Muslim Celebrity Scholars

This article was originally published at: http://www.theislamicmonthly.com/celebrity-scholars/

Today, a new set of Muslim scholars have emerged—on the red carpet. They are decorated in traditional pious garb: long flowing gowns and trendsetting scarves. They stride elegantly down the crimson walkway where they are met by follower-fans who eagerly praise and lionize them. In this Hollywood reality, celebrity scholars are exalted for their religious knowledge.

In his account of America’s first Muslim college Scott Korb observes that “celebrity follows knowledge in American Islam.” Korb is surprised by Muslim students’ fervent veneration of their religious teachers. In Islam sacred knowledge demands reverence, a concept best reflected in one’s adab or respectful comportment towards his or her teacher. Here, however, Korb hits on the more peculiar phenomenon of Muslim celebrity culture.

This culture is most prevalent in the social media realm where Muslim scholars maintain carefully crafted public profiles on sites like Facebook and Twitter. These scholars diligently offer 140-character smidgens of religious wisdom. They also post personal anecdotes, self-help advice, and the occasional political grievance. Sometimes, they even share scholarly “selfies,” oblivious to the narcissism inherent in such a practice. Although many of their posts are vague, if not shallow in nature, thousands of followers evince gushing admiration through “likes,” “favorites,” and “retweets.” The lionization of scholars for their down-to-earth religious swag is reminiscent of the devotion of millions of followers to popular personalities like Oprah or the Kardashians. The game is the same. The names are different.

A troubling symptom of this increasing online phenomenon is the perpetuation of an identity politics. “My shaykh is better than your shaykh” is the motto in contemporary American Islam. Many celebrity scholars hail from different popular Islamic institutions like AlMaghrib, Bayyinah, Zaytuna, and SeekersGuidance. Posting in tandem with their institutions, these scholars act as plugs for their specific brand of Islam. Muslims, in turn, identify themselves with one or more of these institutions. They adopt their ideologies and characteristics. A wholly modern form of identity is fashioned characterized by one’s dogmatic attachment to his or her own Muslim camp. Critical thinking and engagement fall out the window as each Muslim camp claims monopoly over the “true” meaning of Islam. We would do well to heed the warning of Shabbir Akhtar, who wisely states that dogmatism in any camp is the common enemy.

In my use of dogmatism, I am not referring to the notion of submitting to authority and the precedent of the past. There is a significant place for this in our tradition. Rather, I am speaking of a “servile conformism,” a specific form of dogmatism that even al-Ghazali criticized during his time, which is anti-intellectual and overtly ideological rather than truth-seeking.

Perhaps one of the biggest threats celebrity scholar culture poses to the Muslim community is a dramatic rise in anti-intellectualism. Scholars peddling a feel-good Islam post short cookie-cutter comments on religious matters (see Fig. 1). Instead of reading a book, followers can learn all they need to know about Islam by merely scrolling through a string of instructive “tweets.” In reality, no actual learning takes place. The unique engagement one has with a book invites one into a unique dialogue with the author. It inspires critical thinking skills and sustained learning. This is radically different from reading a brief “tweet” or Facebook post, which are more often than not, simplistic fleeting thoughts. These Islamic sound bites in no way sufficiently explain complex religious issues that scholars of the past discussed over the course of centuries.

Even more unsettling is the fact that social media induces a strange form of complacency within Muslim religiosity. A scholar may request a du’a for a specific occasion, but rather than immediately dropping technology to make supplication, Muslims hasten to “like,” or “favorite” the post. By acknowledging a scholar’s pious comment, Muslims feel they have completed their religious duty for the day (though they’ve failed to make the journey from the computer screen to the prayer mat).

This same culture of complacency characterizes celebrity scholars’ social and political posts. To take a more recent example, the Boko Haram scandal produced no shortage of scholars joining the hashtag #BringBackOurGirls campaign. Though they were certainly well-intentioned, their posts were ineffective insofar as they merely accumulated a few hundred “likes” and did not in any way galvanize practical action. It seems that Muslim scholars simply wanted to show the world that they too were aware of an issue that everyone else was talking about. In condemning the Boko Haram, they felt they’d made a difference. This is emblematic of a larger online phenomenon wherein everyone shows solidarity for one single issue (one they were probably ignorant of before) and subsequently feels satiated by their noble social activism. Celebrity scholars and follower-fans must challenge the superficial satisfaction gained by the click of a button in both religious and sociopolitical matters. Instead, scholars can use international events to comment on related taboo issues in their own communities.

