Who has disturbed my slumber?

Hello Everybody,

Just a small note. Marium's new blog can be found here: http://karachiitis.blogspot.com/. The link on the right has been changed to reflect this. We wish her all the best in these difficult times.

Thanks,
Matt

Flattened Bottle Caps

I’m tired today on my walk home from class. I look down at my shoes to squint out the afternoon glare. A wink in the sidewalk catches my eye.

Flattened bottle caps tell the best stories of summer.

This one could be the token of a hot July afternoon. Maybe its owner sat on the hood of a parked car and ordered the bottle of soda from a street-side vendor. Legs worn from pick-up soccer, perhaps he flinched as he rested against the hot metal body. He probably watched one of countless Hagg Ahmads or Mohammads retrieve the bottle from an ice chest and pop off the metal cap with a quick flick of his wrist.

In the summer heat, a sizzle of bubbles can be heard creeping out of the bottle neck to whisper a promise of cool solace. He savors the crisp, fizzy sweetness, resting lips against cold, heavy glass. The bottle is handed back to the Hagg, sent off on yet another journey through the factories - to be washed, refilled, and returned again to the chest of ice. In his palm, the bottle cap is carried away. He tosses it into the street, kicking it around with the toe of a dusty shoe, and quickly loses interest. He looks up to see the game of street ball resumed, forgets his token and runs off to join the crowd.

The metal top stays behind. It’s flattened over and over by speeding cars and hurried feet, all day and all night, week after week, summer after summer.

I look down to the sidewalk where the bright shiny lid has become a barely discernible label among the other ‘Coca Colas’, ‘Sprites’ and ‘Fantas’ half heartedly glinting in the matte gray asphalt. The reds and blues, greens and oranges fade. But just enough color stays behind so that every now and then a passerby will pause, intrigued by a silver wink. Like me, the passerby stoops down to get a closer look, remembers for a moment childhood summers in crisp intensity, then straightens up and continues walking.

The Light Of Allah

Marium


It is so utterly difficult to put this trip into words. Beyond impossible to describe the emotions, the actions, the colors, the light. When you go to Mecca, you don't come back. Not like how you were anyway. There is a light that surrounds Mecca that you yearn and beg to be a part of.

Light. So much Light.

I spent five days in Mecca performing the smaller pilgrimage during Ramadan and then spent 16 days in Madina, the home of the Prophet Muhammad (Peace be upon him). The Prophet (PBUH) said that the person who performs Umrah (the smaller pilgrimage) during Ramadan, it is like he/she has performed the Hajj (the bigger pilgrimage) with him.

It is an honor not bestowed upon many. And I didn't deem myself worthy of it. But it changed my outlook on life. It changed me. It is a mercy that I will never forget.

It was my first time in Mecca.

I was petrified when I entered Mecca. Absolutely petrified. I held onto my father's hand as he took me inside the mosque towards the Holy Ka'aba, the Sacred House of God built by Abraham. It is said that the first time you see the Ka'aba whatever you ask for will be given to you.

The first time I saw the Ka'aba, I was stupefied. Its a feeling that is miles ahead of being scared. You aren't scared but in complete and total awe. There is no way to explain it. Lets just say it is a moment that no one, I can guarantee, no one who has ever experienced it, can ever forget.

I've seen nothing like it. Nothing.

It was surrounded by light. The sky was white, the marble white, the people, white. It stood in the middle covered in a black cloak. Covered with Light. So much Light.

Tears streamed down my face and I barely knew it. I stood awed and begged, absolutely begged, for forgiveness.

There is Majesty. You drop to your knees and put your head to the ground in prayer not because you have to. But because you know it is the right thing to do. Not because it commands you to. But because you feel it in your heart that this, this is the Truth.

I so wish you all could see it.

I spent five days in utter awe. I sat on marble that remained cool, so cool under the blazing Saudi sun. The smite of Egypt does not compare to the heat of Arabia. It was hot. But the ground remained cool.

I remember the time I prayed near the Ka'aba with my father. A man came and stood next to me to pray. We all prayed together, creating motion at different speeds but all asking for the same thing. It didn't matter who he was, who I was. Men and women, old and young, rich and poor, everyone prayed together. Names, class, nationality, nothing, nothing like that mattered. It didn't even exist.

I remember circumambulating the Ka'aba in prayer (known as the Tawaf) feeling the cool ground underneath my feet as the blazing afternoon sun shone above.

My family and I were always tried to find a time when there would be fewer people performing the Tawaf so we could get closer to the Ka'aba and to the place where a marker marks the footprints of Abraham's feet. There is am imprint of his feet in a glass covered marker covered with gold. Its always difficult to get close to it because there are so many people.

