Saturday, October 22, 2016

May I Not Be of Service?

Asalamu Alaykom,

I sat there waiting my turn while watching everyone else have theirs.  They were all yelling so the employee could help them.  He was wearing his earphones while servicing customers.


Yes, really.

Once again, Vodafone Egypt was surprising me in a bad way.

This was a couple of weeks after I complained at a different Vodafone over the disgustingly dirty seating area for the customers.  I wasn't too happy about the thug life advertisement either.

Ya, I went so far as to take photos and post them on line.  I'm funny that way.  One follower on Twitter said that it must be hard to be living in the "third world" but I really don't feel Egypt is.  I refuse to treat it as such.  If I allow my standards to go down, then everyone will let theirs go down around me as well.   
 I took a picture of the staff member with the stuffed up ears too, however, I won't post it.  I took it in case he gave me any trouble.  No one else made any stink.

Every single customer put up with this behavior, even though, on some level, everyone must have known it was not polite in any circumstance and probably worth firing in any professional setting.  They put up with it because they felt at the mercy of  someone allowing them to use their phones and computers.

I'm different.  I'll always be different.  Many lifetimes ago, I used to be married to a man who told me (towards the end of our marriage) that he was always afraid I would embarrass him in public.  He was not the man for me.

There I sat between my son and my understanding husband (of six years) and our turn was coming up.  I leaned over to my husband and whispered to him, "Don't be mad at me for what I'm going to do.  I won't do business with him wearing those earphones."

My husband then handed the receipt over to me.  I could do as I pleased but he wasn't along for the ride.  I can respect that!  Although, it would be that much harder for me.

I looked back over to the customer service desk.  The men were done and the music-loving man at the computer looked my way.  I stood up and did the only thing I could.

From across the small waiting room, I mouthed words and gestured to my ears.  No sound came out.  I was putting my years of acting experience to use.  His eyebrows went up since he didn't hear anything.  I mimed again.  He still couldn't hear me (of course) so he took off his headphones and I spoke loudly and clearly with a big, friendly smile.  My act had worked!  Without saying a word of admonition, I had gotten those earphones out.  I walked forward to be serviced like a customer rather than an intruder into his "me" time.

I explained that our wi-fi wasn't working.  He tried to explain something to me in Arabic.  It was then that my husband stood up and made his way to my side.  We smiled at each other, knowing that I had gotten my way without making a scene or embarrassing anyone.

I had to suppress a couple of laughs during the transaction.  Turns out that our wi-fi account needed five more pounds.  We paid and left without me cracking up ----until after I was safely out the door.

Subhanallah!  I've had a couple of chuckles about it even now!  

Friday, October 21, 2016

The Vegetable Seller's Boy

Asalamu Alaykom,

UmAhmed sits like a guardian at the entrance to our street.  Her vegetables are displayed around her and she waits with them all day, hoping that someone buys a kilo or two.  I always greet her as I come and go.

"Asalamu Alaykom!"

"Wa Alaykom Asalam."

While she sells, her husband cleans sewers.  The two of them scrape out an existence in Egypt because they have to.  They have boys to raise and a life that needs money.

One time, I missed seeing UmAhmed.  She was gone for days and then weeks.  When she came back, I was as happy to see her again as if I was seeing a long lost friend.

"Where were you?" I asked in Arabic.

"I was sick, alhumdulillah.  I had a baby," she answered.

"Congratulations!  I didn't even know you were pregnant, " I said cheerfully.

"She died."

I didn't understand what she told me at first so I had to clarify.  Even though I know enough Arabic to get by, I can't follow surprises very well.  The baby had died.  UmAhmed had been gone from my life because of the tragedy in hers.

"Alhumdulillah," I finally replied.

"Alhumdulillah," she repeated.

That's what you do when you're Muslim.  You end every sadness with thanking God.  Maybe it was a blessing, actually, that they didn't have another mouth to feed.  It would just be the four of them and not five.

Imagine my surprise when I saw another young boy hanging around her little table-top store.  He was wearing my son's old cast-off sweatsuit (they call them "trainers" here).  We have been giving  UmAhmed bags of used but wearable clothing for her youngest son Mohammed.  Yet, here in the street was a different boy playing with Mohammed.  I hadn't known that she had another son.

The back of his head showed some scars from some earlier injury.  That is all I glimpsed of him as we greeted UmAhmed and continued on our way home from the school bus.  She looked tired.

When I arrived home, I saw that my husband had bought vegetables that day so I asked if he had gotten any from UmAhmed.  He doesn't like to buy food from her since her husband deals with the sewer.  My husband is worried that food might get contaminated somehow.  No, he told me that he hadn't bought anything from her.

"She looks so tired.  We should give her some money again," I suggested.

"I already did.  I gave her some this week," he told me, but he would never tell anyone else since charity is best kept private between the giver and Allah.

"Ahmed, " I remembered to ask him what I had been wondering, "who is the boy with her?  He has something wrong with the back of his head.  I don't remember seeing him before."

"He's obelisk," which obviously wasn't the right word so he tried again.  "No.  I mean, he's homeless.  Homeless, right?  No home.  He was at the bus station with no mom and no dad; an orphan.  Nobody wanted him.  UmAhmed took him to her home."

I was struck at that the moment by this revelation.  I now realized why she had looked so tired.  Slowly it dawned on me how much she was doing with her life; she wasn't just selling vegetables. With some humility, I saw how little our charity to her was in comparison to how much her charity was to this young boy.

"What's his name?"


"Mashahallah," I said because that's what Muslims say when they are in awe of the Greatness of God at work in the world.

Please say a prayer for this working mom who has very little and has decided to share her home.

If you can do for those who are less fortunate than yourself, then do it.

If you can't do more, then please give to those who can.

May Allah reward everyone doing and giving to the best of their abilities.

Saturday, October 15, 2016

Not Someone to Drive By

Asalamu Alaykom,

This week, there was a problem inside one of my classrooms.  Kids!  They don't always do the right thing.  Except, there was one boy who stood there trying to stop the melee.  He was the only one.  For his effort, I gave him the certificate for "Student of the Week" the following day on Thursday.

For all my students, I had them write in their journals for five minutes about how a friend has helped them.  It related to our problem the day before and to the story we were reading that day.

Then,  I told them that since they had gotten to tell a story, that I got to tell them a story too.  I told them this.

It happened way back when my oldest kids were little---my big son was in pre-k and my daughter was only a year old.  It was a cold November morning in the Midwest; the first really chilly morning and there was a mist in the air that was almost turning into a rain.  Everyone had their headlights turned on along one of the main arteries that ran through a residential area.  That's when I saw the boy.

