Simply Jenan

Teens, Lock-Ins, and Park 51

2010-09-09T21:39:00.005-04:00

By Julie Maxwell, a close friend and fellow True Blood enthusiast...

I'm not a writer, I’m an observer. I watch interactions unfold between people. I enjoy sitting back and noticing the small things no one seems to take the time to notice these days. I listen, I react, and I give advice. Rarely do I decide to speak up but it seems the events unfolding in the world around us have awakened a voice I try to keep quiet.

I’m a Christian youth minister. I work with 7th to 12th graders. I talk to them about their problems, I laugh with them and I walk with them on their faith journey. I don’t talk about myself or my views and frankly I like it that way. The youth I work with are bombarded with so many opinions and voices that I am shocked to find they still can speak with their own voice and think with their own minds. The depth of our young people’s understanding of the world around us is astonishing.

Recently we held a lock-in at our church, where the youth get to run around until they are exhausted and make new friends and eat way too many sugar laden snacks. As we were playing a large group game, one of the older youth looked at me and said “I just don’t understand why people are having such a hard time with this New York thing”. I asked if she was speaking of Park51 also known as the Cordoba House and she just nodded and looked sad. I told her I didn’t understand either and she asked what we could do. What she could do. What we should do. I didn’t have an answer.

I went home and I realized I needed an answer. I needed to let the people in my life know what is happening is not right. What is happening could be bigger than any of us imagine if we don’t put a stop to the vitriol hate and ignorance spreading before us. With that thought I realized I knew what could help. Education. Constant, consistent education about what the Cordoba House is, who Imam Feisal is but more importantly, who the Muslims that I consider friends are. The similarities we share, the differences we hold but more importantly the humanness we posses. For to me, that is what may really be going on - that people can’t grasp the humanness of the other and instead of debunking their own ignorance, they decide to label the unknown as evil and call it a day.

I do not think we have an easy battle ahead of us but we what we do need to do is listen. We need to stop hearing what we have in our hearts and listen to those who don’t understand why hating Muslims or blaming Muslims is wrong. We need to talk to each other and not over each other. We need to have conversations that are hard and frustrating and hope that at the end of the time we spend arguing and understanding, we come out together with love in our hearts for our friends and neighbors who realize their ignorance. By listening and respecting, we can break down barriers that cause people to listen and respect in return.

I have faith in the goodness of humanity and I will not back down or let that faith grow quiet. I’m ready to ask the tough questions and am prepared to give my answers. It’s time to speak out and speak proudly and speak humbly. We have a lot of work to do.

How To Be An American Muslim

2010-09-08T09:12:00.004-04:00

By Hafsa Arain. Originally published in Threshold 2009, DePaul University's art, literature and multimedia magazine.

You are ten years old, and your mom tells you that you cannot wear shorts anymore. You don’t really understand why, but you listen to her anyway. In sixth grade, you have to get a special note to get out of swimming.

“What for?” asks the gym teacher, a buff man with graying hair.

“Religious reasons,” you say.

In ninth grade, you are sitting in World Cultures class, and the teacher asks you how to spell “Qur’an”.

“K-O-R-A-N, right? Koran?” she asks, staring you in the eyes.

When there are hot dogs for lunch, you pack your own from home. During Ramadan, you don’t eat anything during the day. When everyone asks you why, you just pretend you’re not hungry.

“Are you sure you don’t want some of my sandwich?” they ask nicely.
You grow taller. Your hair is longer, blacker than it was when you were younger. You begin to notice your skin color, its darkness. You resent it. Everyone else starts drinking, starts dating, starts smoking up. You can’t do any of that. You can’t go to the Homecoming dance, not even with your friends because they’re all wearing sleeveless dresses and you’d look weird with a sweater on.

You’re in eleventh grade when the boy who sits next to you in English stands shyly by your locker after class one day. You pretend not to be flattered when he stammers while he speaks, and tells you that you’re smart and interesting. He smiles at you, and you check your watch hesitantly. He asks you what you’re doing on Saturday night, and you pretend you’re not going to be watching a movie with your sister. He wants to keep talking.

“I’ve got to catch the bus,” you say suddenly. He frowns before walking away, and you feel awful. You want to go, because it would make you just like everyone else. But you can’t go, because you’re not like everyone else. When you tell your sister, you pretend it wasn’t such a big deal, except it was. Because it was the first time it happened, and it was also the last time. It was the last time because when you grow up, you tell boys they can’t ask you out unless they’re Muslim, too.

When you are at home, you don’t pray five times a day, because it never feels right. You don’t talk about being Muslim, you just are. But you are not Muslim like your God-fearing grandmother, who lives half the world away, fingering her prayer beads and reading the Qur’an. You want her instead of your dad, who has grand existential theories about life and religion, but you can’t speak to her that well because you speak English and she doesn’t. So your whole construct of her is of everything not said between you two.

When you graduate high school, it feels liberating. You feel older and wiser, and surer of yourself. You move into the dorms in college, and you feel free as you wave your parents away from your life. And then you see the beer runs, the fake IDs, and suddenly you can’t participate in college either.

You sit in your classes, and you learn that race is social construct. That race isn’t the color of your skin. White professors profess in front of discussion based classrooms, and a bunch of white heads nod in agreement. You nod, too, but you feel robbed of something. Only you can’t place it very well.

When you get your fake ID, you go to bars and clubs, and you drink Diet Coke. When boys don’t hit on you because you are sober, and Pakistani, and fully clothed, you pretend not to care. You laugh with your friends, but it’s more like laughing at them because they can’t say your name after an hour into the party. You hold their hair back when they throw up in the bathroom at the end of the night.

“You’re so cool for not drinking,” they say at the dingy bar, “I really respect that.”

You look back at them with confusion. They say this as they take sips from their mixed drinks, or slurping their champagne. Ten minutes ago, they were walking to the White Hen, excited about pre-gaming.

When you go home on the weekends, you don’t tell your parents that you were at a party last night. Even when you only drank the leftover cranberry juice everyone else was mixing into their vodka. You don’t tell them about the knee-length skirt you wore once, and felt guilty about for a month. You want God, but He’s hard to find in the sour smell of alcohol and overwhelming guilt of lies. Your life is full of lies. You lie to your friends, who don’t think your left out at all. You lie to your mom and dad. You lie to your grandma when she asks you if everything is okay. Sometimes, you want it to be easy. But then your grandma tells you that it’s never easy. It’s always hard, being a Muslim.

When you read the Qur’an, you are crying. And you want to remember everything you did wrong, but you did it all for a reason and you can’t forget the reasons. Because you still want the same things you did in high school, but you want to move on. You want to grow up.

You don’t want to be American anymore – anything else will do, because when you watch the footage from the September 11th attacks, you feel guilty, even though you didn’t do anything wrong. When people call you a terrorist because you’re walking down the street with your aunt who covers her hair, you feel like yelling but it doesn’t feel right to say anything. You have a strange taste in your mouth – it feels metallic and the knot in your throat grows but you don’t want to cry on the street in front of every body, and you don’t belong anymore.

But you never belonged to anything – the mini-skirts, the tank tops, the hot dogs, and mispronunciations of your name. You didn’t belong in Pakistan, where you can barely speak to anyone, and you feel strange for wearing jeans and t-shirts. You don’t belong here, where everyone treats you like a visitor, but you’re not a visitor. You are permanent.

You feel alone. So you write poetry and short stories and you read books. You write pages and pages about being different, and your friends call you emo. You write about the social constructions of race, and how just a simple social construction has changed your life. You read books by Jhumpa Lahiri, and you feel centered. You read poetry by Rumi, and you remember why you call yourself a Muslim in the first place. You watch the world through train windows, through TV screens, through Internet pages. You read about Israel and Palestine, and it makes you angry. You read about the Afghanistan-Pakistan border and it makes you furious.

It all makes you furious – the fact that you’re Muslim and not anything else. Because everyone else can fit in just fine, because they can drink whatever they want and date whoever they want, and be whatever they want. You wish this piece could be about whatever you want, but it can’t be because this is who you are. Because you have to stand for something, be the representative of the idea. You can have to talk write specific things, say specific things, and be a specific person because you are an American Muslim.

And now, you’re told that you must reflect and think about the past. You have reflected, and you have seen where you don’t belong. You have seen everyone clearly beside yourself. And now, you look straight, forward into the future, and you welcome it with open hands. You take with you your Muslim identity and step into the light, to a place where you will finally belong, if only because you made it so.

Let's Talk!

2010-09-07T13:03:00.011-04:00

This blog is changing. Instead of writing about random musings, I've decided to focus my efforts on one message: Muslim Americans are part of the pluralistic family that is America.

Now that message may seem quite simplistic and not particularly interesting to you. One look at a newspaper or new channel will speak to it's urgency. Anti-Muslim biotry is growing around us, it is clearly evident in the events happening around Park 51, and at mosques in cities, suburbs and small towns across America.

We can react to this growing sentiment is many different ways. We can be passive and wait for it to pass. We can ignore it and not acknowledge its existence (until it comes for you). We can pack our bags and go somewhere else. Or we can speak up, take action, and create real community with our neighbors.

I've decided to speak up. Here's my a part of my story of what it means to be Muslim & American.

I grew up with an Indian passport and a home address in Doha, Qatar. One of many expatriate families of South Asian origin in the Middle East. Home was neither here or there. Sure my family was Indian, but my values came from growing up in a city filled with people from all over the world. Friday morning breakfast (Sunday morning equivalent in a Muslim country) at our house consisted of filafel, hummus, pita, eggs, fried haloumi, and foul (mashed dried fava beans cooked with olive oil and garlic). We didn't always eat curry. We didn't always dress in traditional clothes. English is and always has been my first language.

