My only summer piece.

This is for my honorary BangLong. Because you were always in the story from the start, why not.

This is a du’a for everything to go on well for you and KakLong:

“There’s no excuse, you have to follow me,” Basirah insisted. Her twin brother, Basil gave her a wary look. He was a patient man by nature, but he was finding it hard to keep his cool right at this moment. He did a continuous istighfar, and absently wondered whether God had created his sister alongside him as a big trial on this earth, for him.

“Irah, can’t it wait? We promised to meet up with Mama and Abah at the deli in ten minutes. You know Ma and her punctuality. You may be up to a twenty-minute lecture on time management and/or keeping appointments, but I sure am not.” He took back his arm from her and made for the meeting place.

“But Basil, I have to meet this friend of mine, and if I leave you, I might get lost. I dislike this shopping mall,” she said with a scrunch of her nose. “So you have to come with. Please?” She shot him what he knew she hoped was her best pleading look. It made him cringe.

“Excuse me, but losing you on the way might turn out to be a good thing. I’m leaving for Dave’s. Good luck to you.” He turned his body around completely, hoping despite what he knew, that this would bring an end to it.

“You really like Ma’s half-hour lectures on responsibility, don’t you, akhi?” she called from somewhere behind him, sounding as though she had read his mind. He berated himself, finding the thought very cliché.

“Oh, fine,” he said, facing her again slowly. “Where are you headed to on your date?”

His twin gave him a satisfied glare. “She wanted to meet up at the bookstore. Just for a sec; she just wanted to pass something by me.” Much to his displeasure, she had taken to grabbing his forearm again, keeping it by her side in a half-dragging motion. Basirah gave a deep sigh. “She’s such a sweet, nice girl. Very thoughtful and quiet.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “Somewhat like you. With her pensiveness and your need for silence, the two of you would make a fine headache. For me, that is.”

At this, Basil wanted to stop in his tracks, but she had a vice grip on him which he could barely pull away from. “Basirah,” he said in a dangerously low tone, “am I right in feeling that you‘re trying to… promote her to me?”

Another long sigh. “You definitely aren’t my twin for nothing, dear Basil.”

“Irah!” he exclaimed in dismay, when all other words failed him. His twin, in turn, gave him an innocent look. He could detect slightly batting eyelashes and he rolled his eyes in return.

“You’re impossible,” he declared, trying to extract his arm from her hands. Basirah held on tight.

“That’s not true. I am possible.” Surely she didn’t believe that the upturned nose and measured pout were still cute and working. Basil smirked in the other direction before composing himself for further action.

“Well, I’m telling you, you’re impossible. I don’t have the needs or the means to follow up falling in love. We’re still studying in university, and I don’t need marriage. Not yet, Irah. Have patience, young one.” Feeling a surge of optimism, he gave another tug of the arm. No such luck. He sighed and tried not to think of the pain.

“But when will you have the time to look around if not now, akhi?” Basirah’s grip on him tightened. He winced, knowing full and well where she was headed. “You’re available and on holiday, she’s available and on holiday — it’s like it was just meant to be, Basil. I mean, getting married young is a good thing; be rids one of temptation, and gives sufficient venue for the venting of romantic notions. What?” she protested when he simply goggled at her. “I’ve been talking to our cousins, okay? It’s the general consensus! Come on, Basil, think about it. It’s a great idea. You’re a great guy. (“Oh, so now I’m great.“) Why can’t you for once see things my way?”

“I could ask the same question,” he said under his breath. He stopped, grinding his feet to the floor and forcing his sister to a halt. “Basically, I’m not cut up for the job yet. When I am ready, I’ll make it known to the world, okay? But not now, and most definitely not before dinner.” He gave a gentle tug on her hijab, trying to soften her obvious disappointment, sagging shoulders and all. His twin was always the dreamer, while he had always been more pragmatic and sceptical. He liked to look at the yin-yang pendants they owned; his silver, hers in gold. They were birthday presents from a Chinese relative of theirs, who told their parents that Chinese tradition held it in belief that it was lucky to have one child of each sex, more so at the same time. Basil liked to think that placing two opposites into the world simultaneously was Allah’s way of keeping balance in the universe.

“But I am still tracing the way back for you, ya habeeb,” he softly reminded her with a nudge at her elbow, his heart slowly melting at her emotional transparency, so immature for her, and yet so familiar. “I’m hungry, and you’re on a mission, remember? So lead the way.”

