All posts by Yasmine

About Yasmine

I like orange sunshine and blue slurpees.

I feel way tired today, and I’ve only gone through…

Casa420 and Familia

I feel way tired today, and I’ve only gone through 2 days of classes so far. lol. I think it’s the commute, because even though I’ve been going to bed pretty early and getting plenty of sleep, my one-week break from driving got me all out of shape. Funny how, for other people, “getting in shape” means working out in terms of running, lifting weights, whatever. For me, the phrase has more to do with mentally and physically preparing myself for commuting once again after a refreshing break. Whoopdeedooo… :-p

Anywayz, forget that. I didn’t even mean to start this post off with random self-pity. Self-pity is stupid (my new philosophy :-D). I wanted to talk about the mountains.

I love the hills and mountains. And, alhamdulillah, even though I commute to school I don’t mind the distance half the time simply because I have beautiful scenery to stare at for most of the drive. It’s so relaxing. It’s my “quiet time,” all to myself. Going places with someone can be fun, but it obviously depends on the person. Most of the time, i’d rather drive on my own, because it means i don’t have to talk, i can be lost in my own thoughts for however long i want, and i can blast my rock or Zain Bhikha or Dawud Wharnsby Ali or Surah Ya’Sin or anasheed or whatever i’m listening to without having to impatiently turn the sound down to listen to someone’s annoying attempts at conversation. And again, not everyone i go places with is annoying. But sometimes i’m still annoyed. And there’s a difference. lol.

But the mountains… Green, green, everywhere these days. It’s like they envelope you as you drive through. They dominate the landscape and fill the sky, yet still look so serene and peaceful instead of dark and threatening. It’s an interesting combination: our upper-middle-class/affluent East Bay cities juxtaposed with the simple yet dynamic illustration of Allah’s creation in the form of our infamous mountains. When I was little and we used to drive from the Bay to Sacramento to visit what I call the the psycho soap opera drama family (you would call them…relatives. lol), I used to gaze wistfully out the car window and dream about living in the hills when I grew up. And I don’t mean a house in the hills, either. I meant, just live there. I must have been about 8-9 years old then, because I remember my dream of living in the mountains was influenced for the most part by this thick book I read in third grade, called My Side of the Mountain, which was the story of a kid named Sam who ran away from home to go live in the Catskill Mountains of upstate New York for a year, fashioning a new home for himself in a hollow tree, with only a falcon and a weasel for company. I liked that book, yo. And every time our car wound through the hills to get to Sac-Town, I’d press my face against the glass and dream about living all alone in the mountains and roaming up and down them as I willed. Shoot, it’d be pretty awesome to do that even now…go pitch a tent on the side of a mountain and somehow survive through simplifying my life to the fullest extent. Man, I wish…

But, hey, at least I still have my mountains all around me, everyday.

Ya Allah, thank You for granting me the joy of looking out the windows of my home and seeing the mountains everyday. Thank You for the blessing of being raised in the Bay, and after we moved away and I gave up all hope of ever returning, thank You for answering my childish, self-indulgent prayers and allowing us to come back to live in my childhood home. Thank You for gifting me with the ability to appreciate Your majesty and the beauty of Your creations every time I gaze at the mountains. If it be Your will, please allow me the joy of remaining in the Bay forever; otherwise, grant me the capacity to acknowledge and be thankful for the beauty You have blessed this world with wherever I may go. Ameen.

There, that’s my garbled du’a for myself. I’m not much in the habit of offering du’as for myself, except during finals week, of course. ;) I vaguely recall reading a hadith back when I lived in Pakistan that said something to the effect that one receives so much more thawaab in making du’a for others. I think it was a hadith about Hadrat Umar (RA), who, at the end of each salah he performed, would make du’a for everyone he knew, but always neglected to ask anything from Allah swt for himself. If I got the hadith wrong, please correct me. And if you know the exact wording, please post it for me. Jazak’Allah.