So for the first 15 some years of my life, I didn't really have a place to call home. Chennai, the souther-Indian city my family was from, was alien and uncomfortable. My brother and I stood out when we went to the "homeland" for summer holidays, with our "NRI" (Non-Resident Indian) accents and lifestyle. Everything was different. Our "Indian-ess" was different from India itself. On the other hand, Qatar was a place we could never permanently call home. Getting Qatari citizenship status was not a possible option for most expats, and with no options for Universities or higher education in general, my time in Qatar seemed to have an expiration date.

Apparently, my father had seen this coming. While visiting his brother in Chicago in the early 80's, my parents applied for greencard to migrate to the United States. But given that we hadn't heard ANYTHING from the U.S. Government by 1990, my family had begun preparations for my graduation from highschool to mark our move back to the "homeland" aka India.

And then it happened. The 1992 bomb blasts in Mumbai and riots in many cities that marked the beginning of a new chapter of communal violence between the Hindu and Muslim communities. I remember watching the news as events in Mumbai unfolded, I remember that queasy feeling that filled my insides as we waited for updates on our friends stranded in their Mumbai homes, hoping that the mobs wouldn't come looking for them.

Two years later we received notice of our approved green card status. Within a couple of years, I found myself as a Junior at Carl Sandburg Highschool, taking A.P. English and joining the speech team. It took me 3 months to "Americanize" my accent, to learn what "homecoming" was, and to figure out my place in the jungle we call an American High School. At Sandburg, I met Indians who were more "Indian" than me. I met Muslims who were more "Muslim" than me.

It was America that taught me the most about myself. Here I learned to put together my Indian-ness, my Muslim-ness, my secular-ness, and more. More importantly, all of these came together to form my American-ness.

Today my insides are again filled with a certain queasy feeling. There are voices in America that tell me that I do not belong here. Then there are voices who speak to the spirit and community that is America - you will hear from them here.

Stay tuned for a daily post from friends & family, from Muslims, Christians, Jews, Hindus and others, from humanists and atheists, from students and professionals. Let's talk. Let's discuss. Let's together make America a better place for generations to come.

Real Vacation: Day 2, Bio Bay

2010-05-19T12:51:00.002-04:00

Ok, so continuing yesterday's saga...

After our discovery of the Muslims, Ali and I came home, changed and headed to the bio bay. Ok so what exactly is the bio bay? Well its this teeny tiny organism that is in the water, like hundreds of thousands of them. And in the dark, they glow on contact. According to our guide, there's about 300 - 700 thousand of these lil' guys in a gallon of water!

So, Mosquito Bay (they call it that for a reason) - is a protect environment, so the only way to take this tour is through kayaks or an electric boat. We decided to be brave and go with the kayaks. Now I was nervous, I mean me and Ali on one kayak? The guide assured us that it would not be an issue... so off we went.

There were about 14 of us, all couples. We parked our cars in the beach parking lot, and then loaded up in a van. It took us about 20 minutes to drive to the bay. There was no paved road, just dirt, the forest, the pot holes, and us. Once we got to the bay, we loaded up in our kayaks and starting making our way to the center (and deepest) part of the bay.

Mosquito Bay is about 8 times more saltier than the regular ocean. And you could smell it right when you get there. The evening began to become darker by the time we got to the center of the bay. Now I was really nervous. I mean, I love to swim. But swimming in an ocean full of creatures in the dark, is a whole other story. But I couldn't resist, so eventually I jumped in. And I'm SO glad that I did. There's no way to describe this experience except to do it! You're in the water, its pitch black, and everytime you move you're arms of legs, the water around you glows. It really glows! (Google the pics of it and you'll see, it actually looks like that!) What's more amazing is when you lift your arm or chest just slightly above the water, you see them individually - it'll tiny glowing specs all over you!

Now getting back on the kayak, well that was not so fun. It took all my strength PLUS Ali pushing my butt to get me back on that stupid thing. But finally, I was on, and we paddled back to shore.

It was a bit scary, but totally worth it! Totally.

Real Vacation: Day 2, Beaches, Burns, Bugs, and Bonds

2010-05-18T23:52:00.003-04:00

It was not raining today. And thank GOD for that! So here it is:

After a refreshing nights sleep, we had only 2 things on our "to do" list for today: beaches and bio bay. And let me tell you, there is a lot that happened between those two "to do's".

So around 11, we head out to explore the beaches Vieques is famous for. Untouched, serene, and most importantly secluded. So we drove across the island (a whole 6 miles) to the Wildlife Refuge and started beach scoping.

First stop, Red Beach - although very beautiful, it was pretty crowded today. And by crowded, I mean there were about 10 people on it. So we kept going. Next stop, "Secret" Beach (that's what they call it on the map!) - now this was a beach I fell instantly in love with. Beautiful blue waters, wonderful calm waves, great shade, and mostly importantly, completely empty (well almost, one couple sat about a football field away from us). This was it. So we set up camp in an almost private alcove and relaxed away. The next two hours were bliss. Swimming, reading, lunching, and sun bathing. Need I say more? Of course the one thing that went wrong is that we didn't nearly put on enough sun block, so Ali and I are both mighty pink at the moment.

After about three hours, we decided to scale the rest of the beach before heading home to freshen up for our bio bay tour. So we drove around to the Blue Beach, the Orchid Beach, all beautiful, all amazingly secluded. If you are a woman who wears hijab, this is the island to go vacationing on.

On our drive home, we passed by that store I told you about yesterday - you know, the one with the Hijabi Woman and moon n' crescent on the sign? So we decide to stop and take a look. We go in, there's a couple women in there, and a LOT of shoes. So I ask the lady at the counter, "Is this your store?" She doesn't speak very much English, but manages to tell us that "Ratiba" is at her other store called "Washington" which is down the street. So we go down the street, and find the store. I walk in while Ali looks for parking. There's an old man sitting by the counter, he looks like a teddy bear with full white beard. "Assalamu Alaikum," he says, smiling. "Wa'alikum Salaam, Is Ratiba here?" He smiles, motions to say that she's coming. Then he says in Arabic, "Do you speak Arabi?" No, I reply. There's another lady at the counter, who speaks Engligh, I tell her that we saw the sign on the other store, and wanted to stop by and say hello. Just then, Ratiba drives up, and the teddy bear Ammu (that's what I'll call him from now on, which means uncle in Arabic) goes to park the car while she comes in. Ratiba takes one look at me and smiles. She recognizes me. But from where?

Flashback: On the way to Puerto Rico, our flight out of Chicago was delayed by 2 hours. While waiting for the flight, Ali and I sat across this woman and her son. They spoke in Arabic, smiled, and greeted us, like is normative for Muslims to do, even when you don't know one another. This was Ratiba and she was on our flight from Puerto Rico.

So once Ratiba and I have figured out how we know each other. We get to the details. She is a Puerto Rican convert, married to a Palestinian, Ammu. They have eight kids and have lived in Vieques for 37 years. They are the only Muslim family in town. Every friday they take the ferry to the main island for Jummah prayers. They are A.D.O.R.A.B.L.E.

Of their eight children, a couple live in Chicago. We inquired which suburbs or neighborhood they lived in. Ratiba can't remember the name, so decided to call her daughter, Hanaan. In a quick conversation over the phone, we discover that she lives in the suburb of... wait for this one... FRANKFORT. Yes, that's right, the boo foo lil' town of Frankfort about 30 miles south of Chicago. And she lives about a mile away from my parents. Um, yea. I don't even know what to call this... fate? Karma? Who knows!

True to Arab hospitality, they invite us over for dinner. So that's where we'll be tomorrow night!

More on the bio bay tour tomorrow, I'm too tired to type up that saga tonight... see ya!

Real Vacation

2010-05-17T21:07:00.005-04:00

As I type this right now, I can hear a hundred different sounds outside my window. The wind, the bugs, and the waves. That's pretty much was Vieques sounds like all the time.

Ali and I flew into San Juan last night. This morning after an hour long cab ride and an hour long ferry ride, we finally walked on the island called Vieques. I was warned before I got here about the roosters, chickens and wild horses everywhere, but it still surprises me.

We were met at the ferry terminal by Ian, our gracious host, and drove to get our rental car. After unloading and freshening up at our fabulous "hotel" - actually its more like a little complex of condo units called "At The Waves" - we were off exploring the city in search of food and supplies.

As we were driving around looking for the super market, I saw the strangest thing. A store, with clothes and shoes mainly, a lady at the counter. The store front had a sign, in spanish of course, so I have no idea what it said. Next to the writing, theres a woman, covered in hijab along side a crescent and star. I did a double take. A Muslim clothing store, here on Vieques where only 10,000 people live? Seemed kind of unreal. I plan to swing by them tomorrow, so more on that later.

Ali and I finally did find the grocery store. We parked a block away, and started walking. As we cross the street, a truck that was passing by us stop. And the man driving motions for Ali to come near him. I was nervous, what the heck does he want with us? And then I hear the dude say to Ali:

"You speak spanish?" Ali: "NO." Man: "You feel comfortable here. If you need anything ask people." Ali: "Ok, thanks man." Man: "It's good to have you here, brother." And then he drove off.

Umm. What? Yea that's what I was thinking. Now that was a sharp contrast to the hospitality we received at a local restaurant later. First, let me tell you, this place was FILLED with American expats. I mean like the place was filled with people from all over the states. There was not one Puerto Rican in that room. And that room was cold. Just a hello and what would you like to eat. After trying to make conversation for a few minutes, I gave up. Thank god we had our order to go.

So we came back to our little prelude to heaven, and inhaled our lunch/dinner before we went for a walk along the beach in front of our place. It's the northern side of the island, so the sea is rougher, and the beach is pebbley. The sun was just beginning to set, and time was coming in. It was one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen. But I have a feeling, I'm going to see a lot of those this week.

More tomorrow... hopefully we actually get to swim on a beach (God willing) if there is no rain!

