Radical Feminism, a la Islam

Someone asked to explain what my wearing HijabMan's "This is What a Radical Muslim Feminist Looks Like" T-shirt means.

It would mean that I am a female Muslim who takes the rights that have been decreed to me by my Creator.

I'm not subservient or meek, nor do I accept cultural idiocies as replacements for my God-given religion. It does not mean that I am not faced on a regular basis with situations involving choosing culture over religion, because I am. However, I grew tired long ago of being a sucker, as did the feminists from the movements that spurred from the 1920s suffragettes to the 1970s ERA-ers to ladies like the feminists of today featured in the film Borat who were horrified by his (unbeknownst to the poor ladies) satirical woman-bashing Khazak rhetoric. I will choose my religion, because I know I can always back up my actions with proof. You and your backwards cultural whatevers can go fly. They are fluff and nutter. I am substance.

Watch me get up and walk out of a room, because I will. If taking my rights means to you that I am haughty, so be it. Let the haughtiness begin.

Let me repeat: I am not subservient or meek. I speak from my heart. When there is an injustice, I roar.

As a radical Muslim feminist I know my rights as a wife, which are to be fed, sheltered, clothed, and cared for in a way befitting to me. I have the right to a marriage contract which safeguards me in case of a divorce. Man, it's a pre-nup that was given to women over 1400 years ago. Please find that in the Western law books! Fourteen hundred years ago in England, women were either witches or hysterical. Muslimahs were neither. Which do you want, a divorce, or your head? Muslimahs could keep both.

Anything I choose to do for my husband in the home, such as cooking, cleaning, and general care of the household, are not required of me, but rather are charities. I choose to be benevolent towards him because it makes both of us happy and helps to create a loving environment, and I know my reward will be with Allah. But if I'm down and out, like I am today, you better believe he'll bring home the Popeye's and I'll need a foot massage. It's a two-way street.

As a radical Muslim feminist, by the will of Allah I will empower my children with educational opportunites and give them the means, even if it requires that I not buy new clothing or eat the foods I really desire; even if it makes me give up the computer or the telephone or trips overseas--my children will have a way out because I refuse to allow them to live a life they do not want. I have three daughters. They must be empowered with knowledge.

Being a radical Muslim feminist also means that I will teach my son to wash his own clothing, cook his own food, mend his own holes, and most importantly, own his own behavior. I will not run after him with a plate and spoon when he is 26 years old, worried about his potential starvation. He will be self-sufficient, giving, and will respect me and his sisters and his wife. If he fails in any of these areas, then I will know that my mothering of him was a failure, too, and that I joined the ranks of the women who have propagated generations of no-good 'i am entitled to everything' empty Muslim men. May Allah protect me from that.

As a radical Muslim feminist, I will not tolerate double standards.

But guess what? I'm not radical at all, nor am I a feminist. I'm just a Muslim.

That, in a nutshell, is what the T-shirt means to me.

Maybe one day I'll add to this, but right now I have kiddies who want to paint.

Fresh Lamp, 3.75 JD/Kilo

I have had a freaking humdinger of a week.

As much as I want to rant, I'll save it for when my head is clearer. (like, next Spring)

Instead, I'll share some funnies that were, perhaps, the highlight of my week. If you shy away from semi-sick humor, stop reading now.

Many Arabs wear clothing and have no idea as to the meaning of what is written upon said clothing. No clue. None. Zippo.

I once went to dinner at my in-laws' house. A very close family member, a praying man over 45 years of age, was wearing the following on his shirt:

BONER CARD

FREE
I will donate my organ whenever you want it.

Not a good choice! I must admit, I couldn't look at him the same afterwards, even though he had no clue what was on his shirt.

Within the same family, an adult male wore a belt that had engraved in huge letters on the back

SICKO

I don't feel he was displaying his support for the new Michael Moore documentary, exercising his right to protest the US government's messed up health care system. No, especially since this was two years ago. And he lives in Jordan.

This is the way to attract the ladies, isn't it? Might as well wear a sign that reads foot fetish or extreme pervert. Not a good choice! Not fashionable at all! IXNAY on the ELTBAY.

Now yesterday I was passing the cans of crashed tomatoes in the supermarket, opting instead for my usual Kasih tomato paste, and I thought, "Isn't there some money to be made in keeping folks here from looking like idiots?" I've seen crashed coconuts in the stores many times as well, poor guys. I always envision coconuts in a semiconductor, being whirled around at supersonic speeds, so that we can have our fried katayef for dessert in Ramadan, filled with all sorts of crashed items. This weekend, in fact, I'm thinking to put some of my crashed cornmeal in a casserole to eat alongside my roasted lamp. It'll be wicked tasty.