Diving deeper into the psychology, it would not be absurd to suggest that online followership may lead to toxic levels of self-conceit. In his blog “Muslimology,” Dawud Israel questions the febrile adulation of religious scholars. After Muslim followers heap piles of praise on their shuyukh after a khutba, Dawud wonders, “Who wouldn’t go on an ego trip?” It is no different in the social media world where Muslims engage in unrelenting flattery of their scholars’ posts and pictures. Are scholars immune to inordinate dosages of flattery? It may well be that none of us are. Promotion of the self is not a regrettable byproduct of social media, it is inherent to the institution itself! We seek validation and praise by publicizing our lives, careers, goals, interests, and talents. We all teeter on the brink of hubris. Should scholars be held to a different standard?

On a flight to San Francisco I ran into Shaykh Hamza Yusuf, arguably one of the most influential Muslim scholars in the West. In a classy black suit and round horn-rimmed glasses, he addressed the flight attendant with an air of gravitas. Resisting the pestilent urge to pull out my phone and Snapchat him, I asked for his thoughts on Muslim celebrity scholar culture. Yusuf had an overall pessimistic outlook on social media. “People tell me to get a Twitter,” he said, “but you know I won’t do it.” While skeptical of the intellectually nullifying reality of social media including the concept of blogging, Yusuf took a conciliatory tone. He conceded that at least Muslims were following religious scholars instead of frivolous famous personalities. “It’s human nature,” he admitted, “to follow who you love.”

It’s true. We love our Muslim scholars so much so that we jump at the first chance to follow their lives; and they indubitably mean well in their efforts to reach and relate to a tech-savvy generation. But we must question the psychological and sociological impact of this culture on our collective Muslim ethos. Out of this very human and sincere love, celebrity scholars and follower-fans must ask themselves these hard-hitting questions.

The Carriers

The souq was noisy and bustling. Sultry, sweltering, sun-stained women picked at gorging produce stands. Bananas. Mangoes. Guavas. Tomatoes. Potatoes. Zucchini.

It was her first time in a souq. She was a Foreigner. More like an interloper. An alien. As her image reflected in the people’s eyes told her. Confusion coupled with curiosity said their eyes. But she skipped to the beat of the bustle in the souq. She blended in as best she could. Their eyes followed her.

A bag of onions in one hand and a bag of tomatoes in the other. She balanced her scales like a seesaw. She wobbled through the streets teetering to this side then that. Women shoved passed the Foreigner. Nudging her into conical, knobby eggplants. Little shayal clamored to catch her bags.

These were little Carriers. Young boys tall and short, skinny and plump, ranging the various stages of boyhood. They worked in the souq. They picked fruits and vegetables, secured them in bags, placed them on their trolleys, and shuffled everything back to your house for a paltry sum. Little helpers, little elves working all day in the sun. Working and playing because for them, the two were interchangeable.

Poor miskeen little creatures she thought. Yes she would take one. The first to have caught her bags and her eye was a small prepubescent boy with a face caked in dirt. He had a red snub nose that sat squarely in the center of his baby face. His eyes. Emerald. Peeked through a forest of dark lashes. Yes. He would be her little Carrier.

The little Carrier took orders from the big Foreigner. He packed each plastic bag with its designated plant and stacked them high on his rusted steely trolley. He pushed his cart, weaving in and out unnoticed between legs of people. Like a mouse. Soon the mountain on his trolley towered over him. Another older Carrier took advantage. Kicked him in the gut and tried to commandeer his trolley. The boys struggled and wrestled as boys do.

“Stop it!” yelled the Foreigner in foreign Arabic. People stared with their ears. Both boys fell silent and straight, heads lowered in obeisance. Older Carrier gave little Carrier a residual pinch to the shoulder before scuttling away.

Little Carrier gathered an ample two week supply of fruits and vegetables. He finished, tying a sack of grapes and placing it atop the leaning tower of pisa. Yalla. Time to go. The Foreigner led her little Carrier down a narrow, winding street past tall, peeling buildings.

He lagged behind her tripping on the ends of his oversized pants. He labored under the weight of his trolley. Prodding and pushing, he pleaded with the produce. Don’t fall. She could see his exasperation float into the air like clouds above her head. Perhaps she should help him.

Why didn’t they push the trolley together in unison? It was much too cumbersome for a boy no older than six. He puffed out his chest and told her he was nine. He declined the help. Afraid she would reduce his pay.

She ignored his puerile pride and dispelled his fears. Let’s play a game. Let’s push the trolley together as fast as we can. Little Carrier forgot he was at work. Slid seamlessly into play. They pushed the bulky cart down the bumpy road, slowly gaining momentum. Faster and faster they ran, trolley first. Scarcely avoiding potholes. Taxis screamed their horns at them. They paid no mind. The wind lifted and rushed past their ears. The fruits and vegetables quivered inside their bags. Almost falling. Run. Run. Run. The Foreigner and her little Carrier ran. Onlookers cheered or shook their heads disapprovingly.