My family is big on du’as. It’s kind of a given in our household. When the 3 of us were really little, it was our habit to join our hands together, and then pile our hands over our dad’s. It’s like those Russian dolls…one stacked inside the other, big to small, culminating in the tiniest one inside. It used to be our dad’s large hands, then me, Nasser, and Shereen stacking our chubby little hands on top of his. A pile of hands, joined in du’a. One of my earliest memories is of the 3 of us doing du’a with our father. We were sitting in our living room, and I remember looking down at our hands and marveling how like a bowl each pair of hands seemed, joined as they were in preparation for du’a. And I looked up and asked, “Daddy, why do we make our hands like bowls when we do du’a?” He opened his mouth to reply but, before he could speak, I answered my own question with childish eagerness, “Oh! I know! It’s so when Allah sends us blessings, they fly right down into the bowl so we can catch them easily and not lose them!” I don’t remember my dad’s reply…he probably laughed and agreed with my explanation. But even now, every time I join my hands together to make du’a, I still recall the excitement with which I processed that thought: the hands as bowls, fashioned to receive blessings from Allah.

In our family, we have what we call the “short du’a” and the “long du’a.” The short du’a is recited at mealtimes and when we drive to somewhere close by our home. It consists of Surah al-Fatihah, Surah Ikhlas, and the Aqeedah.*

*the Aqeedah: Aamantu bil’lahi, wa malaa’ikatihee, wa kutubihee, wa rusulihee, wa’l yaum al’akhiri, wa’l qadri khayri’hee, wa shar’rihee, min al’lahi ta’alah, wal baath’i baad al’mauwth…I believe in Allah, and His angels, and His Books, and His messengers, and in the Last Day, and that everything good and bad is from Allah, and in all the rest that comes after death.

We recite the long du’a primarily when we’re driving somewhere further from home, which basically means when we go anywhere beyond our hometown. The long du’a is Surah al-Fatihah, Surah Ikhlas, the Aqeedah, Surah al-Baqarah:verse 21 (rabbana aathina fi’dunya hasanat’tan wa fil akhiri hasanat’an, wa kina azaab an’naar: Oh, our Lord! Grant us good in this world, good in the Hereafter, and protect us from the hell-fire), Surah al-Baqarah:verse 286, the Dua-i-Janaazah, and Surah al Baqarah:verse 255 (Ayat-al-Kursi). It’s not really as long as it seems. Three or four minutes, maybe. Du’a is the first thing we take care of as soon as we get in the car. It’s another given. When I’m on my own, as for example in the mornings while i’m heading up to school, I recite Surah Ikhlas 3 times, and add on Surahs al-Falaq and An-Nas and and the next two ayaat that follow Ayat-al-Kursi.

And then we have a round of “Shaabaash‘s.” LOL! I guess that started when we were little and our dad wanted to praise us for learning the du’a correctly, so he would say, “Shaabaash!” to each of us, all proudly, whenever we got it right. And it just stuck. So even now, if we go anywhere as a family, there’s a string of five “Shaabaash‘s” at the end of our du’a. The craziest is whenever the cousins are with us…it’ll be like 32948902842 (okok, maybe 7-8) people in one car, and the “Shaabaash‘s” just seem to go one forever then. lol. Cute, very cute. What can i say.

I was talking to a Muslim brother a while back, an…

Salaam Namaste

I was talking to a Muslim brother a while back, and he was telling me about his upcoming summer trip to Bangladesh. He was born and raised in the U.S., and it’s been 8 years since he’s been back in Bangladesh. Naturally, everyone thinks he’s going back just so he can get married, but he avers that the real reason is so that he can “hang out with his old homies, eat paan and guavas, and buy some peanuts from the peanut man.” I laughed, and he turned serious. “Actually,” he said, “I just want to be able to hear the adhan from my house.” It’s so indescribable and enlivening, he told me.

I know what he means. After I spoke with the brother, I was trying to figure out why i kept feeling a sense of deja vu. I finally figured it out the other day when, while backing up my computer files on a disk, I came across an old essay I was written for my 11th grade English class back in high school. It’s dated February, 1999. Dang, time flies. I don’t really remember what the prompt for the essay was, but based on my piece I guess it had something to do with the time span of sixty minutes, and how life-altering such a short period of time can sometimes be. The brother’s remark about the adhan had reminded me of this essay and the 18 months I lived in Pakistan during 1994-95 (which means I was 13-14 then).

