apropos of anything

Friday night was khatamul Quran at Al Farooq (and at ICNF, and in Augusta, and, I’m sure in half a dozen other mosques around the metro Atlanta area (not that Augusta is metro Atlanta by any means, but I know for sure they had it there). It’s one of the Ramadan rituals that I will always find a way to try to attend, even if it means contorting myself and my schedule in spectacular pretzel-like fashion. I love the crescendo leading up to the final surahs, and I love the du’a at the end, and I love the powerful emotional impact of feeling like you’ve accomplished something as you stand there at the end, thinking through all the surahs that have been read through all the nights of prayer over the past 27 days (because Al Farooq, like most other mosques, always finishes on the 27th night). This year was especially beautiful, in our brand new spacious masjid that despite its size was packed to the brim, so much that people were praying on out in the marble hallways.

And I love the post-khatam days when the taraweeh no longer has a daily script, freeing the imam to read the surahs people recognize, like Ar-Rahman or Ya Sin, so that even though the prayers themselves are shorter, the connection, the focus remains because instead of concentrating on the progress through the Quran you are instead concentrating on the verses you know so well. But the arrival of the post-khatam days also means the month is almost over, and while that makes me sad every year, this year it’s like a physical hurt, like I can’t catch my breath, because how can Ramadan already be over?

I think it is because I know that this year I did not do all that I could, that this year I let the length of the day and the demands of my job interfere with my dedication to Ramadan, and I want another week, or two if I could get it, to do it all the right way. And because I take indescribable comfort in the structure of Ramadan, the pattern it gives my days; while they might be difficult and busy, when I am on my game and taking full advantage of all the month has to offer, they are also incredibly satisfying.

I will miss Ramadan. I want it to stay.

But I suppose we can’t always get what we want, so instead of being sad over the course of the remaining few days, I am going to take advantage of this 29th night of Ramadan, a possible lailatul qadr night because He says to call on Him and He will answer. I began this post with the intention of sharing again, but I don’t think I can anymore, so instead — mubarak, and enjoy the end of Ramadan, and pray for me, please, because I will be praying for you.

(Top picture courtesy of Taha Kazi. Bottom two pictures courtesy of http://www.boston.com. Clicking on any of the pictures will take you to the original photo.)

The Shaamir wedding has come and gone (and of course the pictures are on Facebook already), leaving us all with just enough time to turn our focus elsewhere: Ramadan. It has arrived. Quietly, this year, or possibly that was just me, since I’ve been caught up in the Shaamir extravaganza for the past couple of weeks.

On Sunday Alicia and I made jam, partly because I had oodles of fruit left over from the Shaamir festivities and partly because I think we are both just slightly nuts. Why make jam when you can buy jam? Because ours doesn’t have preservatives, or even pectin! Plus, on which supermarket shelf are you going to find blackberry plum jam where the plums are direct from Chile and the blackberries from a riverbank in Tennessee, hmm?

I meant to take pictures, but with all the boiling and taking care not to suddenly find ourselves covered in varying degrees of burns, the only photos I managed to snap were of Mars sitting in a box we thought was too small for him. (Silly humans that we are, we were wrong.) I’ll photograph Jamming: Round Two whenever it happens (because plum jam is yummy and I really do want to be Anne Shirley when I grow up) and document the recipe in case anyone else is also slightly nuts and wants to make their own, but…

On Sunday Alicia and I made jam, which ran a little longer than I expected and so I didn’t quite get to Al Farooq at 9:30 like I’d planned… and then I had to circle for a few minutes before I found a parking space in a section of the deck they’d meant to cordon off but didn’t quite get to. It was a larger-than-normal crowd for the first night of taraweeh, but I figured, hey, it’s a holiday weekend, people are taking advantage of not having to work tomorrow.

Al Farooq Masjid in midtown Atlanta. Photo courtesy of R. David Coolidge.

On Monday, it was worse. I was even later because the perverse part of me didn’t want to go, and it wasn’t until I got a text message from Randa asking if I’d left yet that I actually got in the car and drove down to midtown. I’ve never seen taraweeh is never so full on a weeknight except for when they are finishing the Quran. It was equally surprising and exhilarating because we are so blessed to have this beautiful shiny new masjid, Alhumdulillah, and to have it be FULL like it should be. What a wonderful way to start off the month of Ramadan.

Now if only those Al Farooq board members could do something about the complete and total lack of parking, that would be fabulous.

Ramadan mubarak, everyone. May we all strive to new heights this year, insha’Allah.

