my smile

We’re sitting together in the park. I see the day’s dying light glint off your head. Your highlights pick up the flecks of golden light and reflect them back at me until you almost seem to be wearing a diadem. When did you put those in? Did they grow while I was distracted by life?

Your eyes are warm. They will always be the warmest place on earth for me. How often have I not wanted to crawl into them and curl up, foetus like, stay there, always.

You lean in to kiss me. Our lips meet. The birds stop singing, or so it seems. All I am aware of is the feel of your mouth exploring mine. Of how you pull my lower lip between your teeth and bite, but gently. I moan deep in my throat.

And then the moment escapes. Leaves the room like tendrils of mist rising to the sky. I bury my face in the folds or your gown. Run the fabric along my lower lip. Did you notice that you’d left it behind? I inhale deeply. It smells so completely of you that for a moment I drown in longing.

How cold are you, my love?

I leave the bed. I leave our bed and go to stand at the bedroom window. I pull the curtain aside. I try to capture the world with a single glance but it is too big. Too wide and too empty. I think of how nothing ever escaped you.

There is a crescent moon. A fragile sliver. It smiles. Tremulous. The giant Maple, your giant Maple is a charcoal silhouette in the back yard. All gnarled arms and accusatory fingers. There is frost. A fine smattering that glistens, icy sweat on earth’s brow. Your tulips are just beginning to flower.  The pale yellow buds wink at me from the inky flowerbeds. Tomorrow I want to kneel beside them, kneel close, feel the petals brush my face and imagine them to be a caress. Yours.

Come stand beside me just today. Allow me to put an arm around you and pull you close. Allow me to study the curve of your neck, silvery in the moonlight, the curve of your mouth, lips slightly parted. Just for today, let me crawl into your eyes. Stay there. There is no world outside of you.

Please…

My feet are cold. I don’t notice that I’ve pressed my head to the chilled pane. My hand too. I remove them, see the misted imprints like smudges on the nightscape. Ridwaan stirs. I go back to bed and climb in beside him. He is all angles at six. Everyone says he looks just like me. But they’re wrong. He has your eyes. They flash in anger just the way yours used to sometimes. They dance with mischief more often now. And I’m thankful for that. He smiles in his sleep. They’re right. He does have my smile.

He kicks the covers off, revealing his gazelle legs. Throws an arm out wide, almost knocks me in the face. I set him right, cover him again. Tuck him in, just like you used to. He laughs.

“Mommy…”he laughs again and I feel chilled. Something inside me cracks anew and I swallow hard against the lump in my throat. So hard that my ears hurt.

You visit him at night too?

How cold you must be, my love. How cold. Why didn't I give you your gown. You need it. Instead all you have is white calico. And winter’s earth, a mountain on your fragile frame.

Come lay with me, my love. Let’s watch for the coming of dawn together. No, the bed is no longer too small for three. We fit. See? Your head planted beneath my chin. No, not with your back to me. Face me. Yes, I want to look into your eyes. Crawl into them just this once after you've kissed me again and thrown my world into a state of flux.

I want to speak against your lips. Say, I love you. Tell you how long each day stretches without you in it. How hollow.

I wake each day, take my smile back from Ridwaan’s elfin face before he rises, place it over the lips you’d kissed the night before. It’s my smile, after all. Ridwaan needs my smiles.

I rearrange myself so that by the time he wakes, I look whole. A man. His father.

About that smile, did you entrust it to him for safekeeping? My smile?

Once Upon a Time...

Once upon a time there was a girl. She was your average teen. But good-average, in the way sheltered girls often are. When she was 15, she had an epiphany. Why have we been created?

Her answer: Wa ma khlaqtul jinna wal insa illa li ya’budoon.

And I have not created Jinn and men, except for my worship.  ( al Quraan 51:56)

She turned her back on the life she once considered normal. Harmless. Covered her head. Gave up school (upsetting her parents in the process), and went off to Daarul Uloom. Here she learnt the basics of Deen. Went into niqaab. Was married by 18. She stopped reading books. Until that point they had always been her greatest passion. She writhed within the constraints of her narrow interpretation of Islam. Looked down on those she considered less guided. Struggled to love. Mostly because she did not love herself.

She found herself tested. Found her faith tested. Entered the abyss. Emerged changed. She had a voice. The sound of it scared her. She’d been silencing it for so long.

She learnt that perfection belonged to Allah alone. She learnt that His love was neither cruel, nor judgemental and that while He was a God of Wrath, more than that, He was a God of Mercy. She began to build a life for herself. Embraced herself with all her faults. Began to question the dogma that until that point had been her Truth.

