El Padre y Su Hijo

I just dropped off the two men in my life at the school. They are on their way to a Father & Son field trip.

When my son first brought home the paper this week announcing the trip, my husband immediately said, "I just can't take a Saturday off. There's no way."

I wanted to interject. I instead kept my thoughts to myself.

The next morning, as my kids were getting ready for school, my son proudly displayed the signed and dated permission form. "We're going on the trip!" he exclaimed.

I was not sure when my husband signed the paper but I didn't care. My elation knew no words. When my husband left for work that morning, I told him,

"You just made that kid's week. You made his year, for that matter. For the rest of his life, he will remember the Father & Son field trip. Twelve hours of dads and boys doing their thing."

Will my husband, for the rest of his life, remember the day he decided to close the lot, ticking off prospective Saturday car buyers? I think not.

I'll have the Organic Peanut Butter

I just read this article about Oregon's governor, Ted Kulongoski, trying to buy his groceries for the week on Food Stamps. He had a $21 limit.

That is around 15 Jordanian Dinar.

I am sure it is part of his campaign scheme, but no doubt it taught him a valuable lesson. Twenty one dollars per week does not feed a family--at least not anything worth eating.

The last time I priced tomatoes in the US, they were about $3.75 a pound. My stepmother bought one tomato. I saw it in her hand, and asked her, "What's with the single tomato?" (I'm used to buying about forty at a time.)

"It's for our turkey sandwiches," she said.

In Jordan, one tomato lasts about half a second.

Unbelievably, the folks on Food Stamps in Oregon and typical Jordanians have about the same amount of money per week to spend on food. The difference is, even on Food Stamps, the Americans' salaries are much higher and living conditions far better.

I know I've blogged about this subject before, but I just can't see an end to this price gouging and horrendous inflation. Many children in Jordan who would, in normal living conditions, be cognitively on target, are learning-disabled. They are malnourished.

Don't be fooled by all of the villas and nouveau riche in Amman. People are starving.

Now back to the good governor. He couldn't find his organic peanut butter and ended up settling for generic. He couldn't buy his granola. Or coffee. I wonder how long any of us would last on canned beans and boxed mac and cheese. Day after day, meal after meal.

The next time you spend $4 on a cup of coffee, think about what you might do with that extra pocket change. Feed the folks at home.

A Preschool Funny

Yesterday my three year-old was singing her ABC's. She got to L, M, N, O, skipped P, and continued on to the end, finishing with Z.

"What happened to the letter P ? I asked.

She looked at me very seriously, and replied,

"He's lost. Maybe someone killed him."

And we don't think the young ones pay attention to Law & Order or Alias.

The letter P is either a double agent, or was kidnapped by a deranged lunatic in New York City.

All About April

April has been a busy month. April is like that turning point in the year; we know summer is fast approaching, yet we are still stuck in the same school year, trying to tie up loose ends and foster new beginnings.

This weekend I planted petunias and other flowers I've only seen in Jordan, so I have no idea what they are called in English. Petunia is easy; in Arabic, it's betunya. April is the best month for planting things here. I have even seen azaleas around town lately, but the shop owners tell me the soil is too acidic and they can only be grown in pots. How I miss the look of azaleas in Alabama in April. (How's that for alliteration?)

April is the birth month of my youngest child. (Today she is three!) Her babyhood was the most difficult out of the four children. When I think back to my pregnancy with her, I remember being unhappy much of the time. She was born colicky. She screamed for a solid four months. My husband kept mailing me "Gripe Water" he found in the U.S. It tasted great, but it did nothing to help her stomach woes. I wore her in a pouch attached to my trunk most of the time. I remember cooking spaghetti for the other kids with her attached to me, screaming, while I tried to stir sauce. My husband had planted all of this new grass and left me here in Jordan in charge of its growth and nurturing. I was gardening with a newborn hanging from my neck, screaming. We would get into a traffic jam on Fridays coming back from visiting family, and she'd start...screaming. When she would finally pass the gas that had tortured her insides, she would have a small window of relief. I guess that's when we used to sleep. Anyhow, her nickname for a long time was Farty McFartson.

Then, one day, she just woke up grinning. And she's been grinning ever since. May Allah keep her safe and happy.

April is also the anniversary of my marriage. (That's tomorrow!) I have now been married fifteen years, which is most of my adult life. I think I can divide my marriage into three different sections:

The first five years, where we had not yet learned the act of compromise, but were very much in love. I think that our love outweighed the selfishness that was mostly displayed by yours truly, and that is one of the things that helped move us through to the next five-year segment. I have seen too many new marriages fail because neither side was willing to give in. Sometimes we must give in, at least partially. I am so grateful to my husband for putting such importance on my education and encouraging me to keep studying. When I graduated from university in 1994, he was nothing but smiles. All of the nights he worked as a waiter, coming home with his tips and pooling them with mine so that we did not have to take out any student loans...to think of those times and his selflessness...

