calculus rocks my world — sometimes

Suckool

Earlier this week, I spent a few hours helping proctor the math and chemistry placement exams that incoming freshman have to take in order to prove their eligibility for the introductory calc and general chem series. As a proctor, one basically checks ID, signs in these kids, passes out scantrons and pencils, gets them seated in an orderly fashion and in alternating rows in the huge lecture hall, and then sternly wanders around for ninety minutes while they tackle their exams.

Problem #1: I couldn’t act stern in such a situation even if my life depended on it, and the kids could totally tell I was finding the whole thing amusing. Problem #2: Once the amusement wore off (give me about ten minutes), the whole thing added up to two hours of sheer boredom.

I’ll probably be tutoring some of them in calculus this fall. I don’t know how it happens, but I usually end up with either the really quiet or the really hyperactive students. In the case of the really quiet ones, my goal in life is to get them to talk more, not only because I like talking and I think everyone else should too, but also because I refuse to stand up there and work out the answers for them while they scribble ‘em down. We need some interaction, yo. The hyperactive ones, on the other hand, just need to be toned down a bit. I remember my first group of hyper freshmen were hooked on finding the “perfect guy” for me. They spent about two weeks trying to convince me to hit on the MSA president. He’s a very, very nice guy, masha’Allah, but hitting on guys is just not my thing at all, much to their exasperation. So when that failed, they bombarded me with questions about arranged marriages in Islam, and decided they were going to be on the lookout for perfect man for me and personally arrange my marriage. Needless to say, it was always a challenge to steer them towards calculus and away from my…uhh…lack of relationships.

The incoming freshmen always stand out like eyesores. Their mere physical presence would scream “Summer Advising!” if their nametags weren’t already printed with the same. They wear lanyards containing their dorm keys and brand-new ID cards, and stand slack-jawed inside the library foyer, staring round-eyed up at the soaring ceilings. They look both ways before crossing the street, and sincerely believe that the more bags you carry with the university bookstore logo, the cooler you are. They’re in love with campus food. Even more, they’re in love with the general idea of being a college student. They wear nothing but flip-flops, shorts, visors, and t-shirts imprinted with their own university logo, and glare at those sporting Sac State, UCLA, Cal, or St. Mary’s gear as if they’re engaging in blasphemy. They feel it’s their inherent obligation to be walking ads for their college. Gosh. And to top it off, they show up a whole half-hour early for placement exams, too. My goodness, talk about enthusiasm.

Can you tell I enjoy poking fun at freshman? S’all good. I haven’t forgotten I used to be one too, although I honestly, positively am not guilty of any of the above. Seriously. Especially not the looking-both-ways-before-crossing-the-street part, that’s for sure.

Most of the freshmen just looked plain dazed and confused. And were obviously in awe of us upperclassmen proctors. Dude, why is it that all these fresh-faced, eighteen-years-old, I-just-graduated-from-high-school-two-months-ago kids look so young? I didn’t feel that young when I graduated. But I guess I must have looked that young and round-eyed, too, when I started college, whether I knew it or not. Hmm. One year left to my undergrad career, and my perspective’s all wack. Great.

To get back to the proctoring deal… The fun part was signing them in, because I enjoyed glancing at their nametags and seeing if I recognized their hometowns. Many were from the Bay Area and Southern California. Many more were from places I’ve never heard of. One guy’s nametag proclaimed he was from “Frisko!”, rebellious k, hyper exclamation point, and all. That caught my attention, because as a Bay Area resident, he broke one of our unspoken yet cardinal rules: no one from the Bay would be caught dead calling San Francisco, “Frisco.” We call it “the City,” with the same mixture of affectionate possessiveness and cliquish awareness that we use in referring to UC Berkeley as “Cal.” In both cases, without fail, those from outside the Bay have to ask for clarification.

And back to the boy: Besides breaking one of the main Bay insider rules, he also swiped four pencils from the box containing extras for those who didn’t have any. I was sent to get at least three back from him, since we were short on pencils and some kids didn’t have any. “Nice collection you’ve got there,” I observed dryly, as he unrepentantly held them out to me. “I know, isn’t it?” he said, and grinned impudently. Smart-aleck.

