around me, it catches me by the throat that all I can do is just criticize it in my heart.

I do not agree.

I am so worried that I act as if I have never undergone change.

For now it often strikes me that I do not act like an example should.

So maybe this is a cry for a little help.

Please.

(Missing the bi'ah)

Dissection of jumbled thoughts.

2006-12-15T20:48:00.000+11:00

This past week has been pretty hectic. I've gone from spending languid days with my parents, them trying hard not to spoil me when we go out for meals and at family outings to the mall, to practically meeting a new relative every other day.

You see, my cousin is getting engaged to her best friend. This Saturday has been over twenty years in the waiting, and you'll be sure that everyone on both sides of her family will be there for noisy moral support. She won't have it any other way, either, what with half-joking threats to her cousins that they shall all attend without fail. A bride-to-be, regardless of how far off the wedding is, is a formidable thing to behold.

The relatives from our mothers' side are coming out of the woodwork. It's a funny thing. I get all excited and bubbly until I tend to forget myself, and start becoming as peaky as the younger children on Mentos. But large families are really something. They're filled with drama, laughter and a lot of undeclared love, the gruff, unconditional sort.

They're also a really good study case on human behaviour.

My mother always told us that the best way to know what a person is thinking is to observe the things they say and do; their reaction towards you. She particularly stresses on this whenever she feels that either one of us has crossed any limits. Taking her advice subconsciously to heart, I've found myself making inferences on what it's like to be STARTING a family.

All this talk about engagement and weddings, and having an insider's take on what goes on behind it all, has unnerved me somewhat. I have never been a fan of anything adult, and getting married, with a ton of responsibilities to boot, has always struck me as a dreaded but inevitable part of the future: to be put off for as long as possible.

Living by ourselves has led most of my friends and I to often ponder over what it's like to be married and living with someone you don't really know (take it from me, you never truly know what a person's like until you've LIVED with them). There's the initial deal about choosing the right person to spend the rest of this lifetime with, and then there's the part about procreating and setting forth your offspring into the great big world out there.

Shudder. Astaghfirullah al 'Azim.

If the idea of being responsible for a full-grown adult (in the form of spouse) scares me enough, the thought of having children simply terrifies me. Don't get me wrong; I love kids, and I no doubt want them as part of my future. I just can't imagine being responsible for the total well-being of a new person.

You'll have to raise them, feed them, make sure they're healthy and safe, give them an education, instill the best morals and principles, and try not to turn them into miniatures of you, all at the same time.

I mean, think about it. MasyaAllah, what a job. And it's been going on for eons, but still. Nobody really understands what it's like to be a parent until the dutiful day comes, and then nobody really treats it like its a big deal. But what an incredible responsibility.

Seriously, think about it.

In my case, I wonder what sort of a parent I would make. I wonder how I would go about explaining Islam to my kids, and making sure that I do all I can to keep them on the straight and wide. I wonder how I would deal during those formative years, so that I wouldn't have to worry so much later on.

Everything I place on/in my kids will be questioned on the Day of Judgement.

I try to place myself in my parents' shoes, and I feel their pain and agony. I guess my parents never expected that they'd still have to worry about their grown daughter, after all these years. I would never wish my lack of common sense on my kids. I can just picture my folks, worrying in the middle of the night over whether they've explained something correctly, or whether what they've given us, physically, spiritually and emotionally, is enough. How much is enough, anyway?

It's at times like these that I feel most grateful for my parents, and regret all those times I underappreciated them.

I look at my older cousins and their kids and feel a surge of pity for them. What a journey it must be. What a burden on such young shoulders, to have to pretty much SHAPE the next generation, the idea of things to come.

I wonder if they've ever thought of it that way, or if they just try to go through things day by day, so as not to feel overwhelmed.

I wonder if they've ever stopped to consider where they've gone wrong, or whether they think that there isn't enough time to muhasabah, so they shouldn't even bother.

I wonder if they feel as if they've loved their kids enough -- if they've considered being on the other end of all that emotion and affection. Do they think their kids understand how much they care? Do they expect love to come as a given?

I wonder if they're emulating their parents, or if they're trying to go in the opposite direction, or if they realize that no amount of concentration will undo the fact that they're raising their children the way their parents raised them.

I guess I cannot help such thoughts. I'm beginning to feel a lot older and sheepish, as I finally meet my younger cousins, all of them some nine months older -- gangly joints, toothy grins, mature vocabulary and all. They grow up so fast, and yet I am envious of their comparative youth.