So, so many people. Thousands, thousands.

So we thought of going at 1 AM, 2 AM, 11 PM, anytime when traffic would be slow. I don't think there has ever been a moment when there has not been someone performing the Tawaf. Hundreds.

I've been to the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem, to the churches of Bethlehem and Jerusalem. To the chapels, churches and cathedrals of Italy and the temples of Thailand and Singapore. To the mosques of Jerusalem, Egypt, Jordan, Pakistan.

I've never, never seen anything like this.

People cried, smiled, laughed and prayed. Mecca and Madina, in my opinion, are the two places in the world where you can look at someone next to you and not see them. You are alone in a crowd of thousands. Thousands who all worship the same way and aim for the same thing. You sit next to people breaking your fast with them in the Mosque and do not see then for what they look like, or who they are.

I rarely ever knew who the person was sitting next to me, where they were from, what their name was, what the color of their skin was or what they looked like. You saw them only as Muslims, you see them as family. You break bread with them, you eat dates when them. And then you place your head to the ground together and think:

We believe.

We believe in the Power of God, We believe in his Message. We are awestruck by His Power and We are humbled by his Mercy. I look at his people, their hands raised in prayer, tears streaming down their faces. Tears mixing with my own. I see them shave their heads, kissing each other as they finish their pilgrimage, washed away of their sins.

And your heart is washed. It feels new. I promise you it is a feeling that it unlike any other.

You pray on the streets outside the mosque because there is no space inside. As soon as you hear the call to prayer, you stop in your tracks. Cars stop, shops close and time slows. God is remembered and worshiped. There is silence and there is peace. There is Light.

Mecca is full of Awe. Madina is full of peace. In Madina it is as if you have finally come home. Birds fly around minarets, lazily circiling the minarets of the mosque. You go into the old mosque, where the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) is buried to give him your greeting. You have come to his home. You have been invited to his home.

Your soul feels light in Madina. You finally realize that you actually have one.

I look back on my trip, my nights at the mosques, my days in the cities. And I feel my heart breathing anew.

I wish you all could see it. I wish you all could be there. I went there, skeptical, at times, of my own beliefs. Asking questions, demanding answers.

And now, I know. Now, I have seen.

And I am a believer.

Insider from Outside

Before I discovered a love for travel and geographic wandering, Cairo was the first to claim my heart. I was born in Egypt and spent the early part of my childhood here. For the fall, I’ve returned to study abroad in the country of my nationality while writing back home to the U.S. where I’m becoming naturalized.

At first glance Cairo appears weary with crowding throngs, poverty, and an overhanging smog. At its heart, however, the city is captivating. The overwhelming hospitality, serenity of the Nile, self-affirming sense of history, and throbbing street life have strung me along visit to visit during summer breaks. It is this vibrant intensity that lured me back to Cairo for a semester - to forge a relationship with the city for the first time in my adult life.

I’ve chosen to live in Old Cairo in the apartment where my father grew up - the first place I ever knew to call my family home. The most vivid of my childhood memories here now lurk as shadows in the emptiness. Weekday afternoons I sit at the dining room table to do my homework. Sometimes when the light falls through the wooden balcony slats just right, the glass surface reflects old times - Friday dinners with all the family overflowing the table and spilling into the living room. Evenings I sink into the couch indentions worn by three generations gathered on weekends and holidays. If I listen hard enough, I can still hear the rhythmic click of the slide projector flashing old photos on the living room wall.

The widest bed that used to hold four or five siblings and cousins at summer slumber parties I now have all to myself. With no giggles and whispers late into the night, I am grateful for the fan blades to drown out the silence. A journal entry from my first week reads, “Without the life, the joy and the stories the house is an empty shell. This house hasn’t been loved in years; it is neglected and lonely.” The walls, the chairs, the kitchen, they miss my grandmother – and so do I.

That was six weeks ago. Now, the walls are repainted, the plumbing fixed, the beds made up with new sheets and the clutter packed away. It will never be the same, but slowly a different joy is coming into the house and I am finding a new sense of place.

While hanging laundry out to dry, I dropped an obnoxiously cartooned sock through the laundry lines. I ran down three flights of stairs and knocked on the first floor apartment. The door swung open and a jolly woman welcomed me in, “You must be Aisha - you look just like your grandmother!” After karkadeh [hibiscus] juice, tea, baklava, and an hour of chatting, Tant Amaal’s curiosity was caught up enough with family updates to merit retrieval of my sock.

Judging by my awkward laundry skills I think we’ll become good friends.

More than ever I am gaining a contextual sense of my own history. At a Ramadan Iftar [dinner] last week I met childhood friends of my father, colleagues of my mother from AUC, great aunts, second and third cousins, and family friends twice removed.