U.S. religious freedom is being eroded, advocates say.

Perhaps I should reconsider that invitation to join the Islamic Speakers Bureau…

The night before Eid, I wrote briefly about this year’s hajjis and my envy that I was not among them, and I promised to explain further the next morning when I was not so tired. Three mornings have come and gone, and still I have not explained, and even now I am not going to, not fully, because envy, while in small doses has its place, is overall a waste of time and emotion.

Thank you Baraka and Yasmine, for reminding me.

I have been so caught up in work and weddings that I never found the hajji frame of mind. After all, I don’t have to be in Mecca or Medina to have conversations with God. I may feel closer to Him there, but He is here, too. The only difference is that there, I have no distractions, nothing else to do but talk to Him, whereas here… here, it seems I only stop moving long enough for the five cursory greetings He requests from me.

I do miss being a hajji. I miss the feel of being there, the overwhelming serenity of walking back to the hotel after fajr, the inimitable bond of sleeping under the stars of Muzdalifah, the intense emotion in Arafat. I miss all of it. But missing that shouldn’t mean that I also let slip by all the opportunities I have here to worship and pray in the comfort of my own home, surrounded by all the blessings God has chosen to bestow on me.

I wish that I could write my prayer here like Yasmine and Baraka do on their blogs, but that would require a level of self-expression that I have not yet reached. I see much in their prayers that I would ask for myself, and since quoting them is not self-expression so much as shameless stealing… but no, I can’t steal a prayer.

In my own prayer, I would ask Him to keep my brothers happy always, happy in their marriages, strong in their deen, healthy, and successful. I would ask Him to help me be a good sister, and a good sister-in-law to my bhabhis so that there will never be a day they would need to call a friend to vent about me. I would ask Him to keep my parents healthy, independent, and content in their lives. I would ask Him to ease the burdens of those who are suffering: the people on the other side of the planet as well as the people on the other side of the city. I would ask Him to take special care of the Youssifs of the world, and their mothers too. I would ask Him for rain but not flooding. I would ask for His blessings for my lovely and amazing friends, the people who serve as my surrogate family. I would ask Him to give us the wisdom to care for the planet He put in our care and the strength to always stand determinedly for that which is right. And I would ask Him to forgive us all for the slights we have given, the mistakes we have made, and the hurts we have caused.

As for what I would ask specifically for myself, that I can’t share, not yet.

Ameen.

[Note regarding the post below this one: Please email me if you would like the password to read it.]

This past weekend I attended an event that had been billed as girls-only, so I took advantage of the opportunity to dress up a little and to actually do my hair.

(For those who don’t wear hijab — to make the scarf sit properly on your head, you pretty much have to pull all your hair back into a braid or a bun or some other similar device that will prevent your head from looking funny-shaped. Most women also wear a tight-fitting cap to help keep the slippery scarf material in place. That cap is the death knell of any hairstyle outside of Demi Moore’s ‘do in G.I. Jane.)

I wasn’t the only one. Several other hijabi girls had put in a little extra effort with hair, and even with clothes; all-girls parties mean sleeves don’t have to go all the way down to your wrists, either. We were looking forward to a rare chance to sparkle.

Divested of hijab, I was talking to a friend when suddenly her expression changed, and she said, “Huda, there’s a video camera.”

I turned around, and yep, there was the honoree’s mother, quietly taping the goings-on in the main party area. I ran for it, slipping past her and turning into the foyer, where another group of hijab-wearing girls had just arrived and were removing their scarves, jackets, and shoes.

We huddled for a few minutes and then turned to the hostess, who had come out to greet the new arrivals.

“I’m really sorry,” I said, “but can you please not record the party while we’re out of our hijabs?”

She smiled at me. “Oh, don’t worry about it. We’re only going to show it to a few of our aunts who couldn’t come.”

Right. That makes me feel so much better.

Once my image is on somebody else’s recording, it’s out of my hands. I cannot guarantee that someone who shouldn’t see me with my hijab off won’t see me with my hijab off. Digital data is never sacred. It’s too easy to reproduce and distribute. Just ask the major television and film studios. As soon as a copy of the media leaves the original source, there is no longer any guarantee that anyone will never know exactly how many copies exist in the world.

But even if I am being irrationally cautious about protecting my image, the point remains that the other girls and I specifically requested something not happen, and we were ignored. Looking back, I wish I’d left the party at that point.