Basirah perked up a little at the new power vested in her. She stood on tiptoes and peered around her, hands still on her brother. “The thing is, akhi, I’m not sure just where we are right now. Iman told me to meet her by the 2^nd fountain to my left, right after the escalator up the third floor, but –”

“Basirah?” they heard a voice call out tentatively from behind them. They turned back in unison. There stood Basirah‘s friend, her face lighting up from polite intrepidity to sheer delight. Basil felt a sudden surge in his chest, but he told himself it was the shock from his sister’s sudden leap forward, his arm following suit until he remembered to pull it back in time.

“Salaam, Iman!” Basil stood where he was, rubbing his throbbing forearm, as his sister rushed forth to hug her friend enthusiastically. He tried to concentrate on his sister’s bubbling narrative, but he couldn’t help his eyes, which kept getting drawn back to the young woman next to her. There was something about her, he was afraid, which beckoned him for a look which was longer than either of them would be comfortable with. Trying to fight the temptation to stare, he looked down at the monochromatic marble tiling instead.

After a few seconds of focusing on the tiles beneath his feet, he realized that he was holding his breath. Tightly grasping one hand with the other, Basil began pacing in a small square. When that didn‘t work, he placed one hand upon where he reckoned his heart would be, and he started pressing hard. His head was spinning, his chest was pounding, his body tingling with the effort to try and keep up. He felt so alive.

Basil decided that given the right situation, he could live with this sort of feeling.

Muttering the istighfar to himself many times, he kept his distance, trying not to remind himself of how pleasant she had appeared to him, in her patterned hijab and her black abaya, her smile –

He shook his head and chuckled, looking back down at the tiles, reminding himself that he would try to never again openly express serious doubt at his sister’s assumptions. He had really been proven wrong today. God had really taught him a lesson.

He let himself glance at his sister and her companion, trying to make sure whether they were anywhere near done. The two of them were discussing spiritedly about something or other, with Iman gesticulating with her hands, causing his sister to cover her mouth in laughter. And although he personally thought that gesticulating was very unladylike, he found that he thought it perfectly appropriate on Iman. He tried to shake the heavy train of thoughts with a shudder, but it didn’t work. Soon enough, he found the girl peering at him curiously as she said something to Basirah, who turned to grin at him. Basil gave his sister a wan smile in return.

He felt his heartbeat double in speed when both of them started walking in his direction. “Iman,” Basirah was saying even before they properly reached him, “this is my brother, Basil. Basil, Iman.” He gave Iman a curt nod, while she acknowledged him with a quick smile which made his chest ache a little. “Assalamu’alaikum,” she greeted.

“Wa’alaikumussalam.” He lifted his hand to look at the time and come up with any valid excuse, but Basirah beat him to it.

“He’s studying at England as well,” she explained out of the blue, “leaving me all alone in Melbourne. But he’s rich, thanks to that scholarship, so he comes down under all the time.” To him, Basirah said, “Iman’s reading law at the University of Hertfordshire.” Her friend only nodded, giving him a polite smile.

“I’m studying medicine,” he offered, figuring it was the least he could do.

“Oxford,” his twin piped up voluntarily, almost gleefully. Basil saw where this was headed, and felt the need to be proactive. His hand found the hem of her blouse, and he gave a sharp tug, which made her glare. “What?” she snapped, readjusting her top. From the corner of his eye, he saw that Iman had a smile hidden behind her hand.

“Dinner. With our folks. They’re waiting,” Basil managed to say, his hands moving around to try and make his point clearer. Complete sentences were never a problem with him before. He gave up and absently scratched his head, feeling the kufi he still had on from ‘Isya prayers at the nearby mosque.

Basirah, excited as she was to meet an old friend, was about to protest this, until Iman said, “Yeah, you guys should go. They’ll be wondering, and hungry. Not a good combination in parents, generally.” She gave a sympathetic smile to appease Basirah. “I’ll be here until September. We can meet while you’re still in town, no sweat. Figuratively speaking, of course.”

“Thank you,” Basil said out loud before he could think. And although he was inwardly knocking his head against an imaginary brick wall, he calmly gave Iman a thankful smile, took firm hold of Basirah’s wrist, and started steering her away, as reluctant as he was, himself.

“Oh, akhi ni,” she harrumphed. “Let me say goodbye?” She took back her hand and, turning her back against him, hugged her friend farewell. “I am so sorry for my prude of a brother,” she said. Basil could feel something in him protest strongly. “Nothing comes in between him and his stomach. Except for maybe death.” He winced even more at that, covering it up when Iman caught his eye and started to laugh.

