Patriarchs Past, Present, and Future

Since my grandfather passed away, I have watched my father step up into the role of family patriarch.
 
Though we still have some more elder male relatives, it is my father who sits at the head of the table at family dinners; my father who reminds my grandmother to call other relatives; my father who makes sure that household things are taken care of, quietly instructing my brothers to do the things he doesn't have the time or skills to take care of. Since he works remotely during the day, he comes to my grandmother's home after my aunt leaves for work and makes sure she's not alone. He checks her blood pressure and sugar levels, makes sure she's taking her medication at the right time, reads out the grocery advertisements to her, and turns the TV on for her favourite soap opera.

He usually hates socializing with more than a couple of people, but for the sake of family, he has become more at ease with it - his beard now as white as my grandfather's was, his laugh more similar, the stories he tells echoes of my grandfather's own tales.

Even as he steps into my grandfather's space, he leaves another space open - and I wonder who will take that spot in his stead. I have three brothers, but as yet too young and brash and often ridiculous; I wonder if I will be always be here to watch them, to see them grow into themselves and into their own roles as men of the family. The eldest is not inclined to marry (much to the increasing distress of my grandmother!), the second has no desire for children, and the third has yet to grow out of the most obnoxious state of adolescence.

Perhaps the three of them together will cobble together the parts needed to fill my father's stead in the future. Perhaps they will simply build themselves differently, growing into themselves with only wisps and glimpses of my father and grandfather in their beards and their voices.

I cling to the memories of my grandfather, and try to memorize every detail of my father now, and I search my brothers' faces for signs that they will become the patriarchs that my family has always had, and always needed, and whom I secretly want for my own daughter, and her children, and their children after that.

May there always be a smiling, storytelling, greybearded man at the head of our dinner table; may there always be the safety and security of their love and protection. 

The Softest Armour

The women of my family wear the softest armour: the most tender of cotton dresses, the most delicate chiffon scarves, the sweetest of smiles. The women of my family are the strongest women I have ever known - even the gentlest of aunties has a spine of unbent steel.

It is only when I visit first one, and then the other, of my elders in hospital that I see them terrifying vulnerable: their soft, impenetrable armour removed; their elegant dresses and beautiful scarves gone, leaving them defenseless in hospital gowns and worn pajamas.

I feel ashamed of myself, almost - I want to avert my eyes, to not see my elders so old, where once I had seen them as simply, eternally, elder without aging. Knuckles grown swollen from arthritis; wisps of hair, before always meticulously tucked away beneath their scarves, suddenly seen, wilted, falling out of cotton hair caps; shoulders trembling where once they were so firm; flashes of pain in eyes that I had only ever looked into and found beatific serenity.

The women of my family wear the softest armour, and I want nothing more than to drape them once again in their gentle glory - to be reassured by the whisper of silk against my skin when I bend to kiss their cheeks; to touch the dignified wool of their cardigans, embroidered with thread as strong as the unseen filaments of their own spider-silk wills - enduring with beauty no matter the decades of marriage, of children, of immigration, of losing and finding and building and slipping away and too many changes, too fast.

I wish I knew the women of my family better. I wish I knew their stories the way I know their food: pineapple steaks and spiced chicken pastries and strawberry butter scones and melting moments butter biscuits - family favourites flavoured by their histories, unknown to me.

I wish I knew what lay under their soft armour before age and illness lay them bare to me; I wish I knew what weapons they carried into their daily battles; I wish I knew what enemies they faced, within and without; I wish I knew how they became so soft and strong.

The women of my family wear the softest armour. I wonder if I will inherit their grace and their delicacy and their iron wills and gentle touches and their deft hands at making biryani and mithai and the memories of their homeland and family still so far away.

The women of my family wear the softest armour. I want to bury my face in their scarves, draw their dresses over my head, feel their steadfastness wrap gently around my bones, touch my fingertips to their grace and draw it in, inhale their dignity into my muscle memory.

My armour is hard and brittle, not spider-silk-soft or chiffon-kiss-gentle. My armour is stiff and dented and has the hard colours of too-bold-lipstick and dark-denim-jeans. My armour is biting humour and anger ill-contained.

The women of my family wear the softest armour. Perhaps, one day, my armour will soften too.

Ramadan Musings

It's interesting how, as a parent, I find myself realizing in real time what many ahadith mean and how they play out in life.

For example, the hadith of someone who teaches another person good, and that person goes on to teach others, and the accumulation of good deeds.

Tonight, after I finished taraweeh with 9yo, I hugged her, told her how proud I was of her for praying, and taught her the same hadith.

During every Ramadan of my growing up, my father would constantly recite and emphasize the hadith "Man saama/ man qaama Ramadanan emaanan wahtisaaban, ghufira lahu maa taqaddama min thambih."

Every Ramadan since then, I would hear his voice in my memory, and try a little harder to have emaan and ihtisaab in my fasting and my prayers.

I hope that when she grows older, she too hears my voice in her memory, and that every Ramadan, she recites this hadith with love for Allah, and tries that much harder to have emaan and ihtisaab in her fasting and prayers.

...

In these last 10 nights, wherein we are constantly begging Allah for His 'Afw, I find myself struggling with my own ability to forgive. I rarely take deep personal offence to things said or done to me, but when it comes to my family and family honour, it is difficult to let go.

With a family that has been involved in da'wah since I was born, it can be hard to distinguish between gheerah for the Deen and da'wah itself, and gheerah for one's family honour - and while both are necessary, sometimes one must learn to swallow repeated wounds to the latter and trust in Allah to take care of it.

I am, admittedly, rather bitter and cynical in many ways, and especially towards those who have attacked my family repeatedly. I pray that Allah grants me the wisdom to forgive in a manner that is appropriate, while never abandoning family honour.

The other great struggle with forgiveness is with regards to my past abuser. This is the most painful thing to grapple with - to still be experiencing and dealing with the wounds dealt to me, to asking myself whether my right to Divine Justice by praying against them will result in me losing Allah's 'Afw at a time when I need it most.

I am painfully aware of the ways in which I have transgressed, deeply at times, and I know that I should be doing everything I can to earn my Lord's forgiveness. Yet I cannot find it in myself to forgive the person who transgressed against me, in so many ways and so deeply. What does that make me, then? I really don't know. I know that my Lord's 'Afw is limitless; I know that mine is not.

...

