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Blog
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Nostalgic Deception
Flipping through some old sets of postcards that I bought on my very first trip abroad, I felt an inclination to want to reminisce about that trip as if it was such a beautiful experience. You know, those memories that you see through rose coloured spectacles pretending that everything was perfect with the world and you felt like you belonged? That’s the hint of an emotion that I had when I looked through those postcards. But I knew immediately that I would be lying to myself if I tried to believe that to be true.
My first trip out of my home country was to the Holy Lands of Makkah and Madinah. It was a life long wish that was finally fulfilled. I didn’t plan it. I didn’t even have a passport when I decided to travel. I recall taking a few weeks’ leave from work, sitting around by myself in Cape Town while working away from home, wondering what I was going to do for the time I had to myself. The weekend passed, then Monday dragged on and suddenly on Tuesday I had this a-ha moment. I decided to make the trip of a lifetime. Alone.
I visited the travel agent on Tuesday, submitted my application for an emergency passport on Wednesday, collected my passport on Thursday afternoon, flew to Johannesburg on Thursday night, submitted my passport on Friday morning for my Saudi visa, received the visa on Friday afternoon, and flew to Jeddah on Saturday. It was an impossible achievement by any measure had it been planned to happen that way, but it happened. As usual, I didn’t allow myself a breather to even think about what I was doing.
The trip was amazing and heartbreaking in ways I never imagined. It was eventful as well, with Turkish Airlines losing my luggage, and hopping down onto the runway one wheel at a time, we finally landed in Jeddah. I caught my connecting flight to Madinah and was fortunate enough to be bumped up to Business Class for the whole 45 minute flight. I was extorted of money by a taxi driver in Madinah, and physically thrown out of the mosque by the arrogant Saudi guards for not finishing my prayer in time for them to start cleaning that section of the mosque. I then made my way to Makkah and despite the splendour and majesty of the city, I felt isolated amongst the thousands of visitors that spent many hours in the Holy Mosque. I felt incomplete, like I had always felt my entire life.
This was my dream trip that came true, yet i wanted to leave without delay. So much so, that I cut my trip short by 3 days, changed my return flight and headed home just days after the massive earthquake that devastated Turkey. As fate would have it, I spent a day in Istanbul as part of my stopover on my way back to South Africa. I walked through the city attracting the strangest looks, greetings, and sometimes hugs because of my appearance. I had a full beard and I wore the traditional Muslim dress for men, both of which was outlawed for Turkish men at the time. Of course I had no idea I was being such a rebel.
The most memorable moment that day was when I sat down for lunch in a local restaurant, alone, minding my own business, when suddenly the wall next to my table started slapping against my leg. As usual, hardly anything phased me, so I sat there and watched everyone else screaming and shouting as they ran out into the streets panic-stricken at the intensity of the after shock. When I looked around, I noticed that it was just the owner and me left in the restaurant. He smiled at me and with his finger wagging in the air, he just said, “Zil Zaal, Zil Zaal”, which is ‘earthquake’ in Arabic. I returned his smile and continued to eat my lunch while the waiters returned to get sugar water for the petrified patrons that were outside in the street.
As much as there is to remember, the memory feels like just another memory. Nothing sweet, nothing amazing, nothing extraordinary. Just another memory. I’ve never felt at ease in myself, let alone with myself, and throughout all my travels, that dis-ease has been my most loyal travel partner. I was born restless, and I suspect that the restlessness will only ever recede when I take my last breath. Before that moment, I pray that I am protected from myself, and that others are protected from me, because a restless soul is capable of much hurt without intent. But I know how to be nothing else.
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Synthetic Life in Dubai
Waterfall in the Dubai Mall
(c) Cynically Jaded
The main waterfall in the Dubai Mall is quite an attraction. It has the ability to keep you staring in awe at the sheer scale of it without realising that you’re about to throw up from being sea sick. The motion of the water running down its face is hypnotic in many ways, but the ill-fated men that are pinned to it by their nether regions (impressive!) leave a disturbing after taste since it flies in the face of the numerous notices around Dubai urging foreigners to observe a modest dress code out of respect for the local customs.
It’s yet another contradiction of the wholesomeness that Dubai claims to offer, but is generously draped in a synthetic lifestyle that appeals to everything but spirituality. Dubai has been successful at making modesty a status symbol. Synthetic life. That is the single most prominent thought that echoed in my head on our visit to Dubai. The visit made me appreciate the comforts of home so much more.