Kids these days. *tsk*

even red bull can’t make me do this I paused be…

Conversations and Encounters, Suckool

even red bull can’t make me do this

I paused before making a right turn on a red light this morning, giving the right-of-way to a young guy who was bobbing his head in time to whatever was blasting out of his Queen-Amidala’s-hairdo-sized headphones.

He acknowledged me with a brief wave of thanks as he crossed through the intersection, then went back to enthusiastically playing his imaginary drums. While riding his bicycle. Hands-free.

I couldn’t help but grin at his retreating back as he continued down the street. And I’m so jealous. Not only do I lack the balance and coordination I’m assuming is required for riding a bike hands-free, but I’ve also never possessed that amount of hyperactivity so early in the morning. Especially not when I’m running on only two hours of sleep, as I am right now.

So I just went and bought myself four candy bars. Let’s see if this’ll do the trick.

Yes, I’m a girl without restraint; what can I say.

Forget “Dear Abby”; this man knows his advice

Bibliothek

“You ask whether your verses are good. You ask me. You have asked others before. You send them to magazines. You compare them with other poems, and you are disturbed when certain editors reject your efforts. Now (since you have allowed me to advise you) I beg you to give up all that. You are looking outward, and that above all you should not do now. Nobody can counsel and help you, nobody. There is only one single way. Go into yourself. Search for the reason that bids you to write; find out whether it is spreading out its roots in the deepest places of your heart, acknowledge to yourself whether you would have to die if it were denied you to write. This above all — ask yourself in the stillest hour of the night: must I write? Delve into yourself for a deep answer. And if this should be affirmative, if you may meet this earnest question with a strong and simple “I must,” then build your life according to this necessity; your life even into its most indifferent and slightest hour must be a sign of this urge and a testimony to it. Then draw near to Nature. Then try, like some first human being, to say what you see and experience and love and lose.

“Save yourself from general themes and seek those which your everyday life offers you; describe your sorrows and desires, passing thoughts and the belief in some sort of beauty — describe all these with loving, quiet, humble sincerity, and use, to express yourself, the things in your environment, the images from your dreams, and the objects of your memory. If your daily life seems poor, do not blame it; blame yourself, tell yourself that you are not poet enough to call forth its riches; for to the creator there is no poverty and no poor indifferent place. And even if you were in some prison the walls of which let none of the sounds of the world come to your senses — would you not then still have your childhood, that precious, kingly possession, that treasure-house of memories? Turn your attention thither. Try to raise the submerged sensations of that ample past; your personality will grow more firm, your solitude will widen and will become a dusky dwelling past which the noise of others goes by far away.”

::Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

beautiful day Last Friday morning, while the Ba…

Rockstar and Crescent

beautiful day

Last Friday morning, while the Bay Area weather was still cool and breezy and traffic was negligible, my (and Shereen‘s :)) halaqa group drove up to meet at my house. We packed our picnic lunches and endless snacks, made sure to grab plenty of water bottles, waved fi aman’Allah to my ummy, and set off for Muir Woods, known as the “only surviving primordial redwood forest in the San Francisco Bay Area.” It had been an almost spur-of-the-moment decision, brought up, discussed, and arranged in a mere five minutes at our halaqa the weekend before. Because most of our group had deserted us for summer-long vacations across the country or overseas, the little bunch of us left behind (seven in all) were a bit baffled as to what halaqa-related recreational activities and academic pursuits to engage in during the others’ absence. We decided to cover the recreational aspect first. Someone suggested a picnic (who can say no to food?). Someone else suggested a halaqa conducted in a natural setting, somewhere outdoors rather than at the Islamic center. And some genius finally put it all together by bringing up the idea of Muir Woods, which the rest of us, sad to say, had never heard of, even given that it’s only about 40 miles away, located near the town of Mill Valley, only a few miles north of San Francisco.