Anyway, my spring break has so far been providing me with ample time for reflection and nostalgia, and a lot of that has to do with who I was while I lived in Pakistan, who I am now, and the changes i’d like to make in myself, insha’Allah. I might talk more about all that during the next few days while i’m still going through my Let’s-Analyze-The-Yaz phase. For now, I thought y’all might find my essay interesting.

The Turning Point

Although sixty minutes may mean nothing more than a very short period of time to some, to others they can characterize an event of great importance. One hour can make or break a man or woman. It can impart a message of hope, or one of misery. It can dash a dream to smithereens or rebuild one from ashes, and thus have lifelong effects on a person. The most important sixty minutes of my life were spent sitting on a rooftop in Pakistan and looking down upon the world.

In the beginning of 1994, I traveled with my mother and younger brother and sister to our ancestral village in Pakistan, where we lived for the next eighteen months. Anticipating that my stay in the village would be a grand adventure, I was chagrined to find myself homesick for good old California the very same day I disembarked in Islamabad. Instead of decreasing as the months passed, my longing to be back on American soil had reached a nearly unbearable level by the end of the year. In December, I almost reached the end of my wits. It rained everyday in the village, resulting in muddy streets, slippery courtyards, and wet socks. It also resulted in my disgruntled moods and wistful daydreams about the California sunshine.

December 8th, however, was a day straight out of my dreams. Not only had the rain stopped, but the sun also shone, drying up any vestiges of water puddles from the day before. As usual, we began lunch at half-past-eleven. We were finished at noon, and my brother, Nasser, after much persuading, convinced our mother to let him climb up onto the roof of our house. He borrowed a ladder from a neighbor and, unlocking the door of the house next to ours (which had been empty since the death of my great-uncle and the subsequent immigration of his widow and children to America), carried it inside and propped it against the side of that house, because the walls of our house were too high for a ladder to reach the top. He then called for me, and I followed over. It was a wonderful, sunny day, and I excitedly clambered up onto the roof behind Nasser.

We walked back and forth along the roof, enjoying the sun’s warmth. After a while, our sister, Shereen, joined us, and we explored the roof together. Soon I felt rather warm, so I removed my sweater and, leaving it to dangle from a rung of the ladder, sat down at the edge of the roof. I gazed around me, seeing the now-familiar sights from a new perspective: the slender, dirt street that ran the length of our neighborhood; the surrounding houses; diligent housewives preparing lunch or placing firewood on their roofs to dry; green-leafed trees; our large brick courtyard and the smaller one around which this house had been built. The sky was a deep blue, in sharp contrast to the earth tones of the village and the brighter garments the women wore. Sitting cross-legged on the rooftop, absorbing the sun’s long-absent warmth and feeling at peace with the world, I was overcome by a peculiar thought: This will be a part of my life forever, I suddenly realized. It will stay with me wherever I may go. Rather than being overwhelming, the concept was calming. I felt more content and happy in that moment than I ever had before or have since.

Locked in my thoughts, I had forgotten the passage of time. Glancing down at my watch, I found that an hour had passed. Almost as if on cue, the beautiful strains of the call to prayer began to ring out from the minarets of mosques throughout the village. I remained seated, hugging my knees, until the last note faded away. Only then did I stand up, brush off my clothes, and start down the ladder.

That long-ago afternoon on the rooftop did much more than just chase away the winter blues. I realized that day that no matter how homesick I felt for America or how much I resented being in Pakistan, the latter had become my home. The memories I had collected while living there would remain with me forever, and no amount of self-pity could ever eradicate them. Nor would I ever want it to. For, as unbelievable as it seems, sixty minutes—such a short span of time!—can bring with it, in one’s most unguarded moments, more profundity than one expects to encounter in years. If one accepts this philosophy, one will learn that a vulnerability can be strengthened, that a prayer can be answered, and, most of all, that one hour can impact the rest of one’s life.