Stuck in a moment

2009-07-01T21:40:00.002-04:00

Alright, so I've yet again decided that it is time for me to write. And write often. The last year has been one of those moments I just got stuck in. The routine became more than a routine, it became a lifestyle. Wake up at 5:30-6:00am, drive to the south side where Ali would drop me off at the Red line before heading to his school, then I would take the train to Greek town where the IFYC office is located. Listening to my ipod, I hoped to get a seat every morning, so that I wouldn't have to stand for the 30 minute ride into the city. In the evenings, Ali would get off of school at 4:00pm and come get me around 5:30pm. Then we would sit through rush hour traffic until we got home about an hour later. Needless to say, I never have much energy to do anything on weeknights anymore.

Makes you tired just reading about it doesn't it?

Well, today was one of those mornings. I was sitting in the third car of the train and looking out the window to the jammed expressway when an unexpected song began to play in my ears. It was "These are the days" by 10,000 Maniacs. I was instantly transported to my A.P. English class, senior year at Carl Sandburg High School.

It was the first day of classes in August 1997. I was nervous. Another year to get through in suburban Orland Park, IL where my family had migrated to just over a year ago. Most of that day was uneventful. To be honest I don't remember much of it. There was something different about 7th hour. As I sat down at my desk, I started to look around the room. A few familiar faces, a few knew ones. Mr. B was sitting on his desk in the far corner of the room, guitar in hand. For a moment I hesitated, wondering if I was in the wrong class. This was A.P. English, wasn't it? As I pulled out my schedule to check the room number, Mr. B welcomed us. It was A.P. English, and I will remember it as the best high school course I ever had.

That sunny afternoon in 1997, we began our senior year with song "These are the days" by the 10,000 Maniacs. It wasn't the first time I had heard it. But as the lyrics went on, a sense of confidence spread inside of me, and the walls of that class became my sanctuary for the rest of that year.

Listening to this song on the train again this morning, reminded of that sense of being content and confident I had once discovered in that classroom.

I long to return to that place again.

It's been a while...

2007-11-28T12:28:00.001-05:00

...since i've written... well, to say the least my life has taken many significant shifts in the past few months. The most of important of them has been falling in love, with my friend, my husband, Ali.

Many things still haven't changed. My mother still bugs me about how I'm not fully "qualified" in the kitchen to be a wife, I'm still obsessed with facebook, I still like chocolate, and cab drivers still ask me where I'm really really from.

Old Books, Old Stories

2007-09-15T20:59:00.000-04:00

I collect used children's books. I bought my first one in Minneapolis last october as a birthday present to myself. It was a 1932 edition of the "Secret Garden". Since then I have slowly gathered small collection of used children's books from various towns/cities that I've travelled to. A couple weekends ago, my friends and I went white water rafting in Wisconsin. On our way home from the river, we stopped in a little antique store that also sold home-made fudge. I think we mostly stopped there for the fudge, but as soon as we walked in the door, I noticed the 2 shelves of used children's books in the corner. After a few minutes of browsing through every major disney publication from the 1970's, I finally found it: Andersen's Fairy Tales.

It is a collection of Hans Christian Andersen's stories. The once green cover now has a faded grey tinge to it. The binding is coming apart, the pages have faded to a yellow tea-stained shade. The red color of the letters on the cover still holds some of its original brightness.

I decided to flip through the book today, maybe read a few stories. For most part I found most of my childhood favorites except the Little Mermaid, which was not included in this collection. I also found two umexpected surprises - newspaper cuttings from the local newpaper of Amberg, WI. The first was a poem by Charles L. H. Wagner called "Mother". The second was an announcement and it read:

"Miss Jeanette Huebner has been engaged to teach in the Amber school in place of Mrs. Edward Retor who has resigned and will move to Davenport, Iowa, where her husband will take a course in the Palmer school of chiropractic."

This is part of the excitement of buying a used book - it is filled with stories other than the ones in print. I wonder if the two cut outs are related. I wonder who the owner of this book was, and how they were accquainted with Miss Jeanette or Mrs. Edward. Perhaps the child who owned this book was a student of one of those teachers, or maybe a family member? I will never know, but a part of their story now resides in my suburban home some 50 years later.

There is no printing date on this book. But after doing a little bit of research on the company that printed it, I've figured out that it is older than 1949. For now I leave you with the peom I found within it's pages:

Mother

The years are silvering her hair,
But not her soul;
Her eyes reveal the youth still there
And in control.

The years make faltering her feet,
But not her mind;
For wisdom's words she voices sweet,
With love inclined.

The years have robbed her cheeks of bloom,
But her bright smile
Still drives away the clouds and gloom
That age defile.

The years have stolen lips of red,
But oh, her voice,
Yet colorful, brings joy instead -
By far my choice.

The tyrant years have failed indeed
To steal her charms;
I'm still a child, and years recede
When in her arms.

Along the Peshtigo River

2007-09-09T19:58:00.000-04:00

The stars were crowded in the sky, miles of flowing black velvet studded with twinkling jewels. I stared up at Cassiopeia through the car window, her imperfect jagged "w" shined brighter in this sky. When we finally found our cabin, it was almost midnight. There are no street lights in these parts, and in the shadow of a moonless sky, it was near impossible to read the small street signs.

And then I heard it. As soon as I stepped out of the car, the sound of the gushing Peshtigo, whispering secret messages to the stones in its path. It's the kind of sound that could fill anyone with wonder. It was a constant calming sound, like the rhythm of dhikr mending a broken heart.

We spent the day white water rafting on the Menominee River, some forty minutes away from our cabin. (another entry on the actual rafting experience will follow...) Upon our return, it was time to explore the area around us, so we set out hiking along the Peshtigo.

The path was uncarved, slushy and unpredictable. Some areas were dense with over grown tree roots, slippery leaves, and rocks covering most of the sleek path. Ocassionally there were clearings on the banks, with large stones that could sit on. I came across such a clearing, and stopped to spend some time sitting on the river bank. I just stared at the water, fascinated by it's movement, the way it weaved through the rocky river bed. I don't know how long I sat there, however I do know that they were some of the best moments I've had in a long time.

Friends from another world

2007-07-26T22:44:00.000-04:00

From time to time, the Interfaith Youth Core office hosts State Department Delegations from various foreign countries. These visitors are usually mid-level diplomats who are brought to the United States to learn about life in America and about initiatives focusing on social justice work, building religious pluralism, youth empowerment etc. We hosted such a delegation today with visitors from the countries of Pakistan, Sri Lanka, and Bhutan.

Unfortunately, due to various scheduling conflicts, I was not part of the staff that hosted this delegation. However, they received a tour of IFYC's office space after the discussion with some of our staff.

When they entered our fourth floor office, she made instant eye contact with me. I was on the phone with my dad, figuring out the mess that is my car at the mechanic. As I saw her approaching me, I quickly got off the phone. She was beautiful, wearing a white salwar-khamees embriodered with tiny mirrors and french knots. Her dupatta (scarf) casually framed her face, giving her the distinguished Benazir Bhutto look. Her smile was radiant, recognizing, as if we were old friends reuniting after a long absence. When she shook my hand, her grip was firm, knowing, as if she knew we were connected through some unseen bond that existed between us. For a moment I hesitated, trying to remember if we had indeed met before? Perhaps we were connected in some way through friends, relatives?

We chatted for a short while. We talked about her work in Pakistan, where she was working with several non profits that focused on youth and women. We talked about our families, she asked where I was from when I had begun the conversation in Urdu, and we continued to compare family trees. About half way through our conversation, she started to search through her purse. Every other sentence out of her mouth was: Mere paas ek cheez thi... (I had something here...) I assumed she was looking for informational material that she had brought regarding her organization, as she had just handed me her card.

After a few minutes of searching, she finally pulled out a bangle. Silver with multicolored beads woven through with wires. Baas ek choti si cheez (Just a small token), she said. I protested, I tried to give it back, I failed. I realized it was fruitless to try and return her priceless gift, so I accepted. We chatted for a bit longer, before the delegation finally left.

I've been thinking about this woman for the past few hours. Thinking about the conversation we shared, the amazing work she's engaging her community in, the way she looked at me as though we had known each other forever. And I realized... perhaps I had known her in another lifetime, when our souls obediently circumbulated around the throne of Allah. Perhaps this was one soul recognizing it's friend from another place, where our beings were surrounded in His ultimate mercy. In this recognition of souls, she gifted me with more than a beaded bangle. As the poet Khalil Gibran says:

"And there are those who give and know not pain in giving, nor do they seek joy, nor give with mindfulness of virtue;

They give as in yonder valley the myrtle breathes its fragrance into space.

Though the hands of such as these God speaks, and from behind their eyes He smiles upon the earth."

Dear God: Will you sign my permission slip?

2007-07-13T15:49:00.000-04:00

As many of you already know, I've spent most of my time in the last 10 days waiting for that ever ellusive Saudi Arabian stamp on my passport that allows me, the crazy single unaccompanied American Muslim woman, to make pilgrimage to the holy cities. In these last hours of waiting, I've decided to go against my better judgement and post a bunch of intellectual vomit out of frustration.

Here the thing that get's me the most: what the hell do they think us American Muslim women are going to do in the holy cities? I mean seriously people, do we look like the kind who would throw a rave within the compounds of the Mecca? Or maybe we'll just go crazy and start hijacking cars and driving them around in circles?! Woo.

The irony of this whole situation is that hundreds of single women from India, Pakistan, Malaysia, Indonesia, Philipines, fly without male gaurdians to Saudi Arabia every year - to serve as nannies, cooks, cleaning ladies, etc. etc. So apparently, it's perfectly ok to let women travel as long as it's for underpaid labor. God forbid that a woman try to to fulfil any sort of religious obligation or aspiration without a male gaurdian. I mean, please that is just uncalled for. How dare we think that we are able to independently worship our lord without the help of mighty men, to keep our wild spirits in check... I mean astagfirullah sister.