The boy was as old as my youngest son is now.  He was a middle school student, but he wasn't ready for school, or for the weather.  He was standing there, on the sidewalk in shorts and a short-sleeved shirt.  I wondered why.

The light changed and I kept on rushing to drop off my boy at the nursery school.  I was a busy mom and had things to do---like everybody.  On the way back, he was still standing there, so I pulled over.

I got out of the car, leaving my baby in her carseat.  "Are you OK?  Do you need some help?"

"My aunt locked me out," he told me.

She wasn't home and he didn't know when she'd be coming back.  He only knew she was mad and he was being punished by being left standing out in the cold without the right clothes.  I then realized that he didn't have any shoes on either.

I offered to take him to our house.  What I didn't say to the kids is that this was me before I took shahaddah.  My beliefs of doing for others---especially for children---have always been a part of me.

I took him home, had him wash his feet in warm water, and gave him some slip-on tennies.  I donated a sweatshirt from my then-husband's closet.  I made some waffles, since he hadn't eaten.  We sat there; me, my baby girl and this boy trying to warm up.

I called his school and notified them of his whereabouts.  They arranged for the aunt to give me a call.  I brought him home.  I didn't tell the kids how I sat with the exasperated aunt and explained that I didn't want any problem to separate the two of them again.  Having worked in an emergency shelter before, I knew that removing children from a family's care happens all too often.

The point of the story is not that I helped.  The point is that so many didn't.  Between the time I saw the boy and the time I came back was twenty minutes.  No one else stopped in that time.  No one.

I asked the class to decide who they want to be:  the one who helps or the one who drives on past?  I once again thanked the boy I'd awarded for being someone who helps.

A hand raised up.  Another boy wanted to know if I had ever seen that boy again.  I was going to answer that I hadn't, but then  a thought occurred to me.

"I don't know!  He would be close to thirty years old now so maybe I have actually seen him, but not even realized it was him.  Maybe he is a dad himself now!  What I hope, when I think of him or anyone else that I've ever helped over the years is that he is OK now.  I can send some good thoughts or a kind of prayer that he's doing well.  If he ever remembers that day that he stood out in the cold, then I'm glad that he can also remember that someone cared and didn't just drive past."

Saturday, October 8, 2016


Asalamu Alaykom,

In 1984, I was on the school debate team.  On the way home from our first meet, all of us squished into one car, I fought off a groper.

I had known him by name only.  Paul was someone I'd lived near when I was in elementary school.  I moved away and then moved back, but it didn't mean any kind of closeness for us.  I honestly didn't know him---ever.

Suddenly, in my plaid, pleated skirt, I was trying to move away from his hand which was trying to go under that skirt.  He was persistent---again and again.  I didn't say a thing.  I was the only girl in that car---the only girl on the debate team.  I liked the cool team captain.  I didn't want to ruin my chances for either the team or the guy.

I was silent.  He was defeated.  Yet, he won.  He won because I quit the debate team.  I never went to another meeting.  I never went to another debate.  I never had to ride in the backseat with the groper.

Could debate team experience have helped me in life?  Probably.  I'll never know.

Years later, I realized that he was on my university campus.  When I saw him from a distance, I had a kind of panic attack as I froze on the spot.  He had the freedom to walk around without fear and I didn't.  I reverted back to being a scared and confused high school sophomore instead of the college freshman that I was.

It didn't help that I had already gone through sexual abuse as a child.  One out of every six girls in America have experienced some kind of attempted sexual assault.  The experience lays down a kind of framework which makes the next attempt seem almost normal.

It isn't normal.

It isn't a joke.

I have NO idea where Paul is today.  I wonder if he's been a good person---especially in how he treats girls and women.

I do know the whereabouts of another groper---he's running for president.

Saturday, September 24, 2016

You Don't Have to Live like a Refugee

Asalamu Alaykom,

My last post was about my time as a teacher for Somali students---refugees from their war-torn country on the east coast of Africa.  Basically, I said that there are problems, which if you've been following the news you already knew.  The problems were there within their community before they even arrived in the U.S.

One loyal reader, Deanna, followed up with some questions:

You have obviously seen the Somali community up close based on the family dynamics you describe. What would the solution to the discontent be? If you were in a position to make sweeping or subtle changes what would they be? I am flummoxed really. How do you encourage people to do well for themselves and the society they now permanently live in given their cultural or circumstantial underpinnings. Would love to hear your thoughts on this.

Deep breath.

What has already happened with the Somali population in Minnesota is done.  We can't go back and fix so many wrongs.  The situation could run better, but it was messed up before they even got here.  The same is going to be true for each new group---the Syrians, for example.  

I think the first thing to consider is that a country which takes in refugees is not simply moving people in.  Here's what I mean:  if you were accepting people into your home, you would want to make sure they were comfortable.  Simply put, their level of comfortable translates into a general easiness for everyone within your walls.  Everyone gets along better when needs are met.

Now, guests are different than family.  Who are the refugees?  Are they guests in America?  Is their goal to stay just as long as it takes for their country to find stability?  Then, will they be on the first plane back?  If that's our understanding, they are only guests.  We should leave them to do as they wish; not try to assimilate them into the American culture's melting pot...or tossed salad... and put up with them.  However, I don't think that's a long-term solution. 

The Somalis are staying in America and they are going to be a part of the interwoven fabric of a diverse, but often divisive, country.  Part of the problem is that THEY don't believe it and the other part of the problem is that the REST of America doesn't believe it.  History shows us, through every wave of troubled peoples, that, even after homelands resolve their issues, the vast majority of immigrants stay.  

Position them for success by taking care of their mental health needs.  Check the systems they have in place for rearing children, and for educating them.  Focus on women and children.  Don't push them into the mainstream before they can swim.  Honestly?  Let them decide how much they want to participate in society.  Which first generation has ever been fully assimilated?  My great grandparents from Ireland and Norway surely weren't.  They kept to themselves in their isolated communities.  Understand that it is NORMAL for the process to take a couple of generations.    

OK, so back to envisioning us as homeowners who have people staying with us.  They are going to be living with us FOREVER.  They are not guests.  This is long-term and it is going to be costly unless we help them be productive members of our team.  There can't be two teams---us and them.  That's going to create discord and disruption.  We've got to redesign our agenda.

1.  Redesign the agenda for the long-term

Canada is also getting refugees, of course.  It's not as if the United States is the only country in North America receiving anyone.  Canada has a different system.  At first glance, it seems unfair, as the government doesn't sponsor the incoming asylum seekers.  An organization has to sponsor the families.  This has led to a disproportional amount of Christian Syrians, for example, than Muslim Syrians, as churches have been able to sponsor more.  When the issue actually gets analyzed, it makes sense to only allow those in who have a support system.     