Suddenly stop. Back to reality. Her apartment building loomed overhead. The bawab stood puzzled by the entrance.

Little Carrier looked down at the ground expectantly. The Foreigner wanted to give him her wallet. Her entire purse. She wanted to give him her heart as a mother would her son. She wanted to clean him up and take him to school. Read him bedtime stories at night.

She reached into the cave of her bag and pulled out an appropriate sum. Then she added a little more. She instructed him to buy a coke. A bag of chipsy. Some helwayat.

He looked at her like she was stupid. A smile flashed across his face revealing two missing front teeth. He took the money. Sauntered down the road. Turned around the corner, trolley in tow.

An Empire in Decline

In their book, Days of Destruction Days of Revolt, Chris Hedges and Joe Sacco take us to the streets of America where they explore the gruesome realities of an empire in decline. Poverty and its concomitant perverse friends—criminality, drugs, violence, and death—run rampant in places like Pine Ridge, South Dakota and Camden, New Jersey. These are some of the nation’s “sacrifice zones” where human life and the environment have been offered up as fodder for the corporate marketplace.

Like a genuine belief in divinity, precious democratic values are becoming hallmarks of a bygone golden age. Corporate forces rule without precedent, wielding a disproportionate amount of power, wealth, and influence over how society is run and culture is shaped. The objective of the corporate state is self-serving: make as much profit as you can as fast as you can. Everything and everyone is commodified for the maximization of profit. The result is lives of meaninglessness, despair, and destruction. This will continue, Hedges argues, until systemic collapse. Our only option as a people is to mobilize and exercise our sacred right of dissent.

But is civil disobedience the only solution to corporate corruption or can we work within the system?

The trite argument I hear from American Muslims is: if you’re not at the dinner table, then you’re on the menu. In other words, if you’re not actively participating in shaping public policy, then you risk falling prey to the dominant political agenda. But what if the dinner guests—with their fancy tailored suits and politically correct pleasantries—make for fruitless conversation? What if due to my dietary restrictions I can’t consume what’s on the menu? What if I’d rather eat with my hands than use eating utensils? What if—you guessed it—the entire dinner party is a farce?

If the dinner party is ultimately futile, then we must assume that the system we had hoped to work within is dead. In fact, the system perished a long time ago when our political leaders succumbed to the demands of Wall Street, the fossil fuel industry, the military-industrial complex and the security and surveillance state. Signs of rigor mortis continue to emerge as with the recent ruling in the case of McCutcheon v. Federal Election Commission. This Supreme Court decision effectively allows for corporate powers to make vast campaign contributions to federal candidates and political parties. Now a wealthy few (.000042 percent to be exact) dictate policy to the detriment of the American citizenry.

American Muslims would do well to question the powers that be. This starts with questioning more than just the corporate state, itself a symptom of a greater pathology: the onslaught of secular-modernity. Liberal secular forces that have relegated moral religious values to “a recognisable ghetto for traditional religion” prop up the oligarchic structures we see today. American Muslims seeking to cultivate an indigenous Islam in America need to seriously question the health of this country because, whether we like it or not, our future is inextricably wrapped up in the future of the West. Thus, the larger and most apt question we need to be asking ourselves is the Qur’anic one:

فأين تذهبون؟

Where then are you going?

A’isha bint Abi-Bakr: A Legacy Partially Told

Tradition has it that once the Prophet Muhammad had intended to marry a beautiful tribal woman. A’isha along with Hafsa prepared the bride for her wedding night, combing her hair and reddening her hands with henna. A’isha was consumed with jealousy. Her beloved husband was about to marry another woman, whose beauty threatened her intimate and privileged connection with him. Thus, A’isha hatched a plan to sabotage the marriage. She advised the unknowing bride to proclaim, “I seek refuge with God from thee,” on her wedding night. This, A’isha explained, would win the Prophet’s favor.

When the Prophet approached his new bride to consummate the marriage, she quickly uttered this formula of refuge, but to her surprise, the Prophet turned away. He interpreted her words as request for divorce. The next morning she was quietly sent back to her tribe.