I wonder if their parents have ever had the chance to stop and reminisce, and enjoy their children as people looking in from the outside. I also wonder what they would see, whether they would be pleased with their handiwork.

I also happen to know that no matter what happens to a child, they could barely be objective and look the other way in neglect, simply because he/she is their child. I'm almost positive that a parent has no room for hatred for their children, no matter how terrible the crime.

I completely admire the apparent selflessness of nearly all parents. No wonder they are blessed by God. How amazing it must be, to be granted the gift of being able to ignore yourself, and place the life of another above your own. How incredible the sacrifice, and what a feeling.

Here's to all parents of the past, present and the future. Us young ones can only dream of such courage. Until the day comes, insyaAllah.

And serve Allah and do not associate any thing with Him and be good to the parents and to the near of kin and the orphans and the needy and the neighbor of (your) kin and the alien neighbor, and the companion in a journey and the wayfarer and those whom your right hands possess; surely Allah does not love him who is proud, boastful

[Surah an-Nisa', 4:36]

Wassalamu'alaik.

To my Muslim Sisters.

2006-12-14T13:29:00.000+11:00

I found this as I was browsing through IslamOnline.net. I had a hearty chuckle when I read an article declaring Malaysia to be 'the image of an ideal Muslim country.' If that were the case, then why do most of its citizens not understand the meaning of the hijab, and how it's crux is a religious, not a misogynistic one?

(Direct reference to Kelantan's hijab reinforcement and the biased media hoopla that ensued.)

(And I do not believe the ancient and overused agnostic view that religion is excused sexism, so you can't argue with me using that stance.)

Anyhow, this was an interesting insight into what others think of us. I always have been particularly curious about what the typical non-Muslim Australian sees us, especially when the male ones tend to give us way more space and respect than we're used to in our homeland.

Maybe this is how they see us:

By Joanna Francis

Writer, Journalist - USA

Between the Israeli assault on Lebanon and the Zionist "war on terror," the Muslim world is now center stage in every American home. I see the carnage, death and destruction that have befallen Lebanon, but I also see something else: I see you. I can't help but notice that almost every woman I see is carrying a baby or has children around her. I see that though they are dressed modestly, their beauty still shines through. But it's not just outer beauty that I notice. I also notice that I feel something strange inside me: I feel envy. I feel terrible for the horrible experiences and war crimes that the Lebanese people have suffered, being targeted by our common enemy. But I can't help but admire your strength, your beauty, your modesty, and most of all, your happiness.

Yes, it's strange, but it occurred to me that even under constant bombardment, you still seemed happier than we are, because you were still living the natural lives of women. The way women have always lived since the beginning of time. It used to be that way in the West until the 1960s, when we were bombarded by the same enemy. Only we were not bombarded with actual munitions, but with subtle trickery and moral corruption.

Through Temptation

They bombarded us Americans from Hollywood, instead of from fighter jets or with our own American-made tanks. They would like to bomb you in this way too, after they've finished bombing the infrastructure of your countries. I do not want this to happen to you. You will feel degraded, just like we do. You can avoid this kind of bombing if you will kindly listen to those of us who have already suffered serious casualties from their evil influence. Because everything you see coming out of Hollywood is a pack of lies, a distortion of reality, smoke and mirrors. They present casual sex as harmless recreation because they aim to destroy the moral fabric of the societies into which they beam their poisonous programming. I beg you not to drink their poison. There is no antidote for it once you have consumed it. You may recover partially, but you will never be the same. Better to avoid the poison altogether than to try to heal from the damage it causes.

They will try to tempt you with their titillating movies and music videos, falsely portraying us American women as happy and satisfied, proud of dressing like prostitutes, and content without families. Most of us are not happy, trust me. Millions of us are on anti-depressant medication, hate our jobs, and cry at night over the men who told us they loved us, then greedily used us and walked away. They would like to destroy your families and convince you to have fewer children. They do this by presenting marriage as a form of slavery, motherhood as a curse, and being modest and pure as old-fashioned. They want you to cheapen yourself and lose your faith. They are like the Serpent tempting Eve with the apple. Don't bite.

Self-Value

I see you as precious gems, pure gold, or the "pearl of great value" spoken of in the Bible (Matthew 13: 45). All women are pearls of great value, but some of us have been deceived into doubting the value of our purity. Jesus said: "Give not that which is holy unto the dogs, neither cast your pearls before swine, lest they trample them under their feet, and turn again and rend you" (Matthew 7: 6). Our pearls are priceless, but they convince us that they're cheap. But trust me; there is no substitute for being able to look in the mirror and seeing purity, innocence and self-respect staring back at you.