But I will not be wearing shirts that read

PORN STAR

or

La Puta Madre (courtesy of Um Omar),

nor will I be standing in bank lines that display

CLOSE

or

OPENED.

I did order my T-Shirt from HijabMan, which reads,

"THIS IS WHAT A RADICAL MUSLIM FEMINIST LOOKS LIKE."

I can't wait to break out into the streets of Amman in that one.

****

Addendum: Last night my husband was standing over my shoulder reading this post. He said, "Hey, I have one! Yesterday I was going to work, and there was a lot of construction in the road, which split into two directions. One of them was marked DETOUR while the other one, the path to the right, was marked by a huge sign with great orange letters that read DEVIATION .

a la Kevin Spacey

Super cool ex-pat Mississippian who makes her home in Germany, Dixie Peach, has come up with (or is passing along the idea of) a nice feel-good project in a time when random acts of anything good seem to be waning.

It is similar to the pay it forward concept in which one does good things for others with the precept that the others will pass along the good deeds until the whole movement just snowballs into a plethora (million dollar vocabulary word) of kindness.

She is going to select three folks who commented on her blog regarding said kindness scheme, and will send each one a homemade gift. Dixie knits. Who wouldn't love a hand-knitted something?

Even if she does not choose me, I have decided to do the same. I will select three people who comment on this post (if there are three comments!) and will send you something nifty indeed from the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan. If you are already in Jordan, then your gifty will be expedited. If you are outside of Jordan, it may take a bit of time, but I'll get something to you, God willing.

Remember: If chosen, you must pledge to do the same: spread the warm fuzzies to three others, and so on, and so on...

I'm going to be petty

I've visited a few blogs lately (ok, this morning) listing on their blogrolls the name Southern Muslimah.

That is my blog's name. I took the name almost two years ago. I wrote about it here.

When I click on Southern Muslimah on many of these blogs, however, I am taken to Umm Yusuf's blog. Does it bother me? Yes, but only because I think it is confusing and it threatens my semblance of originality. Aren't I entitled to a few personality flaws, quirks, or obsessive compulsions?

Sr. Izzy Mo even gave me credit on her blog for writing a lovely piece on women in Islam, but it wasn't me, it was Umm Yusuf. Good work, sister.

Folks, if the other Southern Muslimah is not going to change her actual URL, which I'm not asking her to do, then please at least put her on your blogrolls as Umm Yusuf.

We all know UmmZaid. MashaAllah. My pal. But her URL has an 's' on it, making it htpp://www.sunnisisters.com, although her blog name is Sunni Sister. If we go visit the other site, (sunnisister.com) we will find it is not owned by Umm Zaid, but rather appears to be a site for, well, some crazy info. Could be confusing, but all the smart folks who blogroll her know her URL and know which is which. (failed attempt at trying to illustrate my point?)

That's the last I'm going to write about this issue, because it is, after all, petty.

House in Repair

Here are a few pics of what has been going on in my home for the past three weeks, day in, day out. First, the walls took on a bit o' color. We had a very talented Syrian painter come and take his sweet time. He really did a good job. I opted for some green walls because I need to see green in the bleak winter. I'll just sit in my dining room (which is really an office--no dining room furnishings) all winter long.

My friend from the states came over the very night this photo was taken. She said, "I feel like I'm in Narnia." Being bug-eyed tired and still jet-lagged, I did not make the connection. "What do you mean?" I asked her. "The lamp post," she replied. Ah, yes, the lamp post. Every gal needs one in her home. Which way to the land of War Drobe? I have been on the lookout for fauns ever since.

Lamp post now makes its home outside in the garden.
Now this is one of the finished corners, but blogger is so a** backwards that unless I upload my pictures in reverse order, I cannot show chronology. Or maybe I'm just inept. Anyhow, these are the stones, man, the stones.
Another finished wall, compliments of blogger and its kinks.
Now here we are in semi-progress, getting those suckers cemented to the wall.

Oh lookie, it's 100 cinder blocks on the grass! We're making a new storage room under some outside stairs. Arab homes are not known for storage space. And we never know when Harry Potter might come a-knocking.

Here's my brother-in-law resting in the shade after moving blocks off of the grass. My daughter is taking his lunch order. Shawerma sandwiches for everyone! I'd like mine with extra salmonella, please.
See, this one was supposed to go at the beginning. Oh well.