I've always found that every Ramadan has a unique theme for me. This year, I've noticed a deeper awareness of the seriousness of parenting; an increased love and appreciation for my family and tradition; and the painful process of facing both one's greatest faults & greatest traumas.

As my daughter grows older and developing her love for Allah and desire to obey Him requires more than just bedtime stories; as my family heals from past rifts; as I seek to move forward from both within and without...

I suspect that Allah expects more from me now than ever before. I know that I have stumbled and failed before - often - I know that I have been blessed with more chances at redemption & change than I likely deserve. Recognizing this is both a blessing and a grave responsibility.

Allahumma innaka 'Afuwwun, tuhibb al-Afw, fa'fu'anni.

Maiden, Mother, Matron

My mother's kohl-lined eyes startle me and make my heart skip a beat, and I realize -
She is growing younger each day.

My mother, in my childhood memory, is wisps of herself: weary, hesitant, a child on each hip, good-wife, good-daughter-in-law, tired, obedient, and then, later, angry, frustrated, lost, sad in a way that made me feel ashamed, as if I was responsible for the trajectory of her life.

My mother, now, grows more real to me: her shoulders firmer, her back straighter, her laugh more quick to come at my silly jokes and naughty suggestions; she is stronger, more solid, pulling together the faded bits of herself and shaping herself into something more, into someone of her own.

My mother studies for exams and practises a new language she would never have considered; she leaves her house with a determined step even if it is only to go into the sun and read a book; she has learned to say "No," and it lends her strength

My mother belongs to herself, now, more than she ever did before. She is still wife, and mother, and daughter-in-law, but more than that, she is herself. She loves herself more, and I love her all the more for it - she is no longer the woman whose fate I feared for myself, but who has taken her fate and changed it to her own choosing.

One day, perhaps, I will be as strong as my mother, and take my own fate, and make it mine.

I Remember

Watching my child grow up is achingly painful. I look at old pictures and coo over how cute she was, but when I look at her wild hair and chubby cheeks, I remember so much more than how adorable she was back then.

I remember how much I was hurting.

I remember how I spent my pregnancy in the darkest of dark places, wishing that the parasite in my womb would kill me before it emerged.

I remember how I fumbled through her first few months, awkwardly trying to feel maternal but mostly just wondering why it was that she felt more like something that someone had shoved into my arms and told me to keep alive at all costs.

I remember trying to pretend that some part of me wasn't always detached from "motherhood."

I remember trying to remember who *I* was, as I struggled to be a good-enough-wife and not-horrible-mother.

I remember realizing how awful and wrong it was that my two year old was stroking my hair and patting and my back and telling me, "Mama, it's okay," while I sobbed to myself, claw marks on my arms as I tried to make my pain something that I could look at, even if only for a few minutes.

I remember trying to pretend that I wasn't completely changing her world, her life, by bringing her home - to my home - away from what she knew as home. Away from the man she still calls Baba, even though he doesn't call her, ever.

I remember telling myself that I was doing this for her, so that she could grow up healthier and happier, but knowing deep down that I was doing this for me. I was being selfish. I was doing this so that *I* would be happier.

I remember the exhilaration I felt, being away from him. I remember being so excited to take her to meet my friends, to go to the parks of my childhood, to pet the goats and have hot chocolate at Tim Horton's.

I remember still feeling guilty. Just a little.

I remember taking her to Malaysia, where we went to live with my parents.

I remember the highs - the daily happinesses of spending most nights snuggled between them, my daughter squishing herself in insistently, her little afro wilder than ever; our holidays to new places, our toes curling in the sand, my dad making her shriek with half-laughter, half-terror as he splashed water on her; our excursions to farmer's markets and local masaajid in Ramadan, my brothers keeping a watchful eye on her; when she would accompany me to my Islamic Studies classes and squeak shyly to Shaykh Isam; the blissfulness of being *me,* of having my family, of giving my child the security I once had.

I remember the lows. Arguments, tears, bitter words as I tried to make decisions for my - for her - future. Using her name as a defence, claiming that I wanted her to have something more than this unrealistic limbo. A part of me was still being selfish. A part of me believed it. Either way, there was too much anger, too many tears. I don't remember where she was, then. Probably safely playing with her toys, or splashing in the tub. I hope she doesn't remember my fights.

I remember the new chapter starting. Coming back to Canada, beginning anew. Rocky, at first - a flight that we were never allowed to board; a rush of panic; trying to find a place to live; the awkwardness of being a new wife, in unstable circumstances, with a child who didn't understand what was happening, not quite.

I remember that first apartment of my own. Our own. I cried a lot in those days, for different reasons. I hope she doesn't remember those tears, either.

I remember how we snuggled every night, just the two of us, her hair curling up into my nose.

I remember her cheerfulness every morning, her sternness over my wardrobe choices, her good-natured patience with my procrastination and fumbled attempts at adulting.

I remember the excitement of every Jumu'ah, as she and I burned bukhoor and ran out the door to catch the khutbah on time; the joy of seeing our friends at the masjid; the tradition we built for ourselves of bubble tea and treats and walking around downtown and then finally having dinner at my grandparents' house.

I remember how I would push her in the stroller, complaining about how heavy she was, trudging to the library. She ignored me and settled in even more firmly, smug in the knowledge that I would keep pushing.

I remember how I would jolt her out of that comfort and take her, for months at a time, to another country, another home. Another family. She liked her new siblings, mostly. She didn't like not being with me very much.

I remember desperately trying to figure things out, trying to impose my dream-ideas onto a very different reality - a confusing one, a frustrating one, a hurtful one, sometimes. It wasn't all bad, but it was new, and different, and I didn't really know what I was doing.

I remember not really being much of a mother. I remember more guilt, more knowledge that I was being selfish, more feelings of being too absorbed. Too many adult things happening. I hope she doesn't remember those days.

I remember the relief of going back to our apartment - and to our second one, after that. I remember she and I settling back in to our own rhythms, our back-and-forth banter, our almost-sibling sniping. I remember our baking - cupcakes and brownies and cookies. I remember Kindergarten and trying to feel like a Real Homeschooling Mom. I don't remember doing a very good job of it.

I remember putting her through more changes. More frustrations. More confusions. I was being selfish, I know. I hope she doesn't remember it.