Sam & Ella: The Wedding 5

2007-06-06T21:03:00.000-04:00

This is the fifth segment of this story. It's been updated in the last few days, and is longer than the original.

Ella

As I watched the sun slowly rise from my bedroom window, I thought of Sam finishing her morning prayers. I decided I would make pancakes for Sam, one last morning before her life transformed permanently. The sun was shinning brightly by the time I grabbed all the required ingredients and made the walk across our freshly cut lawns. I smiled when I saw Aunty Zareena sitting on her porch with her tea.

“Good morning Beta!” she smiled. “Hi Aunty! Are you ready for tonight?” A fews tears accompanied her smile this time. “As ready as I can be, Beta.” I hugged her before I went in looking for Sam.

“Helloooooo! Here comes the bride's hot friend! Here comes the bride's hot friend!” I sang as I walked into Aunty Zareena's kitchen. Sam was setting the table for the two of us. The henna on her hands had deepened, making the paisley design even more beautiful on her skin. “It's about time you made me breakfast, I am starving!”

I waved the bag of semi sweet chocolate chips in the air as an offering of peace, before throwing it at her. We chatted about unimportant details as I stirred the batter. Sam wasn't allowed to do anything today, Aunty Zareena and I had decided. As I listened to Sam go over the night's schedule for the tenth time, I realized that I was loosing her tonight. By next week she would be moved into Shehzad's parent's home in New York. She would no longer be across the lawn on Sunday mornings armed with her spatula in hand.

......................................................................................................................................................................

Sam

Her eyes stare back at me from the mirror. She is a bride, waiting for the Imam to walk in at any moment to ask for her signature. Then it will be done. There is no turning back now, her eyes say to mine. There are no words between us, only the quick rhythmic beating of our hearts.

“Sam Beta, I'm sorry but we can't make them wait any longer.” Ammi's voice was calm. I could hear the swelling of tears in her tone. She was right, we couldn't wait any longer. Shehzad had patiently delayed the ceremony for the last hour at my request. I wanted my father to be there, I longed for him to be my wali, my gaurdian. I wanted him to take this one last responsibility of me. But he had not come. I had waited again, and he had not kept his word, again.

“Sam Beta...Summar?” Ammi's voice trailed, and I noded. Yes, it was time.

Within moments, the gentle aging Imam came in with the witnesses to ask for my consent. Ammi hugged me, weeping softly as they left with the signed papers. Ella stayed by my side, she wiped Ammi's tears, fixed her sari. When Ammi left the room to witness Shehzad's half of the ceremony, Ella stayed with me. For a few minutes it was just us again. “You are going to be fine,” she said, my face cupped in her hands. “Now I don't want to see any of those tears, we have to walk down to see your man.” She winked. We laughed, and blinked the threatening tears back.

.......................................................................................................................................................................

Ella

Even in this moment, as I watch Sam sign her consent, I am uncertain of her happiness. There is a sadness that shadows her smile, a hesitancy whose origin I do not know. Perhaps it was her father's predicted absence, but I wondered if there was more. What I did know, is that Sam has never looked more beautiful. The deep red fabric of her mughal inspired skirt floats around her with each step. Even in all her bridal grandeur her simplicity is eminent. Like the glow that clings closely to a full moon.

“Ready? Remember you can't trip today.” We smile. Sam nods, and we walk over to the over sized doors that take us into the banquet hall. Her hands we tightly wrapped around her bouquet of fall colored roses, arranged in perfect circles. When the music began, the doors were opened, and all five hundred eyes were on Sam. But she didn't flinch, she floated with each step, moving closer to meet the gaze of the man she had agreed to spend a lifetime with. From the moment she entered the room, Shehzad was standing, waiting. He had waited a long time for this, his eyes never left her, his smile never faded. And then he did something unexpected - he walked to meet her half way. I saw the shadow linger in her eyes but for a moment, and then as Shehzad lead, Sam followed each step. When his hand found hers, he grasped it tightly, their fingers interlocked, and they walked together.

.....................................................................................................................................................................

Travelling alone

2007-05-26T17:32:00.000-04:00

I woke up at 7am on Monday morning, the 21st of May. I had a few hours to finish packing, get dressed and head to the office to tie up loose ends before I boarded my flight for the long journey down under. I was waiting for Tahseen to pick me up and drive me downtown when my cell phone rang. It was my dad. "Where are you?" I always hated that question, as he usually knew where I was. "I'm just about to leave dad" I said with a bit of annoyance in my voice. Then there was this pause, the kind of pause that always means that the next thing about to be said will undoubtly be bad news. "You can't leave yet..." his voice trailed off for a few seconds, and then returning to tell me that my great aunt, Chachipasha, had passed away that morning. She has been increasing becoming ill over the last year, but none of us expected that her time would come so soon.

At this point I had a bit of a delimma. If I took my flight at 5pm as planned, I would surely miss the Janaza (Funeral), but I wanted to do both. I decided that I wouldn't make a decision about my trip until I went to the funeral home later that morning. I waited for my mom to get home before heading to the bank to get what I needed for the trip. I must say that I felt an incredible amount of guilt getting my things in order.

Finally, we loaded my moms car with my suitcase and headed to the funeral home. I decided it was best if I did what I could before leaving for New Zealand. I spent the next 3 hours helping prepare Chachipasha's body for the burial. I'd done this once before, when my own aunt passed away about 7 years ago. My responsibility is usually to make sure that the proper rights were being followed, and that no step was over looked. It's a wierd feeling, to wash the body of a grandmother you've seen all your life. To speak of her out loud, as if she wasnt there, and yet here you are, purifying her body for her final journey.

Finally at 3:30 pm, Tahseen drove me to the airport. My parents had been very concerned about my travel to New Zealand, as it would be my first international travel with no companions. But they didn't have time to dwell on it a the moment of my departure.

And then I found myself alone. Standing in line at O'Hare waiting to check in. Standing in line at the security check in. Standing in line at the gate to board the plane. After an hour of standing in various lines, I was finally on the plane to San Francisco, where I would transfer to my flight to Auckland.

The thing I realized about travelling alone, is that eventually we all find ourselves on a solitary journey home.

Glowing Prayer Beads

2007-05-01T00:19:00.000-04:00

They waited every night by his pillow, for the early hour when his weathered fingers would grasp them. Iridescent by day, glowing green by night. He had bought them while returning from prayer in the holy city. He was my grandfather, Nana. For as long as I can remember, he would sit in his chair placed next to the open door of our home in India. His eyes would be cast upon the main gate, his lips softly moving, his fingers gently pushing his beloved prayer beads. Their green glow helped his aging eyes find them in the early hours of dawn. His routine every morning took him several hours to complete. He would read his wirds in two different languages: Arabic and Tamil. His beads never left his side through the day. When I would wake up, he would tell me stories, mostly his originals... hours and hours of stories. The story I remember most was called “Panch Phool ki Rani” which roughly translates to “The Princess of Five Flowers”. The story gets its name from its heroine, a Princess so delicate that she was compared to five flowers. He was a gifted storyteller, and I would sit listening to him for hours as he made up small and intricate details about the princess, her adventures, her quirks, her underdog prince charming, and her magical (non-human) friends. This was no ordinary princess, she may have been called as delicate as five flowers, but she was a feisty one. Only recently, it struck me that perhaps she was suppose to be his perceptions of me as a child. Unfortunately, I will never know for sure.

We talked about everything. He would often narrate to me the names and relationships of our many relatives... and then quiz me on them. We would walk around his garden, his personal pride, and he would tell me about each flower he had planted. Every afternoon, he would call out to me when the cotton candy man would walk by our house ringing his bells announcing his arrival. When I was ten I was in India during the FIFA World Cup finals. It was Germany vs. Argentina. Nana and I stayed up all night watching the game, and eating grilled corn rubbed with lime and chillies. It was the most fun I have ever had watching a soccer game. We were both a little disappointed when Argentina lost, and Maradona went home empty handed that year. He was the only person willing to sit through me reading my cheesy poems out loud, and then tell me that I was going to be a great writer.

When my grandfather passed away, my mother brought me his wird books and his misbaha (beads). For a long time they all just sat on my book shelf. I am not very fluent in Tamil anymore, so I couldn't make much of the books in Tamil. As for the books in Arabic, the one I immediately recognized was the Burda of Imam Al-Busiri. It was the most damaged of them all. The pages were mostly torn, falling apart. I had one of my more learned friends look through some of the other Arabic books with me, and we discovered that amongst his primary readings was the wird of Imam Abdul Qadir Jilani. But my most precious inheritance from him were his beads. They sit by my Quran on the shelf in my room. Some nights, I fall asleep with them near me, only to wake up and find them tangled in my fingers.

Someday, I want to write a children's story based on the Princess of Five Flowers, only this version will have a wise grandfather king by her side.

What's in a face?

2007-04-17T20:33:00.000-04:00

My interfaith travels took me to the Boston area for a few days last week. I arrived at Logan airport around noon, proceeded to pick up my baggage, and head out to get a cab. Except that I didn't see any cabs. So I stood with a number of other passengers waiting for a taxi to come by when I was approached by this man.

"Excuse me, Sister?" His accent for thick. Moroccon, I thought. "Excuse me ,Sister? Where do you need to go? I have a taxi," he gestured for me to follow up. I nodded and followed him a short few yards and we stopped at his shuttle. "How much will this cost me?" I asked after having told him of my destination. "Seventy dollars, Sister." I didn't really negotiate as I had been told by the hotel to expect around that much. "Alright," I said. As he took my bag to load into his trunk, he looked at me for a few seconds. I saw the question lingering in the space between us. And then it was finally spoken: "Sister, Where are you from?" I replied, knowing full well that this wasn't the answer he was looking for, "I'm from Chicago."