The fashions coming out of the Western sewer are designed to make you believe that your most valuable asset is your sexuality. But your beautiful dresses and veils are actually sexier than any Western fashion, because they cloak you in mystery and show self-respect and confidence. A woman's sexuality should be guarded from unworthy eyes, since it should be your gift to the man who loves and respects you enough to marry you. And since your men are still manly warriors, they deserve no less than your best. Our men don't even want purity anymore. They don't recognize the pearl of great value, opting for the flashy rhinestone instead. Only to leave her too!

Your most valuable assets are your inner beauty, your innocence, and everything that makes you who you are. But I notice that some Muslim women push the limit and try to be as Western as possible, even while wearing a veil (with some of their hair showing). Why imitate women who already regret, or will soon regret, their lost virtue? There is no compensation for that loss. You are flawless diamonds. Don't let them trick you into becoming rhinestones. Because everything you see in the fashion magazines and on Western television is a lie. It is Satan's trap. It is fool's gold.

A Woman's Heart

I'll let you in on a little secret, just in case you're curious: pre-marital sex is not even that great. We gave our bodies to the men we were in love with, believing that that was the way to make them love us and want to marry us, just as we had seen on television growing up. But without the security of marriage and the sure knowledge that he will always stay with us, it's not even enjoyable! That's the irony. It was just a waste. It leaves you in tears.

Speaking as one woman to another, I believe that you understand that already. Because only a woman can truly understand what's in another woman's heart. We really are all alike. Our race, religion or nationalities do not matter. A woman's heart is the same everywhere. We love. That's what we do best. We nurture our families and give comfort and strength to the men we love. But we American women have been fooled into believing that we are happiest having careers, our own homes in which to live alone, and freedom to give our love away to whomever we choose. That is not freedom. And that is not love.

Only in the safe haven of marriage can a woman's body and heart be safe to love. Don't settle for anything less. It's not worth it. You won't even like it and you'll like yourself even less afterwards. Then he'll leave you.

Self-Denial

Sin never pays. It always cheats you. Even though I have reclaimed my honor, there's still no substitute for having never been dishonored in the first place. We Western women have been brainwashed into thinking that you Muslim women are oppressed. But truly, we are the ones who are oppressed; slaves to fashions that degrade us, obsessed with our weight, begging for love from men who do not want to grow up. Deep down inside, we know that we have been cheated.

We secretly admire and envy you, although some of us will not admit it. Please do not look down on us or think that we like things the way they are. It's not our fault. Most of us did not have fathers to protect us when we were young because our families have been destroyed. You know who is behind this plot.

Don't be fooled, my sisters. Don't let them get you too. Stay innocent and pure. We Christian women need to see what life is really supposed to be like for women. We need you to set the example for us, because we are lost. Hold onto your purity. Remember: you can't put the toothpaste back in the tube. So guard your "toothpaste" carefully!

I hope you receive this advice in the spirit in which it is intended: the spirit of friendship, respect, and admiration. From your Christian sister – with love…

* This article is republished with the kind permission of the author. The original can be found onCrescent and the Cross.

Joanna Francis is a writer and journalist. She manages her ownblog.

Oxymoron

2006-12-08T19:04:00.001+11:00

There is an internal struggle within
Where there lies truth and reluctance to face it
Where there lies facts and the tendency to turn the other way
And where there lies needs
With wants up-tipping the scale.

People call for 'balance'
Such narcissistic, greedy dreams do not exist
For yes, the decisions are extreme to the commoner
For the ends are extremes
And the means are the same.

Left and right
Right and wrong
The greys are few
And man-made out of the passion
To engulf this oyster with disgusting relish
And devour it whole
You deserve constipation, and no less.

And I --
I will be first to admit that
I still tread the lower tunnel at times
While glancing up at the upper highway
Of assurance
For the pleasure of the One.
I have been given the moderate path
(The upper highway whose turn I may miss)
Which is filled with 'extremes'
And which may seem ironic to you
But is right, you see
For there is no escaping oxymorons
And there are no extremes
As painful as prejudice
And the reluctance to overcome it.

So you see
I am struggling to extinguish the greys within me
And set my stereovision clear
Let there be two ways to me:

Haq
or
Batil.