I remember her first day of public school, my first day at work. More changes - not bad ones, necessarily. A new house - not just our apartment, now. She had full-time siblings now, and I had four more full-time children, and a full-time cowife. Not a full-time husband, though. A full-time struggle, not without its bright spots, but still.

I remember trying to learn how to be more of a mother to children who didn't see me as one. I remember my child's look of hurt as I doled out attempts at maternal affection and fairness to children who hadn't always been mine. I remember not knowing how to be the right kind of mother to anyone.

I remember slowly getting a grip on things - sometimes. I remember falling, many times. I remember my daughter saying, "I miss when it was just us and we lived by the ocean." I remember her saying, "You work too much." I remember her saying, "Do you love them more than me? You're always too busy."

I remember too many things that I wish I didn't.

But I also remember the other night, when she crawled into bed with me, and curled up around me, and I remembered maybe I can still make good memories. With her. For her.

Maybe when she grows up, and looks at the pictures, she'll remember me, being happy, with her.

I hope she remembers that.

Who will write the love letters to our families?

Brown people in the West (okay, mostly desis) complaining about their families, about brown families, about the cultural drama and the marriage circus acts and the rest of it have become a staple of Brown People in the West narrative - sometimes accompanied by a dose of guilt-assuaging "but they were immigrants who worked so hard for us so here is a token note of appreciation, mostly about food because we're all still too lazy to learn our grandmothers' recipes."

We write angry hot takes about our racism (which is bad), our colourism (also bad), about arranged marriages and cultural expectations (although apparently arranged marriages are lowkey trendy now? I can't keep up tbh).

Who will write the love letters to our families?
The notes that say: I love my father's sarcasm and his tales of how he was of the first generations of Brown Kids Growing Up in the West; or:
My grandmother's blunt racist comments about our own people (and others) are horrifying but also contain an entire history lesson on Partition, Apartheid, and growing up Muslim in a non-Muslim land that was not in the West; or:
My mother's lingering FOB habits are still mildly annoying and occasionally cringe-worthy, but now I feel fiercely protective of the way she pronounces certain words and only I can laugh at her, but I never want her to stop being the way she is.

Who will write the love letters to our families?
The notes that say: Tribalism is wrong, but I understand why people went to war over the blood they share between one another's veins.
The blood that flows between us is hot with our family pride; it is the blood that we have spilled between ourselves over inheritances and bitter marriages, but every drop is cherished.
Any outsider who dares prick one of us with shame or humiliation will die a thousand deaths from a war raged upon them by every one of us who shares blood and bonds of kinship.

Who will write the love letters to our families?
The notes that say: When my cousin gives birth, her parents will fly from another country to this one; her mother will try to make her the same foods that she once consumed during her confinement, even though my cousin will insist on going for walks with the baby and sneaking some fast food.
When my cousin gives birth, her child will be precious, like mine is: we, this new generation, are reluctant to birth the four, five, six, seven children that our mothers and our grandmothers produced, and so our offspring are ever more carefully guarded.
When my cousin gives birth, her child and my child will the youngest of us, our blood shared in their veins; even now, we all feel the faint tug to cousins and second cousins and third cousins, and their children, despite the distances and the fact that we forget their names or that they even exist.

Who will write the love letters to our families?
The notes that say: I'm sorry you lost your inheritance to that other branch of the family, but thank you for the scandalous stories - of the aunty living under her dead co-wife's identity for over fifty years; of the distant cousins who allegedly committed murder most foul; of the great-aunt and great-uncle whose pot habit was just a matter of fact; of the grandmother's sister's husband, who refused to pray behind anyone else because "they know nothing about the religion!" (and who had a disturbing penchant for schoolgirls, because apparently he knew nothing about what religion had to say about that...).

Who will write the love letters to our families?
The notes that say: I bear the scars of the time I was disowned, of the bitterness that never really went away after divorce, of the terse words and angry tears over a decision that no one will ever really forgive - but still, we are family;
Even when we are tense over certain topics, or barbed comments still slip from our tongues, or we forget sometimes to pretend that nothing really happened, and our voices rise, some shrill, some low, some sharp - still, we are family;
These tongues share the same sharpness, these voices carry the same tenors, these noises hold the same pride, these chins share the same stubbornness - these veins hold the same blood, and so: we are family.

We are bound by a love and loyalty that has no justification or explanation; it lays in the marrow of our bones and the flow of our blood.

Who will write the love letters to our families?

Raised in the West, it is all too easy for us 1st or 2nd generation kids of immigrants to feel frustrated with our parents and families, to spend much of our adolescence & even adulthood butting heads, clashing over culture & personal priorities.
It's all too easy for us to lose our tempers, for resentment to simmer, for family gatherings to feel tense and unpleasant.
But when that happens, we don't realize how much we are losing.

I'm not going to be cliche and say that since I've become a parent, I realize what parents go through - I'll be honest, I still fight with my family and we have our dramas. At the same time, though, I have never loved them more. I've never appreciated my dad's awful jokes more than I do now; I've never savoured teasing my mom and harassing her lovingly than I do now; I've never felt such a rush of sisterly protectiveness (and obnoxiousness) as I do now.
As much as I'll pretend to be annoyed, I treasure our weekly family dinners and missing one leaves an ache that won't leave until I see them again - in the meantime, I will harass them on our family group chat.

There is a reason that the ties of kinship are called Silat al Arhaam: we truly are connected by the wombs, & there is a tug in our blood that calls to us, the inclining of our hearts towards mercy even when we squabble and cry and argue and glare in steely silence.

All of this is to say: don't underestimate the importance of family. Don't devalue their love for you or your love for them. As much as they can feel like a source of strife, they are also a source of comfort and barakah. Parents and grandparents, siblings and aunts and uncles... they share something with us, blood and DNA if nothing else, but it is that which binds us more closely than we often realize.

Look at your parents and remember the times of silliness and joy and the way they stroked your hair when you were young and the way they constantly feed you and scold you and demand to know when you're getting married or having more kids... know that this is love.

Our families may not look like the ones on TV or in the movies, they may not be as prim and proper as we imagined others to be, but in the inevitable chaos of our in-between languages and cultures and ideas of education and career and marriage, lies indescribable beauty.

O Allah, have mercy on our parents, as they raised us when we were young.

A Tribute to My Grandfather, my first qawwam

My grandfather is the first man who exemplified what #TrueQawwam means to me.