He persisted. "No, where are you from?" I smiled, "My parents from South India." He hesitated, his eyes never leaving my face, "India?" "Yes," I replied. "Are you Muslim?" And again I replied, "Yes, I am Muslim." Why the hell would I be wearing this peice of cloth on my head if I wasn't? He smiled with relief. "I am Muslim too... Assalamu alaikum!"

"Wa'alikum assalaam."

Eight years ago when I started wearing hijab, this sort of exchange would have totally made my day. Interacting with a fellow muslim in this big strange world. What identifies us in this brotherhood of Islam was my hijab, his accent, and the exchange of peaceful blessings between us. Nowadays, I mostly find it amusing or exhausting.

Let me explain. So you see, I have a face that cannot be easily categorized into an ethnic group. I was born into a South Indian family, but my skin is "fair complexioned" as the Aunties would say (apparently it was "light as milk", I was told by a suitor a few years ago). Before hijab, most people couldn't really tell where I was from. I remember, when I first moved to the suburbs of Chicago and began attending public school, for a week I was followed by a Palestinian student & a Mexican one. Both were members of the rival gangs at my high school, and were in pursuit of recruiting me to join their circles. Of course it all ended with disappointment, when they both figured out that I was neither Arab or Mexican. Some of the ethnicities I would frequently get labeled as were: Persian, Arab, Latino, Italian, & Kashmiri.

So after about 10 minutes in the shuttle, the friendly driver turns off his radio, and put's on a CD of the Quran. It was the 30th, Juz al Amma. I thought I recognized the Qari (reciter) and asked him if it was Saad Al-Ghamidi. "No sister, this is Shaykh Al-Meshari." We made small talk. He asked about my family, along with informing me that I totally didn't look indian about every 5 sentences. "Yea, I get that a lot" I said each time. Thankfully, we reached my destination soon after he informed me that he had just gotten married 2 months ago to a girl back home, because there was "too much temptation in America".

On the way home from this trip, my cab driver to the airport was once again a Moroccon. We did the whole routine again. Let me write down the condensed version: Where are you from sister? Chicago. Where are you really from? My parents are from India. Are you Muslim? Yes. And your from India? Yes I am. You don't look Indian at all! Yea, I get that a lot.

So once we had gone past this conversation, came the more interesting one. "Do you travel a lot sister?" No, not too often I said. "That's good. Some of these women, they travel everywhere by themselves. Women should be in the home, not travelling city to city." I don't remember signing up for a Khutba about my responsibilities as a woman, but I guess that came for free with this ride.

Finally, I was back at Logan airport. Waiting to board my flight. I wanted to grab something to eat and get a bottle of water. I was walking around the food court when I saw the man behind one of the counters. He smiled. I smiled back. Here it comes, I thought. And then....

"Where are you from?"

What do a Christian, a Jew & a Muslim do in Rural PA? (Part 1)

2007-04-03T00:54:00.000-04:00

Megan, Noah & Ahmed: I'm so mad I don't remember most of the details of what happened this night. I only remember the vague generalities. This post sucks. But I had to put it out there.... I miss you Sir Noahalot!

So february was a big travel month for me. My work took me & my coworkers to various liberal arts colleges in Pensylvania. The first trip was to Bucknell College near Lewisburg, PA. Megan (the Christain) and I (the Moslem) landed sometime in the early afternoon at Harrisburg "International" Airport. We wondered what countries the "International" was refering to, and decided that it was prolly our neighbour Canada, and the popular spring break destination, Mexico. Noah (the Jew), was waiting for us near baggage claim. We quickly picked up our luggage and our rental car, and we were officially off on our first interfaith road trip!!

The 2 hour drive didn't seem to long. The scenery was beautiful, as we drove alongside the river for most part. Not long after we had left Harrisburg, I spotted a old train cart on the road side with the words "Jesus One Way" spray painted on them. We wondered what the author could have meant - that there was only one way to Jesus? that we had to drive "->" way to find Jesus? But soon we were distracted by Bryan Adam's "Everything I do" - and that is a video I will have to post. Noah recorded from the front passenger seat as Megan & I sung our hearts out... Look into my eyes, you will see... what you mean to meeeeeeeee... search your heaarrrt, search your sooooul...when you find me there, you'll search no mooooore... don't tell me, it's not worth fighting foooor... i can't help it, there's nothing i want moooooore... you know it's truuuuue, everything i doooo...i'll do it for youuuuuuuuu... umm, yea that was some seriously interfaith singing. But alas, it came to an end once we reached our destination: Lewisburg.

The next few days at Bucknell were business as usual... meetings, dinners, Noah's superstar presentation (for those of you unfamiliar with the great Noah Silverman, he is THE INTERFAITH SUPERHERO, the best one ever. For real. For real real).

At the end of our time at Bucknell, Megan suggested we go to dinner with a friend of hers, Ahmed, a Palestinian international student who attended Susquehanna University located in nearby Selinsburg. So we picked him up and drove over to BJ's Steakhouse. Lucky for us, it was Trivia night! The hostess strapped on one of those over 21 orange bracelets on our wrists, and into the arena we marched.

The first thing we had to do once we'd ordered our food, was pick a name for our table. "Free Palestine" said Noah, perhaps a little louder than we'd hoped. But it sounded like a good dream. If we won the trivia competition, "Free Palestine" would reign this night.

Round One. We were all very determined. Quickly, but carefully writing down our answers on the appropriately numbered lines. The air was tense. The smell of sweet success was so close. Or maybe that was just Noah's non-halal steak next to me. We waited as they called out the table names in order of rank. "Allahu Akbar!" swept across the room as they announced that "Free Palestine" was in 6th place. Ahmed and I sat quiet through most of the Noah's emphatic roar.

Round Two. Ok so we became a little over confident and went with speed over quality. We got more answers wrong than in the first, and we were more concerned with how we would react when the results were announced. It sounded like a bad Gross National Profit strategy for a growing third world country.

Round Three. By now we had pretty much accepted that we would not be joyously cheering "Free Palestine" at the end of this night. And we were more into actually discussing more important questions around the real situation in Palestine. "Where is Sierra Nevada Beer made?" - was of no real interest to us.

By now, partly from exhaustion, and partly from my lack of knowledge around the history of Palestine, I mostly listened to the intense discussion between Noah, Megan & Ahmed.

And it hit me: How much this little moslem had to gain from listening to her interfaithing friends.

Two Feathers Floating

2007-04-03T00:46:00.000-04:00

Another partially finished story... i'll get to it eventually... i think... until then...

One cloudy afternoon, a little sparrow named Violet was preparing her nest for the rains to come. She had built her humble home nestled within the big tree in anticipation of a rainy season. Violet's nest was a small home, cosy and warm. She decided to get some extra nuts and berries before began raining. Violet has been flying for a few minutes when she saw him. He was holding on tightly to a nearby branch – was he hurt? His eyes were closed, his magnificent red feathers ruffled, his wound exposed. For minute Violet hesitated, should she help this exotic bird she had never seen before? Before she could answer her own inhibitions, big heavy drops of water began splashing down from the sky. The red bird opened his eyes, panicked. Violet watched him as he tried to fly, his left wing struggling against the heaviness of the raindrops.

“Follow me, this way!” she chirped. He saw her, and with no other choice, followed. A few painful moments later Violet and the red bird arrived at her humble home. It was dry, safe, and with food. The red bird collapsed into a corner, his chest gasping for breath, his eyes tight shut. Soon it was pouring around them, big drops of water pounding the leaves above. They heard the wind howling as it wrestled through the many trees in the forest. But all was quiet in Violet's house. The red bird had fallen asleep from exhaustion, and Violet decided it best that she attend to his wounds before getting some rest herself. She was careful not to wake him as she covered his wounded wing with some warm, dry leaves. With that, Violet lay on her pillow and fell asleep.

Sometime during the dark hours of the night, Violet awoke, and heard Mrs. Grey hooting. Mrs. Grey had lived a few branches away for many years now, and some nights Violet would hear the calming sound of her hoot. Violet decided it would be a good idea to get Mrs. Grey's advice. So she left the sleeping red bird and set out to see Mrs. Grey, hoping that she would be able to tell her what kind of bird he was...

“Well hello Violet! You're up late today!” hooted Mrs. Grey.

Violet told Mrs. Grey about the wounded red bird sleeping in her nest. She looked concerned. Mrs. Grey said it would be best if she be careful until they knew exactly what kind of bird he was. Soon the little sparrow and the motherly owl tiptoed into the nest, and found him sleeping soundly.

“He's a Cardinal,” whispered Mrs. Grey. Violet listened intently. A Cardinal, she had never seen one of those before. “Well be careful Violet, these fancy birds aren't too kind to little plain sparrows.” Violet found this hard to believe, how could such a beautiful creature be unkind.

Sam & Ella: The Wedding 4

2007-04-01T01:59:00.000-04:00

This is the last of Sam & Ella's current story. I'm still working on the final installment... until then...

Ella

With two days left until Sam’s wedding, I still have not had a moment alone with her. Part of me is relieved by the crowd that surrounds us, because I would not know what to say. At 3pm I make my way across the lawn to the Khan house. I found Sam sitting in the sun room, waiting for her cousin’s to start applying henna on her hands. I closed the door behind me and sat down beside her, “Hey.”

She smiled, and then nodded over to other side of the room where the dining table stood and upon it was a large vase filled with some two dozen red roses. “Go read the card” she chuckled. Confused by the peculiarity of her tone, I walked over to the table and opened the envelope.

My Dearest Samar,

“To the world you may be one person, but to one person you may be the world.” You are my world Samar. As we embark on this journey, I am excited for every blessed moment that we will share throughout our lives.

Anxiously awaiting this Saturday…

Yours,

Shehzad

I could feel Sam watching me as my eyes re-read the card a half dozen times before putting in back in the envelope. Nervously I glanced upon Sam to find her smirking.