“Basirah,“ she said in a rebuking tone, causing Basirah to smile at him sheepishly. “It’s alright,” Iman insisted. “Like I said, we can gab some other time, insyaAllah. So don’t worry.”

Basirah sighed dramatically, causing Basil to roll his eyes for the umpteenth time. “I suppose,” she admitted grudgingly.

“Alright then. We should get going now. Kan? Let’s go,” he said in one breath, giving Iman a curt nod and dragging his twin by the wrist. “Assalamu’alaikum.”

“Wa’alaikumussalam.”

Basil kept his grip firm and steady on Basirah, keeping his sight on the destination and trying not to look at his sister, even though he could feel her unflinching gaze on his face.

“Basil,” she began the torture, “I was right, wasn’t I? I know that look; those adorable flushed cheeks.” His blood vessels betrayed him by dilating even more. “I was right! Hoho, was I right.” In his peripheral vision, he saw her shake her head in disbelief at her good fortune. “Trust you to be the one to tell it to me, without telling it to me straight.”

He decided playing dumb was the only way through. “What were you right about?” he let out, giving in and shooting her a questioning look, taking care not to let go of her hand.

“Basil,” she said disbelievingly, “you haven’t being paying attention, have you? I meant that I was right about you and Iman, obviously. Although you may not know it, yourself.” She tugged her wrist hopefully. No chance. Basil was already immune to her glares to care much.

“Me and Iman. Okay. So…?” he trailed off, a little scared that Basirah might attempt to complete the sentence.

“Trust you to be clueless about things like this,” she scoffed. “I mean, you guys are so perfect together, okay? Like, perfect lah. I mean, you guys even met cute. Now, what else would you want in a relationship?”

“The sanctity of marriage,” he answered flatly. She laughed at that, like he knew she would.

“Of course I meant that too,” she insisted. “I could feel the chemistry, for want of a better word for it. I mean, there was definitely something in the air, and it was chemistry, make no mistake. I’m studying chemistry, I should know,” she said with the flair of someone who did.

“You do know that makes no sense?” he wondered out loud, not really expecting a direct answer. She responded with a tut.

“Oh, fooh. Come on. I mean, you’re both grown adults. You guys should definitely have marriage on your minds right now, so –”

“Why not to each other?”

“Exactly!” Basil chuckled at his sister’s predictability. “Heck, Abah and Mama got hitched at around our age, right? So they can’t object to it. Besides, this is the good way to do it. Halaalan toyyibah. Get to know each other legitimately, and when you feel ready for it (when your heart feels right), get hitched. Easy!”

“Listen to yourself!” he declared, making a sharp right turn into a walkway. “’Get hitched’? It’s not that easy, Irah.”

“Islam did not make it hard, either,” she reiterated.

“I know, but… there are other factors to it as well, you know?” He ran a hand through his head, pulling the kufi off and replacing it on his head. “I can’t just get married without considering the aftershocks of it. I can’t afford it, for one thing. I don’t think I can handle the responsibility yet, for another. You’re a girl, sure you think it’s all fun and games.”

“Well excuse me,” she said, pulling some syllables for effect. “You think girls have it easy? Right. And who is the one who grows another being on one end of her body for nine months and nine days, and then is mostly responsible for said being’s welfare? And has to take care of you as well? Don’t think we don’t have responsibilities as well, Basil.” She gave a deep sigh and swung their arms around. “All I’m saying is, you’re going to have to eventually anyway, so why not soon? I mean, the waiting game is a hard one to play. Oh, akhi, you have no idea, do you, what we go through, because of people like you? We wait for you to give hints, but you never do. And then we wait for you to be ready, but you never are. You factualize and think it over again and again, but the fact remains that there is a whole other person on the other end of the equation, waiting to be factored in.” She gave another deep sigh and used her free hand to adjust her hijab.

Letting himself be intrigued, he peered at his sister with caution. “But how can us guys tell when a girl’s interested, unless she makes the first move?”

“Girls can never make the first move without seeming either extremely desperate, or extremely brave.” She shook her head. “Unfortunate, I know, but that’s just how it is, nowadays.”

“And that makes it easier for the guy?” Basil looked at his sister. “We come off as desperate and/or brave too, you know. It’s just a stereotype that guys have to propose. And God showed that there should be no stereotypes in marriage when Ummul Mukminin Khadijah made the first move.”

He could tell that she could find nothing else to say, when she gave a tight shrug. “I know there shouldn’t be stereotypes. But they still exist, anyway, and… maybe you don’t realize just how hard it is for girls to accept rejection, especially since we’re such emotional beings, as Allah made us to be, you know?”