This anecdote captures more than just the domestic intrigues of the Prophet’s wives. It demonstrates the relevance of A’isha, Mother of the Believers, for all ages. A’isha, although a woman of unparalleled piety, was not above the jealous vagaries of the human heart. Neither was she submissive to the customs of her time like polygamy which she often struggled to accept. Of all her co-wives, A’isha is arguably the most fascinating to the modern mind for she fails to fit the popular Western caricature of the docile Muslim wife. Her various interests spanned the domestic, social, political, and religious realms. She was a wife, mother, friend, teacher, politician, and military leader.

This portrait of A’isha’s complex and colorful nature, however, is strikingly different from the one consistently painted by contemporary Islamic piety. Today A’isha is known only in relation to the great men in her life—her father, Abu Bakr, and her husband, the Prophet Muhammad. In a recent online video Shaykh Omar Suleiman attempts to deliver a 14-minute account of A’isha’s life. Unsurprisingly, he ends A’isha’s saga with the iconic story of the Prophet’s head in her lap, breathing his last. Though A’isha outlived the Prophet by 46 years—indeed she lived more than half of her life without her husband—Suleiman makes no mention of her activities during this time. We only know she was a wellspring of hadith, transmitting over 2,210 narrations. So what else did A’isha do besides narrate hadith?

The Prophet is reported to have said, “Draw a part of your religion from little al-humayra.” Al-humayra or “the radiant one” was the Prophet’s pet name for A’isha, given to her because of her fair skin. The Prophet never specified which segment of A’isha’s life was worth learning. That said, selectively remembering her life to omit her human frailties does little al-humayra a grave disservice.

After the Prophet’s death and her father’s two years later, A’isha saw to the financial affairs of her family. She narrated hadith and disputed other companions on their narrations. Her contribution as a source of prophetic knowledge was so great that the 14th century scholar, Imam Zarkashi, decided to devote an entire book to her hadith criticism. His book, aptly titled Collection of A’isha’s Corrections to the Statements of the Companions, explored the points on which she disagreed with religious scholars of her time.

A’isha was witty and articulate and used these talents to further her goals. She was an outspoken social critic: when she observed the third caliph of Islam, ‘Uthman ibn ‘Affan, appointing corrupt family members to public office, she took to the streets, brandishing the Prophet’s sandal and reproaching ‘Uthman for his misconduct so soon after the Prophet’s death. Her move was politically astute and awakened a beleaguered population to rebellion. A’isha bypassed the sedition by going on the pilgrimage to Mecca. ‘Uthman is known to have said of her before his death, “And Qais set the country afire against me, and then, when it was ablaze, he ran away.”

A’isha would go on to challenge the fourth caliph’s claim to power in the infamous Battle of the Camel. Here she played a central role not only as political agitator but also as shrewd military leader soliciting political alliances in her cause against ‘Ali ibn Abi Talib. She rode her camel in the thick of battle screaming customary war cries and inspiring her men to acts of bravery. At last A’isha’s camel was shot down; she had lost the war. ‘Ali gallantly strove to help her from her mount and offer her reprieve.

Some of these stories are buried under heaps of Sunni shame. To disinter them, to hold them up to the light for reflection and even closure, is to stir the pot of controversy. But A’isha, best beloved of the Prophet, demands we look at her whole life, from her mundane jealousies to her political engagements. Her tale is one of imperfections and strength of character—a tale perhaps we can all relate to. Most importantly, her tale is one of profound piety and love for God and His Prophet. Indeed A’isha spent the remainder of her days teaching the men and women of Islam the Prophet’s sunnah.

On her deathbed, fearful as anyone might be of their impending fate, she mournfully wished she had been, “a grass, a leaf, a tree, a stone, a clump of mud…not a thing remembered.” Unfortunately for A’isha, this was at least one request God would not grant. Her memory is firmly anchored in popular Muslim imagination. Even as politics blot out specific scenes of her life, her complete legacy persists intact for those who dare to submerge themselves in her sea of stories.

*For more detailed accounts on the life of A’isha including her romantic history with the Prophet and her camaraderie with her co-wives, see Nabia Abbott, Aisha: The Beloved of Mohammed. Also see Fatima Mernissi, The Veil and the Male Elite: A Feminist Interpretation of Women’s Rights in Islam and Barbara Stowasser, Women in the Quran, Traditions, and Interpretation.

**I do not attach the honorifics sallallahu ‘alayhi wasallam and radi allahu ‘anha/hu/hum for continuity in reading. I hope Muslim readers will say the appropriate titles of respect.

Is Yasmin Mogahed a Sexist?

In a recent article, a blogger by the pseudonym “Muslim Feminist” takes Yasmin Mogahed to task by exposing the subtle “sexism” in her online personality. “Muslim Feminist” claims that Mogahed deliberately reposted a “sexist” joke and wrote an article with a hidden “sexist” agenda — all of which provides ample ammunition to pierce the religious leader’s moral credibility.

