Ramadan Sanadi

Que rápido

Is it just me, or are people growing up smarter these days? Perhaps it is the fast track to age 40 I cannot get off of that prevents me from seeing clearly. Someone born in 1983 should not be writing amazing commentary about world events; they should be reading Judy Blume books and trading stickers, right?

Time marches on. Meanwhile, I'm still 18.

Things got a bit rough at the Chuckmeister's

Chuck E. Cheese's has always been and always will be a place I love to hate.

I often said that if anyone ever opened one in Jordan, it would be trashed beyond recognition on its grand opening. I am not trying to offend, but come on...we all know what the Eid holidays are like out in public. A lady once tried to pull my 2 year-old off of a kiddie ride so she could put her kid on instead. When I said something to her, something subtle and nice as per my southern tendencies, (ha!), she looked as if she wanted to scratch out my eyeballs. No patience, no manners, no cooth. Heck, just last night my husband was at Arafat sweets trying to buy some Aish al Saraya, and two sweets purchasers got into a fistfight in the middle of the rows of desserts.

Anyhow, I knew back in the Birmingham days of visiting the Chuckster at Eid time that the management and staff hated to see us coming. I wonder why that was. Long pause, thinking...

This incident, however, happened in Mississippi, not Alabama, and definitely not Amman.

Special Thanks

to Al-Ajnabiya, a sister friend in Palestine, who put my new purplish-pinkish magnolia masthead together for me. It brightens up the place a bit, don't you think? Color is good.

Hopefully one day when I get up enough something to want to visit Palestine again, I will go and meet her. InshaAllah.

What's Happenin'

• It's water day, and I'm catching up on almost one month's worth of laundry I have not been able to do, because our top loading American-made washing machine went ka-put on us. I have been divvying up some of my laundry, especially the whites, and sending them to mom-in-law's on her water day; the rest, I'm sorry to say, we've done by hand. All of the ropa anterior and kids' uniforms have been scrubbed by nearly prematurely arthritic hands and eczemaed skin. Ouch is right. What I was left with was a mess of towels, because I will not put that burden on the mom-in-law, nor will I ever attempt to wash them by hand. Unless, maybe, I'm a Survivor contestant.

• Jolly (not) Maytag--I mean Gibson--repair man finally came, couldn't smoke and drop ash on my kitchen floor because he was fasting, and replaced the part at the tune of 100 JD, so I'm back in washing business. But only on water day.

• Felix McRatson, Jr., has met his sticky demise. I am still working on my husband about the need for a cat. I do not want a Jordanian street cat. I want a fluffy white squash-faced Persian who won't walk through the mud or rip out my window screens. I want a cat who cares about her appearance. I want a cat who displays just enough attitude, but not too much to make me want to drive 15 miles away and leave it on the side of the road. Is that too much to ask?

• I have a chest cold. It's the kind that comes on suddenly and makes me feel as if I've been inhaling noxious fumes for several days. I have a burning, itching sensation in my throat and a non-productive (go ahead and say "phlegm" because you are surely thinking it) cough. I took some cold meds at night, so of course I slept through suhoor (a.m. meal before fasting) and thus did not wake up my husband or any of our prodigy. Blame it on the chest cold, mama's ill.

• Tonight I'm making sesame chicken.

Plain Jane

I'm tired of the whiteness of this blog. I need a new masthead. I want a FREE masthead. Any ideas where I can go to design one? I want it to be asthetically pleasing and define something about me.

Input appreciated.

A Good Day

After my rant this morning about how crass and unforgiving Arabs can be, I felt, well, ashamed. They are a good lot of people, otherwise I would not choose to live among them. I married one. My children are, for all intents and purposes, Arabs. I just get overwhelmed by all of the sickness around me, and while I know I have much self-inventory to take, I need to believe that this nation, this Ummah, can and will heal itself. I am no longer looking for a scapegoat, because the problems here have roots so deep and varied that one could spend his life's work just trying to figure out one of the causes of the disintegration of the Muslim society. I wonder if any one's hiring for that position.

My husband came home last week with a box of what looked like a thousand tomatoes. Today we picked through the soft ones, par-boiled them, peeled them, and made a delicious homemade tomato soup base. I cooked fresh green beans with little bits of lamb--not the overpowering kind, but tender little bite sized chunks, rice, cheese sambosas and meat sambosas, and a lovely salad. It was not a king's feast, but was just enough. We had one guest for iftar, and just as the magrib adhan was about to be called, an amazing gust of wind blew through the window, signaling that autumn is finally on its way. Blissful.

As an added bonus, a friend's daughter who is studying to be an architect but who has spent the past several months in the United States, called to say she wanted to stop by and bring me something. She came to the door with a bag of assorted American chocolates: Hershey's, Hershey's with Almonds, Reese's cups, and Kit Kats. It was a beautiful surprise and so thoughtful, seeing how she has 8 siblings in her family who I'm sure were all expecting gifties. Thank you, Fatimah. It meant more than you can know.