He was a man whose circumstances didn't allow for him to pursue higher education, yet whose love for learning ensured that he never stopped seeking knowledge in some way - whether that meant being a voracious reader, watching National Geographic non-stop, keeping up to date with both local & world politics, ensuring that his children and grandchildren understood the importance of knowledge, of all types.

He had married young - at age 18 - but never lost his spirit of wanderlust, his love for adventure, his willingness to work hard & do whatever he could for his family.

He was an incredible husband, father, and grandfather - though I don't know nearly enough about him when he was younger, I have so many amazing memories of him and his relationship with my grandmother in particular.

She had a habit of sleeping early, before Isha, and waking before Fajr in order to pray Isha and Tahajjud and recite Qur'an. He would awake with her, making sure that she had water next to her, making her coffee and bringing her biscuits as she sat in her bed and recited in the lamplight. He would rest for some time, then get up for Fajr & while my grandmother went back to bed, he would get up and go about his day.
I'd creep out of bed, following the sound of the deep murmur of his voice at the dining room table, where he would be reciting his own daily wird, wearing his house thobe and topi. Sometimes I'd fall asleep again on the couch behind him, and then wake up again to find him reading the newspapers with a cup of coffee and cookies at hand. He'd always save the last few sips for me, and then he'd make me breakfast and we'd watch weekend cartoons together - he loved the Looney Toons as much as I did, and we could watch the same old classics for hours.

But then it was time to be a man and take care of things. He always dressed sharply, even on weekends - he would iron his trousers with a crisp crease, his shirts impeccable and always paired with a waistcoat or knitted vest, even if he was only going to be at home. On Jumu'ah, he would always wear a suit and tie and gleaming dress shoes, scented with 'itr and carrying himself with great dignity.

His level of care for my grandmother was without peer.
He would help her choose an outfit for the day, iron her clothing, & make her breakfast; they would discuss what they were going to cook or bake on that day (they were both amazing in the kitchen), and he would set out all the necessary equipment & ingredients. If my grandmother didn't feel like doing much in the kitchen (which was rarely), he'd often decide to make something anyway. He hated to buy samosa pastry or puff pastry from the store -he had his own recipes he'd perfected over the years.

Before I first got married, he made sure to teach me how to make both pastries - from beginning to end. (Unfortunately, I didn't inherit his culinary genius, & have made neither recipe since that day.) He had no shame whatsoever in rolling up his sleeves & tying on an apron.

Instead, he took pride in his work - he showed me that a real man does all things with Ihsaan, whether it's wielding a rolling pin or sharpening his blade before slaughtering the Udh'hiyah.

That was another one of our family traditions; he would slaughter on behalf of all his family every 'Eid al-Ad'ha. For a long time, he would slaughter animals regularly for zabiha meat, both for the family & the community.
He'd make an event out of it; we would drive up island to the farm of a butcher he knew, & we'd take samosas & badha roti, & my siblings & I would watch in fascination as he scratched the ears of the lambs before speaking kindly to them, laying them down, & reciting the basmala.
The knife flashed, blood would spurt, & between my grandfather & the butcher, the animal would be taken care of, skinned, & cut up in a matter of hours. Strange as it may seem, those moments taught me what it meant to have compassion even while ending an animal's life.

He was a gentleman of the old school: always courteous, always chivalrous, always smiling. He would hold the door open for my grandmother & others; he would refer to everyone as Sir or Ma'am or Young Man or Young Lady; he always tried to assist those who needed help.

He was definitely a people person, always interested in people's life stories and experiences. Right till the end, he would make a point of learning people's names and their family histories; his nurses commented on his sense of humour and his interest in everyone, no matter that he might never even see them again. He made everyone feel special and cared for, truly embodying the Sunnah of RasulAllah.

There is so much more about him that I don't know, that I can't recall, that would take hours to mention... but this is just a glimpse of one of the greatest men in my life, who impacted the life of everyone he ever came across.

May Allah have mercy on him, forgive him his sins, and grant him ease in his grave, ameen.

Listening to my father reciting aloud in Salatul Maghrib and watching my daughter praying with him makes me feel dangerously sentimental.

For real, though - the simple act of a Muslim man leading his household in such a basic and fundamental act of worship is powerful. So is a Muslim woman leading her family's womenfolk in salah - for one's daughters to hear a woman's voice rise in the recitation of Qur'an.

It is so, so important for children to see & hear both parents/elders of both genders leading them in salah. It will impact them forever. On a spiritual and emotional level, the sight & sound of witnessing and participating in 'ebaadah together is indelible to a child's psyche.

You'd never guess which moments will stay with them forever... for me, it's the sound of my father reciting the last few ayaat of Surah YaSeen and Surah alQiyaamah in Isha, of hearing my grandmother complete her daily wird every day after Salatul Fajr, of seeing my mother cradling her mus'haf after Maghrib, of my grandfather's baritone rumbling with the Divine Words.

For my daughter, I hope that she too carries moments like these in her heart - that she remembers praying with her family, that she recalls her sujjaadah laid out next to mine, our feet nestled together, her purple prayer outfit swishing against the folds of my abayah, that her ears echo with the recitation of the Qur'an in the mornings and evenings.

Rabbi ij'alni muqeem assalaati wa min thurriyyati, Rabbana wa taqabbal du'a.

Our Men's Pain

As much as I rail on about what Muslim women face, I do want to take a moment to say that many of us don't recognize that many Muslim men go through heartache, racism, discrimination, painful marriages & even more painful divorces, and so much more.

Women suffer because of toxic masculinity, but men are the first victims of it - when their own sense of self is battered and broken almost from infancy. There are very few men who are raised to understand and implement true qiwamah - with all the positive attributes of masculinity rather than merely the outward trappings.

Regardless, Muslim men go through so much on a daily basis, in ways that we almost never even think of. Mental health, physical health, self esteem, spirituality, family pressures, struggling to break away from certain types of cultural programming... as women, we are often so focused on the pain that we face constantly, that we don't recognize the pain that our men go through.

And while it is, in a way, socially acceptable for us to air our grievances - at least amongst ourselves - men don't always have that luxury. In so many cases, Muslim men find themselves being reamed out in public and in private, with few places to turn for emotional support - including from their spouses.

And yes, we women complain that our men don't understand & support us emotionally, but we don't realize that while we often have safe spaces to turn to other women & find consolation, our men rarely do. Sometimes, just sometimes, we need to be there for them the way we have others who are there for us.