It's a very Islamic idea to have helpers or ansar who guide newcomers through the transition.  I had that when I first came to Egypt----and ended up marrying the man who had done the most for me.  It is not easy AT ALL to navigate a new place.  Anyone who has relocated has felt that odd sensation of loss and of being lost while still trying to go 60 mph through their day.  It is stressful and overwhelming.  Knowing that someone really does have your back; someone is on the other end of the phone day or night, is calming.  Better decisions get made when in a calm state of mind.

Lambasting the newest members of society to step up to the plate, pull themselves up by the bootstraps and so many other unhelpful idioms means the onus is on those LEAST LIKELY to have the resources to do so.  Really?  The onus, the responsibility, needs to be with the citizens who have the ability to assist.  It is kind, caring, and in the long run, it is a necessity.

The way I always think about those who are falling between the cracks is that you WILL have to deal with them.  You either volunteer, tutor, give money, provide a meal, etc. NOW or you will see that same at risk person turn to alternative to get their needs met.  Maybe they turn into the thieves and the murders because no one cared.  

That bully in your kid's class?  Talk to him or her every time you pick your child up.

The woman who can't seem to clothe her family properly for the weather?  "I have some things that we can't fit any more.  Can I bring them over to you?  I bet they'd fit your kids."

As for a family new to your area, "We would like to have you over for dinner."

I invited over a Bosnian family once, in my days as a unhappy homemaker.  They were most worried about that beef roast I was serving.  Although I never thought about it much at the time, they must have been Muslims.  I was not in Islam at the time.  I simply was a church goer who wanted to help the family who needed it.  

Even now, as an immigrant in Egypt myself, I look out for those wandering lost in our neighborhood.  On the first day back to work, I discovered two tourists who were a long way from the Pizza Hut and needed some directions.  I had them stop at our house to get out of the heat and drink some water before we all escorted them to the restaurant.  It was beneficial to them AND it was fun for us.  NO ONE was the loser for this chance encounter.   

2.  Help has to be lined up

Information.  Where is it?  Who is providing it?  Is the news media the correct dispenser?

When I was little in the 70s, the newest wave of immigrants were the Hmong who had aided the U.S. in the Vietnam War.  I didn't know much about them BECAUSE NOBODY PREPARED ME FOR THEM.  Because of who I am, I made friends right away with Pow Kong.  We walked to school together.  

Yet, I was unprepared for her stories of her sister's baby being killed.  I didn't believe her.  She was weird.  She didn't know what I was talking about that my parents were divorced and I only lived with my mom.  Even though her family had showed me kindness as I ate up their offers of spring rolls, I dropped her as a friend.  I couldn't handle the gap between us.

What if I had been TAUGHT about where she was coming from?  What if she had been taught in school assimilation groups about where I was coming from?  It would have been better for the school to educate the young about respecting differences.  Maybe the boys could have gotten over her name and stopped teasing her.  Maybe the girls could have gotten over her height or the length of her hair.  
I don't know.  I'm only guessing, but as a teacher, I feel that the best equipped in society to close that gap are the educators.

Unfortunately, even the teachers are left clueless.  The focus becomes, months down the line, how to address bad behavior.  Ridiculous stuff!  Where was the care when the school year started?  Administrations are responsible for teacher training and no preventative measures seem to happen when a new culture comes in; it is all knee-jerk reactionary measures once teachers start complaining and grades are dropping. 

Instead, what happens is that the differences are hushed up and ignored.  Needs are not addressed as if they will go away.  Somali students have more needs within the school day than others.  For instance, girls might be wearing hijab and long clothing, both boys and girls feel uncomfortable getting too close to each other, parents worry about halal meat and avoiding pork products, students are supposed to wash and pray at mid-day, fast during the month of Ramadan, and learn Arabic.  These are not issues that are going to go away UNLESS their Islam goes away---and even though some wish this would happen for Somalis, it would leave them hollow cores as human beings. 

At the same time, new immigrants need to get a grip.  I can't come into Egypt and change every aspect to their society.  I can't!  "Malish" can drive me crazy, but it is their country-wide motto.  It's worked for them for THOUSANDS of years.  Who am I to say that my home country of only a few hundred years has the solution for the world's ills?  Somali immigrants need to also back down from so many demands of their new home.  No, they shouldn't have to put up egregious xenophobia, on the other hand, some of what they see as worthy of a protest simply isn't.    

3.  Preventative Education

Will my three suggestions cure all?


I do think that effort has to be made from many sides---never underestimating that an evil element will always want those who claim the country as "theirs" not want to share it with those searching for a stability.   

The refugee problem is not happening outside our homes.  Our world is our home and their problem is ours.

Sunday, September 18, 2016

Somali Students in Minnesota

Asalamu Alaykom,

I used to teach Somali children and adults in Minnesota.

That Midwestern state has the highest number of Somalis out side of Somali itself. I know that population very well.  We learned together, prayed together, fasted and ate together.  I cried over their hardships and rejoiced in their triumphs.

Yet, I also have to admit that my last job in the state ended due to insurmountable problems I faced in teaching the Somali community.


My first job teaching Somalis was at a K-6 charter school in Minnesota.  It was set up for East Africans, BUT it was not meant to be for Muslims.  That's an oxymoron.  You simply can't alienate the Somalis from their religion and keep them intact, however, that's just what the Jewish principal attempted.

One teacher in the staff room was very incensed that the children wouldn't sit nicely and listen to her book about the Holy Family.  They kept interrupting to say that it was wrong.

"Why can't they learn about other cultures?" She asked like a good missionary.

I took a look and saw picture after picture of Jesus/Isa as a baby (peace be upon him) and his mother Mary/Mariam (ra).  I tried to explain that, as Muslims, there are not supposed to look at any pictures of these holy people.  She had never been told.  Why not?!  Why was there not any cultural sensitivity training?  There was lots of talk about classroom management, but not anything about how to reach these young learners on a soul level.

There was one little boy I'll never forget who was very disruptive in his kindergarten class, and he would spend most of his time next to the receptionist.  I asked if I could take him.  We made wudu to wash away his upset and he prayed with me, a tutor, to calm down---against the rules.  Using the coping mechanisms he knew from home was not allowed, but sitting in a kind of solitary confinement away from his class was.

His mom met me once.  She was almost bursting with her latest pregnancy.  She was full of baby and full of the noor al deen.  She was so beautiful with light just shining from her face.  We hugged that day and I truly felt I was her sister doing what I could to help her boy.