“Muslim Feminist” is not off the mark in suggesting that a Muslim woman can promote gender inequality. Any person, regardless of sexual and religious orientation, can be a sexist. I would hesitate, however, to accuse Yasmin Mogahed of willfully propagating underlying sexist messages and religious beliefs. Labelling her work as “sexist” fails to comprehend Mogahed’s complex sensibilities and attachments that make up her worldview.

Mogahed would be regarded by many in the Muslim community as a da`iya or religious teacher who is either self-taught or has received some formal training. She instructs both women and men on proper Islamic conduct and urges them to greater piety. Her “self-help” book and articles are laced throughout with exhortations to developing a primary relationship with God.

The internal critique by “Muslim Feminist” is necessary. Religious public figures are not exempt from criticism as they engage the public discourse. In fact, they may be subjected to an even higher standard of scrutiny given their claim to religious authority. Constructive and meaningful criticism however, does not overshadow a person’s good works. Popular academic critique tends to entirely obliterate a person by exposing errors in a way that permanently taints the bulk of his or her work. This genre of critique dangerously impels us to forget the truth and good in another’s labor. What I mean to say is: Mogahed may have posted an indiscreet joke but by no means should this color her integrity as a Muslim woman role model and mentor.

In Mogahed’s view, traditional gender roles do not indicate inequality. Women and men are celebrated for their uniqueness. She criticizes women who emulate men in superficial ways like physical appearance and behavior. Notice she never says that women shouldn’t participate in the public sphere and pursue careers in politics, education, finance, and healthcare, etc. I highly doubt whether Mogahed, who spends much of her time empowering and uplifting Muslim women, would advocate less rights for her own sex. Moreover, some Muslim men are uncomfortable with Mogahed’s emergence in the public spotlight. Their particular religious view maintains that women should remain within the confines and seclusion of their own home. Mogahed disregards these religious gender boundaries, contradicting her supposed sexist ideology.

My point however, is not to ascertain Mogahed’s level of feminism. Mogahed appears to derive her gender notions from a deep sense of religious belief wherein women are equal, but not similar to men. Her rhetoric might appear outwardly inimical to our own ideals and values but a closer look reveals a similar desire for liberation and empowerment. This demands we show reluctance in labeling her with incisive antifeminist terms, lest we run the risk of projecting our own ideas and misinterpreting her intentions and sensibilities. In other words, this warrants an act of humility on our part.

Saba Mahmood, while researching the women’s mosque movement in Egypt, arrived at a similar conclusion. She eloquently writes:

“Rather what I mean to gesture at is a mode of encountering the Other which does not assume that in the process of culturally translating other lifeworlds one’s own certainty about how the world should process can remain stable. This attitude requires the virtue of humility: a sense that one does not always know what one opposes…”

After immersing herself within the rich and multilayered lives of Egyptian women, Mahmood was able to dismantle her own subjectivities. She recognized a religious force incapable of being translated into limiting definitions. There is a strong reflex in feminist discourses to mock a worldview like Mogahed’s. We consider it backwards and outmoded. We project our own assumptions which prevent us from critically engaging a work on its own merit.

I believe as Muslims first and foremost, we should exercise a degree of caution in deconstructing another’s worldview. We should critique with the hefty realization that we are not always experts in what we purport to know. This requires that we objectively interrogate our own assumptions and then proceed with circumspect and nuanced arguments. Our goal is not to obliterate a person nor is it to tiptoe nicely around his or her obvious errors in judgment. Rather, it is to modestly impart a balanced critique, always mindful of the sacred trope, “And Allah knows best.”

Diversity for Profit: Coca-Cola’s Super Bowl Ad

The recent Coca-Cola Super Bowl ad spawned a deluge of tweets, Facebook comments, and articles expressing both praise and outrage. The short one-minute ad features people of multiple backgrounds and apparent religious affiliations singing “America the Beautiful” in different languages. There are people of all colors. There are yarmulkes. There are also hijabs.

Now I’m not here to talk about the bigots. Should we really be shocked that racist retrogrades and right-wing pundits are uncomfortable watching this commercial when it aggravates their white homogenous perception of American language and culture? No we shouldn’t.

What should surprise us are those who laud Coca-Cola and its proclaimed ingenuous attempt to portray America’s rich diversity. Coco-Cola’s appropriation of diversity as a prop for corporate sales is an affront to the hard work, pain, and suffering of minority and immigrant groups in this country. Coca-Cola is a multibillion dollar corporate giant that like most massive conglomerates has contributed to critical health issues and ruthless environmental devastation. It has also employed unfair labor practices. We must remember that for corporations humanity is a mere detour on the roadmap to unlimited profits.