Then I became a Muslim, and started having kids. This began phase 2 of our marriage, having little ones around and learning as we went how to be parents. These five years were definitely the 'lean years,' but I also consider them as some of the most joyous. We really did not worry about money. We were young and energetic and focused on our spiritual growth.

The past five years, or phase 3, have been spent here, in Jordan. These years have been some of the most trying, both physically and mentally, but we have reached an understanding of one another that I never knew was possible. It is all about acceptance now, and being able to laugh at growing older, greying, and being content with the present. We are still focused on the children of course, but I can say without a doubt that our focus on each other is healthy and full of love and humor.

So as winter and April are winding to a close, my heart is light and my outlook positive, and my thanks abound.

Could it be...

Could it be that approaching age 35 means that your metabolism must suddenly come to a screeching, grinding halt?

My walking buddy and I finally made it up the "Hill of Death" on Thursday without practically choking up our insides. "That's progress," I told her. "We have endurance. We have stamina."

We've walked three weeks now, each morning, for 45 minutes straight. Dr. Oz said that after two weeks of doing his "diet" and walking for 30 minutes each day, that two inches should be gone from our middles.

I haven't measured my walking pal, but my middle is completely in tact.

I'm not one for deprivation, but I think something drastic is in order. My goal was April to be all svelt-like. April is almost over, summer is around the bend, and I'm right where I started.

Must re-think this whole strategy. Must stop eating piping hot pita bread and hummus from neighboring bakery and falafel stand.

Can't you just taste it?

Videorama

Today I dug out the video camera that we bought in 1996, I believe. It's old, outdated, and plain, but it still works.

I hooked the camera up to the TV and popped in the old cassettes that I had labeled willy-nilly "Jordan 2003" and "Stacy and Hayfa." I had no idea what the tapes actually had recorded on them.

The first one was all kinds of footage of my third child, who is now five. She did not ask to have a little sister born right after her, so she got just a little bit of time in the limelight, and is kind of the 'middle child' who is sometimes, not purposefully, neglected.

She kept telling me while watching all of the scenes featuring her as the center of attention how nice my voice was with her. She also made the comment how happy I seemed (although I was living in a third world country without my spouse and struggling through each day), and how she'd so love to go back to being a baby.

Hmmm.

Although the shots of my family with just two girls and one boy (sans the fourth child, she wasn't around yet) to me seem incomplete, I think child #3 made some valid points.

I was more relaxed. I smiled more. I cared less about what the house looked like and focused more on the kids. I was twenty-five pounds lighter. I was more relaxed. I smiled more. All throughout the three hours of video.

I think Mama needs to re-group, prioritize, and calm down.

Some of my favorite moments on the video are in the Great Smokey Mountains in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. That was the last time I went back to the states to see my homies. Two thousand and three, the year of our Lord. I have footage of us at the fabulous aquarium, at Laurel Falls where we took a long, beautiful hike, and other great spots. If you can get to the Smokey Mountains, do so, now. What a wonderful place.

I also watched my now 89 year-old grandmother sit and swing in her immaculately manicured yard with my then youngest, and ask me if she had chicken in her teeth. (We had just eaten Chic-Fil-A sandwiches) Yum.

I think a trip home is in order, I just don't know how, or when.

Tomorrow, however, I'm going to practice being sweet to everyone and to let some not-so-important things slide. I owe it to the family. I owe it to myself.

Listen

Depression is not something to be snickered at or, especially in this part of the world I'm living in, completely disregarded.

Depression can make us do all sorts of horrid things. We neglect ourselves--mind, body, and spirit. We punish ourselves through this neglect and most likely, whether intentionally or not, punish those around us. While depressed, we just might let ourselves become so filled with rage that this rage has nowhere to go except outwardly, in the form of angry words or violent actions. Some of us gain inordinate amounts of weight while depressed; others of us wither away into skeletal forms of our former selves. Depression makes us ugly.

We might let ourselves become so sad that the tears seem to have no way of stopping, and a smile becomes a distant memory. We wake ourselves in the night with tear-streaked faces, having no recollection of how the tears began to flow or how painful, yearning sobs can come from deep within our chests and we cannot tell anyone exactly why--why has this sadness taken over?

Yes, we are even depressed while sleeping.

Doing the most mundane, simplest of tasks can seem overwhelmingly difficult. When we finally make it to the grocery store or the pharmacy or the KFC take-out counter, we know that the person taking our money can see right through us and can feel the desperation oozing out of our auras. With our depression we can spread blackness around, confusing the ones we know and love, because they know we are smart and capable, but cannot understand why we can't just buck up, pick ourselves off of the floor or couch or bed, and do what's right for the sake of our spouses or children or whomever.