Down the hall, in another kindergarten, I discovered that little girls were being kept back a little from their P.E. class with their teacher, an older white woman.  She was pulling off their hijabs to look at their hair and compliment their braids.  She didn't think that demanding to see them without their hijabs was akin to asking little mainstream girls to disrobe; giving compliments at them being uncovered was sending messages of "I'd like you better if you were more like me."  I complained to my supervisor and the ritual was brought to an end.

In an older classroom, students were told by their teacher to pray NOW because there wouldn't be time later.  I walked in while this was going on and informed her that it wasn't duhr prayer yet.  Muslims couldn't pray the mandatory prayers whenever they wished; they had to pray on schedule and not before the time.  She complained to the administration and there was a reprimand---for me.  That was a shock.  I thought of quitting at that time.  I had already been fired from a real estate office for wearing hijab not even a year before, so I wasn't ready for another show down.

Then, came the decision that the school's unifying Friday prayer would NOT be held any more with staff.  It was not allowed.  Once again, the very fabric that held together these kids' lives to a sense of normalcy was ripped from them.

The Arabic classes, which taught the classical Arabic of the Quran, could not actually teach any Quran.  It would be like taking an English Lit. class without any Shakespeare or Dickens.  These Arabic classes were horribly unruly because, in my understanding, there wasn't a deep sense of urgency in learning something so disconnected from their daily lives.

I was promoted from tutor to having a classroom of the lowest-level English speakers.  I was in charge of students who had almost no way to communicate.  Our materials were typical easy-readers about boys and girls with dogs in their homes, who played with friendly pigs, and ate ham.

The helpers at the school were Somali adults who needed work, but who were not really ready for the stress.  One woman was particularly angry---she was literally fuming at every provocation.  After work one day, she confided in me that she had last gone to Somali as a teen.  She had thought that it was going to be a family holiday.  Instead, she discovered that she had been brought back "home" from America to have FGM done to her.  They had lied.  They violated her body and changed her forever.  She was rightfully angry and unable to process what had happened to her.

So many Somali survivors needed counseling and coping skills.  Kids told me of seeing men shot dead in front of their eyes and left lying in the street.  The civil war had scarred many.

The parents were likewise confused over how to cope with new world problems.  The moms of these kids kept having babies while working long and difficult hours.  The job of raising the children was left to the older children.  No one was there to guide the young ones or the teens.  They were home alone---a movie I simply can't watch without thinking of the reality which takes place all over America.  Those huge numbers of young Somalis, who would now be in their early twenties, grew up without support at home AND without understanding at school.

It's worth remembering that the written language of Somalia has only been in existence since 1972.  Education wasn't really a focus in a land with so much strife.  What teaching was done was often with a wooden ruler at the ready.  Free thinking and using your own personal reasoning were not accepted like rote memorization.


It was through my work with the children, that another teacher recommended me to work as a teacher at a night school for Somali adults.  I needed the money, so I agreed for an interview.  I couldn't believe what I observed.  A Somali man was using a workbook from the elementary level for a lesson on camping.  What a joke!

These were refugees who had lived in Kenyan camps for years.  They were suffering in outdoor conditions without a home.  Now?  They were supposed to identify with happy families who willing left their homes to sleep outdoors?

His next class had a lesson on transportation in which he taught the antiquated word aeroplane and accepted that donkey and camel were types of transportation---without qualifying that those answers were not typical in the U.S.  He didn't know how to teach American culture which is key to language learning.  His next lesson was going to be on baseball.

I couldn't stand it!  Of course I wanted to take over his position and get some real life learning in place.  I came in and got the students to start TALKING about themselves, about their families, and about their journey.  They introduced each other to the class.  They role played talking to their child's school teacher and going to the pharmacy.  They-----

hated it.

Yep!  Those Somali adults begged me for a return to worksheets and workbooks.  They didn't want to speak emergency English.  They wanted to play school with vocabulary sets that they'd never use: umpire, pitcher, strike.  I stood my ground and told them a story.

I told them how an Egyptian friend of my then husband's had once invited us over to have dinner with him, his wife, and two sons.  The evening had been coming to a close when she started asking about doctors.  I wasn't sure what was going on.  Through my husband, she communicated that she was in severe pain.  She was embarrassed to give details about her period, but knew that she must because I sounded very concerned.  A call to my obgyn's after hours number, got a quick response, and after listening to me, she told me to get that woman to the ER.  Sure enough, she was in the last stages of an ectopic pregnancy.  The emergency room doctor told my then husband that she was ready to burst----she wouldn't have lasted until the morning.

The class calmed down after that story.  The moral of the story, of course, is that while we can learn about any subject, only real life lessons will help us and our families trying to survive in a new and often confusing country.

They had another fight with me when the call to prayer would sound.  Some male student would stand in the hallway and loudly call magrib.  It didn't matter if the classes were in session.  He was going to alert everyone and then everyone expected that it was fine to get up and leave immediately. I told them "no".  They couldn't just leave without permission.

That was tantamount to heresy!  Who was this woman to tell us to go against God?!  Yet, I knew that being so tight with their Islam was going to lose them jobs and stuck to my insistence that they remain until the class was done and they were released.  Years later, Somali meat packers made the same complaint as my former students---they were walking off the line because it was prayer time and they had to go RIGHT AWAY.  Islam seriously isn't that tight---there are windows of opportunity not immediate executions.

I worked almost a year at that school.  I worked through the summer and into the next school year.  We fasted Ramadan together and I broke the fast eating samosas from women who seriously could have kept them to themselves---but shared with their teacher.  I earned their respect through our times together.  Maybe I wasn't the best teacher, since I was still very new to leading a classroom, but I cared.

They cared too.  One time, I got a phone call from the mosque because I had said that I'd be open to talking with women who were interested in coming to Islam.  The assistant from the mosque said there was a woman looking for a group of sisters.  I called her and said that she could meet me at the school.  She came and I had her watch duhr prayer before we headed out for lunch.  My oldest student---a spry and sassy woman in her seventies---had asked me if this woman wanted to become Muslim.  I said, "inshahallah".  Sure enough, as we were leaving, this senior ran after us and pushed into the woman's hand a necklace and earrings.  The woman, probably a government informant, didn't know what to make of the sudden gift.  It was one of the kindest gestures I have ever seen.

I'm especially proud of the school newspaper we put out.  They really did produce articles, cartoons, and reviews.  I wanted them to have ownership over a product they could be proud of.

I only quit after I became pregnant.  I could no longer work teaching in the day and then at night.  I was very dangerously falling asleep at the wheel as I drove home after 9:00 PM.

During the day, I kept my job at the Islamic school.