“So what do you think?”

“That’s… nice of him” I said hesitantly. My face was never any good at hiding my emotions, and with one glance at Sam, our laughter filled the room. We were still laughing when Sam’s older cousin, Zahra walked in with the henna for Sam’s hands and feet. Caught off guard by our roaring laughter, she glanced at us both like we were lunatics let out of a mental ward. After a few painful moments of uncontrollable laughter, Sam and I were able to regain our speaking skills.

“What was that all about?” Zahra asked as she placed the henna tray on the floor.

“Did you see the delivery that Sam got today?” I said pointing to the flowers. Zahra turned to look at them, and turning to us she said, “There’s nothing to laugh at there, he’s trying to be romantic. Appreciate it Sam, it doesn’t last very long.”

“Show her the card,” said Sam as she rolled up her salwar. Once again, I pulled out the card from its hiding and handed it to Zahra. We waited for a few moments for her reaction. A smirk, a smile, perhaps a chuckle? Zahra had been like Sam’s older sister for most of their lives, most of our lives. She had always been there with advice, with a different perspective, perhaps to shed light on something we had both missed sight of in trying times.

At last the smirk crept upon her lips. And with her voice as low as it could possibly go she said, “He’s anxiously awaiting Sam.” Another roar of laughter was born, except this time, it was only me and Zahra who laughed. Sam had turned crimson and pretended not to hear Zahra as she rubbed her arms and legs with eucalyptus oil, preparing her skin for the true bridal mark, henna.

………………………………………………………………………………………….............................

Sam

I’m still sitting in the sun room. It’s been a few hours since Zahra started decorating my hands with henna. Ammi has decided it would be a good time to take a break and serve dinner. With the henna applied to my feet and partially to my hands, I have now begun my bridal transformation. So I sit here, with no responsibility to do anything except look pretty for the next several days. Being a bride has been a lonely experience for me, my fears unresolved, my anxiety so intense that on some days I feel as though a burst of emotion will break through my skin. I’m told it’s normal to feel this reluctance, to have cold feet or so they say.

About two weeks ago, I had decided to take on a task that Ammi was unwilling to support me through – I sent my father an invitation to my wedding. I had not spoken to him in many years. He had randomly come in and out of my life, with each time bringing more disappointment and broken promises. But I still loved him. Days passed as I waited for his response, and finally today he called. He was going to come! I couldn’t believe it. Ammi was less than ecstatic to hear the news, but she knew what it would mean to me have him here.

“Sam do you want something to drink?” Ella voice brought my drifting thoughts back to reality. I nodded as I picked at my food with my one free hand. Maryam, Zahra’s first born, came up to me asking to look at my hand. As her eyes admired the intricate designs that had been carefully cast upon my skin, I wished that I could share in her innocence. “Sami Khala, Abba said I can put henna on my hands too if I’m a good girl” she declared. “Really? Is your Abba going to do it for you?” I asked teasingly. Maryam chuckled, “Nooo. Abba doesn’t know how to put henna.” For a few brief moments I was lost in the innocence of her giggles. The thought of her father doing intricate henna designs was so hilarious, that Maryam skipped away to share my silliness with him. As I watched her, I hoped the coming days would bring me such a moment as well.

Sam & Ella: The Wedding 3

2007-04-01T01:55:00.000-04:00

Ok here's some more of Sam & Ella's story. It's a continuation from the previous posts (I would recommend starting with the first couple posts and then read this one).

Sam

Ella and I have not spoken since the arrival of my trousseau a few days ago. I have had several conversations with myself, searching for words that Ella would want to hear. There has never been an awkward silence between us, never anything that we have not been able to talk through, until now.

When Ella left to visit her father in April, I didn’t tell her of Shehzad’s family visiting us that weekend. And I didn’t tell her when they called Ammi following that visit to formally propose. I had not even called her to tell her that I had accepted, and our engagement announced to our families. Instead I waited. On the morning that she returned from Phoenix, Ella stormed into our living room demanding an explanation for my silence. But I had none to offer.

“I wanted to tell you in person,” I lied.

“Whatever Sam, you should have called me, emailed me, heck you should have sent me a post card,” Ella said emphatically, “How could you not tell me!”

“I told her to call you,” my mother chimed in, “But she wouldn’t listen beta, she kept insisting on telling you when you came home.” Ammi was surprised by my lack of excitement through this decision, but mostly she was just relieved that I had finally agreed. Upon seeing Ammi’s beaming smile, which she had worn on her face for over a week now, Ella’s anger subsided.

“Did you show her the ring?” Ammi said, sounding like a child with a shiny new toy.

“There’s a ring!” yelled Ella, “Sam, why aren’t you wearing it? Where is it? What else are you hiding? Aunty, what else is she hiding?” With that outburst of questions, both Ammi and I began to laugh. Ella had never changed, her energy had always remained two steps ahead of me.

“See Samar, even Ella thinks you should be wearing your ring all the time. Go and put it on before everyone comes over tonight.”

After rolling my eyes at both Ammi and Ella, I walked up to my room. There it was, in the navy blue box that I had received it in, sitting on my dresser, my engagement ring. An emerald cut 1.5 carat diamond shined back at me. Everything I had ever imagined my ring to be lay within these satin walls.

“Oh my god, it’s beautiful,” Ella’s words pierced the air of discontent that hung around me like a foggy morning. With a smile I took out my ring and handed it to Ella for further admiration. “It’s exactly what you wanted Sam, how did he know…” her words trailed into silence as she looked at me. “You’re not happy. Tell me why you’re not happy.”

“Why wouldn’t I be happy?” I said as I took the ring from her and slipped it onto my finger. “Because you always answer my questions with a question when you’re lying.”

“Should I wear a brown or beige scarf with this?” I asked, blatantly trying to change the topic. “Beige and we are not done talking about this” said Ella, “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“There’s nothing wrong, I’m fine. Really.” I smiled. Anyone would have bought that smile except Ella. The truth was the past had still followed me to this moment.

“You need to let him go Sam,” Ella said reading the thoughts that only she could see written across my face. My father’s failures had haunted my childhood. As much as I wanted to hate him, I realized that I shared his weaknesses. I had not inherited Ammi’s strength.

Later that night, it was decided that Shehzad and I would be married in two months. And two months later, here I was, two days away from my wedding and still filled with uncertainty.

I want a burger

2007-03-26T23:47:00.000-04:00

On one rainy afternoon last week, Erin & I walked in the rain to grab some lunch. We decided it would be best to walk to one of closer resturants, "Eat a Pita". It's one of those places that serves pretty much everything - burgers, wraps, salads, including any other greasy concoctions one may desire. I decided to settle for a simple grilled cheese. As we waited to our orders to arrive, a woman walked in. She was probably in her mid thirties, wearing a worn dirty yellow sweat shirt and grey sweat pants. Covering her head was a fleece hat, made of a purple and neon green geometric design, with a bright purple fur trim. She sat down on a table by the door. She seemed kinda loopy and not really with it. We grabbed our food and started walking. As I followed Erin out the door, we made eye contact.

"I want a burger."

I smiled and kept walking. I wasn't really sure if she was asking me for one or just stating that she felt like eating a burger. I kept thinking about our interaction more and more with each step away from Eat a Pita.

"Erin was she asking us to buy her a burger?"
"I don't know."

We stopped walking for a moment, and then turned around to buy the burger. She was right behind us, and her face lit up as soon we began walking towards her. She stopped me.

"I want a burger with everything," she said, "and some fries too."

By now I had decided that she was either mentally handicapped or really drunk or really high. I'm ashamed to say that I couldn't tell the difference. I ordered the burger, with everything. And then came the hard part.

At first, I just wanted to smile, say you're welcome, and walk out the door. Followed by instant guilt for not wanting to talk to her. When I turned around from the counter, I was met with eager eyes.

"They'll bring it out to you soon," I said. She smiled. The kind of smile you'd expect to see from a five year old in a candy shop. She motioned for me to sit down, I hesitated. Erin took a seat across from her. I was still standing, thinking of a way to tell her that I had to leave. Instead, I just stood there. She got up and offered me her seat, wiping the seat cover with her sleeve. At this point, I had not choice but to sit down.

We were there for no longer five minutes. Five long minutes.

"I like your hat," said Erin, "Where did you get it?"

"I found it!" she said, and there was that smile again. I just watched her as she told us about how she had found her hat in a dumpster, how she was looking forward to her burger, how she didn't like the rain.

The lady behind the counter announced our burger. I grabbed the basket from her and handed it to my new friend. She immediately flipped the top bun and said, "Where's the ketchup? They didn't put everything." Her voice trailing with dissapointment. It made me laugh. "There's some ketchup right here," I said pointing to the red bottle on the table. She laughed too as she squirted some on her bun.

"Well enjoy your burger!" I said, trying to sound as upbeat as possible. She nodded, her eyes unwilling to leave sight of her burger. As I headed for the door, she grabbed my hand, and hugged me.

Walking back to work, I wondered where she lived, where she ate, where she slept. I wondered if she had any family. I wondered how many times I had passed her by on the street without taking any notice.

Rajmohan Gandhi

2007-02-10T03:12:00.000-05:00

Have you heard of him? Rajmohan Gandhi: writer, professor of Economics at the Univeristy of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, mentor to countless students to who seek to study with him. He is also the grandson of the late Mahatma Gandhi.

Meeting him was the most amazing thing I have experienced in a long time.

He recently published a biography on Badshah Khan. I can't believe this. Seriously.

More on this later.

Quarters in Chinatown

2007-01-28T03:26:00.000-05:00

I believe in Mercy – the kind of Mercy that enables us to give to others when we ourselves are in need of help.