The whole thing started out perfectly. We actually left my house on time (all together now, Whoaaa), and made it to Mill Valley without any mishaps. But once there, instead of continuing down the highway and around the corner and up the hill to the woods, the sister whose car I was following made an unexpected turn into a parking lot. Confused, I followed suit. Turned out her car had overheated. When we lifted the hood, we saw the coolant had somehow leaked out and sprayed all over the radiator and coolant container and engine. Joy to the world. Actually, mass worry was more like it. Even my “professional commuter extraordinaire skillz” weren’t much help. Then it started getting hot. Wayy hot. And each of us was wearing at least one black item of clothing (what is it with us hijabis and the color black?). Great for attracting unwanted rays, so someone busted out with the sunscreen, which we all applied liberally. At the end, we couldn’t help but laugh at the circle of overly-shiny faces.

We spent nearly two hours walking back-and-forth to and from the mechanic shop across the street, unsuccessfully scrounging around for ice cream at Walgreen’s (the national grocery chain whose parking lot we were melting in), munching on some of the picnic food, worrying about this sudden shift in plans, and negotiating with a tow truck driver to take the car back to the East Bay once he showed up and mournfully shook his head upon viewing all that technical stuff under the car’s hood. Amazingly enough, though, we remained pretty upbeat. The food and the freezing coldddd water bottles definitely helped, not to mention our self-deprecating humor as we viewed people’s confused reactions to the seven laughing hijabis chilllin on the curb in front of an overheated car. To their credit, many shoppers stopped by to ask if they could help. Good stuff.

Anywayz, the other sister’s car was a lost cause (in terms of our trip, at least). So what did we do, cancel it? Heck no, yo. We just piled into mine, and continued on our merry way. Seven girls crammed into a car meant for five. Wasn’t too bad though. Then again, I was chillin in the driver’s seat, so obviously I didn’t have anything to complain about. :D

So we finally made it to Muir Woods, and what can I say? It was definitely well worth it, and then some. So green and shady and tranquil. After wandering on the main boardwalk trail for about a mile, we walked uphill to where the path curved along the canyon edge, and then doubled back around a side stream, making our way back to the forest entrance. The easy, dirt path was an awesomely high vantage point from which to view the forest. And, subhan’Allah, what a view, yo. Most of these redwood trees are several hundred years old, hence the reason it’s known as a “primordial forest.” It was soo mind-boggling and humbling to stare up at these trees and realize how small and insignificant our own lives are in comparison. Many of the trees were gnarled with age, but most still stood straight and soo tall. It was interesting to note how age (and erosion?) had hollowed out the bottom portion of many of the redwood tree trunks, forming a niche strikingly similar to the mihrab, the masjid alcove facing qiblah where the imaan stands to conduct salah.

Little things, but they added up to nice big things: Makeshift mihrabs formed by hollow tree trunks. And the shady, enclosed area where we performed salah and conducted an impromptu halaqa and quiet dhikr session. And the fact that, for the rest of the day, all our trivial, worldly concerns just drifted away, so that we concentrated only on enjoying the moment, remembering Allah (SWT), giving thanks for our many blessings, and putting things into prespective. Halfway through our wanderings, one of the sisters groaned at the thought of taking a further step, professing great weariness. I smiled. “Think of Rasul’Allah and his companions, and the gazillions of miles they travelled across the desert during the hijrah,” I offered. “We can soo do this.” She grinned back, and straightened her shoulders. And kept walking with newfound energy. It continued that way throughout the day: ahadith, silent dhikr, Qur’anic ayaat, stories from the lives of the Prophets (peace be upon them)…anything and everything, and together it served to keep us in a constant state of remembrance of Allah (SWT) for the rest of the day. Because, you know, there are reminders and signs all around us, if we only choose to look for and acknowledge them.

In late afternoon, we drove down to the Muir Beach. Walking along the dusty path from the car to the beach itself, I looked down and grimaced distastefully at my dirty sneakers and pants. The aforementioned sister glanced over and smiled crookedly. “From dust we’re created, and to dust we shall return,” she remarked. My turn to be reminded.