Some of us are severely depressed yet stuck in denial, insisting that everything is ok. Others of us cry out time and time and time again, sending signals through our body language, our detachment with our surroundings--maybe some of us write poems or stories or even plays in an attempt to signal to anyone or everyone that we are not ok. Not at all.

Sometimes they listen, sometimes they do not. Sometimes they are afraid to take steps to help us because they do not want to step on toes or alienate themselves. It is better if they intervene, no matter how much we might hate them for it. Deep down inside, we want to take their hand.

Our depression might require medication. This medication is not a cop-out or a symbol of how much we couldn't cut it on our own and just work through our problems. Some of us take it, some do not. Some take it, get better, then decide that self-weaning is in order. This might send some of us into an abysmal spiral, where we find ourselves in a worse place than we were to begin with. And we don't know how to crawl out of the hole, ever.

Depression is a monster.

My heartfelt sympathies to the families of the victims in Virginia, and to the family of the attacker.

The Doha Debates

I just watched the Doha Debates. Tonight's subject was the Palestinian right of return.

The Doha Debates are a breath of fresh air in the media that is so wrought with misinformation and slander and propaganda that ends up making most Americans believe that Arabs are nothing more than ignorant bomb-strapping suicidal wanna-be's. We all know who these guys are.

It has been a very long time since I have listened to the likes of Rush Limbaugh or Glen Beck or watched any Fox News, and I stay away from reading any Ann Coulter or any other right-wing columnists who live in total oblivion to truth. I cannot fill my head with their words because I know where I stand, and I don't need to know the flip side, because it is garbage. Plain and simple. They should tune into BBC World for a change.

BBC World does a bang-up job with this show. I was especially impressed with Israeli academic Ilan Pappe, who argues in favor of the Palestinian right to return. Living in the Middle East I am continuously impressed and sometimes just plain blown away by the voices of Israelis who know that their occupation of Palestinian lands must end. If so many Israelis understand this completely and even work towards making it a reality, why are Americans so slow to catch on?

I went to Palestine. I hated Palestine. As bad as it sounds, I was miserable the entire time. It was not the land of milk and honey. It was the land of scary, hulking Israeli women with AK-47s blocking the doors of the third holiest site in Islam, where I wanted to pray. It was the land of
Beverly Hills-type streets on the Jewish side, and disgusting, sewage-ridden slums on the Arab side. And in Tel Aviv, you can't even get a cheeseburger. It just ain't kosher.

Am I anxious to return? I'll go back when the other 5 to 8 million displaced folks can, too. And we'll all have cheeseburgers.

Vindication?

Maybe, just maybe, my attempt at talking to the Water Authority in a nice, calm, albeit broken Arabic (I know the word for 'pipe' and 'pressure' but that's as far as it goes in plumbing terms) manner, had an affect on the Water Trolls after all.

Today they are digging up my entire street. That is what must be done to find out why we are not getting water, and it's the first step!

Regular showers might be a pipedream no more!

A girl can hope.

A Legend (to me) is Gone

My favorite author, Kurt Vonnegut, died yesterday, April 11, 2007.

I picked up my first Vonnegut novel, Cat's Cradle, in the tenth grade, per recommendation of my friend's boyfriend, Chris Kramer. Chris and I had always gotten along splendidly, because both of us shared a warped sense of humor and the ability to ridicule the status quo, although we could not identify why we wanted to. We were, I guess, born satirists.

Cat's Cradle gave me Vonnegut fever. I read everything he authored. I would howl with laughter, nearly busting a gut, while understanding that we had to laugh at the idiocracy around us, driving us, fueling our economies, our suburbias, our war machines. Vonnegut had an "in" on the human psyche and all of its absurdities.

His writing style was crass and outlandish and in-your-face, but he also had his thumb on restraint, pushing the reader only to the necessary limits, but not too much so as to turn him off. At least, that was my experience with Vonnegut. Either you loved him, or he turned your stomach.

Four years ago, when he turned 80, Vonnegut had this to say in an interview about Bush, Iraq, and the state of protest:
(excuse the language)

Kurt Vonnegut vs. the !&#*!@
By Joel Bleifuss In These Times
Monday 27 January 2003


In November, Kurt Vonnegut turned 80. He published his first novel, Player Piano, in 1952 at the age of 29. Since then he has written 13 others, including Slaughterhouse Five, which stands as one of the pre-eminent anti-war novels of the 20th century.As war against Iraq looms, I asked Vonnegut, a reader and supporter of this magazine, to weigh in. Vonnegut is an American socialist in the tradition of Eugene Victor Debs, a fellow Hoosier whom he likes to quote: “As long as there is a lower class, I am in it. As long as there is a criminal element, I am of it. As long as there is a soul in prison, I am not free.”