She embarked on a new journey, rediscovering her faith.  She stumbled. Faltered. Sometimes she fell.

And then, two nights ago, she wrote about how strange she found the need people have to flaunt their misdeeds which their Maker has mercifully concealed.

She found that yet again, each person that read it took something different from what she’d written. There were those who came out strongly in her support. There were those who condemned her for being judgemental. Pointed out that she was no better than those she was condemning.

This saddened her. Because her message had been swallowed by the issues she’d been foolish enough to raise alongside it. These issues overshadowed her message.

Her message was simple:

“I’m not asking anyone to fear what people will say. I’m merely saying, if Allah chooses to conceal your sin, why do you choose to reveal it?

If we’re doing something wrong, let us, at the very least, have the integrity with ourselves to admit to ourselves that it is wrong. Let us ask for guidance. And above all, let us have a degree of Hayaa with Allah.  

Hayaa Jinayah, the shamefulness of committing a crime. And if we cannot manage this, then at the very least, let us try to preserve the modesty that Allah has in His mercy, covered us with.

I wrestled with writing this blog post. Grappled with it. Felt, who was I, one so weighted by sins of my own, to point out the sin of another? Then I remembered this hadith:

HADITH 34

On the authority of Abu Saeed Al-Khurdari, who said: I heard the messenger of Allah say:

"Whosoever of you sees an evil action, let him change it with his hand; and if he is not able to do so, then with his tongue; and if he is not able to do so, then with his heart; and that is the weakest of faith."

And felt, if this, my weak faith, does not result in me saying something at the very least, then what will become of this, my weak faith, other than it becoming weaker yet?

I leave you with these words of Habibi SAW:

“Haya’ (modesty) and Iman (faith) are two that go together. If one is lifted, the other is also lifted.”

[Recorded by al-Hakim]

The writer is even more in need of these words than the reader.

La tansa’ni fi duaa’ikum”

She wished she’d reminded people of this post from 2 years ago

They’d understand that she was not being judgemental. She felt that perhaps the 15 year old whose pics she’d seen on Instagram would be better served by a piece on the Too-Early Sexualisation of Females. On the (mal)message girls are fed about how their worth is measured by their desirability.

She realised that just like she does not consider plays at the theatre to be sinful in any way, so too, perhaps there are many who do not consider concerts sinful. But that this did not mean she should agree with their viewpoint. Nor did it mean that those from among her family who indulged in this, are by any means less worthy of her love.

She realised that speaking the truth about thorny issues is a whole lot more difficult than just going with the flow in order to keep the peace but that sometimes it was worthwhile, because it got people thinking and got people talking.  Even if it meant that she’d find herself called “Aunty”, purely as an insult. She also learnt that perhaps the time has come to disable the ‘Anonymous’ commentating facility on her blog. 

Hard-core...to the core

Remember the days when Muslims would go to clubs, smoke weed with the best, get totally sloshed, then come home write a huge note about the night and paste it on their front door? Yeah, me neither.

But times have changed and social media has contributed in no small degree to this change. Because, let’s face it, we all want to look cool. And you know how Slumous are with trends, right? So we need to be cooler-er (you gotta rrroool those 'r's)! Be seen at the right places, hanging with the right crowd, eating the right brand of Italian ice cream, drinking the right kind of Nespresso, shopping at the right boutiques, buying from the right patisseries and on and on...ad nauseam.  

And then there’s those slumous whose ambitions aren’t quite so ‘unambitious’. Hard-core to the core! These are the chicks (some as young as 15) who put up pics of themselves in hot pants. Chicks who lay their panties out on their beds (some have bite the cupcake written on em *palmface*) and take pics for instagram.  Chicks who plaster their pretty little teen faces to the point where, when I see the pics, I’m tempted to take a teaspoon to my screen and see if the gook will peel off in little strips if I scraped.

Slumous who live tweet raves  and rock concerts. And Allah help you if you point out the wrongness of these acts. You’ll be branded ‘judgemental’, ‘self-righteous’, and worst of all *gasp* ‘religious’!

Now here’s the thing (dang! That almost came out as ‘thong”! *cringe*) I’m not questioning any slumous right to post nude pics of themselves to Instagram or even Facebook (if they’re that way inclined).  I’m not questioning their right to attend rock concerts. Cos that Justine chick, she’s religious. Didn't she stop her concert twice in Turkey  to “honour” the Muslim call to prayer and allow slumous to get their game on before returning to pop star adulation? But what I am questioning is where is the modesty?

