a drive down awkward avenue

Yesterday morning, it was raining tigers and wolves, not cats and dogs.

But, where I stood, it was autumn, thanks to several layers, a wool abaya and a black umbrella.

As I boarded my off-to-school cab, I buckled up for a long ride. I could see that a serious zan’a (traffic congestion) awaited me on al-Madinah al-Munawwara Street. At least my cab driver’s an old man, I thought, and a quiet one.

But I spoke — or thought — too soon.

After giving him directions to the university, he remarked, “Lsanik ithgeel. Your tongue is heavy.” (Yet another body part that could use a workout.)

“Um hm.”

“You’re not from here, right?”

“Hu’ uh.”

“Where are you from?” I tell him.

“Your Arabic is good. Do you know i’rab?” Arabic grammar. “Muhammadun akhathal kurata. Muhammad took the ball. A’ribeeha. Explain the grammar of each word.”

I smile. I haven’t done i’rab since the 8th grade. He demonstrates, then gives me a second sentence to try.

“Ahmadun: Fa’il marfoo’ wa’alamatu raf’ihil damma. Akala: Fi’l madi mansoob wa’alamatu nasbihil fatha. Altuffahata: Maf’ool bihi mansoob wa ‘alamatu nasbihil fat-ha.” (I don’t know how to translate that and, even if I did, I think you’d find it a bore.)

I get it right, and I think to myself: man, Mama would be proud.

“Ahsanti. Good job. What class are you taking at UJ?” I tell him.

“What year are you?” I fumble, because there is no one-word answer. I’m indecisive, so he decides for me. “Your’re a sanfoora.” A term of endearment for college freshmen. (I’m pretty sure it’s also Arabic for female smurf.)

Then, I notice that there’s a big yellow bumble bee in the car trying to get out. (A clever bee.)

As I roll down one of the back windows, the driver says: “You must have brought it in, in your backpack,” and “It must have been attracted to your honey-colored eyes.” (I appreciate the pun, but not really. Also, I don’t have honey-colored eyes.)

His comments go unnoticed, the distressed bee is escorted out, the window is promptly shut against the rain, and I try to look cross.

Then he asks me if I pray, if I know the five pillars of Islam, the six pillars of iman (belief in Allah, His Angels, His books, His messengers, the Day of Judgment and destiny) and the definition of ihsan (to behave as if you see Allah, for even though you do not see Him, He sees you). If this were a quiz, I’d have passed it with flying colors. If I’d have known what was to come, however, I might have passed it in black-and-white.

Apparently, since I know the ABC’s of Islam, I look to him like good wife-material. He tells me about his son who moved to America to study and now has a green card.

“Sacramento. He married American. You think this okay?” He asks me in English. I want to say “Good for him,” but I cna tell that this dad would have preferred an Arab girl. I mumble some non-committal reply.

“If he knew you, he’d have married you. Would you marry him, my son?” Oh, why ever not! I’d love to marry your married son. Ah. I quickly try to muster up an appropriate answer to an inappropriate question and, finding none, resort to my right to remain silent.

After a pause, the driver continues.

“Guess what I do before I do this, before taxi?” Again, in English. I don’t know, I say. “Teacher.” And, as if to emphasize the point, he goes on teachering me, this time about boy-girl relations. He tells me about how someone who knows someone told him that a girl brought a “friend” home, presumably of the boy variety.

“This okay?” He checks the rear-view mirror for my answer. “No,” I say eventually.

(For your future reference, the interrogation cycle goes like this: He asks, I mumble something indefinite, he asks again, this time studying me in the mirror, I give him the answer he’s looking for, he moves on to the next question.)

He tells about how in America, many young women move out before they get married. (I had no idea.) Then, he asks this loaded rhetorical question: “Girls shouldn’t leave their families until they’re married, right?” He isn’t subtle and I’m not stupid, but he looks in the rear-view mirror to ascertain that the point hits home. Perhaps he expects me to blush or get confused or feel pangs of guilt, but I don’t. I feel hope and a little relief. The university is just up ahead.