You have lived through World War II, Korea, Vietnam, the Reagan wars, Desert Storm, the Balkan wars and now this coming war in Iraq. What has changed, and what has remained the same?

One thing which has not changed is that none of us, no matter what continent or island or ice cap, asked to be born in the first place, and that even somebody as old as I am, which is 80, only just got here. There were already all these games going on when I got here. An apt motto for any polity anywhere, to put on its state seal or currency or whatever, might be this quotation from the late baseball manager Casey Stengel, who was addressing a team of losing professional athletes: "Can’t anybody here play this game??"

My daughter Lily, for an example close to home, who has just turned 20, finds herself, as does George W. Bush, himself a kid, an heir to a shockingly recent history of human slavery, to an AIDS epidemic and to nuclear submarines slumbering on the floors of fjords in Iceland and elsewhere, crews prepared at a moment’s notice to turn industrial quantities of men, women and children into radioactive soot and bone meal by means of rockets and H-bomb warheads. And to the choice between liberalism or conservatism and on and on.

What is radically new in 2003 is that my daughter, along with our president and Saddam Hussein and on and on, has inherited technologies whose byproducts, whether in war or peace, are rapidly destroying the whole planet as a breathable, drinkable system for supporting life of any kind. Human beings, past and present, have trashed the joint.

Based on what you’ve read and seen in the media, what is not being said in the mainstream press about President Bush’s policies and the impending war in Iraq?


That they are nonsense.

My feeling from talking to readers and friends is that many people are beginning to despair. Do you think that we’ve lost reason to hope?

I myself feel that our country, for whose Constitution I fought in a just war, might as well have been invaded by Martians and body snatchers. Sometimes I wish it had been. What has happened, though, is that it has been taken over by means of the sleaziest, low-comedy, Keystone Cops-style coup d’etat imaginable. And those now in charge of the federal government are upper-crust C-students who know no history or geography, plus not-so-closeted white supremacists, aka Christians, and plus, most frighteningly, psychopathic personalities, or PPs.

To say somebody is a PP is to make a perfectly respectable medical diagnosis, like saying he or she has appendicitis or athlete’s foot. The classic medical text on PPs is The Mask of Sanity by Dr. Hervey Cleckley. Read it! PPs are presentable, they know full well the suffering their actions may cause others, but they do not care. They cannot care because they are nuts. They have a screw loose!

And what syndrome better describes so many executives at Enron and WorldCom and on and on, who have enriched themselves while ruining their employees and investors and country, and who still feel as pure as the driven snow, no matter what anybody may say to or about them? And so many of these heartless PPs now hold big jobs in our federal government, as though they were leaders instead of sick.

What has allowed so many PPs to rise so high in corporations, and now in government, is that they are so decisive. Unlike normal people, they are never filled with doubts, for the simple reason that they cannot care what happens next. Simply can’t. Do this! Do that! Mobilize the reserves! Privatize the public schools! Attack Iraq! Cut health care! Tap everybody’s telephone! Cut taxes on the rich! Build a trillion-dollar missile shield! Fuck habeas corpus and the Sierra Club and In These Times, and kiss my ass!

How have you gotten involved in the anti-war movement? And how would you compare the movement against a war in Iraq with the anti-war movement of the Vietnam era?

When it became obvious what a dumb and cruel and spiritually and financially and militarily ruinous mistake our war in Vietnam was, every artist worth a damn in this country, every serious writer, painter, stand-up comedian, musician, actor and actress, you name it, came out against the thing. We formed what might be described as a laser beam of protest, with everybody aimed in the same direction, focused and intense. This weapon proved to have the power of a banana-cream pie three feet in diameter when dropped from a stepladder five-feet high.

And so it is with anti-war protests in the present day. Then as now, TV did not like anti-war protesters, nor any other sort of protesters, unless they rioted. Now, as then, on account of TV, the right of citizens to peaceably assemble, and petition their government for a redress of grievances, ain’t worth a pitcher of warm spit, as the saying goes.

As a writer and artist, have you noticed any difference between how the cultural leaders of the past and the cultural leaders of today view their responsibility to society?

Responsibility to which society? To Nazi Germany? To the Stalinist Soviet Union? What about responsibility to humanity in general? And leaders in what particular cultural activity? I guess you mean the fine arts. I hope you mean the fine arts. ... Anybody practicing the fine art of composing music, no matter how cynical or greedy or scared, still can’t help serving all humanity. Music makes practically everybody fonder of life than he or she would be without it. Even military bands, although I am a pacifist, always cheer me up.