Everything we saw was drenched in artificial elegance, and pretentious splendour. My excitement at approaching the aquarium in the mall was very quickly doused by the reality of the massively inflated prices for a lack-lustre attraction. I have never seen so many fake plants in a natural exhibit of wildlife before in my life. I hope to share some of those photos in a later post. But for now, enjoy the generously endowed men sticking it to the waterfall. It left me giggling through my nausea for a long time.
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Me and my American wife
Daughter: Daddy, mummy says the sandwiches are about to go into the press
Me: Tell mummy it’s not a press, it’s a toaster
Mummy: …The difference in terminology between what Americans call things, versus what we say in South Africa is quite amusing at times. My favourite so far has got to be the ‘hot water heater’ term that Americans use when referring to what we call a ‘geyser’. There’s many others, and I suspect that it will be the subject of a post that is entirely focused on exposing the ridiculous use of the Queen’s English by those that appropriated the culture and decided to call it ‘American’.*
*And if you take that seriously, then you’re a dork! (Pre-emptive strike against trolls)
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Another Vicious Cycle
Man is incapable of perfection, yet I expect it of others, and demand it of myself. Even in the latitude that I allow myself and others around me, I expect perfection in their compliance with such boundaries all the while fooling myself that my flexibility flies in the face of my perfectionist tendencies. Nonetheless, I strive for perfection in pursuit of efficiency because any inefficiency irks me with the realisation that energy is being consumed on something that could be avoided. I’m lazy like that.
The circular debate that rages in my head leaves me exhausted enough not to be able to fulfil my expectations of myself. It’s a tedious cycle. Feeling too tired to do what I know needs to be done, then feeling disgruntled by the fact that I’m not making the progress I’d hoped for, followed by the disillusionment at the realisation that I’m too tired to maintain the presence of mind required to complete the tasks at hand.
Feels like a dog chasing its tail, or the donkey in hot pursuit of the dangling carrot. I pray I’m not the only one with this affliction, because there is much comfort that can be gained by witnessing our shortcomings in others. It suddenly makes us feel human and less than incompetent.
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Knowledge vs. Action
So aspire, O Muslim, to know your Islaam from your Lord’s Book and your Prophet’s Sunnah. And don’t say, ‘So and so said.’ For verily, the Truth is not known by the men–nay, know the Truth, you will recognise the men.’
Shaykh Albanee (rahimahullah), As-Saheehah, 5/350. (via understandislam)
This very clearly and concisely describes my view about those that insist on choosing a label for their iman versus choosing to recognise the merit of individual actions. If we focus on understanding the truth and the true method of the Sunnah according to the way of the salaf, we will be able to recognise such good in any Muslim, regardless of madhab, sect, or other grouping that we have created. Being able to recognise this good without the unfortunate bias of negativity associated with sectarian elitism is the only chance that this Ummah has for uniting against a common enemy.
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How I Came to Love the Veil
As most of you know, I have a separate blog to reflect my views on Islam, but this post, despite presenting the views of a Muslim woman, is a very important description of the naivety of the West in understanding the context and widsom of Islamic injunctions. If we had more willingness to understand these concepts and practices, it would very quickly erase the ignorantly vile attitude that Muslims are subjected to on a daily basis.
Personally, in my daily interactions with non-Muslims, it always, without exception, becomes apparent that cultural (read religious) ignorance is much more prevalent in non-Muslims than in Muslims. Ask the average non-Muslim about Islam, and you’ll get media-biased views and opinions. Ask the average Muslim about Christianity (or even Atheism) and you’ll get a relatively informed view of the tenets or fundamentals of the faith, an understanding of their sects, and an appreciation for what is common and what are differentiating factors between the religions. I won’t hazard any guesses just yet as to why this is true, but from my experiences and engagements so far, it simply is.
SubhanAllah, my tears refuse to stop flowing. This is everything I’ve ever felt regarding hijab; everything I’ve always wanted to say.
I used to look at veiled women as quiet, oppressed creatures — until I was captured by the Taliban.
In September 2001, just 15 days after the terrorist attacks on the United States, I snuck into Afghanistan, clad in a head-to-toe blue burqa, intending to write a newspaper account of life under the repressive regime. Instead, I was discovered, arrested and detained for 10 days. I spat and swore at my captors; they called me a “bad” woman but let me go after I promised to read the Koran and study Islam. (Frankly, I’m not sure who was happier when I was freed — they or I.)
Back home in London, I kept my word about studying Islam — and was amazed by what I discovered. I’d been expecting Koran chapters on how to beat your wife and oppress your daughters; instead, I found passages promoting the liberation of women. Two-and-a-half years after my capture, I converted to Islam, provoking a mixture of astonishment, disappointment and encouragement among friends and relatives.