I know the argument so well. Have even used it myself. Why should I care what people think. I’m answerable to Allah. He is the only judge. Said with such bravado. And what if, Allah forbid, His judgement came swift and fast and death came to us in places where a Muslim would dislike to meet his/her end? Would we be so keen to face His judgement then?

I’m not asking anyone to fear what people will say. I’m merely saying, if Allah chooses to conceal your sin, why do you choose to reveal it?

And that brings us to another sticky issue. The issue of sin. Admittedly, some of it is subjective. But posting semi nude pics or attending a rock concert isn't  Let us not fool ourselves, delude ourselves to the point where we stop seeing wrong for what it is. Let us not wrap our (mis)deeds in lies so pretty that we no longer see them for what they are.

If we’re doing something wrong, let us, at the very least, have the integrity with ourselves to admit to ourselves that it is wrong. Let us ask for guidance. And above all, let us have a degree of Hayaa with Allah.  

Hayaa Jinayah, the shamefulness of committing a crime. And if we cannot manage this, then at the very least, let us try to preserve the modesty that Allah has in His mercy, covered us with.

I wrestled with writing this blog post. Grappled with it. Felt, who was I, one so weighted by sins of my own, to point out the sin of another? Then I remembered this hadith:

HADITH 34
On the authority of Abu Saeed Al-Khurdari, who said: I heard the messenger of Allah say:

"Whosoever of you sees an evil action, let him change it with his hand; and if he is not able to do so, then with his tongue; and if he is not able to do so, then with his heart; and that is the weakest of faith."

And felt, if this, my weak faith, does not result in me saying something at the very least, then what will become of this, my weak faith, other than it becoming weaker yet?

I leave you with these words of Habibi SAW:

“Haya’ (modesty) and Iman (faith) are two that go together. If one is lifted, the other is also lifted.”

[Recorded by al-Hakim]

The writer is even more in need of these words than the reader.

La tansa’ni fi duaa’ikum

ma'as salaamah
s

A Dedication

Eleven years ago on this day, I awakened for suhoor. It was the 10th of Muharram and I had intended to fast. Halfway through the day I went into labour. Fast duly broken by the ensuing haemorrhaging.


Her birth was near painless.  There was too much else happening simultaneously. I don’t remember much except her raspy mewling. Meconium aspiration. Google it. The worried face of the midwife who’d insisted from the outset that a C section was what was called for. My life ebbing out of me as they readied a theatre so that they could perform an emergency D & C. Google that too.


Whiteness.


Imraan’s worried face as he left to break his fast.


In the years since that day so much has happened. And she, that little scrap of humanity, had been the catalyst. I remember well her little tartan grower with its matching pair of patent ‘leather’ booties. Remember well, her toothless conversations. Breastfed still, even when she was able to hold conversations.  Remember working at Imraan’s glass company while she crawled, later walked around a dusty office.


Today she turns eleven. And she’s amazing.


I dedicate this post to you.  Maseeha. The anointed one.


You were my little miracle. A baby after three miscarriages. The doctor only discovered you when I was four months into my pregnancy.  You were a light burden. Unlike your brothers who wore me down. You entered the world as all who stood around me feared I was leaving it. You were my companion during the darkest of my days when I battled past demons. When I fought against the rising waves of darkness that was post natal depression. You suckled at my breast as I penned my first ever words.  You gave me a reason to keep fighting, as I, night after night, kept vigil because of your severe colic. You were in tune with my innermost fears and sorrows.


Even now you are a child who is wise beyond her years. Mothering me when you think I need it. Driving me insane sometimes. You’re fierce and independent. Brave and hard working. Loving and very merciful. You’d happily stand up to me for your father or any of your siblings. You keep me in check.


You love me in spite of my failings. Are understanding of the days when I am too tired to give very much. You have seen me grow and change as much as I have witnessed the same in you.


Today you are eleven. Still my baby girl though, even when you dress up and look an impeccable young lady. Even when you spritz on some of my perfume and paint your perfect mouth with a smear of my lipstick.


My dua for you today and always is that you never doubt your essence. That your faith never waver. That your hope be as fresh always as it is today. We’ll bake a cake together later today.  You’ll get to exercise that arty craft side of yourself. The side you develop so passionately.


I don’t think, as a mother I am meant to give you the world. What I am meant to do is give you of myself. Immerse you in a sea of my love. A sea that will never run dry. There may be times when you disappoint me. Or when I disappoint you. But even then, I ask that the love we share keep us tied to one another. Siamese twins in heart. ..