Things to check out, and a mini harangue

This quarter's issue of Islamica Magazine features a column by Sidi Faraz Rabbani, who used to make his home here in Amman, and whose old desk I am sitting at, writing this. If you have not read anything in this magazine, it is a prime example of what the Muslim intellectuals can accomplish when they organize themselves into a working unit, with the purpose of talking straight about Islam, politics, foreign policy; interviews with leading figures in both the Muslim and non-Muslim world, and even highlighting works of up-and-coming Muslim writers. Rabbani's column discusses the loss of mercy, and where we can find it.

"...the very purpose of Divine revelation is for messengers to convey the call to believe and submit to God. This purpose cannot be fulfilled unless people incline towards the message and are at ease with it. And this, in turn, cannot be fulfilled unless its bearers are merciful and generous; overlooking others' mistakes and forgiving their errors; and being respectful of them."

A tall order.

One of the biggest illnesses among the Muslims is insincerity. Especially in the Arab world, where the eloquence of the Arabic language allows for flowery niceties, kind inquiries, and a general facade of interest in the well-being of others. I have heard men spend fifteen minutes on telephone conversations, asking about the welfare of family members, health, financial situations, children, etc., while interspersing questions with phrases like, "Allah preserve you" and "Oh no, you're not interrupting anything," even if the caller has interrupted the man's meal or important work, even if the one receiving the call does not trust or cannot stand the caller.

Why must there be a pretense of sincerity among Muslims? Why can we not call a spade a spade? For when backs are turned, so often the truth comes out, which ends up turning into backbiting. And backbiting, as we know, is a cesspool of sin, because the ones listening get drawn in, and more often than not do not attempt to quell the backbiting. How many opinions have we formed about others without even knowing the individuals, simply based on 'what we've heard.'

"I can't tolerate that man, he is a liar," or, "That guy thinks he's this-and-that, but I wouldn't trust him if my life depended on it." If you detest him, why pretend you don't? Give him what is required of you as a Muslim brother or sister, which is to greet him with peace, only. Make du'a that he is rightly guided. Leave it at that. Don't pretend he's your best buddy.

This is the kind of back handedness that plagues business dealings, relations with in-laws, relations with neighbors, relations among governments. There is little or no forgiveness for the shortcomings of others. We ask for the mercy of our Creator, but we cannot be merciful to one another. We are so obsessed with appearances and the haves of others that we cannot even begin to look at what others have to offer as thinking, feeling human beings.

I've grown tired of the excuse "that's just the way Arabs are." I don't buy it, because if it were true, there would be no exceptions. To this day, there are people I have been in contact with over the last six years I feel very uneasy around, because their modus operandi is thus:
1. Greet me with all of the niceties of the world: "How are you, how are your children, how is life, how are things, how how how how..."
2. Take a look at my physical appearance to determine if I have gained weight, lost weight, stayed the same.
3. Look around my house for any new purchases, scrutinize decor, etc., ask how much things cost, why I chose this color instead of that one...blah blah blah. Nothingness.
4. If it has been determined that I have gained weight, make a stabbing comment about it, usually in a loud voice, while I'm walking around or serving the other guests.

It's happened too many times, and each time after they leave, I feel as if I've been sucker-punched. Yet I should keep my nice hostess face on, returning the niceties, even though inside I am seething? I cannot cope with the absurdity of it all. Mercy springs from mercy, respect from respect. If neither is given to me, I am hardpressed to return it. This, of course, is one of the many battles I fight with my self. And my husband wonders why I choose to be a selective isolationist of sorts.

I did not mean to get on this tangent, spurred from reading Sidi Faraz' column. I set out to highlight another article (which is actually the text of an address given in May) in this quarter's Islamica publication, written by HRH Ghazi Bin Muhammad, entitled Calling the Turning Falcon. Prince Ghazi is a smart fellow; I watched him (on TV) address a meeting of scholars in Amman several weeks ago, and was surprised at his personable demeanor and sense of humor. His wife opened a school right down the street from where I live, called The School of Life. I think they are both quite in touch with the realities of the world and are an asset to the Royal Family here in Jordan.

If none of this is coherent, it's because I've had three hours of sleep. Nap time.

On Seeking the Meaning of Ramadan

cross posted at Ramadanish

Anthony Manousos, a Quaker, writes,
"That night, after my meal, I sat down and wrote checks to charitable organizations with more zest than I have ever before experienced. Fasting, I discovered, can do wonders to stimulate compassion and the urge to be charitable." Read his entire essay here.