My first-grade classroom had

  • six Somali-American children
  • one girl who was half Somali and half African-American
  • three children of Pakistani parents
  • two boys who were of East Indian descent
  • one boy who was a mix of Indian and Spanish
  • one half Afghani and half American boy
  • one boy of Syrian parents
  • one half Syrian and half European American boy
  • three Palestinian-American children
  • one boy who was a mix of Palestinian and Algerian
  • one half Iranian and half American boy

three girls wore hijab...two were was allergic to had parents had suffered head trauma as a child...a couple of kids had moms expecting a had a dad who had two was being pushed to excel a year ahead of his was so troubled that he threatened to jump out the moved away to had a family who invited our family to dinner...

What can I say?  I loved this class of six-year-olds very much.  They were with me every day of my pregnancy in 2004 into 2005.  They were very mixed in their background and their experiences.  It was a Mini-United Nations.  We benefited from sharing time together and gained from our diversity.

I want to also acknowledge the religious studies teacher from Somalia who was one of the greatest examples of adab and sabr, good manners and patience, I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.  She was glorious and such a big help.  She taught Islam with her every action.

One time, I needed her help to explain pumpkins.  We had gone on a field trip to a farm.  It was a great excursion.  One of the highlights for the kids was picking out their own pumpkin from the farmer's crop.  Each child sat on the hay wagon with their new prized possession.  Sadly, the next day I was told that the Somali moms had thrown the pumpkins away.  They had associated them only as Halloween symbols and, as immigrants often do, avoided any possible conversion of their child to the new culture.  The religious studies teacher explained to all the students that the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) actually loved squash so much and that no vegetable from Allah is forbidden for us.  That incident was an indicator that cultural misunderstandings were going to increase with the most recent wave of refugees who practiced an Islam that was much tighter than other sub-groups.  

After I had my son, I did not return to this school for three years.

2008  When I did return there were some big changes.  

Gone was this multi-culturism.  I learned that with additional state funding for schooling options , came more Somali families to this private, religious school.  As the classrooms filled up with Somali students, the other families left.  I tacked this up to racism and shook my head at this un-Islamic behavior.  

Yet, once I came back, I was shocked.  Teachers were quitting left and right.  The religion teacher was gone.  The administrator was no longer the qualified man who had been in charge.  There was now a Somali man who was learned, but not in K-12 education.  He didn't know how to deal with the many discipline issues and the whole school was suffering.

One of the problems is that very old children were being registered as first graders---they were being held back due to lack of skills, but they were not sweet six-year-olds.  They were nine years old!  They were huge and not wanting to buy into the program for much younger kids.  Their learning difficulties weren't being addressed.  They were being pulled from class and being bribed with trinkets to return nicely.  Of course, that made for kids eager to leave to get gifts.  It was crazy.

I had children who had both parents working, who had divorce and separation in their families, and at least a couple had so much dysfunction in their families that they needed counseling.  

Those children faced not only school on the weekdays but over the weekend as well.  At those Quran schools, they were threatened to learn or to be punished.  I was told that they would get hit by the rod used to shutter the window blinds.  I didn't see any proof of this, but I told the children that I would never allow this from anyone.  They were to tell their Quran teachers that I would have to report them to police if ever any of them threatened them with harm again.


I swear to you that my faith was waning during the time with these very troubled kids.  I couldn't teach the way I wanted.  This wasn't my class from years before where there was respect.  I was seeing hitting and spitting, and hearing yelling and swearing---from first graders!

One big boy, who was almost as tall as me and built line a linebacker, still had a mind like a little kid.  He couldn't use the ruler in math class for anything other than hitting his classmates.  He was warned.  It didn't mean a thing.  When I tried to get the ruler from him, he wouldn't release his tight grip.  I then put my hand on his back as we walked calmly to the door.  There wasn't a fight between us, but the mom came to school upset as all get out:  I had put my hand on her child.  It didn't matter that he had struck his friends, or that he wouldn't comply with the either the work instructions or the directive to stop.  No, she was going to focus on what I did wrong.  Her support was gone (later, I learned that she took her son back to Somalia).

The last straw for me was when a small boy in my class---small but not young---ran around the school like an escaped prisoner, yelling "BITCH!" at every teacher he saw and then pulling down a boy's pants to expose him.  He was suspended and a meeting was called.  

When his mother came for our conference, we learned that he spent his time at home with his older siblings and an older cousin playing video games.  If she came home and got a bad report about his behavior, he was sent to the basement...and then she would turn off the light. She made him stay in the quiet darkness of the basement until she felt better about him.  Haram.  Astragferallah.  I had to tell her that it wasn't helping.  He was hurting and scared and alone.  I begged her to stop or else she would be considered abusing the boy.  


After she left, I asked the principal---the learned man without actual experience guiding young children---if we could arrange for the boy to come back from his home suspension to his office.  At that time, he would be debriefed by the principal before coming back to my room.  He said that sounded like a good idea.  

However, the day that this boy returned, his bus dropped him off and he went straight to our classroom and ran to the art supply cupboard.  He threw it open, ransacked the paint and poured in it onto tables.  His buddy was misspelling BETCH on the chalkboard.  The returning boy then danced on top of tables yelling "BITCH!" until I got help to remove him.


I then started circle time with a calming voice; knowing that I needed to reclaim the classroom for learning.  As we sat together, the boy was returned.  I was expected to continue with him in class.  I started and then stopped.  I excused myself and asked my assistant to carry on.  

The principal told me that the boy would be staying in class, so I told him that I couldn't stay with him.  I literally said that it was him or me.  The principal asked me if I was quitting and I said that I only knew that I wasn't teaching with the situation the way it was.  I walked out.  It is the only time I ever left a teaching job.  I knew that I could give everything I had and it still wouldn't be enough.  Those children and their families needed too much.  

I don't regret it---even meant that I lost my job, my money, and eventually my apartment.

There was something missing in too many of those kids.  They were missing that heart connection.  They were not reachable through my attempts.  Maybe somebody else could have done better.  I couldn't.  If I was given the same challenge today, I'm not sure if I could do better even now.


I haven't wanted to return to teach the Somali population.  Egyptians are hard enough for me!  However, I could easily see that Somalis had made it easier  in some ways to be Muslim in the Midwest.  There were more mosques and more hijabis.  There were more halal markets and restaurants.  There was more chance to say, "Aslamu Alaykom".

The funny thing is that there wasn't a response.  I actually would greet Muslim brothers and sisters eagerly and not get any reply---which is mandated in Islam.  It was odd.  It was as if there was a divide between the reverts and the "born Muslims".

When I attended the mosque with two revert friends, I saw how the dynamics had changed there as well.  The once sacred space was now for play.  The Somali moms filled the prayer hall in the basement with children.  Two boys were lifting their behinds in the air and having a farting contest.  I kid you not.  Girls were running and laughing.  