Yesterday morning, my dad decided we’re "looking t…

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Yesterday morning, my dad decided we’re “looking too white,” so he hauled us outside to supposedly take a walk in the yard and freshen up on our tan (what tan? I was born white. LOL) so we can look ethnic again. Haha. Now, “taking a walk in the yard” is a phrase that seriously fills us with fear, because we never end up just walking. You gotta understand, we have a half-acre lot, and our house is only a little part of it. The rest is occupied with a courtyard and a lawn and fruit trees and walkways and gardens and eucalyptus trees and things. It’s beautiful though, masha’Allah, but tons of work to maintain. When I was really little, I figured heaven must look kinda like our yard. lol. So anywayz, when my dad actually succeeds in getting us outside, he puts us to work in the yard. Yesterday, for example, i pulled weeds for ever. :-p It’s kinda like how Sana despises cleaning bathrooms: THAT’S how much I hate working in the yard. Last year, I went through this whole, hilarious phase where I absolutely LOVED pulling weeds. hehe. The way I figured it, if I had to do something outside, it might as well be pulling weeds, which is such a mindless, mind-numbing task. :-p And my dad sure does take the opportunity to remind me as often as he can about how much i “loooove pulling weeds, remember??” So yesterday, my job was to pull weeds in the front garden. And i did a mighty nice job, if i do say so myself. Actually, i don’t have to say it anywayz, cuz my dad stopped by when i was almost done and exclaimed, “Yasminay, you just made my day! That looks so beautiful, and you know how much i love beautiful things! I could just lay a bed out here now and sleep right in this garden!” LOL. My daddy is a silly man, what can i say. But it kinda sucks, cuz today my hands and wrists are aching, and i kept running into the thorny rose bushes yesterday while pulling weeds, so my hands are covered with nicks and cuts. Any action involving clenching and unclenching my hands makes them hurt, so it’s hard to grasp stuff; plus, my wrists hurt hecka bad too. Sheesh. My dad gave me a sympathetic look this morning when i kept wincing at the pain, but then remarked, “Maybe you should work outside more often; then your hands would be used to it.” Ehhhh, riiiiiiiight, Daddy. :-p

I had a hilarious conversation with a friend earlier about how no one ever says anything to his dad for NOT dressing up cuz they’re all afraid of him. haha. Sounds kinda like my dad right there. lol. All my little cousins love him, but the older ones are hecka intimidated. Not to mention the adults. It’s soooo funny! And then you see him at home, and he’s all wandering around alternately singing Beatles and Pukhto songs at the top of his lungs, and it’s just crazy…then I’m always wondering, People are scared of someone this silly?? lol. But my dad actually dresses up pretty often. Not too dressy, but still all stylin’. haha. He’s always wearing nice dress slacks and some shirt or other that Shereen and I always help him pick out, cuz if we didn’t, he’d be wearing white dress shirts all the damn time. And I’m like, no no no, white is BORING! lol. So I always make him go with something else. Like, blue. (ok yeah, blue has its moments. lol) There are times though, like the weekends especially, when he just looks like a BUM. Like, we’ll all have breakfast together, and after that he’ll take his cup of coffee and go outside to “take a walk in the yard and sing to all his little babies” (the flowers, not us. Usually he means the geraniums. My daddy-o has an OBSESSION with geraniums, I swear. It’s getting out of control! haha). So this’ll be like 10 o’clock in the morning or something, and he’ll be all wandering around outside in his pajamas with his cup of coffee, and then he ends up spending nearly the whole day out there (I’m serious!), planting flowers and doing all this pruning and all kinds of random stuff. All the while still wearing his pajamas. It’s hilarious. lol. And once in a while I’ll look outside, and he’ll be standing there in his freakin’ pajamas with his 4970934750th cup of coffee, talking to the neighbors, and I’m like, ohhh my God! lol. The funniest thing is, neither he nor the neighbors ever seem to care about the pajamas. It’s all normal, I guess. lol. So yeah, that’s my dad. Maybe that’s where I get the weirdness from. lol. Not that he would ever admit it. lol.