Now, it is with disgust and dismay that I watch here in Britain as former foreign secretary Jack Straw describes the Muslim nikab — a face veil that reveals only the eyes — as an unwelcome barrier to integration, with Prime Minister Tony Blair, writer Salman Rushdie and even Italian Prime Minister Romano Prodi leaping to his defense.
Having been on both sides of the veil, I can tell you that most Western male politicians and journalists who lament the oppression of women in the Islamic world have no idea what they are talking about. They go on about veils, child brides, female circumcision, honor killings and forced marriages, and they wrongly blame Islam for all this — their arrogance surpassed only by their ignorance.
These cultural issues and customs have nothing to do with Islam. A careful reading of the Koran shows that just about everything that Western feminists fought for in the 1970s was available to Muslim women 1,400 years ago. Women in Islam are considered equal to men in spirituality, education and worth, and a woman’s gift for childbirth and child-rearing is regarded as a positive attribute.
When Islam offers women so much, why are Western men so obsessed with Muslim women’s attire? Even British government ministers Gordon Brown and John Reid have made disparaging remarks about the nikab — and they hail from across the Scottish border, where men wear skirts.
When I converted to Islam and began wearing a headscarf, the repercussions were enormous. All I did was cover my head and hair — but I instantly became a second-class citizen. I knew I’d hear from the odd Islamophobe, but I didn’t expect so much open hostility from strangers. Cabs passed me by at night, their “for hire” lights glowing. One cabbie, after dropping off a white passenger right in front of me, glared at me when I rapped on his window, then drove off. Another said, “Don’t leave a bomb in the back seat” and asked, “Where’s bin Laden hiding?”
Yes, it is a religious obligation for Muslim women to dress modestly, but the majority of Muslim women I know like wearing the hijab, which leaves the face uncovered, though a few prefer the nikab. It is a personal statement: My dress tells you that I am a Muslim and that I expect to be treated respectfully, much as a Wall Street banker would say that a business suit defines him as an executive to be taken seriously. And, especially among converts to the faith like me, the attention of men who confront women with inappropriate, leering behavior is not tolerable.
I was a Western feminist for many years, but I’ve discovered that Muslim feminists are more radical than their secular counterparts. We hate those ghastly beauty pageants, and tried to stop laughing in 2003 when judges of the Miss Earth competition hailed the emergence of a bikini-clad Miss Afghanistan, Vida Samadzai, as a giant leap for women’s liberation. They even gave Samadzai a special award for “representing the victory of women’s rights.”
Some young Muslim feminists consider the hijab and the nikab political symbols, too, a way of rejecting Western excesses such as binge drinking, casual sex and drug use. What is more liberating: being judged on the length of your skirt and the size of your surgically enhanced breasts, or being judged on your character and intelligence? In Islam, superiority is achieved through piety — not beauty, wealth, power, position or sex.
I didn’t know whether to scream or laugh when Italy’s Prodi joined the debate last week by declaring that it is “common sense” not to wear the nikab because it makes social relations “more difficult.” Nonsense. If this is the case, then why are cellphones, landlines, e-mail, text messaging and fax machines in daily use? And no one switches off the radio because they can’t see the presenter’s face.
Under Islam, I am respected. It tells me that I have a right to an education and that it is my duty to seek out knowledge, regardless of whether I am single or married. Nowhere in the framework of Islam are we told that women must wash, clean or cook for men. As for how Muslim men are allowed to beat their wives — it’s simply not true. Critics of Islam will quote random Koranic verses or hadith, but usually out of context. If a man does raise a finger against his wife, he is not allowed to leave a mark on her body, which is the Koran’s way of saying, “Don’t beat your wife, stupid.”
It is not just Muslim men who must reevaluate the place and treatment of women. According to a recent National Domestic Violence Hotline survey, 4 million American women experience a serious assault by a partner during an average 12-month period. More than three women are killed by their husbands and boyfriends every day — that is nearly 5,500 since 9/11.
Violent men don’t come from any particular religious or cultural category; one in three women around the world has been beaten, coerced into sex or otherwise abused in her lifetime, according to the hotline survey. This is a global problem that transcends religion, wealth, class, race and culture.
But it is also true that in the West, men still believe that they are superior to women, despite protests to the contrary. They still receive better pay for equal work — whether in the mailroom or the boardroom — and women are still treated as sexualized commodities whose power and influence flow directly from their appearance.
And for those who are still trying to claim that Islam oppresses women, recall this 1992 statement from the Rev. Pat Robertson, offering his views on empowered women: Feminism is a “socialist, anti-family political movement that encourages women to leave their husbands, kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism and become lesbians.”
Now you tell me who is civilized and who is not.
By Yvonne Ridley