“I imagine that rejection wouldn’t be easy for me to handle, either,” Basil mused, with a tinge of sarcasm.

“Maybe,” Basirah replied earnestly. “Wait a minute.” She stopped in her tracks, resisting his tugs forward to where Dave’s Deli was, just a few feet ahead of them. “You’re very good,” she conceded, a tad bemused. “But not that good. You tried to veer off subject. So,” she said, picking up speed. “You. And Iman.”

“No such thing,” he insisted, trying to slow her down and prevent the risk of their parents listening in. “Not now, anyway.”

“Aha!” She turned and flashed him a triumphant smile. “I knew it! Chemistry…” she left off teasingly.

“And other factors too,” he reminded her, sitting down opposite their parents. “Meatballs, Irah?”

They say that sharing is caring.

Tomorrow will be my last officially Malaysian day for a while.

Much thanks to everyone for everything. For all the food, for all the memories, for the pep talks and serious discussions I’ve missed for so long, for all the car rides and the sweet wishes, for all the laughs, and gee, for all the tears as well.

Praise be to Allah for all I have given to me.

Now that that’s somewhat done…

I’d like to share you this link about what it’s like to a female Muslim in the world.

And I’d like to share with you this:

In all honesty, I would’ve probably chosen the white doll. Even today, if I took the survey right after I woke up.

Gives you something to think about, innit?

Wassalam.

The Radical Middle Way.

There is an ongoing program conducted by the Federation of Students’ Islamic Societies (FOSIS) of the United Kingdom, called The Radical Middle Way Project. From what I understand, it’s supposed to be a re-education of sorts for the British community, so that they may better understand Islam. The term ‘middle way’ is a direct reference to a verse in the Quran, where God explains Islam to be a moderate religion, easier and universal, unlike the ones He sent down before it. ‘Radical’ is obviously a direct reference to how most of the Western world views Islam, and together, they make for a paradoxical phrase — my favourite kind to repeat.

In recent days, a series of little events have rocked this little world of mine, making me somewhat righteously indignant (if such a thing can be said), and reminding me of why I live as I do, in the first place. As a result of these ever God-sent events, there has been renewed interest in the spiritual condition of Malaysia. People are beginning to talk, think and absorb. That’s always a good place to start.

One of the main topics surrounding Malaysian life would be the unprecedented flooding of the southern-most state of the Peninsula, Johor. In recent days, there have been many first-hand accounts of what happened to, and what is currently going on with the people of that state. As a briefer, Johor was unexpectedly hit by massive flooding of most parts of the state, submerging countless homes, destroying crops and livestock. Hundreds of thousands were stranded, and eventually evacuated to nearby relief centres.

Our family friends who have visited the areas recently gave us a picture that is somewhat sad. One village has been submerged in thick, foul-smelling black mud, which volunteer workers say reminds them of Aceh’s tsunami waste. People are queuing up for a bottle of mineral water. Women don’t have anything to clothe themselves with. Children study in the barest of circumstances. Yet in the midst of all the tragedy, a news publication still had the gall to conduct a talent-search concert in the area.

The most appalling part? The concert was attended by hundreds of thousands of Johorians, clearly apathetic about the sufferings of their own neighbours. I mean, people are dying out there, and you’re still busy singing songs about heartache and pain?

Come on, people. Let’s get real. There is no greater heartache or pain than waking up one morning, and learning that your entire life, as you know it, is submerged under metres of stagnant water; that you have to start over from nothing at all, except pity and charity. And even that’s sorely lacking.

Another wake-up call for me would be watching the newly-established Al-Jazeera English news network, where they live up to their claim of ‘giving the other side of news’. Whereas before I had the excuse of not understanding a word, now I find myself going back to the channel. Al-Jazeera keeps things human, choosing to highlight the issues the rest of us prefer to skim over in the papers. Watching it reminds me that there are people out there who are suffering, and not just in war. It reminds me that the entire planet is in need of a fixer-upper, and that for as long as I live, it is my responsibility to do what I can to help.

It reminds me that the world does not centre around me, and that I should get over myself and off my butt.

And recently occurred the culmination of what I simply call ‘attacks on Muslims, by Muslims’. I will acknowledge here what I acknowledged before: I am part of an usrah. I feel no shame in it. I see no harm in it. I am merely part of something that has been established in countless government schools and masjids, which is to partake in a peaceful discussion of Islam — to share knowledge and exchange ideas, and to be part of a small group of friends who care and look out for one another. In fact, ‘usrah’ is just a word in Arabic which means ‘family’. It was the main means the Prophet Muhammad used to educate people with Islam, at the advent of its revelation.