It seems that Muslims are not the only ones on a quest for meaning, introspection, and purification during the holy month of Ramadan. A quick net search will reveal how many different faiths participate in the Ramadan fast, visiting masajid and holding interfaith dialogue. While their efforts are commendable, I know that they know deep down that they are missing something.

We Muslims are unique; we have been bequeathed with a gift from our Creator, a connectedness that other religions do not share. Sitting in my kitchen here in Amman at iftar time is sublimely peaceful; I listen to the silence of the streets, the clanking of my neighbors' silverware to their plates, calm voices, and the call to prayer. Ramadan has a feel, a mood, a presence all its own, that no other religion can boast.

As a non-Muslim, I wanted to be 'in' on the secrets of Ramadan. I had a Muslim classmate at University, who was also the first hijab-wearing sister I had ever met. She never ceased to blow me away with her calmness. I remember feeling like a blastedly loud American around her, both in my speech and actions. Although she never looked at me disapprovingly in my short whatevers and face full of make-up, I felt disapproved of from within. I can't really explain it except by saying that her lack of words spoke volumes.

I remember we were in a class together and Ramadan had begun. We had a two-hour "blue book" exam to take. I sat watching her scribble away, knowing that the sun would set and she would soon have to break her fast. When the time came, she looked at her watch, then slowly and unobtrusively removed a small mint candy from her pocket, mouthed a du'a, ate the mint, and kept on writing. I thought to myself how if it were me breaking my fast after 14 + hours without food and drink, I'd be high-tailing it out of the exam room and heading down to the nearest McD's.

Or would I? Little did I know that Allah had a plan for me, and just two years after I watched my beautiful friend break her fast on a mint, I would be fasting my first Ramadan.

I took my infant and a cup full of apple juice with me to the masjid that evening. I did not anticipate to what extreme I would not be able to eat after breaking my fast. A few sips of juice, a date, and a small cup of orange lentil soup were all I needed to feel the satiety I thought I could never fill. It was, I think, a true triumph over my nafs that was still torn between her self doubt as to whether or not she could really do this Islam thing.

She could. I can. We are. Year after year, this glorious month comes and goes, and I mourn its passing. After making Umrah last year during Ramadan, I realized that I can also be the girl with a mint in her pocket. If only we had such resolve the rest of the year. May Allah make us year-round fasters, triumphant over our desires of this world, this running for the dunya, this ceaseless rise and fall of iman. Let these days pass slowly, let us savor the time we have to worship Allah with more energy and resolve, to give to the needy, to hold our tongues, to hold one another up.

Hi-Ho the Dairy O'

...the mouse ate the cheese.

We have a house guest this Ramadan. He is tiny and lightning fast. Actually, only two of the seven people in our home have actually seen him. I do not want to kill him, but he now knows how to crawl behind the cabinets. I keep hope alive that he's actually a little chef and has come to instruct me on the ins and outs of French gastronomy. I'd like to break my fast on some blanquette de veau, please.

Must I buy a mouse trap? As my sister-in-law informed me last night, he just might have a mama. A big one.

Update on the critter: I caught him. My husband brought home some sticky paper, upon which I placed a mound of shredded mozarella. I put it behind the washing machine and left the kitchen. Five minutes had not passed, and I went into the kitchen to stir our lentil soup. I heard some commotion. I looked behind the washer, and there he was, very, very trapped. It seemed kind of cruel but immediately he was taken, sticky paper and all, to the dumpster down the street.

All was well. For a mousy tidbit.

After we broke our fast, my helper informed me that there was another one. I went into the kitchen, and sure enough, little Fievel was sitting in the kitchen window, gazing out into the night breezes. As tiny as he was, his stature alone lets me know there must be more of his lot, somewhere.

Time to commence vermin warfare.

Where We are From: The Poetry

Assalamu Alaikum
Let me just start by saying that I was thrilled to receive seven poetry entries in addition to my own. Each one demonstrates compassion, creativity and individuality, and diversity. I wept when I read some of them; the imagery is just that strong. These poems are a reminder of how we are shaped by our surroundings, but at the same time do not have to be imprisoned by them--it's the gift of choice and free will and of course, the will of God.
I hope you enjoy these as much as I have, and I want to thank those who submitted poems for being able to 'dig down' and share themselves. Cathartic, indeed. Coincidentally (or not), every entry is from a female, and each of us is a convert to Islam. SubhanAllah.

Where I'm From
by Umm Abdur-Rahman

I am from a little cul-de-sac, a dead end in a long and winding road; from my granny's cobbler made with blackberries picked on the side of the river road on a lazy summer day.

I am from the first house built on the block, the house that stood alone for so long. The house filled with a little girl's memories of days long gone; the house waiting patiently for that little girl to return. A house whose days darkened with great sorrow and later brightened with even greater joy. Dashed hopes, unfulfilled dreams overcome with a mother's stubborn determination and independent will. Forgiveness and love.