A little boy, dressed in swimming trunks and no more than four years old, stopped by to show off his handful of jellyfish. He grinned, displaying his adorable dimples while carefully opening his hands to show us the jellyfish nestled inside. We asked him his name. “Aaday!” he announced, his little chest puffing up with pride. “It’s an African name!” Later, his brother, about six years old, cupped his palms and urged us to Look!, and we peered in wonder at the tiny crabs held fast in his hands. His name was Kumasi, he informed us with the same grave pride. Masha’Allah, such beautiful children. They just walked right up to us and shared their simple joys, brightening our day even further with their enthusiasm.

We dawdled as long as we could, finally leaving the beach and returning to the car in the early evening. Driving back up the hillside, we glanced over the edge. Miles out from the cliff, the clear bay met the unclouded sky, and it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

It was one of those days when everything just clicks into place. I don’t know how to describe it any more than that, and so I won’t even attempt to do so, because it’ll only end up sounding trite and clichéd. So forget that.

But treat yourself to a beautiful day sometime soon. Your soul will thank you.

Tales From the Left Side

Glorious mundanity

There is an evil, sneaky conspiracy underfoot, and because I’m a slow child, I have only just begun to realize it. Yes, indeedy. The time has finally come to bring this malicious plot to light, and I’m the one to do it, if only because everyone else and their mama doesn’t seem to have the same issues I do. Therefore, I would like to hereby declare my view that the world is overrun by right-handed people who gleefully produce and craft and design and create and manipulate objects in such a manner that left-handed people (like myself) end up standing around in a befuddled state, confusedly scratching our heads and trying to figure out why various pursuits don’t work for us.

(Sorry. You still with me? It’s 2 a.m. and I’m madly working on a research paper. I think the writing style is leaking into my blog. Argh.)

So, to continue my right-handed conspiracy theory, check this out: If I try to open the refrigerator door with my left hand, I nearly crack my ribs in the process. Opening the lower kitchen cabinets with my left hand results in the cabinet doors soundly rapping my shins, which means I have to limp around for three days and give people fake excuses like, “I was working out, ok? It’s been a while since I’ve been running, ya know, that’s why…” Well, gosh, what do you expect me to say?? “Yeah, I haven’t quite mastered the art of opening the kitchen cabinets yet. I’m gonna try again tomorrow. Someday, I hope to get it right, insha’Allah…” Riiight.

If I turn on any faucet with my left hand, I end up with gallons of cold water down my sleeve. And, just the other day, I raised my car’s hood with the resolution of checking the fluid levels. I think automobile manufacturers must take some great, perverse satisfaction in angling the antifeeze/coolant container into the far corner, so that when I tried to re-fill it (using my left hand, of course), I ended up pouring half of the coolant all over the driveway instead of smoothly into the container. Oh yeah, and those oil stains on the driveway? Umm, I think those might have occurred when I tried to angle the oil-bottle opening in such a way that it would fit snugly into the spout and pour right in. Obviously it didn’t work out quite the way I envisioned. If you use your left hand, some random engine parts get in your way, so that it’s difficult to angle any container perfectly. Sliiiick.

I can’t even write with a ballpoint pen because, as I make my way across the page, I leave behind smudge marks over what I’ve already written, thus rendering my notes illegible. (Thank goodness for Urdu, the one language where I don’t have to worry about smudging.) And why is it that I wasted precious minutes struggling to free a CD from its case this morning (with my left hand), nearly snapping the disc in half during the course of my frustrated efforts…but when I switched to my right hand, the CD popped out oh-so-easily?

I bet you anything, those mean-spirited right-handed people are hiding out underneath my fridge and inside the kitchen cabinets and in the trunk of my car and perhaps even behind my daddy-o’s beloved geraniums…concealing themselves and observing my crazy antics and laughing maniacally at my sorry struggles to determinedly live my left-handed, rebel child life in a world customized to fit the needs of right-handed people. Blah to you all.

For the record, no, I am not a klutz. And no, I don’t have chicken-scratch handwriting (a hallmark of left-handed folks), thank you very much. Alhamdulillah. :)

Yes, I know this was a random, pointless post. I’m just trying to stay awake, yo. But you deserve some sort of an award for having made it this far. Send some du’as my way (please) and, here, write the rest of my research paper for me.