Earlier this summer I found myself at a parking meter in the middle of Chinatown. I fumbled through my black hole of a bag, digging for just one elusive quarter. There was no need to panic, I told myself as I searched. A couple minutes passed and I noticed a homeless man walking towards me from across the street. He looked worn, tired, but young, probably in his late twenties or early thirties. His once white shirt resembled slushy traffic snow. There was dirt on his face, his hands, his hair. “Can I talk to you about something sister?” Could I just pretend like I didn’t see or hear him? Honestly, all I remember was something about the homeless shelter he frequented being shut down due to lack of funding. It was going to be replaced with newly constructed condominiums. “I’m sorry I don’t have any cash on me”. Well at least I wasn’t lying. “That’s ok Ma’am. Could you buy a brother something to eat?” Yes, yes of course I thought, as soon as I found this dumb quarter. “Umm. Yea I don’t have any cash right now, sorry.” As he reached for his pocket, I thought, Oh my God, he’s going to pull out a knife or a gun. I was convinced that this man was going to mug me, steal my purse and take my car.

“Here, you can have my quarters.”

I heard the words echo over and over again in my head as though he had spoken them in an open canyon. “Oh no that’s ok. Thanks,” I said with an awkward smile. My face turned crimson, and a sense of guilt spread from the core of my body to the tips of my fingers. I frantically began emptying the contents of my purse on the sidewalk. And then the words came out again:

“Here, Sister. You can have my quarters.”

I realized that perhaps he was a better human than I. Perhaps, he truly knew what it meant to come to someone's aid. I murmured a prayer; please let me see a bank, please let me see a bank. And then, I finally saw it. On the corner stood my redemption, in the form of a Chase bank.

“Would you wait here for me?” I said. “I'll be right back.”

As I walked back to my car, I saw him waiting, sitting on the sidewalk. “I hope your shelter stays open,” I said as I handed him the envelope. It wasn't much, but it was all I could afford at the time. In return he handed me a postcard of Chicago. A beautiful picture of the Chicago skyline on a gorgeous summer day.

This is our city I thought, and there has to be a place for him to live in it.

King of Khans

2007-01-04T00:15:00.000-05:00

I read a book recently that changed my life.

Now I know that sounds dramatic, and over stated, but it's true. The title of the book was "Non-Violent Soldier of Islam: Badshah Khan, A Man to Match His Mountains." Until recently, I didn't know much about Badshah Khan and his relationship to Gandhi's philosophy of non-violence. Having attended an Indian school for some 10 years (from 1st - 10th grade), I'm fairly familiar with Gandhi, and the struggle for independence in the sub-continent. Anyone who's even remotely familiar with Gandhi knows that he was a man of faith, a devout Hindu. However, as far as I knew, most prominent Muslim figures within the Satyagraha movement were secular or cultural Muslims at best. That is until I found Badshah Khan.

I stumbled upon this book really - one of the perks of working for the Interfaith Youth Core (www.ifyc.org). And it stumped me. Literally. A non-violent soldier? Wait, a non-violent soldier from the North Frontier Province of present day Pakistan. No, no, let me say that another way... A non-violent Pushtun soldier of Islam from North Frontier Province of Pakistan. This is what Badshah Khan would have to say about my surprise:

"There is nothing surprising in a Muslim or pathan like me subscribing to the creed of nonviolence. It is not a new creed. It was followed fourteen hundred years ago by the Prophet all the time he was in Mecca, and it has since been followed by all those who wanted to throw off an oppressor's yoke. But we had so far forgotten it that when Gandhiji placed it before us, we thought he was sponsoring a novel creed."

Here's the most amazing thing about Khan: His commitment to non-violence stemmed from his commitment to Islam. It was not a foreign ideology to him. His way to becoming part of the freedom movement in India was to start schools, to educate the next generation much to the dismay of the local "mullah's", to encouraged women to become part of the freedom movement.

In the past week I have mentioned my new found fascination with Badshah Khan to a few friends. Every one of them shows signs of surprise upon hearing the title of the book: Non-violent soldier of Islam. And I began to wonder, have we become so incriminated with our portrayal as a violent people that it surprises us when shown otherwise? I digress, that's a whole separate topic...

...coming back to Khan. Here's how his story ends...

Khan manages to mobilize an "army" of non-violent soldiers in the North Frontier Province known as the Khudai Khidmatgars ("Servants of God") aka the "Red Shirts" (as referred to by the British, and it was also the color of their "uniform"). The Red Shirts become so influential in the area that Khan is exiled from the area for a number of years by the British. He spent the entirety of his time away from home either in Gandhi's Ashram or in prison. The Muslim League under Jinnah's leadership pursues the formation of the independent state of Pakistan. Khan is obviously opposed to partition, but ultimately realizes that he can't stop it.

"I delivered many speeches against the division of India, but the question is: has anybody listened to me? You may hold any opinion about me, but I am not a man of destruction but of construction. If you study my life, you will find that I devoted it to the welfare of our country. We have proclaimed that if the Government of Pakistan would work for our people and our country, the Khudai Khidmatgars would be with them. I repeat that I am not for the destruction of Pakistan. In destruction lies no good."

So how is this Non-violent Soldier of Islam treated in newly partitioned Pakistan?

From 1948 -1954, Khan is held under house arrest with no charge. This is after his address to the Pakistani Parliament stating his willingness to support the construction of Pakistan. In 1956 he's arrested again for disagreeing with the government and remains in prison until 1959. Once released, he goes into exile to Kabul for a few years before returning to Peshawar. In 1969 he was named an "Amnesty International Prisoner of the Year." Badshah Khan died at his Peshawar home under house arrest in 1988. He was 98 years old.

When I came to the closing chapters of Khan's life, I was shocked! Shocked! Pakistan, a country created to ensure Muslims their rights puts a man of faith under house arrest for decades! That too a non-violent man of faith! And why? Because he speaks to his beliefs? Because he asks the government to show constructive progress?

Can you imagine devoting yourself to a struggle for freedom, only to have your freedom restricted by the very people you fought for?

Spirit of Christmas

2006-12-26T01:16:00.000-05:00

It's Christmas morning, and Chicago seems like a ghost town. Around 2pm I decided to venture into the streets to try and find an open restaurant. A long walk and some Starbucks later, I was back at the office. While walking towards the elevator I noticed there was a man waiting for it as well. I wondered why someone would be here on Christmas day. We exchanged a cordial "Happy Holidays" as we entered the elevator. "What are you doing here?" I said. "I'm here for the Soup Kitchen," he replied, "We're open every Monday, all year long." He smiled. He seemed so fulfilled. My thoughts kept returning to him for the rest of the day. How many people would dedicate themselves to the care of others? People depended on him for their meals, and he knew it.

At around 5pm I locked up my office and prepared to head home. As I walked out of my building, I found a man standing at the door. I knew that he couldn't get into the building unless someone let him in since the doors were locked from the outside. As soon as we made eye contact, he asked me a question. I didn't quite understand him at first. He was a middle aged white man, with blue eyes, average height. He had an old jacket and a back pack. "Are they open today?" His accent was thick, eastern European perhaps? "Yea I think so," I said.

"I don't want to wait here if they aren't open you know?" And I realized that it was only 5pm, they wouldn't be serving food until 7. This man was going to wait in the cold wind for two hours for a meal. "Do you want to check to make sure?" I asked as I turned back to the door to let us in. We walked in silence back to Leslie hall, where the soup kitchen served their meals. A few men were folding clothes that had been donated on tables. "Are you all open today?" I asked. "Yes, we're open every Monday all year long," said one of the men. I turned to see my new friend standing a few feet behind me. They're open I said, smiling. He didn't say anything, just nodded, turned and started walking towards the door. "Do you want to wait inside?" I asked, a little uncomfortable with the question myself. I mean, I didn't know who he was or where he came from or what his story was. "No I wait outside," he said. With that he walked out the door in front of us and stood in the cold waiting for the next two hours to pass so he could have a hot meal on Christmas. "Merry Christmas!" I said as I walked to my car. Who was I kidding, it's not a Merry Christmas when you're standing outside a building in 30 degree weather for one meal. I sat in my car for a moment and watched this man. He was blowing into his hands to keep them warm, and had pulled his hood over his head. He didn't ask me for any money. He didn't ask for any assistance. He didn't even ask if he could wait inside the building. Instead he stood in the cold and embraced his fate.

As I drove away I found myself stopping in front of the CVS Pharmacy. Inside I bought a pair of gloves, before walking over to the Dunkin Donuts to get a chai. When I drove back to my building, I saw him standing there still, for only 15 minutes had passed since my first departure. "I have some tea for you!" I announced trying to sound as cheerful as possible. I handed him the tea and the bag containing the gloves. For a moment he stared at me as if he didn't recognize me, and then "Ooooooh, Thank you! Thank you!" His blue eyes lit up as did his smile. "You're most welcome." As I walked away, I glanced in his direction again, and a sense of sadness came upon me. Standing next to my new friend were three men, blowing into their hands, trying to keep warm as they waited...

Recipes: Traditional Raisin Scones

2006-12-04T22:16:00.000-05:00

I decided this past sunday was going to be the day that I attempted to make traditional raisin scones...and I was a bit nervous as it seemed to be a complicated task. Finally, after an extensive search for internet recipes, I found the one for me: Paula Deen's traditional raisin scones, courtesy of www.foodnetwork.com.

Now the only problem was that I did not have all the ingredients. Regardless, I was going to make these scones, so I began thinking about what I can substitute for the missing ingredients.

In the end, the scones turned out delicious! And I mean DELICIOUS, even if I may say so myself.

Here's the original recipe followed by my alterations:

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.