It's cement mixture. (and a kid's feet!) I love the name: Polywed. That's what I'm going to call a fellow with more than one wife from now on. (in gruff tone) "He got three wives. He be polywed." Don't tell me I never coined a phrase.
Stones and polywed, waiting to do their thing.
Three Syrian workers who froze like deer in headlights every time I walked into the room and spoke. I'm not sure if it was my overwhelming command of the Arabic language (ha!), my refusal to let them smoke indoors, or the giant yellow and red-feathered native American headdress I wear whenever construction is taking place in my house. It remains a mystery, and I, an anomaly.

No Chianti Involved

BBC, I know you have better writers on staff.

"Uhm, we're sorry we ate your ancestors, but thanks for making us Christian."

Read story here

PNG 'sorry' for cannibal killings

Smiling Gal and Office Furniture

It's Sunday, the first day of school. I currently have two kids in school, one will start Tuesday inshaAllah, and the last of the lot will most likely be enrolled in a pre-K program a few days per week. This means I have more time on my hands to do productive things; conversely, I have more time on my hands to piddle away. Let the piddling commence.

So I am leisurely surfing about my blogroll, and clicking on one of my favorite blogs, Bin Gregory Productions, I am shocked! His website, perhaps, has moved? Or his domain name has expired? Please, if anyone knows what has happened to Ustadh Bin Gregory, let me know. I don't need backpacks or office furniture, just the blog by the ever-insightful Michigan-boy-meets Malaysian-girl-becomes-father-of-six, please.

School Daze

School starts tomorrow. I've been partially in denial, thinking that August 19th was still far, far away. Alas, it's tomorrow.

Typical school lunch choices for kids in Jordan, packed from home with love:

1. Za'atar sandwich
2. Lebaneh sandwich
3. 3 bags of chips and a candy bar
4. Dyed sugar water, naturally flavored, of course

In my house, I offer some variety:

1. Za'atar sandwich
2. Lebaneh sandwich
3. Cheese sandwich
4. Turkey sandwich, but only in cold weather
5. Peanut butter sandwich

I'm off to buy some labels for the kids' books, because we must wrap all school books in clear contact paper, thus ensuring they last for at least half of the first semester. At some point in the year, we'll all be going to the stationery store to use the giant stapler to piece back the pages that have fallen out. Those would be the ministry-issued books. The McGraw-Hill English Literature, hardback, at 40 JD a pop, had better last the entire year.

Here's to a smashing school year, kiddies!

Knuckle Sandwich

Hat tip to the stone masons of yore, and of today. I imagine you all could have soaked your hands in Palmolive for years on end.

Yesterday I was trying to just clean all of the stuff that has been put up on our walls (pics to follow soon, inshaAllah), and I inadvertently punched the walls several times in mid-clean, resulting in some mighty bloody knuckles.

I coulda been a contendah !

Natural stone is lovely, but dusty. I've inhaled enough cement dust this week to qualify for Black Lung benefits. If you don't know what those are, then you probably did not have a relative who worked in the coal mines. Road trip to Appalachia, anyone? Dueling banjos?

Actually, Birmingham sits at the foothills of the Appalachians, so I can't really claim that heritage. ::Sigh::

I did, however, have 100 + cinder blocks sitting outside in my grass this week. There were no cars perched atop them, so again, I believe I just barely escape yet another classification of southerner.

Going to go raid some of my grits contraband I brought from over yonder now. See y'all.

Cluck, Cluck, Puke

I'm feeling green just reading about this one:

Chicken Shawerma sandwiches banned in Jordan

I guess I'll be feeding the workers falafel, falafel, and more falafel.

For those of you who've never had a shawerma, it's kind of like a taquito with shredded chicken, pickles, and mayo. It's a yummy, affordable sandwich. For a very long time I've been ordering ours without mayonnaise, because of food temperature concerns. But now it looks like we'll be abstaining for a long time to come.

Just blowing off steam, dude

When parents let their kids rule the house, trouble ensues.

There is a seven year old boy in my presence--a visitor--who says and does things that, in my humble opinion, require serious consequences. No consequences are given. His behavior snowballs into fits of rage and words that I would never think to let fall from my lips. I think he caused my blood pressure, which is normally very normal, to rise. I just now, in a fit of shaky frustration, accidentally washed my brand new contact lens down the sink.

These boys are the future of our Ummah. The mothers will be questioned. I remember a lesson with Umm al-Khayr, a very beautiful lesson, in which she was describing an elderly mother complaining about her son beating her. Who was to blame for this child's behavior, which carried into his sorry excuse for manhood? The mama. It's the mother, most of the time, who lets these boys, these little golden can-do-no-wrong men, get away with murder.