Adding insult to injury, Coca-Cola feasts on our naiveté to skyrocket corporate sales. No doubt, this advertisement works as a clever marketing scheme. It dips the company in the limelight just long enough to increase profit. Does this mean we should give Coca-Cola a pat on the back for using the songs of patriotism to make a mockery of our nation’s waning beauty? More importantly, do we really need Coca-Cola to tell us how diverse we are and legitimize our “Americanness”?

Here, I turn my attention, particularly, to my fellow Muslims. A couple of hijabis appear in a national Coca-Cola advertisement and suddenly we’re applauding the beverage company for representing us? Perhaps the advertisement dismantles stereotypes by presenting us Muslims as unequivocally American. Perhaps we feel a little triumphant by finally being accepted into a society and culture we belong to and identify with.

But we seem to be missing the larger point.

Impeded by our own insecurities, we have trouble understanding how problematic it is to feel valorized by a corporate company that, let’s be honest, goes against the grain of our Islamic ethics and values. In 2013, Gap featured a Sikh model in its “Make Love” holiday ad campaign. Many members of the South Asian community beamed with pride at having a Sikh man’s face plastered on billboards throughout the U.S. It seems we, as minority groups, look to multicultural marketing techniques as the benchmark for our arrival into society and in so doing, we divest our inherent beliefs and values of meaning.  

I don’t intend to underestimate the effect mainstream media can have in confronting racism and intolerance. But we don’t need capitalist corporations like Coca-Cola to recognize or reinforce our Muslim American identity. If anything, the beverage company’s exploitation of our identity should leave a sour taste in our mouths.

To support or boycott Coca-Cola is not necessarily the question. The question is: who do we seek to validate us?

A Simple Binary

A girl in the woods,
She takes note of the sun’s charm,
Peeking through a lattice shroud,
A canopy of trees,
And she is reminded of Beauty.
Beauty in all her salient forms,
Of rapture, desire, and joy,
Why she in relation to infinite glory,
Should be reduced to,
A girl in the woods.

Reduced to a simple binary,
Like black and white,
The battered black slave,
Fettered to the yoke of,
Rabid white supremacy,
Pierces the air with his silent screams,
But only the wisp,
Of Nature’s sensual smile,
Hastens to respond,
Despondent wails of a simple binary.

Male and female,
Love and hate,
Compassion and lust,
Life and death,
She is neither.
She is the subtleties and nuances,
Of silent leaves,
As they spiral amidst,
Modern pandemonium.
She loses her egoism in the leaves,
And in a troth of self-abnegation,
She bows to Beauty,
For that is where all existence,
Becomes an afterthought.

Why configure herself in the cosmic order of the world?
For when she bites the bitter bone of fiery anger,
She wishes for harm, hatred flashes across her eyes,
Then does she feel the seed of love,
Blossom deep within her loins.
When heartbreak fractures her psyche,
Her love has abandoned her; the ultimate rejection,
And solitude of the mind threatens murder,
Then does the surge of relief drown her soul in mercy,
She is rejected and she is liberated,
Why reduce her to a simple binary,
A girl in the woods.

She is the bookkeeper of Nature’s secrets,
She commits her thoughts to scrolls of trees,
Where she is best understood,
The novelty of Nature beguiles and enchants,
The curiosity of man,
But she is not his plaything.
In one sultry act,
She makes love to the earth,
Burying her secrets deep within its folds,
Deep within herself,
Deep within the earth,
Outlines of her body blur into the trees,
Breaking the binary,
She is one and the same,
Alike with Nature,
Her kindred spirit,
A girl in the woods.

You Know You’re Living in Egypt When…

I want to preface this entry by emphasizing my deep and unbridled love for Egypt. But as within every loving relationship, there are certain trade-offs.

 

 

1. You start singing Celine Dion because you heard it in a taxi, at a grocery store, in a cafe…

2. Toilet paper is a hot commodity

3. The electricity goes out conveniently while you’re using the bathroom

4. You want to create a homeless shelter for homeless street cats

5. You order Pizza Hut once a week

6. You get hit on wearing normal clothing

7. You get hit on wearing a headscarf

8. You get hit on wearing a face veil

9. You get hit on wearing a garbage bag over your head

10. One hundred ghena seems like one hundred dollars

11. The bawab (doorman) takes a deep interest in your personal life

12. Everyone eats fuul (beans) for breakfast even though this may pose problems later in the day

13. At least once a day, someone asks where you’re from, except in this manner: “from where?” (tilts head, makes emphatic hand gesture)