Jenin, Jenin

Loss and laments and letting go, Uncategorized

Today, I viewed what has got to be one of the saddest documentaries ever made.

I stayed late on campus this evening to watch a showing of “Jenin Jenin” as part of Palestine Awareness Week at my university. As soon as the lights dimmed in the lecture hall, I busted out with my notebook and pen. I take notes on everything, ok. Must be that Wannabe English Major in me, or something.

Actually, the sadness wasn’t restricted to just the documentary itself. You want to know what’s sad? The fact that I had to explain to the normally articulate and intelligent hijabi sister next to me what Jenin is. She leaned over to ask, “Do you happen to know what this film is going to be about?” “Yes, it’s about Jenin,” I answered, figuring that was self-explanatory. “Oh,” she said, blankness written all over her face, “Who’s that?” Yes, we are in a sad state, peoples. What are we planning to do about it, is the question.

The attack on the Jenin city and refugee camp in Palestine ended a year ago today. For ten days, the Israelis bombarded Jenin with fighter planes, tanks, snipers and bulldozers. Following the massacre, the documentary-makers interviewed a wide range of surviving civilians in Jenin, varying from young children to feeble old men and women. Filmed solely in Arabic, with English subtitles, the documentary underscores the rubble and destruction left behind by the Israeli army, the strength and defiance of the Palestinian people, the heartbreak and helplessness and utter chaos that reigns in Jenin as a matter of course. “Every time we build a home, they destroy it,” laments an old man. “Every time a child is born, they kill him.”

But the effects of the Arab-Israeli conflict are obviously not restricted to adults alone. One of the most heartbreaking images in the documentary is a series of interviews with a young Palestinian girl. Thin, light-skinned, with a dark fringe of bangs, she can’t be more than eleven or twelve years old. A pretty child, the kind of girl you’d involuntarily smile at if you were to pass her in the street, just because she looks like the quintessential little sister. Yours. Mine. The kind of child who, based just on her looks, should be living a happy-go-lucky and carefree life. What’s jarring is that her eyes are the oldest I’ve ever seen…twin pools of pain and despair and defiance. For someone so young, she exhibits a bitterness and purpose far beyond her years. Her face remains deliberately blank most of the time. It’s her eyes that do most of the talking instead. Eyes that stare you down and bore into you unflinchingly and silently ask you what you’re doing to alleviate her pain. The only time she comes close to breaking down is when she admits, “My greatest wish is to go home.” But even that statement is mixed with defiance, as is everything else she says. She mentions that many of those massacred in Jenin were people she personally knew. “Israel is not the only terrorist!” she flings at the cameraman. “The whole world is the terrorist for allowing Israel to commit such atrocities.”

“What is it about animal rights?” asks one resident of Jenin sardonically. “The Western world is more concerned when an animal is killed than when a human being is.” Another man, ignoring his own advanced age and frailty, chooses to look to the future with hope: “But thanks to the young, and with God’s blessing, we will rebuild this camp whether they like it or not.”

One man sneers bitterly, “So this is what we call the conscience of the world: when the world turns a deaf ear.” Another man, his face lined and strained from watching too many of his people suffer unnecessarily, says wearily, “Hunger is not an issue; we are used to fasting during Ramadan. Smoking, they forced us to give that up in prison. But when a child dies in your arms, this will affect you for life. This is what hurts us most of all.”

Later, speaking about the massacre, he adds, “We made a legend out of our faith and our will, not weapons. I swear to you, not weapons… But what hurt us most was not the Israeli presence and their arsenal, but to be powerless to help a dying person. What hurt us most was that we were abandoned to ourselves while the whole world was watching. Nobody defended us. Nobody.”