Allah describes spouses as garments for each other, as those with whom we should find tranquility, & while I (& others) spend an awful lot of time berating men to be that type of spouse, we need to remember that those ayaat apply to us too. Being a supportive wife isn't just about cooking his meals & popping out his kids; it's also about setting aside our own egos and being willing to listen and to comfort and to support. You don't even have to agree with him, but you can certainly make him feel that he isn't on trial from the moment he opens his mouth.

Our men are strong, but they aren't invulnerable. They screw up, but they're not (all) villains. They're (usually) upholding the patriarchy, but they're not always misogynistic. They are human & crave the sweetness of the human experience just as much as we do. Often, they are wounded & hurting far more than we can imagine, & yet take on still more for the sake of their parents, their wives, and their children.

These men are, in many ways, #TrueQawwam even if they are not perfectly so.

#AndNowBackToOurRegularlyScheduledProgramOfTakingDownThePatriarchy

Unbreakable: The Spirit of Hajar

IN A BARREN desert, under a blistering sun, a

woman leaned against the trunk of a twisted tree, cradling her infant and trying to shield him from the merciless elements. With only a small water-skin and a bag of dates that was already worrisomely light, she watched as her husband turned his back on her and walked away. As he drew further and further away, she couldn’t bear it anymore. “Are you leaving us?” she called out to him. She received no response; the only sound was that of his footsteps in the sand, leaving behind no footprints. “Are you leaving us in this valley, where there is no one and nothing?” she cried out again, looking down at her son’s tiny face. Her heart lurched with panic at the idea of being alone in this empty place, desolate as it was – and then, almost instantly, another thought occurred to her and her heart leapt instead with a sense of certainty. Intuitively, she knew that despite the circumstances, nothing would harm her or her son; something greater awaited her, though she had no idea what it was.

“Has Allah commanded you to do this?” she asked, her voice steady. The man paused, and nodded. “Then He will never neglect us,” she said quietly.

Unseen by Hâjar, her husband smiled sadly and then, when he was out of sight, raised his hands in supplication.

Our Lord, I have settled some of my descendants in an uncultivated valley near Your sacred House, our Lord, that they may establish prayer. So make hearts among the people incline toward them and provide for them from the fruits that they might be grateful. [Sûrat Ibrâhîm, 14:37]

Behind him, leaning against the tree, Hâjar (English: Hagar) prepared herself for a future which held far more than she could ever imagine. I am satisfied to be with Allah, she murmured, [i] and knew that no matter how empty the desert was around her, she would never be truly alone.

In that one moment, this woman’s intuition, and her trust and certainty in her Lord, made her one of the greatest individuals in all of history. Hâjar went from being an unknown slave woman in Egypt to a symbol of spiritual conviction, deep insight, and decisive action. Although she is best known as the wife of Prophet Ibrahim and the mother of Ismâᶜîl (English: Ishmael), she was recognized by Allah and His Messenger in her own right.

Her story is one of those which we repeat often, familiar to us all, and yet one which holds so much more for us than merely the rote lessons we have been taught. Her words, echoing in the desert, rang strong with tawakkul (reliance) upon Allah, but her words were far more than a hollow spiritual mantra.

Hâjar was a woman who did not allow her circumstances to overwhelm or control her; she was not content to simply declare faith in God while remaining passive. Instead, Hâjar exemplified what it meant to be pro-active and determined even in the face of obstacles seemingly impossible to overcome. Stranded in the desert, surrounded by sand and little else, with a child dependent upon her for survival, Hâjar was not content to remain idle or to surrender herself to the seemingly inevitable, or to await a miracle from the heavens to be handed to her. She seized control where there was little to be had.  Determined to find something to change her condition, she strode between Safa and Marwa, unrelenting in her persistence. She was acutely aware of the fact that her position was not an easy one, and that her son’s life was in jeopardy. No doubt, it would have been all too easy for her to break down into tears, to allow herself to be a victim of circumstances, or to be paralyzed by fear. However, Hâjar chose instead to place her trust in Allah and actively pursued a course of action which –though it may have seemed futile to anyone watching– exemplified her spirit of resilience and purposefulness.

Nor did she give up after one or two attempts, and accept failure as an option –or as the likely outcome. Seven times – in the blazing heat, her infant’s wails ringing in her ears even as the land around her remained deafeningly silent – seven times did Hâjar ascend the hillocks of Ṣafa and Marwa, seven times did she struggle to seek sustenance and aid for herself and her child, seven times did she push herself past the limits of her weariness and her worry… Then, and only then, once she had done everything she possibly could, did Allah send the angel Jibrîl (English: Gabriel) from the seven heavens to the earth, to dig his wingtip into the parched earth and release the flowing waters of Zamzam.

Yet even then, as the pure, crystalline liquid poured over her hands, Hâjar didn’t allow herself to get swept up in the moment. With brilliant foresight, she knelt down and formed the first boundaries of what will forever be known as the Well of Zamzam.

And even when Allah fulfilled the du¢â’ of Ibrahim by sending the tribe of Jurhum to settle in that once-barren land, Hâjar never let herself become complacent or naively think that all her problems were solved. “You may use the water,” she told the tribes people, “but it will always belong to me and my son.” Her words were a sign of her shrewd foresight; not only was she protecting herself and Ismâᶜîl, but she was preserving a miraculous legacy for all of humankind. The waters of Zamzam remain safeguarded and cherished as a reminder of Allah’s innumerable blessings even in times of severe tribulation.

May Allah have mercy on the mother of Ismâᶜîl! The Prophet supplicated for her,  [ii]   and we too echo his words –for in Hâjar we have the most beautiful and enduring story of a believer’s test of faith in a hopeless time, a single parent’s struggle for survival against all odds.

Today, the Muslim Ummah has many others like Hâjar, single mothers and single fathers alike; those who have found themselves unexpectedly on their own, stranded by fate in circumstances beyond their choosing, and left with only their trust in Allah and their own indomitability to help them traverse this unforeseen destiny.

These women and men are an example for us all: like Hâjar, they do not let themselves be victims of circumstances, but are determined to find a solution regardless of how hopeless their plight may seem. They rely upon Allah, knowing that He is Al-Razzâq (the Provider), and knowing also that He will not change the situation of a person unless they change themselves.[iii]  In a world where it is increasingly difficult to raise a family, these single parents push themselves beyond what many of us could imagine –unfaltering in their belief in their Lord, their desire to raise their children to love Him and worship Him, and to protect them from the harsh realities of poverty, social injustice, and more.