As the call to prayer sounded, we lined up.  It wasn't good enough for one lady.  She grabbed at us and forced us into her idea of a straight line.  This was actually robbing us of our prayer, but she persisted.  

After the prayer was done, I was turning my head from right to left only to find her waiting there to tell me off.  I stopped her and told her to say that she hope that my prayer was accepted.  She wouldn't because she had something else to say.  I told her again that it was adab good manners to wish me well.  She finally did and then I listened to her give me advice on how to be a good Muslim.  That kind of "Haram Police" patrolling of the mosques made me stay away from ANY mosque during my last trip to the place I can no longer think of as home.

This to me is what the Muslim Somali community has become in Minnesota.  It is being so sure that it is right without allowing for anyone else to be right.  That is what grows terrorism.  It was always there within the group.  The tightness holding on to the religion without enough actual knowledge (just knowing what's been told to them).  The nonacceptance of  seeing eye dogs or drunks in Somali taxis, or pork buyers at the check-out.  There are too many people intent on memorizing the Quran, but not understanding the meaning of Quran.  The moms and dads trying to ensure a bright future through hard work while neglecting their TRUE future in their children's education and proper bringing up.

Are there exceptions?  OF COURSE!  No group is homogeneous.

We need to keep remembering Ahmed Nur Ahmed Ali, an Augsburg college student and a talented Somali man,  who came back to tutor in a tough neighborhood only to be shot down.  It was such a waste.  That's what is so upsetting.  With so much human potential, there are too many who, like the ISIS wanna-be in St. Cloud, are lost to us.

Back in 2008, when Ahmed was shot, I had hoped that there wouldn't be any more bloodshed among Somali youth.  Eight years later, Somali violence in Minnesota is now on the world stage.  Although I have no way of knowing, I can only guess that some of the hundreds of Somali students I've known have fallen prey to terrorist activity---most likely NOT the senior who gave the necklace and earrings.  Who has?  I don't know.  I can't hate them.  I do pray for them as I pray for all my students---even the terrorists---to find their way back to the right path before it's too late.

Wednesday, August 17, 2016

Burkini? Modest Swimsuit

Asalamu Alaykom,

Every now and then I think that I should just shut down this blog...

but then an issue comes up which propels me towards the keyboard.


That's what is so offensive in France that they are now banned on a beach, two beaches, three beaches, FOUR BEACHES!

France, the home of Charlie Hebdo, believes in Freedom with a capital F-you if you don't agree.  Liberte!  In fact, it is what the non-secular country worships.  We all gotta worship something, but if you build a country on freedom, then you should make it freedom for all.

It ain't!

Let's back it up.  I have a problem with even the term "burkini".  This gets us all mixed up with the idea that every Muslim woman is veiled----she isn't.  It is considered an obligation by most in the Muslim world, but not all.  Here are the terms for what some Muslimahs (female Muslims) wear:

The translation for "veil" in Arabic is hijab.  My hijab covers my head, neck and chest (so worn a little longer than in that second picture)  and I also keep my body covered in modern, modest clothes---like what you see there.  Fewer Muslimahs wear niqab which covers the face.  I have NEVER in all my life seen any woman walk around in a burqa.  It's not seen in the U.S. or in Egypt, but it is enforced by the Taliban in Afghanistan.

The modest swimsuit called the "Burkini" was developed by a Muslimah.  She actually trademarked the name, so I should be typing Burkini TM.  Here is her story.

The tagline in the lower right corner is a little hard to read.  It says,

"Freedom, Flexibility, Confidence"

Remember, that "Freedom" is what France has as its foundation.  Unfortunately, the country is not big on flexibility.  Different cultural groups define freedom in their own way.  While some see the suit as an ideological costume to advertise for ISIS, I wear my modest swimsuit with a feeling of confidence!

I don't own a Burkini TM.  I own a modest swimsuit (no tradmark on that).  For a couple of years, I didn't own any modest suit at all so I didn't go swimming.  I lived in the Land of 10,000 Lakes without any appropriate swimwear.  

When our family got a sudden invite to go to a Wisconsin Dells water park with a business associate of my then-husband X2, I had to come up with something.  I did something stupid, but it was the best I could come up with on short notice.  I wore a shalwar khamees.  This long, loose, cotton/poly Indian tunic over pants weighed me down in the water.  I could barely swim!  It probably looked weird and might have even been against a few health codes.

However, it felt good to be in the water again.  I could play with my three kids and feel like a kid myself.  I could experience once again that release of stress and tension that water so beautifully washes away.

When I came to Egypt, and started to live in the middle of the desert, I didn't have to have a swimsuit---until we suddenly went on an impromptu get-away with workmates of mine.  Marsa Matrouh on the North Coast saw me once again piece together an Indian tunic and pants so that I could get into the Mediterranean.  However, for the first time, I saw some other women on the beach who had Islamic swimwear and I wanted a suit of my own.

My husband Ahmed and I went to the market and found a suit that would fit both my body and my style.  I got to wear it for the first time that trip and I felt great!  No longer were my cotton clothes weighing me down.  I could actually move and feel buoyant once again.  I could relax more since I wasn't fighting the drag downward.  I felt like I fit in as a swimmer for the first time since I had taken shahaddah---eight long years before.

That's a long time to not feel good about swimming.  That's a long time to cut yourself off from a physical activity you actually love.  That's what not having the right clothing can do to a person.

What is "the right clothing"?  It is whatever I need to feel comfortable.  If it isn't right for you, then that's OK.  I'm not living my life in Islam as a guidebook for what you have to do too.  If you are happy skinny dipping, then go for it!  

There are beaches, by the way, where nude bathing is permitted.  You know that, right?  I've been on one---although by mistake---in the Virgin Islands when I was 12.  I didn't have to strip down.  It was still my choice what to wear.  I would have rather NOT had that rotund man go without his clothes, but I could just avert my eyes; his choice and my choice.

The same is true for those in France.  If the modest swimsuit, a better moniker than Burkini TM, is something you don't want to see (as much as I didn't want to see that nudist guy on the beach) then DON'T LOOK!  The beach is often a mishmash of one-piece maillots, bikinis, and (my favorite before Islam) tankinis.  There are sun worshipers---HARAM ALEK!  and those who have to cover up from the sun.  Would anyone tell someone with sun-sensitive skin to remove whatever cover-up they have on?  Of course not!

