Where in the World Is Al-Maraya?

Thus far, I've been lucky enough to have visited the U.S. (Home Sweet Home), Canada (from the east to the west coasts), Mexico (crossed this border from California, Arizona, and Texas), Egypt, Denmark (the cleanest city streets I have ever seen in my life have to be in Copenhagen), Italy, England (I love London), France (not too impressed with Paris -- way too much dog poo on the streets for me, yuck!), Malaysia (beautiful country, friendly people, wretched weather during monsoon season!), Japan (everything is so compact here!), and Germany.

Thanks for the fun idea, Honorary Arab!
create your own visited country map

Passing the Buck

While basking in the glow of preparing syllabi for the start of a new semester which commences, for me, in less than two weeks, I took a stroll through the blog roll and happened upon a comment to one of PM's brilliant posts that literally sent shivers down my spine.

Questioning a ruler is only acceptable if done so by knowledgeable people and only on issues where it concerns laws which force Muslims to not be able to submit in all peace to our creator.

Being a firm believer that ignorance is a curable disease yet armed with the full knowledge that I quit medical school in favor of pursuit of studies in the humanities, I humbly acknowledge that the single dose of medication I have to offer may not be enough to cure this individual's ailment; therefore, I would ask other physicians and physicians in training to suggest treatments as well.

Considering that we have examples in the sunnah of ordinary people questioning even the Prophet (saws), a practice that continued under the righteous leadership of Abu Bakr al-Siddiq, Umar ibn al-Khattab, Uthman ibn Affan, and Ali ibn Abu Talib, the ignorance (not as in stupidity, rather as in lack of accurate information) of the anonymous commentator is obvious. If the average, uneducated, humble believer could question the Prophet (saws) of all people, what on earth would make this person think that only "knowledgeable people" can question a leader? This comment is a classic example of the blurring of culture and faith that troubles me so seriously.

History has shown us time and time again that a when a despot first assumes power, his first order of business is to free himself of the intellectuals as they pose the greatest threat to his regime with their questions and critical thinking. With the elimination of the thinkers and questioners, the despot can instill fear in his people. And fear is number one on the despot's list of "tool[s] for keeping the people in line and not questioning their . . . leaders" (PM's World). Herein lies the rub and, I fear, the greatest problem among Muslims in general.

We are all too willing to give up the responsibility that we have to "Seek knowledge even unto China." It is so much easier to let the "knowledgeable people" do our thinking for us. Why should we put our precious grey matter to use perusing texts, analyzing words, deciphering meanings, gaining greater understanding, putting two and two together for ourselves when there are others to whom we could just as easily pass that buck?

UmmJekyll and Sister Hyde

In the brief time that I have been both a blurker and a blogger, one issue in particular has troubled me considerably. I've pondered it, tried to understand it, and yet remain completely puzzled by it. Why do so many Western women who revert to Islam and marry men from the Middle East feel compelled to reinvent themselves -- to cast aside much of what makes them who they are as individuals? (This may also be true for women who marry Muslims from other parts of the world, I don't know; my experience has been with Arabs married to women from North and South America and Europe, so my observations come from that perspective.)

"Worship none but Allah; treat with kindness your parents" (2:83)

If the name that your parents gave you does not have a meaning that is patently un-Islamic, why change it? A name change does not make you a better Muslim, but it can further isolate you from your already confused parents whom, as a Muslim, you have a duty to obey and care for (unless they demand that you do something contrary to your deen).

"O mankind! We created you from a single pair of a male and a female, and made you into nations and tribes, that ye may know each other. Verily the most honoured of you in the sight of Allah is the most righteous of you. And Allah has full knowledge and is well acquainted with all things." (49:13)

Your cultural experiences are different from your husband's and vice-versa, but that does not mean that you should abandon yours for his just because he comes from the part of the world whence came the Prophet (saws). So much culture has become imbued in the Islam of the Middle East that the average person can hardly distinguish between the two. One of the beauties of practicing Islam in a country that doesn't have such a long cultural history is that the boundary between faith and culture is not blurred.