I am from wicker baskets filled with dried lavender leaves and African violets blooming in the kitchen window.

I am from Friday night football games cheering on my Eagles in a stadium bearing my father's name. From cutting cute blonde bangs on the front steps of an old green house; from Big Ma, Pa Ed, and As Levan.

I am from blind, unconditional love and Granny Roy's hugs that could heal any broken heart. From the golden child aspiring to keep a dream cut short alive, to finding the self no one could have foreseen.

I am from everywhere. Saturday night gospel singings at the Walker County Auditorium and family Bible readings beside an unlit fire. Rex Humbard saving the souls of the heathen on TV and Ernest Angsley healing only those who believed. It's a wonder how I found my way; from Sunday Schools and VBS to Friday prayers and Ramadan. What a shock for those I loved. What a shock for me.

I'm from Cairns' and Gullihorn's and Levan's I never knew. And from Roy's who run as deep in my blood as the water runs deep in the sea. The deep South: southern Belles and rebel flags. Chilton County peaches and pecans off the tree behind Mama Clara's house. Pecan pie.

From valiant young grandfathers who fought bravely in 1943, and the lovelorn grandmothers who waited back at home faithfully, the early ending memories of a man I never really knew.

I am from independent women and hard-working men. From a sister I love and a brother I wish I really knew. From a mother who tried to understand and "father" who does the best he can. Thank you God for giving me what you have. Life is nothing more than our memories and my memories are grand.
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Where I'm From
by Umm Ihsan

I am from my current car's driver seat, from Hershey Bar and guilt-ridden Butter Pecan ice cream.

I am from the yard with dead grass, a small house you almost miss each time you pass, and the smell of fear of failure from parenting a first-time teen; an obedient and possibly ignored middle child, along with the God-willing confident, not spoiled little princess.

I am from the poison ivy, Magnolia, pollen-filled air; the flowing ferns, Chrysanthemums, and a big ball of flower made up of tiny flowers, such as life.

I am from bedtime reading and self-doubt and self-deprecating; from Lavern and Jimmie Ruth and Delhi Bell, and Ba-ba-ba-ba Barbara Ann.

I am from the not often seen but closely felt family, and of those of deep religious convictions, and some just convicted and paroled.

From "don't chew with your mouth open" and "lying is the worst thing you can do."

I am from the Church of Christ trained to be a Muslim, raised where women were the caretakers of religion, to choosing a religion where men are accused of being religious zealots.

I am from the woods of Alabama; cornbread and molokhia.

From the grandfather with addictions that has added fire to the argument "genetics versus environment;" the same man who passed along to his descendants the resolve to fight those addictions, and the tragedy of loss before that lesson is learned well enough.

I am from the fountain in the Morocco section of Epcot; sand castles on the beach, family picnics on rocks beside Jordanian roads, and photos in front of the car on the first day of school.

I am from cracked plaster and painted hand prints of pre-schoolers, saved childhood artwork--mine and theirs; small plastic rings from a grocery store-bought wedding cake and a budget-restricted honeymoon purchase of a small basket of soaps that have lost their smell.

I am from good intentions that don't pave the road to Hell; people with a healthy work ethic, people-pleasers with integrity, the salt of the earth, struggling not to be defined by this Earth.
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Where I'm From
by Fatima Jess
Blog: Writing Every Day Angel

I am from a crystal clear mirror, from Black and Decker and where the trees grow tall.

I am from the bi-level house on a hill with a gravel driveway.

I am from the peony bushes, the lilacs, and tiger lilies.

I am from those who like to play pinochle and 500, and those who tend to complain; from Darlene and Dolores and Michael.

I am from the fishermen of lakes and bakers of cookies, of cooks of homemade noodles.

From "pick up your socks" and "lick your plate clean."

I am from the Irish and German Catholics. From the small country churches with a saint in each stained glass window, and church suppers in the basement.

I'm from the land of 10,000 lakes, the people of small towns, meat and potatoes.

From the aunt who wishes she was married to her boyfriend of 14 years--the guy is a mother's baby but we still view him as a member of the family--and the slobby uncle who calls about his problems all at the wrong times.

I am from the cabinet and underwear drawers, from the Two Rivers Creek, the wonderfulness of it all. That's where I'm from.
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Where I'm From
by Aaminah Hernandez
Blog: Writeous Sister Speaks

I am from furniture, from Meijer and fishing and fireflies.

I am from the haunted house, in a haunted neighborhood, smells of smoke, children's squeals after dark.

I am from the apple blossom, the burial mounds and rushing river.

I am from Christmas boxes of candy and fruit and adoption, from Lamerson by birth and Irwin and Franks.

I am from frequent yelling, in happiness and anger, and midnight drives to Mississippi.

From "the boy who cried wolf" and powwow songs and stories.