I am cut from a different cloth, I guess. I'm always looking to find out what my children have done or said, keeping them in tow, forcing them to have good manners even if it makes them severely uncomfortable. I can't, I won't, raise a hoard of brats. I refuse to raise a prince who can't clean up after himself or take a dish to the sink or who demoralizes women, be they his sisters, his mother, his wife, or any other breathing female.

I am not afraid to use my hands on my children. I'm not promoting physical force, but I think that there can be, in certain instances, merit in it. (My grandmother was a well-known pincher) Some of you may disagree, and that's your thing. My husband has manners. My father had manners. My grandfather had manners. All of them were spanked for something, at some point in their lives. All of them knew about consequences, and had a level of fear for elders. They did not go into other people's homes, ripping open refrigerators, criticizing the food of the hostess, abusing the children who lived in the home. What is up with the need to destroy property? To slam my doors or throw rocks at my daughters? I'm trying to fathom how parents can just sit by and watch these things happen. I also think that after my generation, the boys (and girls, to be fair) started ruling the roost. Somewhere along the way the psychologists and "family experts" told us that kids need to be empowered. Empowerment lead to total control in some cases. Where has that road taken us regarding respect, manners, and concern for our neighbors? To disaster, I believe.

Hillary Clinton may have said a lot of dumb things, but "It takes a village" wasn't one of them. The trouble nowadays, though, is that if another villager tries to right a wrong with another's child, the adult villagers will end up hating one another. It's the "not my angel" syndrome. Puh-leeze.

You are the parents. Take a hold of your kids; love them, but give them limits, for the love of God. You owe it to them.

Round Six, Ding

I am psyching myself up to go to my kids' school and pay tuition. We are beginning our sixth school year living in Amman, which is hard to believe. The time--well, I can't really account for most of the time that has passed, because it's flown by at lightning speed. I do know that my son now wears the same size shoe as I do, so I guess six years have indeed passed.

I have a love-hate relationship with schools here. The other day I was watching a documentary on Jazeera English about the secular education in Lebanon, and how they are working to develop 'whole children' who possess skills in critical thinking and who emerge from twelve years of compulsory education as internationally aware students who can compete in the world. I was thinking to myself how uncanny this was...a country that has been war-torn on and off for the last thirty years, yet their educational system is not only in tact, but also thriving.

Seeing the children interact in the American-style classroom setting in Lebanon pushed my thoughts elsewhere, to my kids' school(s) here in Amman. What a stark contrast. Classrooms are overcrowded (around 30 + kids), teachers are so grossly underpaid and overworked that the only classroom management they can typically muster up is screaming until they are hoarse. I actually know one fellow co-worker who had to leave the teaching profession because the doctor told her she had done so much damage to her vocal chords. What I also find lacking is the boosting of the sense of accomplishment in children on the part of teachers. It all boils down to test scores and final grades, with homework playing a very insignificant role. If you can memorize and regurgitate, you are rewarded. Very little kudos are given for the hard road of just giving it your best. I've seen too many kids, including my own, feel defeated. It hurts.

And while I'm a staunch supporter of the competitive spirit, I cannot promote in my children the cut-throat be the best or else attitude that I see in kids here. And it doesn't come from the children themselves initially of course, but rather from parents who hound and pound and berate from the time the little guys are in the first grade.

While all of this sounds like a foreign element that has no place in American educational pedagogy, Ms. American Teacher typing this post has gotten (partially) sucked into this mentality. It's lethally contagious, and one can easily find herself asking her children, "Why? Why the 94? Why not 97? You know the answers, what happened?" Ugh.

So here's to a calm year, full of learning and accomplishment, and maybe a bit of FUN thrown in. I'm off...

Lungs o' Fire

My friend and fellow resident o' the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan, MommaBean, has great post about smoking.

As wonderful of a place as Jordan is, the smoking part bites the big one. Have I mentioned before how much I detest smoking? I believe I have. There's nothing like beating a dead horse, however, so let's get started.

The great thing about being in the US this summer is that I never once experienced any kind of interchange with a smoker, a couple of smokers, an army of smokers, an entire governmental building full of smokers, a hospital full of smokers, doctors giving me a check-up smoking, kids smoking, etc. Nothing. The only person I saw smoking during my entire five-week visit to the United States was one of my former 8th grade students (who is now 21, I believe) chasing me down the highway in his car. He was not deranged, he just wanted to say 'hi' to his old favorite English school marm. Omar, put down the ciggies. You didn't look cool.

My upper respiratory defenses stink. I am also asthmatic. Smoking is not only public enemy #1, it is the allergen that does the most damage to my physical health. I'll take a pile of green olive tree pollen on the sidewalk any day. Just please don't make me breathe your stench.