Anywayz, yesterday was fun cuz I woke up at noon. Had a yummyyyy lunch. Pulled lotsa weeds and made my Daddy’s day. lol. Nasser mowed the lawn, and it looks goooood. Three of Somayya’s brother came down (but she opted to stay at home, that freak of nature child. You suck!), and Daddy put 2 of them to work in the yard (muahahahaha!!) while the oldest one fiddled around with our computers. My dad now has Windows XP on his PC (i know, i know, we’re sooo behind the times), and the cousins are slowly convincing my dad to invest in DSL. Time to lose the dial-up connection, yo. Yeee-uuuhhh. :-D In the evening, Daddy waved Ummy out of the kitchen and set to work making chapli kabob (a weekly tradition with him), with the help of the same 2 assistants. LOL. Man, Shaker is a “burger-builder” extraordinaire. And Nazer is mighty handy with the spatula too. ;) Yaser just fixes computers and pretends he knows everything. And Zaker was at home, the silly boy. He always makes me laugh. Speaking of people who make me laugh, though, i’m having Somayya-withdrawals. My partner-in-crime is gone missing. hahahah. So anywayz, it was major fun. Shaker always wants to instigate a boxing match with me whenever i see him. And considering that this 14-year-old is about a foot taller than me and 50 pounds heavier, i’m like, ehhh stay away, yo! Actually, being the crazy child i am, i laugh and try to punch him back, but it’s like hitting a rock. haha. So that was my day. THE END.

p.s. Someone posted the link to a really interesting article on my tagboard earlier today. It’s called, “Iraq: Victims Without a Voice.” Go read. Oh, and i’ve been busy checking out more stuff on The Guardian website today. There’s some more speculation about the Iraqi blogger, Salam Pax. Read some of his blog entries as posted by The Guardian, or just go check out the blog itself.

Links to love

So it’s midnight, and i’m sitting here wading through the 43971361735 emails I’ve received in the address i use for my halaqa/BAMY (Bay Area Muslim Youth) emails. So much stuff i’m behind on, man. One week of studying for finals, plus another week of almost killing myself through MORE studying and actually taking the final exams has got me all behind on important things like food and sleep and…emails. :) So i shall spend the coming week of spring break catching up on all those, insha’Allah.

I’m also listening to a recitation of Surah Al-Dhukhan (the 44th surah) on CD. I started out a couple hours ago with Surah Ya’Sin (the 36th surah), so we’re making progress here. It’s nice, masha’Allah…good background recitation as i skim my emails and peruse online newspaper articles and hit “refresh” on my blog every 10 minutes (at least i admit i’m addicted!!).

I managed to catch about 2 minutes of “news” on t.v. sometime this evening. Don’t remember what station it was though. But the cameraman kept repeatedly panning back to a group of 3-4 young boys standing at the edge of an Iraqi field bordering a main road…little boys who were grinning widely, waving madly, and forming the peace sign with their hands as they triumphantly held up the bright yellow emergency food ration packages they had just received from U.S. troops. According to the U.S. t.v. channels, the Iraqi people love us. Nice, right? Riiiiight. So how come I just followed a link off someone’s blog and read an article on The Independent’s site about another group of Iraqi children who aren’t grinning happily. Why don’t our U.S. news channels talk about these children, dammit?? I see, so THIS is what we call “liberating the Iraqi people.” Suuuuure. It’s so damn frustrating.

I’ve also been sitting here reading The Guardian for the past hour or so. More specifically, i’m reading about Rachel Corrie, the 23-year-old American peace activist who was “crushed to death by a bulldozer as she tried to prevent the Israeli army from destroying homes in the Gaza Strip.” Last week, as I kept running across her story, I would see references to the emails she wrote her family during her time in Palestine. Tonight, I’m actually reading some of her emails as posted by The Guardian, and they’re so heartbreaking. May Allah swt have mercy on her soul, and may He grant her entrance into Jannat-al-Firdaus for her courageous efforts to alleviate the suffering of the Palestinian people. As Bill Speirs (General Secretary, Scottish TUC) said, “George Bush has been silent about her death, but she should be remembered as representing the best of America. He will be remembered as representing the rest.” Hell yeah. In case any of you have been missing out just as i have been, here’s some of the emails (if you haven’t read them already, please take some time to do so right now; if you have already, reread them anyway. I think it’s worth the time):