I am from the Midwest Christianity in the midst of the CRC. From church on Sunday morning and night, missionary work, and supper time Bible memorization. I am from freethinking that caused me to choose a different path.

I am from Montana unseen by way of Kalamazoo, frybread and corn in history, meatloaf and lasagna in reality.

From those who walked with MLK and those who screamed in his face, the plantation owners, and the boarding school and reservation lifers.

I am from a hope chest and cardboard boxes in closets concealing memories that I do not have in my mind. Also from photos that were promised to be sent but never were, a father's face forever unknown, but a dad's face well-documented and remembered; one mother never to be found, but a mom who is the keeper of the stories.
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Where I'm From
Umm Omar--Nicole Bovey

I am from a refinery town, a port of brackish water; from Wonder bread with margarine and Veg-All.

I am from a house with a huge front picture window, a yard with a Sears swing set and a detached garage for booming race cars.

I am from Eucalyptus and Palm, Redwood and Ice Plant.

I am from the Boveys of red hair and the Hawkins' of pig farming, yet I barely knew any of them.

I am from the folks of little patience and loud voices who loved dancing to the record player and baking sweets continuously.

I am from Mid-West stock and family values, transplanted into the California climate, which defrosted and melted away. Never baptized so I could find myself, and when I did, the choice was wrong.

I'm from "Benicia by the Bay," Home of the Exxon Refinery and the once highly disputed capital of California.

From a "Grounds for Divorce" race car driver and the local town activist; sister of the boy who never quite grew up but had a smile and a hand shake for everyone.

I am from fog horns in the night, walks on Main Street, a well worn library card and friends who still call me by name.
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Where I'm From
by Ukht Noor al-Madinia
Blog: Al Miskeenah

I am from a shiny black salty spread, from Vegemite and Arnott's Teddy Bear Biscuits.

I am from the foamy frothy steam of fresh milk squirting from cows and goats udders.

I am from the aroma of eucalyptus, the kookaburra laughing high in the silvery gray green gum trees amidst a sun burnt land.

I am from fossickers of gold and hoarders of fossils and thrifty grandmas stooped over smoky wood burning fires making damper; from Emily, Lilla, Emma, Vera, Matt, Gebhard and Lars.

I am from horses' panting breath snorting in crisp early morning fogs, while kangaroos jump and bash through the bush and rabbits steal tender young shoots from the veggie patch.

From cabbage patches where the stork delivers new babies and roosters kiss hens to create eggs.

I am from 'pseudo-in-name-only Christians' who shoved the children off to church while guardians bogeyed--or whatever. Alhamdulillah, little did they know that God is the best of Planners...instilling a love of stories of the Prophets and a quest for TRUTH, eventually leading to His most blessed gift of Hidayah.

I'm from Tambo Upper skirting the pristine High Plains, settled after migration from Viking lands, adopting the cuisine of the sweet delicate pavlovas and lamingtons.

From grandpa's forbidden woodshed where fearful tales of bats flying into long golden tresses becoming entwined forever, were told as threats. Of his nearby beehives emitting the heady sweet smell of their ceaseless working. And from the other Pop, the practical joker who would attack us with 'little fleas'...tiny pincer-like pinches, biting squirming, squealing bodies.

I am from pungent smelling peppercorn trees festooned with psychedelic caterpillars, gawky kids scrambling around rock pools chasing crabs, fantasizing in mirror-like reflections, rewarded for 'good' behavior with a thick syrupy chocolate milkshake.

From a heady concoction of old fashioned trademarks of honesty, simplicity, contentment with little, and yet lots of hand-me-downs; unpolluted challenges born long before the idiot box preyed on innocent hearts and souls. Where respect, gratitude, creativity and happiness danced with loving smiles...all this and more from surrogate parents; selfless grandparents.
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Where I'm From
by Umm Taleb

I am from linen, from Ivory soap and salty ocean waters.

I am from the suburban, middle, double-garaged, straight-laced come all undone and frayed in just the right places and times.

I am from the arbutus, lilacs, bark mulch, the wisteria gone wild, gooseberries and walnut tree leaves turning to musk.

I am from cottage summers and stubbornness, from military grandfathers and home baked raisin bread grandmothers, and that ever-laughing aunt.

I am from intensity, privacy with conversations that block out the world to be broken by a cackle and making like all is well.

From putting family first and not bringing home any babies if you aren't wed.

I am from the sweetness of following the last Prophet in submitting to the Sublime.

I'm from the Manitoban cold and kilt wearing stock, date-squares, pancakes, and Yorkshire pudding.

From the first wife's mysterious disappearance in the marriage to 18 year-old Anne, the etiquette and table manners of saucers put to discourage elbows.