14. You ask someone on the street for directions, they ignore your question and ask where you’re from

15. You wake up to construction sounds in the middle of the night…

16. There’s Arabic coffee everywhere, but somehow it will never match up to American brewed coffee

17. There are 3-4 pharmacies on every street, you know just in case of emergency

18. You have serious anxieties that your building is going to collapse

19. If you could win a ghena for the number of times you’ve killed a roach, you’d have a lotta ghena

20. There’s always traffic but rush-hour is at 2 pm, you know when the work day ends

21. Thursday is the new Friday

22. You substitute Arabic words for English words you no longer remember

23. You light your oven with an incense stick

24. Random Egyptians add you on Facebook. You might have 1 mutual friend which of course means you were destined to become friends

25. People stare at you constantly

26. You hear your neighbor’s children playing happily at 3 in the morning

27. Random people call you by mistake, when you tell them they have the wrong number, they keep calling…and calling

28. There are multiple cafes on every street corner

29. You meet an Egyptian in a microbus. You become pals for the rest of the year

30. Macaroni is the main dish of Egypt

31. Your newsfeed is all in Arabic

32. No need to go to the mosque on jummah. The Friday sermon is connected to loud speakers in your bedroom

33. There are only 3 religions: Islam, Christianity, and Judaism (although no one has ever spotted a real Jew)

34. Projectfreetv is a godsend

35. You never use to eat McDonalds but the occasional Mickey D’s McFlurry is your new guilty pleasure

36. French fries and all fried foods are dank

37. You have preferences over bottled water brands: Hiyat, Baraka, Aqua Siwa, Dasani, Nestle…

38. Takeef (air-conditioning) water falls on you from buildings above

39. You find foreign objects in your food

40. You have severe necrophobia when riding an elevator

41. You have trouble lighting your water heater so you take ice cold showers

42. There’s a man outside your apartment building who yells talaaga (refrigerator) over and over while pushing a donkey cart

43. Pedestrians never have the right of way

44. You see more children than you do adults

45. Sleeping in until 2 pm is not uncommon. When you do so, you use the excuse of being culturally immersed

46. When you confront men who harass you, they say you are like their mother or sister…

47. All your P’s have evolved into mighty and powerful B’s like Bizza or Bancake

48. You’ve grown into a skilled bargainer

49. All modes of transportation are great but the 3 wheeled tuk tuk is your favorite

50. You carry hand sanitizer with you wherever you go

The Wonderful World of Egypt

Greetings ya’ll. I just want to start off by thanking everyone for all the love on recent blog posts. A lot has happened since my last post like…severe fuel shortages leading to ridiculous queues of vehicles blocking traffic (and making me late for everything), deadly Port Said riots culminating in the Egyptian fan club, Ultras Ahlawy, torching the Egyptian soccer headquarters (glad I’m not a soccer fan), and the usual occurrence of political oppression as the MB censures a U.N. document aiming to quell violence against women.

But in regards to my personal life, it’s hard to complain. Although lately, my roommates and I have felt as if we’ve reached a sort of lulling standstill. Our Arabic skills have properly ripened but classes are no longer intellectually stimulating (were they ever?) and more so, they aren’t pushing us to a higher language level. With two and a half months remaining, that’s two and a half months to leaving Egypt and its alternate reality world and returning to the States, the question of grad school, jobs, and just generally— “what the heck am I going to do with my life?” haunts us on a regular basis.  

This lull accompanied by our disenchantment with grandiose plans for the future, has left us searching for a new purpose; perhaps one that can carry us through the remaining months and show us something that we have left to find here.

In the meantime, I’ve taken to refining those skills which I know there is still possibility of improvement like my tajwid or Quran recitation, which might I add has always redirected me when I felt lost in Egypt. My Quran teacher, a friendly Arab baba in his own right, also happens to be the sixth best Quran reciter in the world, according to a yearly competition administered by the Ministry of Endowments and Islamic Affairs in Jordan.

But really, all you have to do is listen to the man to know how good he is. Listen to him recite HERE.

His affecting singsong recitation, meditative focus, and perhaps most importantly, meticulous pronunciation of every Arabic syllable, sends shivers down my body every time. He often corrects me with the simple tap of his hand to the desk. Thankfully I’ve become accustomed to pinpointing my errors in elocution whenever he does so. Before that, I used to stare doe-eyed and dumb, waiting for an explanation.  

In addition to teaching me tajwid, Shaykh Ahmad Abdul Samad offers free mental health sessions as in he offers me motivating advice about how to overcome strife in life. Recently, he returned from umrah, bearing a gift for me—a handpicked black and white polka dot hijab. His motives weren’t subtle but they were sincere and this small gesture of kindness and concern really moved me.