But that is the power of ear candy. The creation of such a universal confection for the eye, by means of printed poetry or fiction or history or essays or memoirs and so on, isn’t possible. Literature is by definition opinionated. It is bound to provoke the arguments in many quarters, not excluding the hometown or even the family of the author. Any ink-on-paper author can only hope at best to seem responsible to small groups or like-minded people somewhere. He or she might as well have given an interview to the editor of a small-circulation publication.

Maybe we can talk about the responsibilities to their societies of architects and sculptors and painters another time. And I will say this: TV drama, although not yet classified as fine art, has on occasion performed marvelous services for Americans who want us to be less paranoid, to be fairer and more merciful. M.A.S.H. and Law and Order, to name only two shows, have been stunning masterpieces in that regard.

That said, do you have any ideas for a really scary reality TV show?

C students from Yale. It would stand your hair on end.

What targets would you consider fair game for a satirist today?

Assholes.
--------------------------------

Now, in this interview when Vonnegut refers to the "white supremacists, aka Christians," he is speaking about the scary people, the ones who push their agenda of economic world domination in the guise of working God's plan. I don't want anyone to read this and think I have disdain or disrespect for the followers of the second Abrahamic faith after Judaism-- my fellow people of the Book--the Christians. On the contrary, I do not. Those for whom I have great distrust are the Jerry Falwells and the Pat Robertson 700 Clubbers and those who use "faith" to propagate hatred and oppression and exploitation of the weak. Just had to clarify, for those of you who might get your backs up about Vonnegut's choice of words. Strong words.

If you've never read any Vonnegut, please do so.

God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater.

Read more here, in the New York Times.

The Mother's Love, The Test from Allah

Once, many years ago when I had just two small children, ages four and two, I was standing in line at the post office. Behind me I heard Arabic being spoken, and I turned around to see a lovely older woman and her daughter conversing. I was not sure if they were Muslim or not, but I gave it a shot, and said softly, "Assalamu Alaikum."

The lovely older woman paused, smiled, and returned my greeting. We began chatting in line, and I learned that she was from Egypt but had lived in Alabama for over twenty five years. Her husband was a well-known physician and her two daughters were both nurses. She, Layla, had a very warm personality and soothing voice. She took my phone number to give to her other daughter who was closer in age to me and worked as an obstetric nurse at a prominent Catholic hospital.

Within days, her daughter called me. We had a lot in common and 'hit it off' instantly. She was a few years older and had one daughter, but was divorced and living with her parents. She invited me to come over one evening, and I agreed.

I really was not expecting the house to be as palatial as it was. When we drove up, my daughter exclaimed, "Oh Mama, is this a castle!?" I remember taking my shoes off as I normally do when entering a Muslim family's home, and she and her mother thought that was hilarious. These were Louis Vuitton kind of hosts, and I was, well, a TJ Maxx sort of visitor.

What struck me the most inside the home were the dozens and dozens of pictures and portraits dedicated to the little princess of the house, my friend's daughter, also named Layla, after her grandmother. Layla's face was everywhere--cascading black curls tied in bows, Layla on Santa's lap, Layla in her ballerina costume, Layla smiling with her angelic seven-year old smile, confident in her status as the apple of every one's eye. My daughter played in her wonderland bedroom with brilliant murals on the walls and every toy or gadget a child could ask for.

All of the opulence in their home was a reminder that they were living the American dream, having come from Egypt, a poor nation where it is hard to make it out of whatever rank or class you are born into. They had made it, and done so in style, with flash and class and, yes, pomp.

When my mother in law came to visit us for the first time, they invited us out to lunch. We showed up at the restaurant in our jilbabs, they arrived in the finest, trendiest clothing. My Arabic was so-so at the time, and I had a hard time keeping up with their Egyptian dialect. I remember my mother in law feeling kind of out of place with them, so during her long visit with us I did not push her to hang out with them much.

Eventually, my friend and I kind of lost touch. I started Graduate school and got busy with other things. As much as I liked my friend, my inability to just see her as a fellow Muslimah and not someone 'lost' or 'misguided' clouded my vision. This is something that being a Muslim for a long time, instead of being in the newbie Muslim judgmental phase, helps us with, inshaAllah. I would find later that my friend was not just about handbags and expensive shoes. Muslimahs not wearing hijab or living in big fancy houses and having parents who want to forget the 'old country' to some extent and create new lives, join country clubs, or whatever the case may be, are still our sisters. Treat them as such--reach out to them. Burning bridges does nothing but leave you with charred soil and broken foundations. How long does it take to learn this lesson, sisters? But, I digress.

I was newly pregnant with my third child, in the throes of the morning sickness phase. I had spent the night at my mother's house because she had needed me to drive her to an early morning appointment at the hospital. I stuck around her house to have some breakfast (her cabinets are always full of treats) and sit and make a list of things to do for the day. I received a phone call from my husband that someone in the community had passed away and needed washing. He told me to call Br. Ashfaq, who had more information.