I am from the coast, but my heart and love lies in the desert, here. Sentimentality is not a trait I carry, so my memories are my mementos I take with me where I like. Cold stone and clear blue skies keep my heart clean and my focus straight. Here I am, put salt in water and remember the ocean breeze.
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Where I'm From
by Umm Farouq
Blog: Right here

I am from pom-poms and hand-me-down furnishings; from kitchen hutches, from Bama Jelly on toast paired with Saturday mornings rooting for Captain Caveman.

I am from up on Cripple Creek where I never got mended, from a land of penny-pinching in the midst of opulence, from a microcosm of divorced women with daughters trying to break the mold, and a voice inside urging me to leave. Fast.

I am from Magnolia trees that shed and old men's faces carved from driftwood; from honeysuckle-sucking marathons to back handsprings performed atop daisy chains that made green fingernails. I am from longing for a yard to call my own, something more than a potted plant in styrofoam.

I am from Thanksgiving in Montgomery and the "Crazy Heart," from Big Mama and Daniel Belton, from Ruby Gaye and Clifton Earl.

I am from substance abuse, both covert and open-door; from AA meetings and smoke-filled rooms; from a need to find my self, and from senses of humor that make a belly laugh look like a snicker.

From "you have the vomiting virus" to "Lord willing and the creek don't rise," which it did, once, and swallowed up our little car.

I am from Episcopal Day School to Methodist Hand Bell Choir to Church of Christ Baptism, which lead to Bono and his troop make more sense than all of that, to Muhammad is the last Messenger of God, prostrating with a tear-streaked face at the House of Allah in Mecca. What a long, strange, trip it's been.

From the HHS Patriots, merry Old English roots and the land where Prophets walked; from cream-chipped beef on toast, cornbread dressing and--can grape leaves fit in here somewhere?

From the mother who was grabbed by a hobo and jumped out of her slippers, who loves her daughters; from the father who tap-danced and flashed a brilliant smile, winning her heart; from the grandmother who walked barefoot on slippery rocks with her Cherokee grandma who gave me my cheekbones; from the uncle who was a weapon for the government.

I am from a Currier and Ives tin filled with chronology, from that instant Polaroid that took the best photos; from "look how thin we were" to "look how wise we've become." I am from self-loathing that turned to love, from self-destruction that turned to confidence, from an airtight sisterhood of bravery and compassion, guiding me, loving me, smilingly.
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Thank you, sisters.

Poems, Time Wasted, and Ramadan

So far the poems I have received are outstanding. Bravo, writers (and those who think they are not writers, but I know better).

I'm still hoping to get something from someone living in Asia, besides myself and the other gal (you know who you are). More specifically, somewhere outside of Jordan. Any takers? Anyone?

Anyhow, after I post the poems, I plan to take a small hiatus of sorts during Ramadan. I'll just have too much on my plate (or not!) and I need to do some introspection and have lots of quality family time.

I love Ramadan. I just love it. Last year I was making Umrah and it was amazing. That's also when I started this blog, or at least regular blogging. I feel as if I have 'met' so many talented, thoughtful, incisive brothers and sisters this year through this blogging venue. I have also had to learn how easy it is to get caught up in wanting to read everything everyone writes. I now know my limitations. I give myself one hour each morning, and one hour each evening, and still I think, gee, I know I could be doing many more productive things with my two hours I give to blogging/blog reading. It's almost tragic. Strike that, it IS tragic.

So today I joined a sisters' challenge to memorize the first five ayat of Surat al-Mulk from the Qu'ran during Ramadan. Five ayat. Not much. In order to accomplish this, however, I know that if I turn my computer on, I must directly visit the recitation page I use to help myself memorize. I am a disaster at memorization. I can read Arabic like a 2nd grader on good days. I am shy to recite aloud. I am admittedly jealous of those who were born with Arabic as their first language and who do not appreciate the gift of being able to read and comprehend. Moreover, I am angered by those who let that gift sit dormant, never bothering to read the words revealed in that glorious book.

Along with the normal Ramadan food drive that my posse here in Amman participates in, I told my children we have to do some extras, especially regarding the underpriveleged children. I do not understand how the general population is going to feed their families and clothe their children at Eid this year. The prices here for everyday basics keep skyrocketing, not to mention the insane consumerism of the haves that make items like oil and rice cost a pretty qirsh. No, I will not pay 25 JD for a blouse for my five year-old, made in China, sure to unravel after its third washing. But someone will, and so it goes.

One of my most beautiful memories during Ramadan here in Jordan was an iftar (breaking of the fast at sundown) spent at a Quran center where dozens of orphans came to break their fast. They recited Quran for us and then sang us a song, whose lyrics were something like,

"All I've ever wanted in my life was to call someone Baba,

To take his shoes off when he comes home from work and ask him about his day,

To say goodnight and kiss and hug..."