You will need:

3 cups all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
2 sticks of unsalted butter
1/4 cup, plus 2 tablespoons sugar
3 large eggs
1/3 cup buttermilk
1/2 cup raisins

In a bowl, sift the flour and baking powder. In a separate bowl, beat the butter until creamy. I mean beat it with a cake mixer, not a baseball bat or a ruler. Next add the sugar and beat it until the mixture becomes pale and fluffy. Then add in the eggs, one at a time. Gradually mix in the flour, followed by the buttermilk. Here's where it gets tricky. The mixture by now is extremely hard to beat, its thick and sticky, but it still needs to be all mixed. Finally add the raisins, and gently fold them into the batter using a spoon.

Using an ice cream scoop, place the mounds of batter on a cookie sheet. I like to line the cookie sheet with parchment paper or non-stick foil to ensure easy clean up.

Bake for about 20-25 minutes.

Now here's what i substituted with:

1/2 cup of whipping cream (instead of buttermilk)
increase the sugar to 1/3 cup
if you don't like raisins, go ahead and use chocolate chips or any dried fruit like cranberries.

Rumi

2006-11-29T12:02:00.000-05:00

Last night I gave a star a message for you.

On my knees I begged her to tell you

how much I pray that you turn my stony heart

golden with your radiance.

I bared my chest to show my wounds and

asked her to tell you that if I sway this way and that

it's because I need to calm the infant of my heart,

for babies sleep when rocked in their cradle.

My beloved, my heart was your always

nurse it like a child, save it from wandering.

How long will you keep me in exile?

I will be quiet now but even in my silence

my heart will long for the glance of your grace.

Behind the Scenes: Sam & Ella

2006-11-29T01:24:00.000-05:00

The story of Sam & Ella is one of two best friends, caught up in a world of many ironies. For most part I think they are different faces of the same person. One extrovert; One introvert. One who has found faith; One who no longer knows what she beleives in. They are exactly the same, and completely different - all in the same breath.

Although loosely based in reality... the story of Sam & Ella is a fictional one.

Sam & Ella: The Wedding 1

2006-11-29T01:08:00.000-05:00

The Wedding

Ella

Aunty Zareena had never looked so ecstatic in her life. She was floating, her cream silk sari neatly pinned, her graying hair swept away in a bun. She was laughing and weeping all at the same time. A week remained for Sam’s wedding, and her in-laws were going to be coming over today with the traditional bridal trousseau and to begin the official festivities. I knew Sam would be upstairs going through her closet still trying to decide on the appropriate outfit for the occasion. I shouted out to her as I ran up. It was odd but I didn’t hear her reply. So I knocked. A few long minutes later, “Ya, come in.”

As I entered Sam’s room, I noticed the expected pile of clothes on her closet floor. What I didn’t expect was Sam standing in her jeans by her window. I closed the door behind me and waited for her to say something.

“I can’t do this, Ella.”

…………………………………………………………………………………….....................................

Shehzad had approached Sam about two years ago after he had seen her at a health clinic that she volunteered at every month. Although originally from New York, he had recently started his residency at Cook County Hospital. He had decided to dedicate some of his time at the health clinic in efforts to meet new people, perhaps in hopes of making new friends. For the first few months he didn’t say more than the occasional “How are you?” But then one Sunday afternoon, he asked her if she would like to get a bite to eat afterwards. Sam, being herself, had agreed.

“Samar! Are you dressed yet? They’re ten minutes away!”

“She’s almost done Aunty!” I replied before Sam could say anything. She looked at me, her eyes looked dry as if all that they could give had already flowed. With nothing left to say, I helped her get dressed in silence. I handed the pale pink salwar khamees to her. As she got dressed, I ironed her hijab. My eyes didn’t have the courage to meet her gaze because I knew I had failed her. As Sam pinned her hijab and slipped on her glass bracelets, we heard door bell and the many excited voices in her living room. For a moment I stood admiring her, her pink khamees embellished with embroidery that looked like a delicate flowering vine, along the edges of her neckline and sleeves. Her long duppata, covered with embroidered flowers of pearls and crystals, lay on her shoulders. Her eyes carefully lined with dark khol, her glossed lips sparkling.

Sam waited to be summoned downstairs, and I waited beside her. The hour had passed by in silence, but it seemed like each passing moment had been an eternity. The door opened and Ahmed quietly motioned for us to come down. As I followed Sam down the stairs, I could see the faces of her in-laws light up at their descending bride to-be. As Ahmed walked Sam across the room, all eyes were on her - studying the curve of her cheekbones, her every step, and every piece of gleaming glass that adorned her wrist. Ahmed seated Sam next to Shehzad, her eyes lowered. Her silent sadness veiled by the blush of a new bride. They made an odd couple, like a sturdy oak and a delicate Orchid vine planted side by side. Both beautiful, but somehow unmatched. Shehzad's face was filled with his usual confidence – bronzed and chiseled, he reminded me of a statue prepared to face anything nature threw at him. He sat tall, his navy blue jodhpuri ironed crisp, his brown eyes sparkling behind his silver frames.

They were surrounded by the many trays, baskets and gift boxes that had been presented to Sam’s family. Rich reds, bright blues, antique golds, delicate silvers – glittering in all their glory. I moved to the back of the room where Aunty Zareena stood, watching her daughter blossom into the bride that she had always dreamed of. After all, she had planned for this day since Sam had been born. She would finally pass on to Samar the family heirlooms, the recipes, the traditions she had so protectively guarded, waiting for this day to be. With my arm around her shoulders, we shared our tears. We were both losing Sam in someway.

With the energetic beat of the dhol, Shehzad’s aunts began singing the customary Punjabi wedding songs. Everyone clapped with the steady beat of the dhol, the aura of excitement filling every corner of the Khan home. Sam sat as demure as ever, her hands neatly clasped in her lap. Her platinum emerald cut solitaire that carried the weight of her world twinkled amongst the camera flashes. Shehzad’s mother, Mrs. Akbar came forth with a square burgundy box. She took out two gold bangles, delicately carved and studded with rubies and emeralds. She gently slid them on to Sam's wrist, her face covered with excitement. She then kissed Sam's forehead, and attempted to whisper unsuccessfully, “A beautiful bride for my Shehzad. Now all I have to hope for is many beautiful grandchildren.” As the room burst into giggles, Sam smiled, and Shehzad’s eyes never left the prize that he had just won.

Sam & Ella: New Beginnings

2006-11-29T00:15:00.000-05:00

Sam

4046 Woodlawn Street. A fairly new taupe townhouse stood before me. The small front yard was beginning to show signs of the approaching cold winter on this November morning. I pulled my pashmina around my shoulders to warm myself. The unpredictability of Chicago weather had never changed; I wish I could say the same about my life. After staring at the front door for over ten minutes, I rang the doorbell. Suddenly I was warm and anxious. I wondered if she would recognize me. I wondered if we would still be able to pick up where we had left off eight years ago.

And then the door unlocked, and with it the Pandora’s Box of my past lay open before me.

For several moments we stood speechless in her doorway. Time had frozen around us; at this moment it was her and me and our memories. She looked just as she did when we had parted several years ago. Her hair more gray, her face showing signs of fatigue, her eyes flickered like lanterns that had survived many dark nights. I felt my scarf begin to suffocate me, my emotions waiting to explode. With tears streaming down my face I managed to smile. And finally the eight years of silence that stood between two best friends was broken with tearful laughter and one uniting embrace.

………………………………………………………………………………………………...............................................

I found myself sitting at Gisella’s dinning table, on the second floor of her home, staring at the walls that seemed so unfamiliar to me. I noticed that she had pictures neatly framed and displayed on her mantle and walked over to them. Perhaps I would catch a glimpse of what I had missed. And there it was, between her wedding picture and the portrait of her parents, was picture of us from our eighth grade field trip. Our untidy and wrinkled uniforms hung from our shoulders with the same disdain that we had felt for them. Our skin burnt from the summer sun, Ella with her baseball cap worn backwards and me with my bandana. Our bright colored identical friendship bracelets tied on our wrists, standing out from among the two dozen black rubber bangles that were so in style that year. We recanted the happening of that day to our families for years afterwards… how we had gone on all the roller coaster rides consecutively, how we had sneaked away from the rest of our friends to secretly ride them once again, how on the way home we were both victims of motion sickness…

“Those days were fun weren’t they?” she said almost consolingly as if she could see the remorse that clouded my eyes. I nodded without saying anything. “Do you want something to eat? You know Sam I can still make better pancakes than you,” she said smiling. Sam. For as long as I can remember, Ella had called me Sam. No one referred to me with that name anymore. I had been just Samar for so long.

“I’m sorry Ella,” I muttered. I’m sorry about everything. “I’m sorry about Aidan.”

With that the air in Ella’s little townhouse became dense and difficult to breathe. Aidan had passed away almost a year ago, two weeks before his forty second birthday. As I looked away from Ella, my gaze fell upon our reflection in her window. I realized how old we looked compared to the picture that stood on the mantle behind me. I realized I would never be able to speak to Aidan again, to tell him how sorry I was.

“So chocolate chip or cinnamon raisin?” her voice trailed with her over to the kitchen counter. This was a rhetorical question, for old time’s sake perhaps. All through our childhood summers Ella and I would have breakfast together every Sunday morning. She would have cinnamon raisin and I would have chocolate chip. Her pancakes were topped with bananas and mine with pecans. She had her whip cream on top and I had mine on the side. Our summer Sunday morning was routine, we would eat breakfast together at either of our houses, and then spend the rest of the day recreating our favorite tales: Peter Pan and Alice in Wonderland. I was always Alice, perhaps I still was, wandering my way through life looking for a dream that always escaped me.

“Well? What will it be?”

“Hmmm, chocolate chip,” I said. Ella laughed, “Well, it’s good to know you haven’t changed all that much.” Her eyes betrayed her thoughts because we both knew that a lot had changed.

Finally!

2006-11-28T23:59:00.000-05:00

It's not easy picking a blog name. It took me three days and a few dozen possibilities... and i finally settled for Simply Jenan.