After dinner I stood chatting with Ahmad and Yasmeen – my older second cousins who used to live near my family in Maadi neighborhood. Mid conversation Ahmad suddenly ran outside to his car and returned with a coy smile. “Remember when we were younger and you used to come to our house and we used to come to yours all the time?” He asked. “Of course!” I exclaimed. He grinned widely holding out a miniature toy car. “Remember the gold Jeep? You gave it to me when you moved away and said I could keep it until you moved back. It’s taken a while, but I guess it’s yours now.” He handed me the metal Jeep with white interior and doors that really open. It had been the gold standard among our shared toys; to entrust Ahmad with it was sure collateral for my return.

I really did come back; I’m meeting the neighbors, catching up on contemporary slang, becoming a regular at the corner grocery, and floating through the city from line to line of transportation. Despite the characteristic adventures and discoveries, this is not a typical study abroad set-up.

My past travels abroad have been defined by the classic subject/object relationship. As a foreigner visiting a new culture I’m ready to absorb, adapt, assimilate, embrace and return home to share the novelty of a new experience. This time, however, I came to Cairo with the approach of a native and that made for a complex and somewhat rocky start. Though my roots originated in Egypt, my perceptions come through the lens of an American-raised ideology.

Through my posts I hope to share that duality in my experience as I’m learning to make sense of it as the insider from outside.

The Sound of Silence

Brian

A few minutes ago, after a short afternoon nap, I stepped outside the door of my apartment in the Palestinian West Bank city of Ramallah. It was several minutes after sunset, and the city was almost dead silent.

The normal rush of cars and buses that usually zoom past our apartment on their way to Jerusalem, Bethlehem, Nablus, and other West Bank destinations were noticeably absent. The joyous shouts of children playing outside our window had disappeared. The sounds of city construction had halted momentarily. And even the wind seemed to be respecting the silence of the moment, for there was no rustle of tree leaves.

Even in the most isolated places, it’s rare to be able to sit and experience true, pure, unadulterated silence. But here, for several minutes, there was no sound in the air. In a world that seems to never stop, it was a moment of tranquil ecstasy.

Except for the birds. The birds were signing! They angered me in a way that animals never have before! How could these birds be so disrespectful of my moment of peace? An unexplainable rage bubbled inside of me. I wanted to curse the birds, yell at them for refusing to acknowledge everything else’s deference to silence. But they paid me no mind; they were never aware that their joy could taint such a blissful silence.

Frustrated at the birds’ blatant disregard for my wishes, I retired inside to make myself a cup of tea.

***

This is Ramadan in Ramallah. The silence was the sound of a fast being broken. It was the sound of Muslim families returning to their homes after a day of no eating and no drinking to eat an Iftar dinner and break their fasts together.

Ramadan is a time for family, prayer, religious observance, charity, and self-reflection. This holiest month of the Islamic calendar is a time to slow down from the bustle of everyday life to focus on the things that should be more important to us humans.

Throughout the month of Ramadan, for about an hour every day, this silence repeats. For me, it is the external manifestation of what Ramadan represents. For just a few moments every evening, if you pause and listen carefully, and cup your hand to your ear, you can hear the true heartbeat of Ramallah – family, hospitality, charity, and peace.

That is, of course, if the birds aren’t singing.

In keeping with the Bedouin theme...

Aisha's comments about the Bedouin lifestyle are a perfect segway into my post, and for that I would like to start off by thanking her. That said, I have just had what so far has been the best week of my life. Last week I stayed with a Bedouin family in the south of Jordan near the Saudi border. For a day by day description, please see my other blog, but here I would like to talk about something that a few of the readers here know about almost too much. Ethics and Excellence.

Last year, I spent a whole semester with 24 of my close friends trying to dissect these two topics. Never reaching a joint and resolute conclusion on the topic, it has left me coming back to the topic from time to time trying to figure out its true meaning. After this past week, I feel like I am one step closer to feeling resolved on the issue.

In Bedouin society there is an idea know as المسان. Al-Misaan is derived from المسن or elderly. However, the Bedouin use it to describe the ideal qualities of a man. Behind this idea is years of war and conflict, so obviously the ideal man includes the ability to fight. Also within this context is desert life. Therefore, Al-Misaan is preferable to a man who can survive the elements. In a sense, المسان is the Bedouin version of the Renaissance man.

However, the most fundamental part of Al-Misaan as described to me by my house father is the idea of never forfeiting on your principles. This philosophy states that one should rather die than do something he considers wrong. It also talks about treating strangers and friends all alike, with a compassion and hospitality that the desert from which they came surely did not grant to them. Al-Sheraf, honor, was the most important part of all. Everything one does must uphold his personal honor as well as that of the tribe. In every aspect of life one is a representative of others and as such should act accordingly.