You get the drift. Dry eyes from me or my kids? No way. I have raised a group of softy mush-heads, like their mama. And they need to keep their softness, to not become numb to all the suffering in the world; they must know how to give without being prompted or preached at.

Another great memory for me was my first Ramadan here, in 2002. I was desperately trying to find a masjid where the same Quran center mentioned above was hosting an iftar for orphans. My kids and I were used to spending every Ramadan evening in the US at the mosque, where we would all break our fasts together. I was driving in the car, not knowing where I was going, relying on unreliable directions. I came upon a beautiful masjid, and the athan (call to prayer) was beginning to sound. I jumped out of the car and asked a brother outside, "Is there an iftar here?"

He smiled at me, and said, "Welcome, sister, there is no iftar here, but I can offer you some dates and juice and water." He thought I was looking for a place to eat. I'll never forget the look on his face.

Let me put my advice to use and get off of this computer now. My heartfelt salams to all of you as we embark upon this holy month of Ramadan. For my non-Muslim readers, this is a wonderful time to get to know some Muslims, to join an interfaith dialogue or to visit a local community center and share in breaking the fast.

Peace to you all.

Here's another

plug for HijabMan, balloon hat and all. Buy a T-shirt, will you?

The rest of the writing, however, makes me want to hurl.

Mona Um Ibrahim

Every time I try to comment on your blog, it sends me back to your home page, and my comments never show up.

:(

Chickens!

Someone please attempt to write one of those "Where I'm From" poems and submit it to me.

I'm southern, obviously, as are many folks I know. I want some diversity. Someone from Malaysia, perhaps. Or Lambeth, London. Or Fargo, North Dakota. You know who you are. You read this blog. Give something back, in the form of a poem! Come on. Get to chicken scratchin'.

please watch

Umm Layth, Sakeena, and Jacqueline,

you are my "chosen ones" for the Pay It Forward do-good project.

Jacqueline, I know your contact info, since you are my sibling. Although I'm sure there are siblings out there in the world who do not know one another's contact info. Tragic, indeed.

Umm Layth and Sakeena, please email me at sulsalamjen (at) yahoo (dot) com. I will need your home mailing addresses so I can send you some goodies from Jordan. You will, of course, need to commit to doing this for three other people.

Can't wait to put my little packages together.

cool breezes

Low tonight in Amman: 69 degrees Fahrenheit.

It's practically winter!

Hoorah.

TOTAL Nightmare

I read this and I read it again. This is completely unacceptable, inexcusable, and deplorable.

9 days...9 miserable days

Where are we? Bangladesh? The slums of New Delhi? The Congo?

I watched as Prince Hamzah hospital took three years to be completed. It's a marvel of construction from the outside. I kept telling my husband I thought that this was going to finally give a good name to public hospitals in Amman--this was the chance for the government hospitals to show they could step up to the plate and really be concerned with patient care.

I've heard nightmarish stories about Al-Bashir hospital, the most well-known public hospital in Amman, where my husband's favorite cousin, Ibrahim, was denied a blood transfusion two years ago. He had a lifelong battle with thalassemia, and his liver and kidneys were shutting down because he was in desperate need of a transfusion. They turned him away, telling him that the transfusion room was being used by chemotherapy patients, and he'd have to come back the next day.

Ibrahim's brother drove him back the next day, brought him into the waiting area for the transfusion, and went to call the nurse. When his brother (who also suffers from thalassemia) returned to the waiting area, Ibrahim was already dead. He was 32 years old and had been working to save money to propose to the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

My children's old tutor also told me about Al-Bashir, where she delivered her second son. She told me she was lead into a ward with 15 + women all in labor. No nurses were present to attend to the women, no IVs were administered to any of the women in labor, and the room was filthy. She said that when the pain became intolerable for her, she began to cry and moan. The only nurse who came into the room to check on them was a woman who went around, slapping them on their legs, telling them to "hush" or "shut up and quit crying." There were no doctors to be seen, and when it came time for her to push, she said she nearly had to catch the baby herself. They did not wash the babies who were born. There were no APGARS or procedures to weigh or examine the newborns. After five hours lying with her uncleaned infant, she was discharged from the hospital. She delivered the boy for 23 JD. Ya salam.

Private hospitals cost people money. Public hospitals, it seems, could possibly cost them their health.

Now We're Going to Have a Writing Exercise

Special thanks to Um Janan, who sent me this idea.

This is going to be my first time to host a mini blog carnival. I'll be happy if I receive two entries, plus my own. You do not have to be a blogger to submit a poem.

This is a nice way to be creative and nostalgic, as well as share your roots with others. We could all use some root sharing from time to time.

If you remember doing MadLibs as a kid, this is sort of similar.