Alas, many Muslims do not honor these heroes and heroines of our Ummah as they deserve to be honored. Far too many of us view single parents as somehow lacking, or less worthy of respect. We do not realize that the struggles they are experiencing are in fact the same ones that Hâjar went through herself –for which she was honored by the Lord of the Worlds, Who decreed that it was obligatory for every Muslim to follow in her footsteps between Ṣafa and Marwa during both Hajj and Umrah. How can we claim to fulfill the spirit of the pilgrimages if our feet travel between those two mountains, yet our hearts remain unmoved by the greatness of Hâjar, and all those who embody her spirit on a daily basis?

Hâjar is a woman whose story is an inspiration to us all, whether single parents or otherwise. She was an individual who refused to take on the identity of victimization, an attitude of helplessness, or acceptance of failure; she knew that while Allah would never abandon her, she could not abandon herself either. No matter what difficult straits we find ourselves in – financial, emotional, or otherwise – it is Hâjar whom we should remember when we are tempted to surrender ourselves to a sense of defeat. Her taqwa, her tawakkul, and her spirit of resilience was stronger than the landscape she traversed: a true heroine of Islam.

——————————————-

[i] http://sunnah.com/bukhari/60/44

[ii] http://sunnah.com/bukhari/60/43

[iii] Sûrat Al-Ra¢d, 13:11

Is Your Child Evil?

When parents make du'a for their children, many of us often beseech Allah to protect them from all harm and evil, from being afflicted or oppressed, from being hurt or experiencing pain... but how many of us make du'a to Allah that He keep our children from *being* of those who harm others, who are sources of pain and damage to those around them?

In Surah al-Kahf, al-Khidr ('alayhissalaam) killed a young boy who had done them no wrong. In horror, Musa ('alayhissalaam) exclaimed, "Have you killed an innocent person?!" Unperturbed, al-Khidr only answered, "Did I not tell you that you will not be patient with me?"
It is only at the end of their journey that Musa ('alayhissalaam) is told that the parents of this boy were true believers, and that the boy would have grown up to be a source of disbelief and transgression.

As parents, we want to believe only the best about our children (and ourselves) - that they are pure and innocent, that we are raising them to be kind, honest, good people. Every once in a while, we might see something not so sweet and kind from them, though... an incident of bullying at the park, perhaps; a schoolyard spat that turns into something nastier; a tendency to be harsh or cruel or malicious. It's all too easy to insist, "It wasn't my child's fault!"
But the thing is... maybe it was. Maybe it *was* our child who was the bully, who deliberately did something hurtful, who saw a moment of weakness in someone else and took advantage of it.

In these moments, we shouldn't let ourselves be the people who stick their heads in the sand and deny that our precious little angels are capable of anything more than cherubic mischief. We should be the parents who are keenly aware that every tyrant on this earth was once a child; every abuser, every oppressor, every less-than-decent individual was once young, and had parents who were responsible for their upbringing (usually, anyway).

As Muslims, we know that we already have something at our disposal that others don't: the power of a parent's du'a. All the parenting workshops in the world, all the heart-to-heart talks and attachment parenting, all the love in the world cannot actually guarantee that our children will be pious, righteous, upright, outstanding believers and human beings.
Only Allah can do that.

So know that our parenting skills will amount to nothing if we do not also turn to the Creator of ourselves and our children, the Turner of Hearts, and beg of Him to protect our offspring not only from experiencing harm, but of being the cause of harm to others.

Rabbanaa hab lanaa min azwaajinaa wa thurriyyaatinaa qurrata a'yun, waj'alnaa lil muttaqina imaamaa.

{Our Lord, grant us from among our wives and offspring comfort to our eyes and make us an example for the righteous.}

‪#‎BabiesDontStayCuteForever‬
‪#‎MurderersAndMisogynistsWereChildrenToo‬
‪#‎DontBeTHATParent‬
‪#‎ParentingIsFluffingTerrifying‬

To Be My Father's Daughter

One of the oddest, and best, things about growing up is developing my relationship with my father. I had started life as a daddy's girl and then, predictably as puberty hit, warred with him constantly about... well, everything, lol. (And didn't help that I shared his short temper, stubbornness, and refusal to admit to being wrong. Heh.)

It was only later - in fact, just a year or so before I got married and left home - that I found myself actually *wanting* to have conversations with him and spend time around him. Once I'd gotten over how (and finally understand why) we spent so many years seeing him for so little time due to his work as a grassroots imam, I started to notice so many other things about him. His killer sense of snide humour, his deadpan sarcasm at the most unexpected of moments (like in the middle of teaching 'Aqeedah or 'Umdatul Ahkaam), his eye for fashion (for a man who wears dishdasha and ghutra, and hasn't worn Western clothing in two decades, he knows an awful lot about men's clothing), his outdated Canadian slang ("why are you such a hoser, eh?")

It's funny, but I can honestly say that my father is probably most responsible for my evolution as a Salafi feminist.
He is a Salafi of the old school, who still gives side-eye to pants below the ankles and has an epic beard that gets more comments than his actual work. Thankfully, he has none of the takfeeri tendencies and worst character traits of our ideological tribe. (The word "bid'ah" remains a favourite, however - I would mimic his "wa kulla bid'atin dalaalah, wa kulla dalaatin fin-naar!" on the ride back from Jumu'ah with gusto.) I make fun of all his ‪#‎VintageSalafi‬ moments and troll his FB page gleefully because it's just too hard to pass up all the opportunities to point out how he lives in a little Salafi bubble in his head.

He also bought me my first (and currently, only) motorcycle - a battery-operated Fisher-Price Harley Davidson - and my first biker jacket. He took it as a given that I would study Islamic Studies (but forgot to tell me that the Islamic University of Medinah doesn't accept female students).
When I was a toddler, he used to take me with him to Masjid anNabawi, where he used to spend time with his friends and fellow students of the Islamic university; up until I hit 13, I used to accompany him everywhere - grocery shopping, Islamic classes, distributing sadaqah (charity) bags for the Muslim food bank he'd started. I listened to him, and watched him, and learned from him.
More than anything else, he ingrained in me the importance of grassroots da'wah: the importance of connecting to individuals and families, the power of a sincere smile and 'as-salaamu 'alaikum', the necessity of putting aside personal free time for the sake of Allah, the ability to develop a thick skin because in da'wah, appreciation is not something we should ever expect.