Now, this philosophy, like so many others, has its flaws. The most obvious of which is its patriarchal nature that does not mention females at all. However, I feel that this should not take away from its fundamental message. The individual should first rely upon his self and then upon others. Everything one does must be backed by a desire for perfection, yet that desire should not corrupt the principles and compassion that is within everyone. In essence, Al-Misaan simplifies the question of ethics and excellence by blending them into one topic. Therefore, the two are indivisible; you can not have one without the other.

While this posting is a quite shallow description of a conversation that lasted over two hours, I would rather not drone on about what all was said that night. However I would love to hear feedback from anyone interested, and would love just as much to hear if anyone has heard of a similar thing with other Bedouin.

Shifting Gears

I had intended to share my South American summer from the perspective of a Muslim-Egyptian-American woman. Attempts at a themed reflection during my travels resulted in an awkwardly superimposed, self-conscious analysis. Such a weighty string of modifiers certainly counters the free spirited nomadic way!

Instead, I chose to send crude ‘snapshots’ of my time in Peru. For the sake of continuity from my previous posts, I’m dedicating this entry to a few thoughts from my summer before beginning more frequent updates from my current setting in Cairo.

The research frame of my summer was enlightening. Many of us enter international experiences in the public sector with a sleeves-rolled up, elbows out, reformist attitude. I like to think that with the number of Tar Heels out trotting the globe, many with a mission to ‘save the world,’ the adventures leave a lasting impression on our deeper ideologies.

It took me months to work through my time in Egypt last summer. I settled with the understanding that the world did not need ‘saving’ but rather more earnest efforts at listening. This time around I started the journey with palms out in a neutral stance and abandoned an instilled dependency on the scientific method for a shameless subjectivity.

In the simplicity of my approach, I found it easier to transcend the method itself and to relish the experience. The dualistic battle between form and substance plays out in my course schedule this semester. On a whim, I enrolled in a Metaphysics course only to find that my Physics class falls directly afterwards.

Simultaneous to my experiential absorption this summer, I imparted a continuous impression on my surroundings. I wore my image to a place where it is grossly unfamiliar. The extroversion of Peruvian culture means that when people stared they stared hard, unabashedly and extendedly. Stares latched onto me, swiveling necks a full 360 degrees. I bear the responsibility for causing many a head on collision between onlookers and fellow pedestrians, light posts, street signs, garbage cans…

The stares weren’t hostile, for the most part. It was only in the trendy shopping district by the Larcomar cliffs that I incited decidedly disapproving gawks and lung puncturing elbow pokes. My 17 year old brother was more jarred by the intrusiveness than I was. In an unprecedented move one evening, Mohammad presented me with a blatant compliment. “Aisha, there’s some trait about you that I really admire but I don’t know the word for it”.

I expected a classic shot at my frogger-style street crossing or yet another crack at my lame jokes, but for once Mohammad surprised me with a serious tone. “People stare at you ALL the time, and you never say anything. If it were me I’d get so mad.” It was a rare and touching sibling moment; out of sincerity deeper than empathy Mohammad took personal offense for my discomfort.

I think the trait Mohammad alluded to is part tolerance, part stubbornness, and part indignant self-affirmation. My hijab experience bears face-value recognition – I am assertively expressive of my identity every moment of public life.

But Mohammad wasn’t with me during daily trips, when my hijab opened up delightfully curious conversation and invited unconventional friendships. In Peru the taxi drivers were bold enough to make prodding conversation, the street vendors playful enough to toss back comments with my change, and the waiters attentive enough to carry a continuous conversation with service.

Occasionally I was mistaken for a nun, “Una monjita!” Though I imagine the Catholic Church wouldn’t look too fondly on my collection of brightly colored and fringed hijabs. Perhaps out of overcompensating self-assertion, I loved waving down to upturned faces while paragliding over the coast, feeling the wind in my hijab as I tumbled down dunes on a sandboard, and unfurling my red hijab to stake my presence on a mountain summit.

In time, even Mohammad found a way to cope with the stares that wasn’t my passive indifference nor his initially aggressive scowls and growls. He would return every stare with an exaggerated grin and call out “Hola, Amigo”.

What a contrast it was to transition from being a novelty in Peru to blending in as a common and monotonous image since my arrival here in Cairo. I prefer the clean slate of the unfamiliar when I have free reign to define my identity.

City life has put a damper on the nomad thing, so for now it’s only in my mind that I’m wandering; on the street I’m back to pursuing a purpose.