I called Br. Ashfaq. He said that an Egyptian family I did not know who was away from Islam and not active in the community had suffered a terrible accident, and that the deceased needed washing. He asked me if I could do it. I told him I would, but being newly pregnant and kind of ill, I would need some help. At that time, I had washed two Muslimahs, alhamdulillah.

I got myself ready and called the other sisters I needed to help me. They kept saying, "Who are these people?" and I said I did not know.

On the way to the funeral home, it hit me. Egyptian family. No one knows them. Away from Islam. Could it be my friend's family, I wondered.

I pulled into the parking lot. I walked into the main door of the funeral home. I saw my friend standing there, weeping. She shouted my name and ran to me. It was her daughter, Layla, who had been in the accident. Layla, the center of her life.

What was most difficult about this precious child's life coming to an end was the circumstance in which it happened. Layla had been bugging her grandmother to buy her a racquetball set. Her grandmother presented her with the gift she wanted, but Layla wanted to try it out immediately. Her mother, my friend, was upstairs on the phone with a call from work. The grandmother told Layla to go put the ball and racquets in the garage. The grandmother had to leave, so she climbed into her Lincoln Navigator and began backing out of the long driveway.

She did not see little Layla behind her. She knocked her down with the car and ran over her with the vehicle's right back wheel. When she realized what she had done, she threw the car into 'park' and jumped out, screaming, calling to her daughter to call for help. The entire weight of the car was sitting on the child's chest. She did not know if she should try to roll back over her or leave the tire in place. This dear lady was so shocked and horrified at what was happening--there was her precious granddaughter, stuck under the weight of an enormous vehicle.

The fire department arrived within minutes. They lifted the car off of the child. They began to treat her, putting her into the back of the ambulance. Everything was happening so fast. The child's chest had been crushed. She was not conscious.

She died before reaching Children's Hospital.

Ya Allah! The love that was so obvious between my friend and her mother who had taken the life of the most beloved thing to them all was something to bring me to my knees. There was no blame. My friend must have told her mother five hundred times how much she loved her. It was an accident. This child was taken back to her Creator. This family had to come together, had to grieve properly, had to love one another, had to keep standing.

Layla did not look like anything but an innocent, beautiful creature. We washed her and shrouded her and perfumed her with camphor, with her mother and grandmother watching, weeping silently, reciting Quran that perhaps had been buried in their deepest memories but sprang forth effortlessly as they held each other.

Their house had been a monument to this child. Now, she was gone.

For months, every night when I closed my eyes, I saw Layla's face. My friend told me that she was looking forward to getting back to work, delivering babies, helping to bring life into this world with her more thorough--and of course sorrowful--understanding of how precious, how fleeting, this life is.

I think of this family often. I hope they are well. I will never forget that beautiful child and the lesson her passing taught me.

And Here they Are...

I was tagged by Umm Zaid. Here are ten weird things, habits, or little known facts about moi. Hold on to your seats.

1. While driving the car or riding as a passenger, I add up numbers in license plates, with the goal being to end up with an even number. If I get an odd number, I must add up the numbers in plates of cars around me until my math antics give me an even number.

2. I have eaten ice cream while half asleep. I recently put some out on the counter to thaw, fell asleep, then woke up several hours later to find some soupy stuff on the counter. It was the principle of going to the trouble to thaw it; I had to eat it.

3. I have a habit of alphabetizing the letters in peoples' names, then trying to pronounce the new name. "Fred" would be "Defr," Janice would be "Aceijn," etc. Most names end up sounding Icelandic.

4. I am a cave-dweller. I think that lighting in a home has a place, but not the den. I hate bright overhead lights, flourescent lights, false lighting, etc. I like my den to be dark and cozy. Growl.

5. I want to retire in Spain. (Retire from what? Motherhood? Blogging?)

6. I think that Roger Daltry of THE WHO (not the World Health Organization) has aged more gracefully than any of his other 1960s rocking colleagues. He doesn't look a day over 50. My kids, upon hearing the various CSI theme songs, thought they were NEW songs. Talk about timeless stuff.

7. I taught Geography to 7th graders for three years. I consistently mispronounced "Guiana" and "Guyana," those two little South American "G" countries we hear so much about. Did you know French Guiana has a space center and launches rockets?

8. I pick things up with my toes, all lemur-esque.

9. I love sardines atop a saltine with tobasco or ketchup. (Go ahead, say "Ewww.") Come, measure my Omega-3 levels.

10. I had an invisible buddy named "Beeble."

I now tag my Dad, Hijabi Apprentice, Izzy Mo, Um Ibrahim, and Artsy Muslim Momma.

Drove my Chevy to the Levee But...

Actually, I drove a Mitsubishi to the Water Authority. Not quite the same. Water your horse here, at Dry Gulch Saloon.