At the age of 14, I started writing articles for our local Muslim newspaper; I was outraged and offended when people would ask if there was a misprinting of names and if he were the actual author. I quickly realized that it was actually a compliment of sorts, if still offensive due to the sexist assumptions.
The more I learned about feminism and realized how strongly I identified with it, the more I spoke about it, and the more he would snort in annoyance and then say dumb things to make me mad. It took me a little too long to catch on and just roll my eyes at him. What he would never admit, though, is that occasionally I've managed to convince him of my own positions and prove that I'm right ;)

When I moved to Malaysia to live with my parents after my divorce, one of my first goals was to *finally* do Islamic Studies in some kind of formal capacity. My dad was the one who drove me for an hour to get to the Islamic center where Sh. Isam Rajab was teaching his first Diploma class, and drove back another hour to get home - 4 days a week, on top of his full-time job and his many other responsibilities.
During car rides, and before going to bed, I'd spend hours hanging out with my dad, making stupid jokes, showing him random stuff on the Internet, and talking about all the latest issues on the Muslim cyberscen and da'wah circles. I'd argue with him about women's issues, unsatisfied with the typical imam answers he'd give me; then he'd help me do the research for my next fiery Salafi feminist article and never admit that he was involved. (He'll forever deny that he has anything to do with my rants, but will tell me about how he has friends who read them.)
On road trips and visa runs to Thailand, Indonesia, and elsewhere, he and I would make a beeline for the malls and local markets, excited about all the fun stuff. My mom would trail behind us, complaining that she wanted to see nature, not do more shopping. Even now, he sends me pictures of all the things he knows I love and tell me that it's my mom who won't let him buy it for me.

Even during strained and tense moments - and there certainly been a fair amount of them - I find myself unable to stay furious at him.
Out of myself and my three younger brothers, we all know that I am the one most closely following in his footsteps (even if I don't have the male privilege he does when it comes to studying and opportunities lol). When he Skypes every day, sometimes twice a day, and says he really just called to speak to the Mouseling, she's the first one to point out that we're talking over her and not letting her speak. Oddly, I feel protective over him; I'd long ago developed a strong sense of gheerah for him, staring down women whom I felt were inappropriate in their interactions with him, and I have no problem sending a pointed FB message to anyone who takes their joking with him on his FB page a little too far.

I have been described as my father's daughter more than once - by masjid aunties pinching my cheeks; by my ex-husband, telling me that I'm a woman and can't get away with being as outspoken and stubborn.
Once, it used to bother me - I wanted an identity that was more than just "the shaykh's daughter" - but now, having established that individual identity of my own, I'm proud to hear those words. I know that I come nowhere close to him in the impact he has had on people's lives, that I know nothing in comparison to his Islamic knowledge, but I pray that one day, I can at least come close to it.

May Allah protect our fathers, increase them in good, forgive them their faults, and bring us all together in Jannah, ameen.

‪#‎radbrowndads‬
‪#‎evenSalafidadscanbeawesome‬

Fridays

Fridays:
My mother, yanking us out of bed and laying out our best clothing - my brother's thawbs, my own jalabiyyas brought back from Hajj, and my favourite abaya stitched with little sparkling jet-black beads.
My father at the dining room table listening to his Arabic cassettes, a book or two from his massive collection laid out in front of him, notecards haphazardly scattered around him while he mumbled to himself in Arabic and scribbled out his khutbah.

My mother, asking us what we wanted to eat for Jumu'ah lunch, preparing biryani or daal and rice or ruz bukhaari or butter chicken - our favourites, reserved for only this one day of the week.
My father, wandering around the house with his mus'haf reciting Suratul Kahf, his beard still damp from wudhu, while my brothers and I tried to get out of doing the few chores we were expected to finish before going for salah.

My mother, opening the windows to let out the cooking smells, straightening the cushions on the sofa, lighting the bukhoor to waft around the house and playing Suratul Kahf in the background as she worked.
My father, lining up my brothers in their matching white thawbs, carefully choosing an 'itr from his collection, showing them how to rub the oil between their wrists and then wiping it over their hair and clothing, combing it into his beard.

Us children, piling into the car, dutifully reciting salawaat upon RasulAllah (sallAllahu 'alayhi wa sallam), then loudly practising our own khutbah-giving skills, proclaiming with great emphasis, "Wa kulla bid'atin dalalah, wa kulla dalaalatin fin naar!"

Scattering to our places, sitting down to listen to our father's khutbah, trying not to nod off as he went on and on and on... jumping up to pray Salatul Jumu'ah, shoulder to shoulder and foot to foot with our elders; excitedly saying salaam to the masjid uncles and aunties afterwards, patiently putting up with pinched cheeks in exchange for little treats, happily throwing our arms around our favourite people, waiting impatiently while our father finished talking to what seemed like every person in attendance, and then scampering off back to the car where we would chatter about who we saw and how many people were there and what so and so said to us.

Coming home to find the dining table set with our favourite meal, catching a glimpse of dessert in the fridge, my mother dressed up in her own Jumu'ah finest, my brothers and I nudging each other happily that she was wearing the jewelry we'd bought her last 'Eid.

Going to the Islamic center for Arabic classes in the evening, wandering in and out of the men and women's musallas, fetching things and passing messages between husbands and wives, gleefully getting our hands sticky with treats from our "almost-grandmother" Umm Hussam, talking too much and getting too excited until quelled by a warning look from either of our parents - but only until the next aunty or uncle stopped to laugh with us.

Dozing off in the car on the way home, grumbling a little about how long our father took, but sleepy and satisfied and wrapped in the security of knowing that next Friday would be just like this night, and the Friday after that, and the Friday after that.

{“This is a day of ‘Eid that Allah has ordained for the Muslims, so whoever comes to Jumu‘ah, let him do ghusl, and if he has any perfume let him put some on, and you should use the miswaak.” Narrated by Ibn Maajah, 1098; classed as hasan by al-Albaani in Saheeh Ibn Maajah.}

‪#‎JustJumuahThings‬

Toxic: A JourneyThrough Emotional Abuse (Part 2)

Last month in part 1, we heard from brothers and sisters who had suffered emotional abuse at the hands of their spouse. This type of abuse is a troubling but all-too-common phenomenon - both amongst Muslims and in the world at large. As Muslims, however, we must hold ourselves to a higher standard of what we consider acceptable behaviour - a standard determined not by culture or arbitrary opinions, but by the Qur’an and Sunnah.