This month, our family went back to Hurghada, which is becoming a yearly event.  Last year, when I realized that we would be at a water park resort, I went out to search for a new, more stylish, and hopefully less itchy swimsuit.  Even in what you THINK is an Islamic country (it isn't), it wasn't easy to find a suit that covered me up in a nice way.  Three-quarter sleeves don't do it for me.  Super tight isn't actually serving any purpose.  All black is a killer in the hot Egyptian sun.  Eventually, we found such a perfect suit that I could still cry with joyful gratitude.  I swear to you that my much-needed vacations are better for me having just the right suit for me.

Here's a picture of me in the pool.

Slight miscalculation.

That's me!  See?  I'm happy.  Alhumdulillah.

What you won't see is when I was really, really at peace in the ocean.  Ya, it wasn't enough that this resort had a water park and pools, it had a beach too.  So, there I was floating in the Red Sea (even just typing that is an incredible feeling) when I began to really relax for the first time in about 10 months.  I felt the water carry me, the sun shine pull me upward, and the sandy bottom of the bay reassure me that if ever I needed to stand on my own two feet, it would be OK.  I began to breathe in and expand my rib cage to hold all that fresh air my body craved.  When I released that breath, I released a lot of tension.  Alhumdulillah.  I would not have felt that freedom except for being able to swim in my modest swimsuit.

France, if you're listening, radical Muslims don't even allow their women to mix in public with men, let alone to wear any kind of pants.  The idea that the beaches of France are being populated with ISIS wannabees is ridiculous.  That reasoning is all backwards!  Moderate Muslimahs are the ones with the freedom to wear these suits NOT radicals.  By eliminating moderate Muslimahs from your beaches, you are actually kicking sand in their face.  This in turn might persuade some of them to believe that they will never have rights in your society.  When you don't agree that human rights apply to ALL HUMANS then you, France, are inhumane.

Yes, some absolutely horrific attacks have taken place in France and around the world by radicals claiming to be Muslim.  Banning modest swimwear is needlessly warring against moderate Muslimahs who also HATE ISIS.  Being such an extremist country, even though you only see that others are being extreme, will no doubt create more hatred and misunderstanding.

Speaking of hatred and misunderstanding, the Charlie Hebdo cover drawn for this week shows an ugly caricature of a Muslim woman, naked as her hijab goes flying, along with a naked Muslim man with his genitals poking out through his long beard as they run to the beach.  That caricature, unlike the modest swimsuit, is indeed protected under France's freedoms. 

Thursday, July 14, 2016

The Tailor

Asalamu Alaykom,

There have been so many shocking deaths this summer.  It began in Orlando with only one and then the next one became so horribly monumental.  Later, the news came from Louisiana and from Minnesota.  Yes, black lives matter, but they don't seem to matter to police.  I have been reeling from the news from Lake Wobegon.

Yet, yesterday, in my quiet life here in Egypt, there was one very quiet death.  The tailor passed away.  Allah yerhamo.  

We called him "Geddu" for Grandpa, even though he wasn't really a family member.  He was a dignified man in his sixties.  He held court at the end of our street.  His shop had one of those garage doors which opened his work space up to the world.

From our windows, every time I looked out into this country where I've immigrated, I would see Geddu hard at work.  He was a constant in my life.  Often, especially in our first years of marriage, I would see my husband escaping to this neighbor of ours for some male bonding.

My husband's father passed away when my Ahmed was only 16.  This left a void in his life that I've seen him fill with those male elders who are father figures for him.  Geddu was certainly one.  It's not that Geddu did or said anything in particular that was wise or even remarkable.  He simply was a person who welcomed you in.

I felt that from him too.  For three years, I worked close enough to home to walk or take a short taxi ride back.  El Kid and I would have just done our stint at school before arriving home.  Do you know how that feels to arrive?  It feels good if someone greets you and bad if they don't.  Geddu always greeted us.  He'd call out to my son and shake his hand.  It was a ritual; a ritual of acceptance and love.

It wasn't only hand shakes that Geddu shared with El Kid.  He has been the one to tailor all of his school uniforms for the last six years.  It takes some trust to spend hundreds of pounds on new clothes and then give them over to someone to alter.  Geddu always did his best for my son.  He saw El Kid grow from age four to eleven.  

He tailored my clothes too.  He saw my waist measurements go back and forth and my hems go up and down.  He did what he could to make me look presentable.  He never was anything but respectful.  

In the end, it was the loudspeaker from the tuk tuk that signaled his passing.  Geddu hadn't been at his shop since the spring.  The garage door had remained down for months.  My husband last called him towards the end of  Ramadan.  Geddu wasn't well and it didn't look good.  Still, you hope.  The announcement of his death came yesterday after asr.

I cried.  I cried for a good man leaving this earth.  I didn't cry for him dying because that was Allah's plan.  Alhumdulillah.  I cried selfishly for wanting to still have him in our lives.  Egypt has been a good place for us, but it was better with Geddu in it.  

After magrib, my husband said the jannazah prayer with his family.  I had wanted El Kid to participate too, but they were heading to the cemetery at night.  My husband didn't want El Kid to experience something so difficult.

As I wrote all of this, I started to cry again.  Yes, I feel a lot and cry a lot.  I took off my glasses and then something caught the corner my eye.  Something moved on the carpet.  I turned my head and saw a feather.  In all my years here, I don't think this has ever happened.  A feather has never come in through the window. 

I hadn't had a photo of Geddu and I had lamented that.  Funny how we take photos of too many stupid things and not enough of the people we love.  I didn't want a generic picture of a tailor.  I remembered something called a tailor bird from the story "Rikki Tikki Tavi".  That's the bird at the top of this post.  

Funny that I chose a bird to symbolize Geddu and that a feather floated in just when I had started to cry.

Whether or not anyone else feels the connection, I do.  I feel how everything is connected if you want it to be.  Alhumdulillah.     

Friday, July 8, 2016

Yusuf 99

Asalamu Alaykom,

فَلَمَّا دَخَلُوا عَلَىٰ يُوسُفَ آوَىٰ إِلَيْهِ أَبَوَيْهِ وَقَالَ ادْخُلُوا مِصْرَ إِن شَاءَ اللَّهُ آمِنِينَ

And when they entered upon Joseph, he took his parents to himself and said, "Enter Egypt, Allah willing, safe [and secure]."

Normally, this is where you'd see a picture on my blog.  We are very visual people in 2016, aren't we?  We need to see it to believe it.  Yet, The Holy Quran is not a picture book.  

For me?  The Quran is not even a book that I can actually read.  I don't read Arabic enough to read it directly.  I have to read a translation.  That person who has translated Quran has had a monumental task.  God bless each and every one.  

