She said the “gods” were unkind to her… It was the fault in her stars perhaps?… the divorce… losing custody of the kids… Celexa… the new anti-depressant her doctor just prescribed… the lump in her breast that turned out benign but scared the hell out of her… Everything was going wrong… They didn’t have to do this to her she said… The “gods” she meant… Doesn’t everyone need a break once in a while?

And I “go” silent not “fall silent” but I go silent… Falling silent is a choice-less act of gravity it seems …  but I, on the other hand, make the choice to say nothing… I choose not to tell her that it is at times like these that God, the One and Only, wants to draw us closer to Him… to ignite in us that spark that leads to greatness just because He is by our side… to tell us that He is listening and that He wants to hear from you my friend…

But I choose to go silent… It’s so much easier that way…

A child crying blood and bleeding tears… Omran is his name…  the little Syrian boy turned celebrity seated at the back of an ambulance… his photo going… gone viral… as he wipes muck oozing out of tiny broken capillaries off his little face … perplexed innocent eyes…  grotesquely “cute” … every news channel showing footage over and over again of little Omran in the ambulance…. a hero who didn’t know he was a hero for telling a story that he didn’t know he was telling… an awakening of numbed hearts…. for not too long though because then again “life must go on”…

Corpse upon corpse… mixed with rubble from once-erect cement buildings crushed to pieces… ground zero… grounds zero… a melange of the organic and inorganic… a scene from a war movie… only seemingly less real… In this heap of madness lie Little Omrans who were not saved by the ambulance… mothers of Omrans, fathers of Omrans, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, grandmothers, grandfathers… ghosts chanting anthems for their beloved country… echoing cries for help… but who’s listening? My mind wanders to how someday many millennia from now this heap will turn into a deep black sea of fossil fuel…

I choose to go silent not fall silent… I go silent… It’s so much easier that way…

Well hello there…. She says she was so glad I could come… Ladies coffee morning… Actually more like a late brunch… was feeling a bit light headed I explained so I couldn’t really get myself out of bed earlier… What a delightful setup I say… loving the pastel floral theme I tell her… She says it was either this or the Mad Hatters theme which she brushes off jokingly saying that maybe we were too old for that… background static….pleasantries… small talk…. giggles turning into cackles… frozen expressions… taut foreheads … buried fine lines… puffed up lips… puffed up cheeks ballooned from injections…

I let out a sigh and lean back in my chair and listen… Conversations gnawing at bare flesh one bite at a time… talking about Mrs. So-&-So and Mrs. You-know-Who…  Did you see how she…? Did you hear how she…?  Did you feel how she…?

And once again… I go silent not fall silent… I just go silent… Would you blame me? It’s just so much easier that way…

That Day, We will seal over their mouths, and their hands will speak to Us, and their feet will testify about what they used to earn (Yaseen 65)

اليوم نختم على أفواههم وتكلمنا أيديهم وتشهد أرجلهم بما كانوا يكسبون*

The beginning of a beautiful journey that many of us in the Gulf region take for granted… while other Muslims simply wait year in and year out for the Hajj lottery to call out their names. Photographed are pilgrims of Muslim Serbs living at the border of Bosnia… An unexpected group of pilgrims as I had no idea that Serbia even had Muslims. #only20percentofMuslimsspeakArabic

There is a familiar scene in Bahrain’s Souq of a woman sitting on the sidewalk who sells tissue boxes. I call her the Tissue Seller. She sits at the same spot almost daily waiting for her “rizk”. I am assuming that she sits cross-legged although I can’t quite see. She somehow isolates herself from the outside world with her abaya which looks like a shiny black tent around her and is surrounded with colorful tissue boxes… quite picturesque really… Never have I once seen her beg or even extend the palm of her hand to a passer-by. She continues to sit there with the dignity of a Muslim who seems to know that it is Allah who will decide her bread winnings for the day. I often wonder what is home for her and who it is that waits for her return when night falls. I know, however, that tomorrow she will probably be back and those of us who happen to pass by that particular corner of Bahrain’s souq will see her once again…

During my trip to Istanbul, I spent many hours walking up and down one of my favorite streets in this world… Istiklal Avenue… a road bustling with life… colorful people set against an eclectic mélange of traditional coffee shops and modern fast-food outlets. You find yourself completely blending into the crowds the moment you step into it. But if you look close enough, you’ll see that the picture is not all that bright… as you walk down this street, you are bound to be approached by a beggar of some sort competing for some of your pocket change.

In he midst of all this, I was completely taken by surprise when I saw her in the middle of the street… yes, the tissue seller. This time, however, she was Turkish. She wore a white blouse tucked into a faded beige flared skirt. She wore a bright flowery scarf on her head tied into a tight knot at the bottom of her reddish chin. I could clearly see the many wrinkles on her face and her hunched back from years of battling with osteoporosis. She appeared to be an elderly woman who had aged before her time. She, unlike the tissue seller of Bahrain, didn’t sit on the ground but on a yellow plastic stool. She held in her hands not tissue boxes but pocket tissue packets. She was simply staring obliviously ahead… not really looking at anything… as it seemed like she was too familiar with her surroundings for anything to be of real interest to her. She had probably lived through these scenes a million times before.

She, strangely enough, just like the tissue seller in Bahrain’s souq, had never extended her hand to anyone except probably to collect money when she had sold a packet or two. Subhan Allah, I couldn’t help but think that she too knew that it is Allah alone who is ultimately responsible of what she takes home at the end of her day… Nor could I help wonder where she would be heading when it starts to get dark or whether she would be leaving this lively street to a home where she lived all by herself…

I began to think about how people all over the world may be living parallel lives without even realizing it… the setting and the details may be a little different but the essence of their parables quite identical… In this case, it was the dignity of these two tissue sellers who had the same profession and the same realization that it is Allah, alone, who is in complete control of their “rizk” at the end of their days?… Subhan Allah, is this message as clear to the rest of us???

{أَوَلَمْ يَعْلَمُوا أَنَّ اللَّهَ يَبْسُطُ الرِّزْقَ لِمَن يَشَاءُ وَيَقْدِرُ إِنَّ فِي ذَلِكَ لَآيَاتٍ لِّقَوْمٍ يُؤْمِنُونَ”}(آية 52 من سورة الزمر)

“Do they not know that Allâh enlarges the provision for whom He wills, and straitens it (for whom He wills). Verily, in this are signs for the folk who believe!” (Verse 52, Surah Az-Zumar)

I could go on and on about Sarajevo… I could go on and on about its charming cobblestone roads that lead to its narrow streets filled with peacock colors and sounds of “cling clang” … where one would find a series of tiny coppersmith shops selling silver jewelry and souvenirs… and of course local cafes offering the succulent kebab-like sausages known as “cevapcici”…Yumm… My mouth waters even as I sing the syllables of the word in my head … “Che-vap-chee-chee”… “Che-vap-chee-chee”…
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                                                                       Paris… Paris is the River Seine… a flowing mirror… an opaque reflection of magic… Paris is tango lessons along the river bank of couples forehead to forehead, locked at the shoulders… Paris is click clack stilettos of these dancing women as they drift into a moonlight dream and melt into the nocturnal waters of the river. Paris is a silver haired stout Romanian wearing a hat and an old tweed jacket playing chords from Edith Piaf’s “La Vie en Rose” on the pont Neuf… Paris is lovers embracing on the sidewalks of the bridge. Continue reading →