That daughter

I am ‘that’ daughter. The one who won’t say the things that will placate you when she knows you've been wrong. I've always been ‘that’ daughter. Never the one you’d ask for a back rub or foot massage. My baggage stood in the way. There was too much blame, anger and yes, regret. It came in the way of my hands on their way to your feet. Strangely though, I cannot look at my hands now, without seeing yours. My face, without seeing you. 

And even though I am ‘that’ daughter, every time I see you, my heart breaks. Shiny shards that embed themselves into your bird-frailty. Your tininess. Your wisp of woman being.  Every time I see you I feel angry at life. How it, like a succubus has drained you of everything. Left this husk.  The shell where once there was such vitality.

How many students have passed through your class? How many have gone on to lives as doctors, lawyers  (I mentions these. They have always been your definition of 'success'). Yet you remain. All emptied out. Your mind, a haunted house where ghosts now roam. Little glimpses of a life faded from too many washes. Nebulous.

Yesterday I met someone who mistook me for you. She has Alzheimer too. Says I taught with her back in the day.

And then there was your ex-student who asked after you. Said you must still be 'as smart as always'.

What do I tell her?

It’s  terrifying.

Your arm is purple. They want to operate. Fix it, they say. Replace your shoulder. Can they replace more bits of you? Your body that has worked so hard? Borne children, carried them on hips, now paper thin. Hands that cooked meals, fed mouths? Now wrinkled. Flapping uselessly at your sides. Broken wings.  Breasts flat against your shrunken chest. They suckled me once.

I’m angry. At life. It’s taken everything. Hasn't even left you your memories.  I swallow past a lump that chokes me. I weep. I want my mother back...

If you are a victim...

It is not the first time in my life that I've found life taking decisions for me. Making choices that perhaps, I, myself, would not have made. Last night I found myself attending the first session of ten. A training session where I’d learn to become a ‘Trauma Counsellor'. Anyone familiar with the South African landscape would know that hijackings and armed robberies are almost par for the course.  

 I arrived and was handed a stationery pack. I settled into my seat and when I looked at the ruler, I almost smiled. “If you are a victim of child abuse or suspect that a child is abused…” it said. 

I’d finally come full circle.

When I was four I was abused. My memories are hazy, but I’d imagine it continued for a year, until I started pre-school.  When I was 24 I had my daughter and fell into severe Post Natal Depression. I went for counselling and also began writing. I was told that the birth of a little girl had triggered my abuse memories. In her, I saw myself. It’s no great surprise then, that she, of all my kids, is most like me. Short tempered, nurturing, loving, and a little crazy. The writing, more than anything, helped me exorcise those ghosts.  I haven’t stopped writing since.

Today I can think of what happened impassively. It no longer hurts. I have healed. I don’t want your sympathy. Please, don’t give it to me. What I do want is that you to join me in celebrating the resilience of the human spirit. His mercy, when He helps a broken spirit become whole again. That He’s allowed the same once-broken spirit to give back the kindness and support that helped make it whole again. Wish me luck. This will be the ultimate test. Have I really healed? Will I be able to remain professional and unemotional when confronted with an abused child or a woman who’s been raped?

My husband doesn't understand why I need to do this. If anything, he’s annoyed at me because of it. But sometimes you just have to go with your heart.  Right now, I’m going with mine…

A Thankful Year

Thankful. That is the word that would sum up 2012 for me.

I am thankful.

For joy.

For sorrow

For love

For anger

For hope

For faith

For laughter

For tears

I am thankful

For life.

It has been a year that I could perhaps (in a less thankful moment) call overfull.  But even for that, I am thankful.

I have found myself tested. Stretched.  I have lost. I have hurt. I have healed. I have prayed. I have hoped. I have tempered hope with realism. I have written. I have sung.

 I have walked in the rain, watched a hailstorm unleash its full fury.  Have touched that hail, tasted it. I have held a bird shaken up by the storm, in my hand. Warmed it until it could once more fly. 

I have swam with fishes, watched them dart away from my touch.

 I have built brides’ dreams in chocolate, covered them in flowers.  Sent them off with a wish that their marriages be sanctuaries. Homes. Always.

I have built castles in the sky, found fellow dreamers. Lost a few too, to reality.

My heart, as I write, brims with joy. Tears blur my vision. I am thankful. For tears of joy.

Alhamdulillah. Always.

May we all greet 2013 with open hearts and open arms. May The Good Lord grace us with showers of Mercy and Goodness. May we always be thankful. For life.