And why is it that we suddenly forget that most of us never even heard of things like mehshi, kawerah, molokhiya, konafa, lift, fasolia, macarona bechamel, or babaghanoosh until we got married, but they have become daily staples of our diets? What happened to things like pot roast, mashed potatoes and gravy, macaroni salad, grilled steak and mushrooms, biscuits and gravy, creamed corn, key lime pie, and fried chicken? Did your taste buds change once the marriage contract was signed?

We are frequently cautioned that Islam is the middle path, yet like a pendulum, we have a tendency to swing back and forth from one extreme to the next without settling in the center where we should be. Our husbands are important and we should strive to make them happy; however, common sense tells us that an unhappy wife stands very little chance of making a happy husband! Misery loves company, or so I've heard. . .

New Beginnings

Eid Mubarak and Happy New Year, everyone!

As the week, the month, and finally the year gently passed into the realm of memory, giving birth to the hope of better things to come, I breathed a sigh of relief and said alhamdulillah for new beginnings. How blessed we are to have yet another chance to edit, if you will, the next chapter in our life's book!

The past several days have been a haze of cross-country phone calls as my family and I sit vigil for my mother's youngest brother who has been in a drug induced coma and on a respirator at a hospital on the other side of the country from where I live. My uncle, a Viet Nam vet who was held captive by the Viet Cong, suffers from a breathing disorder caused by a combination of factors including exposure to Agent Orange. This once rough and tumble airman now struggles with every breath he takes. As a result his breaths are too shallow to allow the carbon dioxide to escape, so it built up in his body and began to poison him. Alhamdullilah, my uncle received a new beginning yesterday morning when the carbon dioxide levels in his blood had been reduced to a level low enough that he could be weaned off the respirator, awakened from the coma, and returned to the land of the coherent.

Despite going fully prepared to do battle with my very kind neuro-othamologist last week about my decision to forego a second surgery, it turns out that the eye is correcting itself to the old position, alhamdullilah! It's not quite where it needs to be yet, but the kind doctor suggested that we wait until the 7 week follow-up to see how it looks before deciding if a second correction is needed. Alhamdullilah, 2006 ended with only two surgeries!

I'm ready for a new beginning, insh'Allah. Put a period at the end of this sentence. Finish the paragraph. Close the chapter. Turn the page.

Check Ups and Check Outs

This afternoon marks the one week post-op eye check up appointment and although the wonderful neuro-opthamologist has decided that the surgery will more than likely need to be repeated tonight, I have decided to check out. Nope, not another surgery for me in 2006. Why? Remember my post about the number 3? Call me superstitious, call me silly, call me anything you want, but this would mean surgery number 3, and I am in no way prepared emotionally or psychiologically for yet another surgery right now. If yet another surgery is needed, I'll deal with the goofy vision until spring break and deal with it then, insh'Allah. Alhamdullilah, I've dealt with much worse and been none the worse for the wear.

Cleaning House

Ok, I took the plunge and switched to the new Blogger a couple of days ago, so I decided to try my hand at gussying up the blog this evening. I've changed the template umpteen times, played with colors and fonts, added and removed links. Pink is not really my color but since I didn't find a purple template that suited my taste, I settled one a layout that I liked. It's time for a change, yet I'm not sure that brown is the best way to go either. Aargh -- if only graphics design were my thing, I'd design myself the cutest looking blog template anyone ever did see, that's what I'd do! In the meantime, I'll be thankful for the freebies that are available and say alhamdullilah that someone else was kind enough to share his creative skills with those of us who have none, LOL!

I am pleased to report that the eye is showing some signs of improvement, alhamdulillah. At least some things have gone back to their singular forms most of the time. Peripheral vision is still terrible because I see double-double most of the time; however, it comes in really handy when there's a box of chocolates sitting in front of me, LOL! Mmmmmmmm........

Seeing Double

Like a dingbat, I forgot to date the update to the last post, so I have to post again to let you know that I posted it today, December 16. Duh!