1. Copy and paste the template into whatever writing program you use.
2. Be creative, funny, critical...just write from the heart.
3. Send me your poem by September 15, 2007, to sulsalamjen (at) yahoo (dot) com.
4. I'll post the poems I receive here on the blog. Remember, you don't have to be a blogger to submit a poem.

Here's the template:

The WHERE I'M FROM Template
I am from _______ (specific ordinary item), from _______ (product name) and _______.
I am from the _______ (home description... adjective, adjective, sensory detail).
I am from the _______ (plant, flower, natural item), the _______ (plant, flower, natural detail)
I am from _______ (family tradition) and _______ (family trait), from _______ (name of family member) and _______ (another family name) and _______ (family name).
I am from the _______ (description of family tendency) and _______ (another one).
From _______ (something you were told as a child) and _______ (another).
I am from (representation of religion, or lack of it). Further description.
I'm from _______ (place of birth and family ancestry), _______ (two food items representing your family).
From the _______ (specific family story about a specific person and detail), the _______ (another detail, and the _______ (another detail about another family member).
I am from _______ (location of family pictures, mementos, archives and several more lines indicating their worth).

Here is the poem written by the template's author, so you can get an idea of how far you can take this.

Where I’m From ~ Fred First ~ November 2003
I am from the peaceful banks of a creek with no name; from JFG, toast and blackberry jam and home-made granola.

I am from "a house with double porches," a room filled with good ghosts and creek laughter in the mornings before first light.

I am from Liriodendron and Lindera, butterfly bush and mountain boomers.

I am from Dillons and Harrisons, Betty Jean and Granny Bea-- frugal and long-lived, stubborn and tender, quick to laugh. Or cry.

I am from a world whose geography my children know better than I, from a quiet valley where I am the proprietor and world authority of its small wonders.From barn loft secret passwords and children who can fly if they only try.

I am from oven-baked Saran Wrap and colds caught from jackets worn indoors. I am from pire in the blood Baptists, from the cathedral made without hands, the church in the wildwoods, the covenant of grace.

I'm from the Heart of Dixie, son of Scarlett O'hara. From War Eagle, Wiffle, UAB and PT, from Walnut Knob's blue ridge and the soft shadows of Goose Creek.

From a "fast hideous" dresser and a home body from Woodlawn, from a grandfather I never knew that I can blame for my love of nature and my stubbornness, they tell me.

I am from fragments, the faint smell of wood smoke, and familiar walks among trees I know by name, from HeresHome and good stock. A man can hardly ask to be from more.

Get to writing and reminiscing, people.

"We're reduced to begging for water..."

Listen here to NPR's story about Jordan's water crisis. This problem will not just simply disappear. It cannot be ignored amongst mounds of red tape bureaucracy.

Would you like to know what I spent my morning hours, both yesterday and today, doing?

I've been watching the water trickle into my one-and-a-half meter tank downstairs. This summer we have been reduced to receiving water for a less than 24-hour period. The pressure at which the water comes is weak, to say the least. I have to wait for the tank downstairs to fill up, and checking this tank means I have to go into a musty, filthy room in the garage, climb a rickety ladder, and use my flashlight to see the water's level. When it reaches a suitable level, I turn on a pump, which pumps the water up to the 4 meters' worth of tanks that are upstairs on the roof. Every week we hope that the water comes long enough to fill the tanks upstairs, let me get the laundry done, and bathe everyone. I have become a scrupulous water saver. I hate it.

The entire process of monitoring the tanks is necessary, because I have to wash clothes each week for the seven people living in my house only on the day the water is coming. I can turn on my washing machine any day of the week, but there is no guarantee there will be water upstairs in my tanks. I am vigilant--almost militant--in my water-watching. It wears me out.

But I'm not carrying buckets on my back.

I live in a decent neighborhood. It is quite populated and relatively affluent (we have the cheapest home on the block). We need water. We are suffering. And I'm going to say it...the report has it wrong. There are 1 million Iraqi refugees in Jordan, not 700,000. They all must bathe and wash their clothing, too.

We have brought in water trucks at least 50 times since buying this home. We have to pay for one water truck, which is a week's supply, 20 JD, or the equivalent of most families' water bills for an entire year. In three years, we've shelled out around $1400 to pay for water, in addition to the bills we have to pay to the water company. This is a hardship.

Other areas of Amman, such as Gardens St., Umm Uthainah, and Tababoor, receive water five out of seven days per week. Why? Probably because there are important people living there. My neighborhood needs someone important.

We tried to plant several trees and have a yard outside of our flat here in Amman. Trees and grass require water. I am ready to let them all die. Watering the grass has been a source of contingency between my spouse and myself, on more than one occasion. Let it turn yellow and wither up; I need a bath.

Read more about worldwide water crises:

Water, Women, and War

Sad, Sad Stastics regarding Jordan's water

South African Women and Water

Two in three will be a water refugee

Everyone Lives Downstream