“You have friends in America?”

“Um hm.” I’m fishing for a dinar in my wallet.

As I pay him, he gives me some parting advice: “Don’t befriend boys.” Then in English, “Girls yes. Boys no.” He looks in the rear-view mirror. “Okay? You’re good girl.”

“Um hm. Thanks.” I slam the door, glad to be back in the rain.

Moments later, as my sleeves become polka-dotted, I rummage for my umbrella. Then, it dawns on me: in my rush, I left that rare commodity on the backseat.

Now no one can stand under my umbrella, ella, ella. Not even me.

the inalienable right to sleep

The Founding Fathers were so busy with “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness” that they forgot to record our inalienable right to sleep. Since sleep is a prerequisite to these other three, I have no doubt that they left it off simply because they found it obvious and didn’t want to belittle posterity by spelling it out.

But, for the record, sleep deprivation is inhumane. Criminal even.

Does my opposition to sleep deprivation stem from a disgust at the torture mechanisms employed at Guantanamo (and, doubtlessly, in innumerable prisons worldwide)? Perhaps.

Actually, my interest in the issue is an utterly selfish one.

Since I bade my college single goodbye and reintroduced myself to a bunk bed at home, I realized that things would never be the same again. Before, only the voice of my alarm invaded my dreams. Now, the invasion is tenfold. Instead of a little blaring beep, I have four human sirens (and several electronic ones) going off sporadically.

Whereas my parents’ sleep is uninterrupted (or is uninterruptible?), the children’s sleep is fair game. Siestas are therefore only as long as the most bored family member allows them to be. And to sleep-in is sometimes harder work than waking up.

Between my parents, Baba is the one who comes up with especially innovative ways of jolting us out of bed. He’ll sing, at the top of his healthy lungs, Bedouin shepherd songs he’d heard in his childhood. Songs that make the walls want to crumble and the dead toss and turn in their beds. (It’s not that his voice isn’t beautiful — there is beauty in it. Or that the songs are uninteresting — they are, sometimes, when comprehensible. It’s just that they were crafted by lonely wayfarers for audiences of expressionless sheep and composed for the listening pleasure of deaf grasslands.)

One fine sleep-worthy morning, Baba realized that, with my sister and me, direct combat wasn’t the way to go. I heard him come into our room, take a look at our decidedly sleeping forms, then leave us be. Or did he? To my sister’s and my gusto, Baba closed the door behind him and knocked. He knocked. And knocked. And knocked, as if our door were locked. My sister eventually let him in, then promptly pounced back into bed.

With his son, Baba is usually more hands on. Suddenly, my brother might find himself without a comforter, for example. In one particularly memorable morning episode, Baba pulled my brother’s pillow from under his head and pounded him with it. My brother’s half-awake reply: “Ahad. Ahad.” Even Baba had a good laugh then.

—

For those of you unfamiliar with the story of Bilal, here’s a synopsis: Bilal, a slave, was one of the first contemporaries of Prophet Muhammad (pbuh) to accept Islam. As a punishment for his rejecting the gods and ways of Mecca, his master threw him down on the hot desert sand and tortured him by placing weights on his chest. When told to recognize Hubal (one of the pagan gods), he famously replied, “Ahad. Ahad.” That roughly translates to “One. One.” — a reference to the One True God. He was later bought by a wealthy Muslim and freed. He is recognized as one of the most prominent sahaba (companions of the Prophet, pbuh).

knock knock delivery

At one point in my life (not too long ago), I had been interested in pursuing a career in optometry. Like any serious optometry student, I had shadowed an optometrist. Also like any serious optometry student, I had filed truckloads of paperwork and, on occasion, had the immense privilege of observing a riveting eye exam.

Once, during a conversation less inappropriate than it sounds, the optometrist mentioned to a patient that he belongs to a large, Catholic family and that, of his many siblings, only one looks strikingly different. It was therefore a running joke in his family that his sister must have been fathered by the mailman.