I had surgery on my right eye two days ago and am now seeing double, literally. The surgery was supposed to fix a wandering eye problem, but it looks like I will be going back under the knife on the 26th if the problem doesn't fix itself by then. According to the neuro-opthamologist, less than 1% of the patients who have Chiari and have this corrective surgery have a worsening of the double vision and as luck would have it, I never ever do anything the easy way, alhamdulillah. My eye is currently filled with blood and looks disgusting, but I suppose it could be much worse. At least when I look straight ahead I only see two of everything -- when I look to the side I see three, four, five, even six of everything!

And so it goes. . .

I HATE the Number 3

(I started this post on December 10, got seriously depressed and couldn't finish it until now.)

It's not often that I dislike something strongly enough to say that I genuinely hate it, but I hate the number 3. Bad things seem to come in triads, in triplicates. This week, this month, this year, my life is filled with overwhelming sadness thanks to the number 3, and I'm really struggling. September 9 (9-9) and December 12 (12-12), three months and three days apart, 30 years ago, I lost the two most important women in my young life. My maternal grandmother (age 55) perished in an automobile accident while trying to get home from vacation to be with my mother because my father was critically ill and not expected to live. 3 months and 3 days later, my mother (age 37) died suddenly and unexpectedly. They were buried 3 months and 3 days apart. In 3 months and 3 days, I lost the two most important women in my young life and that loss turned my world upside down in ways from which I have never fully recovered and probably never will. In a few days, I will have spent 30 years of my life without the most important person I ever knew in it.

Whomever coined that silly old adage that time heals all wounds was a liar of the first order! Time does not heal all wounds; it only makes them less visible to others. After 30 years, I still long for my mother. Not a day passes that I don't think of her and wish that she could reap some of the rewards of what I have accomplished in my life. She was my best teacher, for her love and encouragement laid the foundation on which the remainder of my character was built. She taught me manners, morals, and ethics. We had very little money when I was young, but she taught me the importance of sharing what we did have and to be grateful for it, no matter how much or little it was. Now that I am in a much better position financially, I long to share that with her, to have the opportunity to make her life easier, to show her how well I learned the lessons she taught me. I long to share secrets with her, to hold her, to hug her, to cry with her, to laugh with her, to love her, to see her, to hear her. Every day, every single day for the past thirty years, I have wanted my mother. No, time does not heal all wounds, but it does help ease pain into memories. And I have some beautiful memories of my mother. I have seventeen years filled with glorious memories of the most amazing person I have ever had the fortune to know.

My husband knows her because I have shared with him every memory that I hold. He has "seen" her dancing around the living room floor in her emerald green bedroom slippers and has "heard" her sing "Delilah" with Tom Jones at the top of her voice. He has "tasted" her pot roast and knows that with the invention of the roasting bag, bless her heart, she finally learned how to cook. My friends have "met" my mom and know that mine was the house my friend came when she ran away after her own mother told her that she couldn't listen to Elton John's music any more because he dressed like the devil (actually, he dressed like a duck when we saw him in concert but to my friend's mom, they were the same). My mom is the guilty party who got us started listening to Elton John (and Queen, Rod Stewart, Deep Purple, Creedence Clearwater Revival, and several others for that matter!), so she had to explain to my friend's mother how EJ's dress was just for show and that my friend wasn't a bad person for listening to his music and that if she would listen to it with her daughter like she listened to it with me, she might be able to bond better with her daughter. Mother agreed, picked up daughter, and their relationship blossomed. My friends have taken my mother's advice to heart and work to communicate better with their own mothers mostly, I think, because they see how I yearn to have a mother dispensing advice, wanted or not.

I have outlived my mother by ten years so far. She was only 37 when she left this life. For thirty years I have felt the hole that her death left in my life. For thirty years there has been a void in my heart that nothing and nobody could ever fill. Memories of her flit in and out of that void, frequently warming my heart, often bringing tears, always echoing the emptiness there, forever reminding me that once upon a time I knew the most perfect love a human being can ever experience -- the love between a mother and her child.