In order to better fight off this poisonous cancer in our Ummah, we must educate ourselves about both its signs and the effects it has on those it afflicts.

Are Abusers Evil?

One of the most difficult concepts to grasp is that abusers are not necessarily evil people. Often, they are completely unaware that their behaviour is manipulative, abusive and harmful, and are shocked to know that their victims feel abused - if they are ever able to acknowledge it at all. Their behaviour stems from their own issues: insecurities, troubled childhoods, mental illness or having witnessed abuse in their own families while growing up. Worse still is when they use the deen as a way to justify their attitude and their behaviour, even when provided with clear evidence that their ‘religious’ excuses are baseless.

The term ‘emotional abuse’ carries with it vivid connotations of screaming, name calling and intimidation. It can be hard to reconcile this image with someone whose actions are not loud and angry, but cold and even calm. It is even more difficult to recognise or acknowledge an emotional abuser when that person displays good characteristics or actions that appear to conflict with the stereotypical profile of an ‘abuser.’
We are often taught, if not explicitly, then implicitly, that abusers are evil people, but we sometimes lose sight of an abuser’s humanity - because they are human, just like us.

At the same time, however, recognising that they are flawed individuals who have allowed themselves to hurt others does not mean giving them a get-out-of-jail-free card. It does not mean making excuses for their behaviour, or allowing them to escape the consequences of their actions.

There are also different levels and types of emotional abuse, from the subtle (which is most difficult to detect and recognise as being emotional abuse in the first place) to the obvious extreme (where the behaviour is blatant and no attempt is made to deny or hide it). Some individuals, whether unconsciously or deliberately, are masters at emotional manipulation and emotional blackmail; they have the ability to appeal to their victims’ affection for them as a means of controlling them. Many victims of emotional abuse don’t hate their abusers, but love them or at least care for them deeply. It is precisely this love, and their desire to save their relationship, that keeps many men and women trapped in abusive marriages despite the fact that they know deep down that it is an unhealthy situation that is affecting them (and their children) negatively.

Leaving Abusive Marriages - The Challenges

Many people question why those in emotionally abusive relationships don’t leave sooner. The truth is that it is often very difficult for them to leave, for a variety of reasons.
For women, the obstacles are overwhelming: cultural stigma, misconceptions about whether Islam allows men to wield such ‘authority’ over their wives, family pressure, financial constraints, fear regarding their children, access to resources and an Islamic leader who will support them - these are just some factors that play into how difficult it is for many Muslim women to leave an abusive relationship.

However, men too face extremely difficult challenges of their own. Contrary to what many believe, male victims of abuse experience many of the same issues that female victims do - a destroyed sense of self-esteem, a sense of self-loathing or even blaming themselves for whatever issues their abusers may have. For some, it is that they don’t even know that a man can be abused by a woman. For others, a deep sense of shame about being perceived as weak or unmanly prevents them from confiding in others. It is difficult to find someone to turn to for support as there is a real problem of being mocked and humiliated rather than being provided with assistance.

Sadly, there are also cases where it is fear that keeps them in the marriage - there are women who threaten to take their children away, or even to report their husbands to the legal authorities for being ‘terrorists’ or ‘extremists.’

One particular point to be cautious of as well is that when discussing emotional abuse, it is all too common for people to start arguing about ‘who gets abused more.’ It should go without saying - yet, alas, must be said - that in the Sight of Allah, injustice and oppression have no gender. The harsh reality is that abuse does take place at the hands of men and women, towards other men and women. Our role as an Ummah is not to play the blame game, but to be aware of the facts and to act in accordance with Islamic principles of upholding justice and supporting the oppressed.

Taking Action

Anas reported: “The Messenger of Allah said: 'Help your brother, whether he is an oppressor or is oppressed.' A man asked: 'O Messenger of Allah! I (know how to) help him when he is oppressed, but how can I help him when he is an oppressor?' He said: 'You can restrain him from committing oppression. That will be your help to him.'” “(Al-Bukhari & Muslim)

Many Muslims are hesitant to discuss or take action against issues such as emotional abuse because they don’t want to ‘cause problems’ or get involved in things that ‘aren’t my business.’ There is the idea that stepping forward to help a Muslim sister who is being abused (in any way) by her husband is a betrayal to the Muslim man, or that his honour will be tarnished, or that it is better for a Muslimah to suffer in silence than to ‘expose’ a Muslim man.

What we forget is that preventing a fellow Muslim from causing harm - any type of harm at all - to others is, in and of itself, a praiseworthy deed. Rather than allowing injustice and oppression to flourish within our Ummah, it is the duty of every Muslim to stand up for what is right, even if what is right contradicts deep-rooted cultural ideas and beliefs.

One way that Muslim communities can work to take action against emotional abuse (and other types of domestic violence) is to actively provide support for victims and to stigmatise the abuse itself.

Community leaders, imams, speakers and indeed the average person can all cooperate in fostering an environment where support for abuse is called out. Those of knowledge and in a position of authority can and should use the minbar to emphasise the Islamic impermissibility of such abuse. Leaders should make it clear that anyone who comes to them with stories of abuse will not be turned away, rejected or made to feel unsafe (or forced to go back to their abusers). Community members can start within their own homes by educating themselves, children and other family members about what abuse entails and how it is Islamically unacceptable. Should someone share a story of abuse, they should be directed to the appropriate resources and supported in their search for a solution.

In essence, the masjid and the Muslim community should be a place where abuse of all types is stigmatised and a safe space for those who are going through it.

We cannot allow our misguided cultural mentalities to influence us into keeping silent about the emotional abuse, or physical abuse, or sexual abuse - or any other injustice - that takes place within our families, our communities, our Ummah. Taking a stand against these issues does not mean turning against your brothers or sisters in Islam, but in fact is a means of assisting them in leaving behind behaviour that is displeasing to Allah.

{You are the best of peoples ever raised for mankind; you enjoin what is right and forbid what is wrong, and you believe in Allah.} (Al-A'raf:157)