Rachel’s emails I

Rachel’s emails II

Rachel’s last email

Various reflections on Rachel’s death

We were up in Sacramento, visiting the psycho soap opera drama family (my relatives) for most of the day today. Something to cheer everyone up: I’m an aunt again! :) My bhabhi gave birth to a byooooootiful little baby girl last night, masha’Allah. My bhabhi is actually the wife of my second cousin, but our family is so close that we don’t really make distinctions like that. For example, Somayya is also my second cousin…and it’s HER first cousin who’s married to the bhabhi. But “first-cousin” and “second-cousin” and all that sound sooo cold and formal. Forget that, man. So anyway, i now have another adorable little niece. She was born 3 weeks early, but she weighed 7 pounds at birth…healthy baby, masha’Allah. We went to visit her and the mama in the hospital, and the baby is sooooooo cuuuuuuute and fragile. She’s all red. And she’s got a headful of black hair already. lol. Oh, and it was funny cuz we were walking down the hospital corridor and passed by this closed door marked, “Pediatric Audiology,” and i was like, ooooooh. I wanted to open the door and bust in and be like, Whassuuuuuup?? But then i decided to restrain myself. ;)

Anyway, it’s getting way late now, and my Daddy-o is probably gonna come along any second and scold me for being up so late now that finals are over and i don’t have any excuses to be pulling all-nighters anymore. Soooo…fi aman’Allah, everyone. Have a beautiful, SUNNY day tomorrow! :)

Stellaluna by Janell Cannon

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Stellaluna

by Janell Cannon


They perched in silence for a long time.

“How can we be so different and feel so much alike?” mused Flitter.

“And how can we feel so different and be so much alike?” wondered Pip.

“I think this is quite a mystery,” Flap chirped.

“I agree,” said Stellaluna. “But we’re friends. And that’s a fact.”

=)

To anyone with access to the children’s section of your local public library

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Anyone with access to the children’s section of your local public library…go find and read The Quiltmaker’s Gift by Jeff Brumbeau and Gail de Marcken. GORGEOUS illustrations and a beautiful storyline! Basically, it’s about a generous quiltmaker who sews the most beautiful quilts in the world, and then gives them away to those who are poor or homeless. And there’s a powerful and greedy king whose castle is literally stuffed to the brim with treasures, but who has never been happy enough to feel the joy of smiling. When he hears of the magical quiltmaker, he hurries to her and demands she present him with a quilt, hoping that her gift will finally make him smile. She refuses point-blank, reminding him that her gifts are only for those who are poor and needy. Finally though, she strikes a deal with the king…for every gift he gives away from his castle and storehouses, she will add another piece to a quilt for him. When at last all his posession are gone, his quilt will be finished. The king hems and haws, of course, but finally gives in. Going out into the world, the king finds those who may be in need of his gifts. “Morning, noon, and night…for years and years…the king slowly emptied his wagons, trading his treasures for smiles around the world.” Finally then, the king’s treasures are all gone, and the quiltmaker goes in search of him…

This is the passage i found so beautiful:

After a long search, she finally found him. The king’s royal clothes were now in tatters and his toes poked out of his boots. Yet his eyes glittered with joy and his laugh was wonderful and thunderous.

The quiltmaker unfolded the king’s quilt from her bag. It was so beautiful that hummingbirds and butterflies fluttered about. Standing on tiptoe, she tenderly wrapped it around him.

“What’s this?” cried the king.

“As I promised you long ago,” the woman said, “when the day came that you, yourself, were poor, only then would I give you a quilt.” The king’s great sunny laugh made green apples fall and flowers turn his way.

“But I am not poor,” he said. “I may look poor, but in truth my heart is full to bursting, filled with the memories of all the happiness I’ve given and received. I’m the richest man I know.”

“Nevertheless,” the quiltmaker said, “I made this quilt just for you.”

“Thank you,” replied the king. “I’ll take it, but only if you’ll accept a gift from me. There is one last treasure I have left to give away. All these years, I’ve saved it just for you.” And from his rickety, rundown wagon the king brought out his throne.

“It’s really quite comfortable,” the king said. “And just the thing for long days of sewing.”

Masha’Allah! There’s a couple more pages, but that’s ok. I just wanted y’all to read this part. :)

the comments thingie is jacked up! aaahhhhh… so …

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the comments thingie is jacked up! aaahhhhh… so bothersome, man. i wonder how i managed to do that, too. hmm… some people just shouldn’t be allowed anywhere in the vicinity of a computer. LOL. yes, i Do crack myself up. self-deprecation is an indispensable quality. ;) never forget that, peoples! laughing at yourself is good. otherwise you’ll become old and bitter. or YOUNG and bitter. which is even more inexcusable and worse. yupyupyup. meanwhile, i gotta teach myself how to fix this thing. *siiiigh*