My greatest fear these days is that I will wake up one morning and not care anymore. I fear becoming detached or complacent. I fear that someday I may lose my sense of compassion or that I will become desensitized and refuse to concern myself with the state of our world. That would probably be the saddest thing of all. And yet I even wonder about that too… Because, does crying during a documentary make a difference? Does coming home and writing a long post about it do the same? I always tell people, “Never underestimate the power of du’a,” but exactly how many du’as does it take to improve the lives of our brothers and sisters who are suffering all over the world? They undergo so much pain and harshness. They live such bleak lives; that is, if their situations can even truly be called “living.” Every second of their existence on this earth is etched with anguish and blank terror, is fraught with humiliation and horror. And I can sit here and shed a few tears and type out several paragraphs and sympathize with their plight, and tomorrow, knowing me, I’ll probably come back in a state of deliberate denial and ramble on about french fries and chocolate and my own issues (or lack thereof, as I so often laughingly remark).

Every time I get tangled up in this dilemma about not caring enough, I get to thinking about Rachel Corrie. [See my March 23rd post for more.] She cared, and she proved it. Unfortunately, I lack that level of courage and selflessness. Rachel Corrie possessed so much conviction and purposefulness that she endangered her life to support the Palestinian people, because she felt they were struggling for something that was true and just. Did you know that her hometown was Olympia, Washington? Back in the summer of 1989, my family went on a road trip to Canada, driving north through California, Oregon, and Washington State on our way to visit my dad’s cousin in Vancouver. There was a fair or carnival going on in one of the Washington cities we were passing through, so we stopped there for the day and joined in the fun. We have several photos from that day, but the one I remember best is of me astride a white pony on the merry-go-round. I’m wearing a pink-and-white checkered dress and my hair is in danger of falling out of its braid. Two of my front teeth are missing, but nonetheless I’m aiming a wide, gap-toothed grin at my dad and his camera. Eight years old, and I didn’t have a care in the world.

Why am I talking about this? I’m not quite sure. I guess it’s because whenever I thought of Washington State in the past, it brought back memories of the merry-go-round and the trip to Canada. Now, Washington reminds me of Rachel Corrie instead, and it’s interesting to think that she grew up relatively close to me, just a couple years apart, probably with much of the same carefree upbringing as I experienced. And I can’t help but wonder, how did she gain so much courage and strength of conviction? How is it that an American girl like Rachel Corrie, so like myself albeit non-Muslim, formulated her ideals and strengthened her resolve and actually—ACTIVELY—attempted to make a difference in the world?

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jenin,_Jenin
Jenin Jenin @ www.arabfilm.com
(Check out the above links for more info about Jenin and the documentary)

I was doing some reading for my religious studies …

Rockstar and Crescent

I was doing some reading for my religious studies class (Islamic Scriptures) and came across this passage from a commentary by Neal Robinson, called Discovering the Qur’an: A Contemporary Approach to a Veiled Text.

Subhan’Allah this is sooo beautiful. I hope y’all enjoy it too, and maybe juxtapose it with your personal experience as a means of perfecting your own approach to the Qur’an:

What I have said about the respect which ordinary Muslims show for the Qur’an, and about the dynamic appearance of the written text, is epitomized by this extract from a meditation by Hasan Aksari. He was moved to write it when a young friend of his told him about his mother. The mother had never been taught how to read, yet before dawn she would rise and kindle a lamp, unfurl her prayer mat and remove her Qur’an from its green silk wrapping.

For a long time she would allow her eyes to rest on the two open pages before her. The letters in green ink from right to left, row beneath row, each shape mysteriously captivating, each dot above or below a letter an epitome of the entire scripture, each assembly of letters a group of dervishes raising their hands in zikr, each gap between two enigmatic shapes a leap from this world into the next, and each ending the advent of the day of Resurrection.

She would thus see a thousand images in the procession of that script and would move from vision to vision.

After spending much time in just looking at the open book, she would then, with strange light glowing on her face, lift her right hand and with the right finger start touching the letters of each line, then another line, to the end of the page. What transpired between the book and that touch, and what knowledge passed, without any mediation of conscious thought, directly into her soul, only the Qur’an and the strange reciter could know. The entire world stood still at this amazing recital without words, without meaning, without knowledge. With that touch a unity was established between her and the Qur’an. At that moment she had passed into a state of total identity with the word of God. Her inability to read the scripture was her ability to hear once again: Read! Read, in the name of thy Lord.

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.