It is definitely thoughtful personalities like these I will miss most about the wonderful world of Egypt. Much like the charming characters Elizabeth Gilbert encounters in Eat, Pray, Love, these people exude genuine concern about your wellbeing. Whether it be my eyebrow lady’s mother who has taken me on as her culinary apprentice, teaching me the art of stuffing grape leaves and zucchini, or the elderly lady who works in our Arabic department, providing tea and biscuits between classes, oh and free hugs whenever you’re feeling down, the sense of community and care is tangible and touching. As Millard Fuller once said, “For a community to be whole and healthy, it must be based on people’s love and concern for each other.”  

Anyway, I have to stop writing now because my kitten is purring incessantly in front of my face. She’s also demanding I pet her so until next time,

S

A Beautiful Chaos

I wanted to keep a blog since the beginning of summer to record my travel experiences which I knew would be a nice way to look back on my year-long study abroad in post-revolutionary Egypt. But between Arabic classes, language partners, internship hours, and the new cultural whirlpool that is Egypt, I could never find the time. Then I came across Shaykh Hamza’s quote, “‎The biggest lie that anyone can ever tell is ‘I don’t have any time’. The real answer should be ‘I don’t use my time wisely enough to have time.’” This was true. Sometimes it was easy for my roommate and I to fall into a spiraling decadence of re-watching O.C. episodes until our eyes hurt. But we only did this in order to save ourselves from the external chaotic world. If I had to describe Egypt in one word, it would be chaos. A chaos that warrants confusion and annoyance, yes, but also an organized chaos where every citizen understands that traffic is merely an inevitable facet to their daily lives, and also a beautiful chaos where the man selling his fruit attached to a donkey wagon somehow fits in with the scenery of tall peeling buildings lined with cafes and pharmacies on every corner.

I didn’t have nearly such a hard time coming to terms with the quality of life here as I did understanding the qualitative fabric of “Egyptian Islam” and I call it “Egyptian Islam” because the religion seems to have amalgamated so much so with the current culture and customs, that it is hard to discern its true nature.

I assumed Egypt in part, would be a spiritual reawakening for me like Jordan was two and half years ago. But when men harassed me on the streets, cab drivers wrangled over more money, and nameless people gaped fixedly at my appearance, my spiritual journey seemed to hit a roadblock before it had even begun. Where was Islam among a country of majority Muslims? This reminded me of Muhammad Abduh’s predicament, “I went to the West and saw Islam, but no Muslims; I got back to the East and saw Muslims, but not Islam.” I remember telling my roommate, on many a days where we would walk along the corniche, gazing out into the waves, “It’s so hard to find God here.”

At some point, I came to a realization that although God seemed less apparent to me in Egypt, where socio-economic problems were not only visible but in your face at all times, He was still present, but I’d have to work harder to develop an intimate connection with Him. Surely, with His infinite wisdom, He had a plan for me, and of all the places in the world I could be at the time, Egypt was where I belonged.

I remember one late afternoon, when I lived in the University of Alexandria Women’s dorms; I climbed the stairs to the eleventh floor and looked down at the world below me. I saw masses and masses of bustling people, coming back from work, buying food, smoking cigarettes, visiting friends, living their lives, unaware of my observing them. Then I saw him. A solitary old man praying the afternoon prayer on a green mat by the side of the road. He looked so focused and intent on his prayer, undisturbed by the multitude of people and cars around him making noise. In that moment, he had managed to forget the chaos and find God.

I realized something else then. Although culture and religion appeared synonymous in the Arab world, there was something almost simple and sincere about the way Muslims practiced their faith here. Egyptian Muslims publically displayed their faith with such strong conviction, it made me wonder if I could do the same without apprehension. One of the foremost Muslim theologians, Shaykh Nuh Keller, who converted to Islam here in 1977, experienced a similar incident in his personal account, Becoming Muslim. He saw a man on the side of the Nile, praying on a piece of cardboard and wondered how a man could be so absorbed in his connection to God. He said, “To my mind, there was something magnificently detached about this, altogether strange for someone coming from the West, where praying in public was virtually the only thing that remained obscene.”

Perhaps Egyptian Muslims were closer to their “fitrah” or natural state where pure belief in monotheism is inherent and perhaps I, as an American Muslim, had gone farther from my “fitrah,” clouded by the advanced technological world and thoughts of secularism. Regardless, I’ve developed a profound appreciation for Egyptian Muslims, and despite the per diem chaos that permeates the religion as well, I’ve learned how to tune it out, and find God.