After I told this to my brother, I noted that such jokes are taboo under a roof like ours. I attribute this more to Islamic teachings than to Arabic culture. (Note: That doesn’t mean that you’ll not find Muslims and Arabs whose mouths need soaping.)

At any rate, in my house, fornication is no laughing matter. And generally speaking, among Arabs, to accuse one’s sister or mother of sexual impurity is to commit the Materazzi slip — an insult worthy of a world-class headbutt.

Even as the feminist in me knits her eyebrows at the double standard regarding male versus female sexual impurity, I smile at the fact that degrading words like “bitch” are not often tossed around like salad among the bulk of my acquaintance. (I’m probably not the first to notice that, even in the canine species, females get the short end of the stick.)

As I sifted through the reasons why the optometrist’s joke wouldn’t find the same welcome in my house, my brother dunked Chips Ahoy cookies into a cold glass of milk. Then as if I had said absolutely nothing, he remarked:

My brother – Maybe the mailman fathered you.

Me – [Taken aback. Then it dawns on me.] That’s not possible. We have a mail lady.

My brother – That’s not possible.

Me – What’s not possible?

My brother – A male lady.

will the real monster please stand up?

I lied. In a previous post, I incriminated the Rooster, called him a monster, among other slanderous things.

Today, I learned from Baba that Rooster was not, in fact, born at our place. Baba had bought him at auction. His angry predecessor, too, was purchased at auction. (No, this is not an “I-am-not-your-father” moment.)

Are the two roosters’ anger management issues merely coincidental? Apparently not.

According to Baba, Rooster may very well have been bred for cockfighting. Many local farmers, Baba said, still carry out this illegal practice, pitting rooster against rooster and betting on the triumphant bird. With spurs attached to their legs, the fights often turn injurious, even fatal.

This made me realize how proud I am that betting is absolutely forbidden in Islam. Oh, and add to the list of welcome prohibitons: cruelty to animals. Betting plus animal cruelty is like a straight go-to-jail card.

Too often, roosters, dogs and bulls in various abusive competitions exhibit more humanity than the beasts who torment them for enjoyment. To be out-humaned by animals is pretty awful, not to mention embarrassing.

Prophet Muhammad (pbuh) once said, “When you hear the crowing of a rooster, ask Allah of His bounty, for he has seen an angel.” This morning, as I listened to Rooster greeting the angels, I realized that the temperamental yet dignified bird in my backyard is no monster. I only wish I could say the same about those who forced him into this lasting distrust of all mankind.

I’ll try to make peace with Rooster. I don’t know how, but I know I must.

drink or divorce

I was reading from the diwan (collected poetry) of al-Muntanabbi today, and I learned that this notoriously arrogant Iraqi poet used to like his liquor. Now, this is surprising and unsurprising.

Surprising because he represents one of the most renowned classical Arab poets EVER, and also surprising becuase (as his name suggests) he once claimed prophethood for himself. At least in the Islamic tradition, alcohol and prophets never go hand in hand like love and marriage.

Now, it’s not surprising because drinking is and has been an ever-present (albeit more covert) activity in Muslim-majority cultures, dating all the way back to the times of Prophet Muhammad (pbuh).

One of his poems that cites his drinking habits is paradoxically titled, ‘I drank without sinning.’ The persona explains that his friend swore that he’d divorce his wife if his buddy, al-Mutanabbi, didn’t share a glass. (This whole swearing that you’ll divorce your wife is lamentably common on many an Arab street. Sometimes people are in earnest and sometimes it’s all in jest. In any case, Islam does not condone this behavior. Actually, there is a chapter in the Qur’an — Ch. 58, al-Mujadilah — that specifically rebukes men for taking their words lightly).

In any case, al-Mutanabbi faced this quandry — to drink or to make his friend’s wife a divorcee for no particular reason. So, what’s a man to do, right? He drinks. And his penance? That he saved the marriage of a friend.

I think al-Mutanabbi deserves a standing ovation. And his friend needs a slap upside his head.