When I moved here I think that some of the biggest battles between myself and dear husband were about smoking or about being forced to withstand long family visits where the air's toxicity levels soared to just plain scary heights. I can count on two fingers how many relatives he has who choose to abstain from smoking. They both live with smokers, however, so they are breathing the sh** in, round-the-clock. I refused to let my children be exposed to it, for fear of the second-hand thing I experienced as a child happening to them. It's not fun going to the emergency room to be nebulized. It's just not. What ends up transpiring in these family gatherings is that I look rude and snobbish for taking self and children out on the balcony, or for prying my then 18-month old off of an uncle's lap because she's in the throes of Mr. Chain Smoker's vice.

I remember very clearly as a child, riding in the winter time in my grandparents' car with the windows rolled up, my grandfather and mother both smoking. I protested, and I recall my grandmother turning around in the seat and shooting me a look of disdain, and saying, "Everyone has a vice, and your mother is entitled to hers."

Have your vices. God knows I have mine. (Nestle Crunch bar, you were good last night.) Just keep them out of our air space.

Should I get started on the Islam prohibits smoking, period, hands-down, no questions asked, no debate, it's not makrooh, it's haram, if you pray with smoke on your breath you are praying with filth post? Sounds like a plan.

Open Mike

I want to open a sisters' coffee shop, or shoppe, depending on your locale of origin.

(Jack, perhaps I'll open it near the theatre in the centre of towne.)

I want to let Umm Zaid and all of the other poets out there come and spew. Let it out en voz alta, packing a punch.

There will be no smoking of Gaullouise nasties or arguilas or anything. Se prohibe fumar. Period.

I'll serve:

1. American coffee
2. Dr. Pepper
3. Root Beer
4. Ice cream
5. Sweetened iced tea

I'll offer some baked go0ds from time to time: my cheesecake, carrot cake, and maybe a brownie or two.

And we'll spew. It'll be craaazy.

Playhouse Makings

This is what I brought back from the US with me. (The stuff in the truck, not the lush green grass and shady tree, nor the step-dad in corner)

I'd say 75% of it was for other people outside of my immediate family.

It's all been bagged and distributed.

::sigh::

The kids broke down the boxes and made a little playhouse. If you ever saw the British film Millions, it's kind of like the one the boys in the film make, sans the hallucinations of Catholic saints/martyrs. (Must see film to know what I'm talking about.)

It's four a.m., and I'm a-washing clothes. The water distribution rationing BS has been cut to just a 24-hour period in my neighborhood. GULF PEOPLE WHO ARE VISITING HERE, I know you are very nice and all, but please go home to Qatar and Saudi and Oman and UAE. Please. We need our water. Baby needs a bath. I have cement and paint crud all over my house. Go on now, get in your mammoth SUVs, and go!

On a positive note, my dear old friend UmmIhsan came by last night on her way to the airport from Irbid. We had a two-hour super visit and a very rushed but tasty meal. She and I did a little planes in the night trick this summer, whereby we purposefully did not tell one another we were visiting each other's respective countries, so as to, you know, surprise each other. I was indeed surprised when I arrived in the US and discovered she was visiting Jordan. Anyhow, Allah gave us two hours last night, and I'll take them.

Home Improvement

It's home repair month in the UmmFarouq household.

Yippeeee.

One of the biggest flaws (do you have six hours?) in the home building process in Jordan is the conspicuous lack of insulation in the walls.

While I have never actually witnessed workers do this, I have heard that a thin piece of styrofoam is placed between the bald cement block and the finishing slab of whatever it is that they put over it before they paint it. I'm talking about, oh, a thickness of 3 centimeters or so. Of styrofoam.

Sure, that Dixie cup will keep us cool in the summer and warm in the winter. The other day when the temperature soared to ridiculousness, we felt as if we were sitting inside a clay oven.

Cement blocks are also very porous, which allows moisture to build up within them and then leak out into places like one's living room, which has been painted and scraped two times within the past three years.

We have begun our third scraping o' the walls. The painter was here yesterday and I'm expecting him again any moment. This time, we've opted to have a bunch of natural stone (from a local quarry!) siliconed to our walls to prevent any more moisture from leaking through to ruin the paint job. It might be hard to visualize. Once it's done, perhaps I'll snap a pic or two for your perusal.

Maybe, just maybe, buildings and homes could be built better if someone cared about the workers' feet. Can you imagine construcion workers in the US building what they build, wearing only flip-flops? We need a steel-toed boot drive for all Egyptian workers in Jordan.

Somehow I managed to pack and lift and load and weigh and haul all 520 pounds of stuff I brought with me from the states, without hurting my back. Yesterday, however, I threw it out just moving a coffee table across the room. Muscle relaxer, anyone?