The video recording continued throughout the party, always random and unannounced, so that hijabis couldn’t even duck for cover if they preferred not to be in the shot. I tried to keep an eye on the camera as much as possible, and the girls I was sitting with helped out as well, sometimes serving as a physical block to the lens, but I know I’m in that movie more than one time. Later they started taking pictures — again unannounced — and I finally admitted defeat, took the hijab out of my purse, and put it back on.

My hijab is important to me. It is not something I do lightly. If you think so, you have no idea the amount of effort that goes into hijab. And if you do not think so, you would never for one second have entertained the idea of turning on a video camera in the presence of an uncovered hijabi. You would just as soon have recorded your girlfriends walking around topless.

If I sound upset, it’s because even now, days later, I am.

Hope it was wonderful…

…but to be honest, I miss Ramadan.

A kid sat on me during prayer tonight.

He was probably about Alex’s age. I went down for sujood, and he leaned up against my left shoulder. Finding it to his liking, he sat down. And then, when I got up, he looked at me, deeply affronted, as though to say, “Lady, I was comfortable there. What do you think you’re doing?”

Obviously, I should have known better.

I brought my mother the tea she requested, and as I handed it to her, the woman sitting next to her said hello.

“She always asks about you,” my mother said.

“Yes,” her friend agreed, “I always ask about you, but you never come talk to me.”

I wanted to say, well, I don’t go talk to a lot of people. I’ve mostly given up doing the rounds these days, so I only go see those of my mother’s friends that I particularly like, the ones who have always gone out of their way to treat me as they treat their own children. But there’s no nice way to say that, and in any case, she wasn’t done.

“It’s because you think you have all that money now that you don’t talk to me,” she continued, laughing as though she’d said something side-splittingly hilarious. “But one day you’ll learn money isn’t everything!”

I was completely floored.

If there was one way I would never have characterized myself, it would be as someone who was stuck-up about money. I do have a job now, Alhumdulillah, and I am glad to have it. I do not think I spend my earnings cavalierly, and I certainly don’t think I’ve ever really had any public discussions about my salary except when one of my mother’s friends brings it up, and then I usually smile, nod, and change the subject as quickly as possible because what I earn is nobody’s business but mine and my boss’s.

I wanted to say, the reason I don’t come talk to you is actually because you say things like this. Because you think whether I’m married is your personal business. Because when I was a kid you would let your bratty children wreak havoc on our house and our toys and then laugh when we asked you to make them stop. The reason I don’t come talk to you is because you don’t understand what it means to have an inside voice.

(For what it’s worth, the bratty children are now remarkably mature and well-adjusted. I wonder how it happened.)

But it’s Ramadan, and a Lailatul Qadr night to boot, and I wasn’t about to throw it all away over her. Plus, “the retribution for injury is an equal injury, but those who forgive the injury and make reconciliation will be rewarded by God,” right? So I smiled politely and said nothing, and then at the next convenient opportunity, made my escape.

It still rankles, what she said, mostly because I’m worried that maybe it’s true and I just don’t see it. I certainly don’t intend to do it, but maybe there’s something anyway.

As John Cage would say, I’m troubled.

It really is. We’re only sidetracking for a teensy second.

I spent hours looking for pizza recipes because I wanted to serve pizzas at iftaar (which I did, a variation off Allie’s Mushroom Pizza), and now that it’s over, I find this page with all sorts of lovely pizza ideas. I’m writing about it here so I keep a link around, especially because I promised my brothers I’d make them pizza sometime this week since the halal pepperoni one ran out so quickly on Friday.

And now, back to our regularly scheduled focus.

We’re halfway through Ramadan now. I had hoped for something different. Something like last year (which at least means I met my goal for last year, that I should look back and think, if only I could do as much as I did last year).

When I read back through that post, I’m in awe of how much my head was in exactly the right place, even though I didn’t realize it at the time. This past week I have spent so much time thinking — no, obsessing — about things that are out of my control, things that have nothing at all to do with Ramadan, that I haven’t even noticed how many precious days have slipped by. Ramadan comes only once a year, and I am ashamed of myself for not taking advantage of it like I should.

I suppose there’s still time for me to fix it, to wrench myself back into the proper frame of mind, and to finish out Ramadan like it should be done.

I think I might start with the small deeds. As we left Makkah this winter, Imam Magid advised us to pick a few small things and do them consistently because he said we’d be more likely to stick to that regimen than if we tried to make grand, sweeping changes. I’ve forgotten to take his words to heart, but perhaps now, during Ramadan, is the perfect time to remember.

Iftaar’s over. The icebox cake was a smash hit, for what it’s worth.