As much as I *love* living here, I have to say, I miss being able to open the faucet and not fear that it'll be my last face washing for days.

The super fast growth of Amman in the past five years has given us overcrowded streets, inflation, and yes, more water shortages.

I filed a formal complaint today at the Water Authority. Our water has not come in over ten days. It was scheduled for Friday/Saturday. Nothing. Not one drop.

My friend and I just got off of the phone after laughing hysterically at the thought of the Water Trolls who live under the ground and keep their grotesque hands on giant valves, turning water on and off for whom they wish. Or then there are the Water Fraggles. Fraggles are of course nicer in nature than the Trolls, but their tiny stature inhibits them from turning the valves with any force, so the water just kind of trickles up to us.

AMERICANS! Listen up! Not being able to wash your car whenever you wish or having to water your lawn (lawn? what the hell is a lawn?) at night (boo hoo) does not qualify as a 'drought' or 'water shortage.' Quit your whining.

I hope the water comes tonight. InshaAllah. Or, as my grandmother would say, "Lord willing and the creek don't rise." Rest assured, there's no chance of the creek rising in these here parts.

Kick 'Em When They're Down

My mom-in-law lives in Jabal Amman, 2nd circle, on "Khatib Street." It's a mainly Filipino populated area of town. She lives in an old, old building, and pays way too much rent.

The building owner just rented the teeny tiny two room flat upstairs from her for 160 JD / month. It's more than highway robbery, it's insanity. It's a dump, to put it nicely.

Meanwhile, the price of tomatoes per kilo hovers right at 75 Qirsh. Folks can't even feed their kids tomatoes and potatoes anymore--the staples
of sustenance here--much less meat, people!

I clearly understand why women potty train their kids at one year of age. Diapers...dinner...diapers...dinner...which will she choose?

Apartments (3-bedroom) in my neighborhood are starting at 100,000 JD + for purchase. Tell me, please, who is buying these places?

The exaggerated cost of the basics in life is disgusting, and I see no end in sight.

AA in Jordan

I have known for some time that my husband's barber is ill. My husband reported on several occasions that during haircuts, the barber's hand would start to tremble uncontrollably. He sometimes dropped the scissors. The irony of the situation could be found in the barber's need to confide in my husband, to tell my husband his troubles--he was going through a divorce, his health was in decline, etc. My husband felt sorry for him, and so did I. Usually it is the customer who confides in his barber.

A few weeks ago I dropped my husband by the barber shop for a quick beard trim. He told me to wait in the car until he gave me the signal that the barber could see him.

I watched in the rear view mirror as they stood outside, talking. They talked for a long time. My son got out to check on the situation, and came back to the car reporting that the barber said he was going to the hospital because he had been throwing up blood all day. "Allah yeshfee," I said. (May Allah heal him.)

My husband came back to the car with a strange look on his face. "He's sick, huh?" I asked. "Yes," my husband said, "and very drunk."

The barber shop is next door to a liquor store with a lovely "Johnnie Walker Red" awning. Lovely. Anyone who thinks that alcoholism is not rampant in Muslim countries is deluded. It's everywhere.

Tonight my husband needed a haircut. He went to the barber shop. He came back telling me that the guy was asking my husband to tell him about our normal, sane lives. This saddened me. He needs help. He needs an AA meeting.

I just found one for him. Plenty of folks in Jordan need AA, and you can bet the members are not all foreign or Christian. I got this guy a contact, maybe even a sponsor. If he can hold on till Monday, when the next meeting takes place, I think he can get some much needed help.

I grew up in and around AA meetings, and Al-Anon, and ACOA (Adult Children of Alcoholics). A dear friend pointed out to me recently how AA is much like the foundation for Islam. I had honestly never made the connection, but her words rang true. "Let Go and Let God." "One Day at a Time." "It really works if you work it." "Keep Coming Back." All of these mantras can transfer into Muslim lingo, without a doubt.

Let go and let God...Don't fight Qadr Allah.
One Day at a Time...Live every day as if it is your last.
It really works if you work it...If you practice this deen, you will reap the rewards.
Keep Coming Back...Come back to the salat, the halaqas, the masajid, the iftars. Keep coming back to visit the ill, give sadaqah to the poor, comfort the downtrodden. Keep coming back, sister. Keep coming back, brother.

So I'm putting this here, this link, for AA in the MidEast. On this site I ran across a message written long ago, but holding so much truth today. I think it applies to our Ummah as much as it does to an AA group, with all of the "bad apples" out there, we cannot let them affect or infect the Ummah, its growth, its unity, and its success.