I have translated back and forth between English and Arabic throughout each day of the last  fifteen years of my life.  It's essential to understanding Islam to know Arabic.  It's not that your whole spiritual life is tapped out on an Arabic keyboard; I think in English, make du'a in English, and pray in English when I'm making sujud (with my forehead on the prayer mat).

When I read Quran, I read in English.  My first Quran was a translation in paperback by Ahmed Ali.  It was that Quran that helped bring me to Islam.  I read it fully before I took shahaddah, alhumdulillah.

I do imagine if I had read a translation that hadn't spoken to me.  The same message might have not reached me.

My second Quran was a gift.  After a horrific divorce, I had been trying desperately to find a good Muslim husband and for some reason thought that online was the best place for that----because we all know how honest and upfront people are online.  

One of the gentleman was a doctor doing his residency on the east coast.  We got along really well and talked until he admitted to himself and to me that the Indian or Pakistani culture of his family (I can't remember which) would be a major obstacle.  He actually was honest!  It had only been a couple weeks of talking and all of it very decent at that.  We were going to part ways very peacefully (and I can't say that about every man who crossed my path).  

Before we said our last goodbye, he asked if he could send me a Quran.  I told him that I already had one, but he insisted that what he wanted to send me was what really spoke to him; he believed that I could really benefit from it.  I trusted him enough to give him my address and a week later a huge, heavy package showed up.

The Muhammad Asad Quran has not only the Arabic and English, but the transliteration (how to say the Arabic using English letters) AND tasfir (footnotes to understand the deeper meaning better).

It's heavy stuff---and I mean that both figuratively and literally!  It's 998 pages and heavy at 2.58 kilograms or (for the metrically challenged like myself 5.7 pounds).  I decided not to bring it to Egypt back in 2009.  This was before Kindle had a lot of titles and before tablets really took off---you can now get this Quran both at amazon and itunes).  The other reason I didn't want to bring it to this part of the world is that it was banned by the Saudis; I wasn't sure if Egypt might care to confiscate it.  Later, when I returned to the U.S. for a visit in 2011, I made sure to bring it with me.  Egypt isn't into censoring religion.

You can read more by Mohammad Asad by downloading pdfs here.

 Mohammad Asad's translation was not to be my last Quran.  There was also the one I bought as I drank juice in Al Hussein Square in Cairo one Ramadan night with my future husband.  A man approached Ahmed and me about buying from him.  I actually was interested to have an Al-Azar approved Quran, so I purchased this one.  It's not my favorite, but I still honor it is as a good effort.

One of my lifetime goals is to help Al Azar make dawah inshahallah.

There are so many translations.  Take a look at how the Surah Yusuf,

Verse 99 is translated thanks to The University of Leeds.

فَلَمَّا دَخَلُواْ عَلَى يُوسُفَ آوَى إِلَيْهِ أَبَوَيْهِ وَقَالَ ادْخُلُواْ مِصْرَ إِن شَاء اللّهُ آمِنِينَ {99 
012:099 Khan
Then, when they entered unto Yusuf (Joseph), he betook his parents to himself and said: "Enter Egypt, if Allah wills, in security."
012:099 Maulana
Then when they went in to Joseph, he lodged his parents with himself and said: Enter Egypt in safety, if Allah please.
012:099 Pickthal
And when they came in before Joseph, he took his parents unto him, and said: Come into Egypt safe, if Allah will!
012:099 Rashad
When they entered Joseph's quarters, he embraced his parents, saying, "Welcome to Egypt. GOD willing, you will be safe here."
012:099 Sarwar
When they all came to Joseph, he welcomed his parents and said, "Enter the town in peace, if God wants it to be so."
012:099 Shakir
Then when they came in to Yusuf, he took his parents to lodge with him and said: Enter safe into Egypt, if Allah please.
012:099 Sherali
And when they came to Joseph, he put up his parents with himself and said, 'Enter Egypt in peace, if it please ALLAH.'
012:099 Yusufali
Then when they entered the presence of Joseph, he provided a home
for his parents with himself, and said: "Enter ye Egypt (all) in safety if it please Allah."

I know that I am biased, but I simply can't think that any of those translations speak to me better than Muhammad Asad.

فَلَمَّا دَخَلُواْ عَلَى يُوسُفَ آوَى إِلَيْهِ أَبَوَيْهِ وَقَالَ ادْخُلُواْ مِصْرَ إِن شَاء اللّهُ آمِنِينَ (12:99)f

Falamma dakhaloo AAala yoosufa awa ilayhi abawayhi waqala odkhuloo misra in shaa Allahu amineena

AND WHEN they [all arrived in Egypt and] presented themselves before Joseph, he drew his parents unto himself, saying, "Enter Egypt! If God so wills, you shall be secure [from all evil]!" - 12:99

When I read that ayah, I cried.  I only broke down twice reading Quran this Ramadan.  I already told you about the time when I read about Prophet Noah (peace be upon him).  This second time was about Prophet Yusuf (peace be upon him). 

It many ways, it spoke to me on my hijrah here in Egypt.  I will be honest that I didn't really want to stay in Egypt for the coming school year.  I tried my best to get the heck out.  I went through my school's worldwide didn't work.  I went through teacher placement services...that didn't work.  I tried contacting schools directly...nope!  My mom kept asking me to give America another chance, but I told her that it would be like going backwards.  The last week of school, the contracts for next year had to be signed, so I did.  I made my commitment to staying put.

Staying put always seems like a cop out to an American because we are people on the move.  We like to shake (not sheik) things up and make things happen.  Staying put is akin to getting stuck.  When the going gets know the rest, right?  The tough get going.  Well, I'm tough and things have been hard this past year (both at home with my in-laws and at school).  I really imagined a life of leaving this place.

It didn't happen.

As a Muslim---and I do hyphenate myself as Muslim-American, not American-Muslim---I have to accept what is the truth.  I do have to submit to what might not be my plan, since Allah is The Best of Planners.  That isn't a snap-your-fingers solution.  It takes some processing (especially if you are culturally predisposed to think you are in control of your own destiny).  

That moment when I read to my son, "Enter Egypt, if God so wills, and you shall be secure from all evil", during my Ramadan fasting, it broke me.  Being a broken person is not the worst thing.  Sometimes, it's best to crumble and let the pieces fall apart from what had been painful to hold together.  I cried because I've been wondering about staying in Egypt and wondering about my elderly parents.  There, in the surah were both issues in one comforting line.

The Quran does speak to us, although, it doesn't call out to us from the dusty shelf.  We do have to pick it up and read it.  If we are reading it in English, please do make sure that the English translation speaks to you.  When it speaks, I hope you are open to really listen.

May Allah accept all your prayers and fasting this Ramadan and grant you a year of an improved life for you and your family.