Few of us are any longer afraid of what any newcomer can do to our A.A. reputation or effectiveness. Those who slip, those who panhandle, those who scandalize, those with mental twists, those who rebel at the program, those who trade on the A.A. reputation - all such persons seldom harm an A.A. group for
long. Some of these have become our most respected and best loved.
Some have remained to try our patience, sober nevertheless. Others have drifted away. We have begun to regard the troublesome ones not as menaces, but rather as our
teachers. They oblige us to cultivate patience, tolerance, and humility.
We finally see that they are only people sicker than the rest of us, that we who condemn them are the Pharisees whose false righteousness does our group the deeper spiritual damage.

GRAPEVINE, AUGUST 1946Copyright®1967 Alcoholics
Anonymous World Services,
Inc.

This passage reminded me of the Muslim Ummah. People are entering it at an amazing rate. It is the fastest growing religion in North America. (and perhaps Europe?)

You might wonder what on earth I mean by trying to make a connection between Alcoholics Anonymous and Islam. I think that Islam is so attractive to those who are worn down, fed up, and tired of emptiness. Many converts, especially Americans, come from dysfunction. Many are even substance abusers. Those people looking to get sober, the ones who have hit 'rock bottom,' are often the same exact people searching for the truth in life, spiritual guidance, and wholeness--the same good stuff we find in this great deen.

On the same token, we see many in our 'group,' our Ummah, trying to work against the good of the whole. How many divisions are there among us, picking us apart, telling us our manhaj is flawed, our aqeedah is off, we're doing bid'ah, etc. That is what struck me the most when I read that statement, "We have begun to regard the troublesome ones not as menaces, but rather as our teachers. They oblige us to cultivate patience, tolerance, and humilty;" we can learn from those who sling mud and try to bring us down. Muslims can learn something from recovering alcoholics!

I've known substance abusers who took shahadah, and thought that Islam would be the band-aid, or the cure, for their addictions. Usually it does not work that way. The Twelve Steps and the Five Pillars can work hand in hand.

AA is based on the idea that the human being must surrender control of his life to a higher power. In Islam, we surrender ourselves to the will of Allah. Same thing.

Some of the finest Muslims I know are in the program. They work their program, they work their Islam. It's a beautiful simbiosis.

I hope this brother--the barber--can find his serenity in both.

The Hussein Park

Here are a few shots from the Hussein Park near my home. It sprawls on forever, with something for everyone to do and see. I must say, the folks here are trying to keep it clean. We went on a Friday morning, so we pretty much had the place to ourselves.
Some nice pavilion thingies near the Coffee Shop that was closed. It opens after 'asr time.
Near the Coffee Shop there were some artifacts left over from the Amman Expo in 2000.
My daughter is off of the ground in this picture. I did not do that on purpose. (Ok, one, two, three...you're airborne!) This is a nice bike/walking trail; no diesel fumes or crazy drivers allowed.
This is the new Children's Science Museum, scheduled to open sometime in the 21st century. The hype is that it's going to be something amazing. Sure hope so; kids here need some exposure to some hands-on thinking outside of the box.

Al Gore...oops...I mean Al-Ghor

Picnic site at a reservoir, under a tree. A band of gypsies was across the way; their children filed in one by one to get a plate of food and a swig of soda.

One of the horsemen who was giving rides for a quarter of a dinar each.

Brother-in-law and husband, aka 50 Cent. Or 50 Qirsh. Or Khamseen Qirsh. Anyhow, it was a cheap thrill.

Lone ranger.

We took a day trip to Al Ghor, or the lowlands, near the Dead Sea.

It is April, so the weather is tolerable there. After the end of May, it's too humid and fly-ridden to thoroughly enjoy. The trip can be difficult for those who have sensitive ears, because the drop in altitude from Amman to the Dead Sea is fast and furious. Gum did not help.

Later we swung north and headed towards Salt for phase II of our picnic (coffee, tea, cake). In Salt it was breathtakingly green, lush, and cool. Perhaps it was in all of the green excitement that I forgot to remove the lens cap, thus losing 10 or so lovely pics.

Phantom Grief

I had a panic attack today.

It has happened to me before, during intervals in my life that were plagued with stress, and seemed never-ending. They always did end, however, and I moved on, leaving the tight-chested, red-faced, clammy handed trembling inability to open my eyes or breath correctly in the blurred past.

I do not have a great deal of stress in my life, but something triggered this episode today. It was perhaps a combination of battling insane traffic and having to run errands in a notoriously headache-ish part of town. But what I felt most was a profound sadness that welled up in my throat and then choked me. I cried. I sat in the car and cried for about ten minutes. And then it was gone.

And now I'm ok.

Alhamdulillah.

More Cat Rantings

The little kitty - tabby is always at our door now. She's too cute to resist.

Something I learned from my sister:

Ask a cat in a very pronounced, clear tone,

"Do you want to eat LATER, or NOW?"

Guess what the answer will be, 100% of the time?