Don’t believe the last bit? I’m telling you to read back on history.

Ever since my mother started joining lessons organized by the local mosque (which is strictly monitored by the Government, but whatever), we’ve gone through some gradual changes as a family. Words like ‘halaqah’ and ‘usrah’ are common to our tongues. When I’d just finished with secondary school, my mother dragged me to her classes and usrah discussions as well, and much to my surprise, I had great fun. Being part of a mellow atmosphere, where everybody is a friend, is like therapy of sorts.

Well, the other day, someone I didn’t know just sent me an IM, claiming that ‘usrah’s are the number one cause of division among the Muslim society. I could tell straightaway that the comment was meant to provoke me, and after telling the dude to chill and lay off the hate, I placed him on my ‘Ignore List’ and moved on. I remember a time not so long ago when I would’ve been a lot more unforgiving. I was never the patient sort to begin with, and suppressing my anger was never an option. I even proudly walloped a fellow male classmate once, because he wouldn’t stop calling me (or someone else, I can’t remember) some idiotic name.

The ironic thing (for my virtual hater) is that being in an usrah taught me to be tolerant and to respect other people first, no matter what they’re saying about you. And if you can find no better way to clear the anger, then walk away. Take wudhu’, and walk away.

The point that I’m trying to make is that these are difficult times for Muslims. I’m sure everybody knows that by now. Osama bin Laden only used one word to justify his so-called attacks: Islam. Never mind that up till that point, he was heavily funded by the US government.

Now, everybody thinks that Islam is a religion of hate and revenge. Over what, I’m not exactly sure. As the guys at the ‘Allah Made Me Funny Comedy Tour’ would say, “you can’t be a Muslim and a terrrorist at the same time”. It just isn’t done. Especially not when God tells you to be peaceful. In the earliest days of Islam, when the new Muslims were brutally tortured by the Quraisy of Makkah, they did not even retaliate.

We seem to forget to tell others that Islam does not allow war, unless you have been attacked. And in the Qur’an, there is even a verse forbidding further retaliation when the enemy has stopped attacking.

Islam is an easy, uncomplicated religion, which ensures the easiest solution for every situation, in any era, in any circumstance.

And it pains me to say this, but some Muslims are too busy playing the blame game. We keep on forgetting that we should unite in the face of mounting international tension and undisguised stigma, instead of laying the hate around us. Political differences aside, we should set our hearts for what is right by the people, instead of placing emphasis on what ends up in our pockets. Listen to those around you and pay attention to what they’re saying. Quit playing hide-and-seek with God, because He sees right through our hearts effortlessly. There’s no point being a hypocrite anyway, when all will be laid out in the end.

You talk the talk, but you don’t walk the walk. You say that you’re all for progress and change, but your mind is stuck in a ditch that collapsed into itself years ago. I’ll admit that this is a generalization, but it works, if only for the fact that it’s too general a condition now to be pinned down to any one sort of person.

You’re too averse to change, yet you lobby for it. You separate matters of religion from everyday life, saying that they cannot co-exist. You let lack of knowledge, and your refusal to think, mar your sights and your heart. You’re too busy trying to appease your greed that you forget about others.

You’re too preoccupied with your dime-a-dozen life, relishing the cramped bubble you’ve built around yourself, that you won’t even share your space with thoughts of God, let alone Love for Him.

Come on. If you have to change; make a difference in yourself, get over your shame of admitting it. I’ve said this before, and I will say this ever again: CHANGE IS NOT A BAD THING.

Dang, I sound like a broken record.

Quit being scared of change. It’s not worth being afraid of.

Work the earth as if you will live on it forever; live your life as if every day is your last.

Before this is a reminder for you, please note that I am reminding myself first and foremost. I guess Michael Jackson got it right (although I can hardly believe I’m saying this):
‘If you want to make the world a better place, take a look at yourself and make the change.’

And to end my little indignant rant, I would like to quote someone I admire for his utter frankness and blatant individuality:

‘If you were dead, you’d have much bigger problems than what you’re wearing.’
-Owen Armstrong-

(He’s a character in a book, by the way)

Wassalamualaikum.

On why I write.

In a world where I never measure up, writing is the place where I know what I’m doing.

I am socially inept, ever with the wrong thing to say or do. I am basically immature, although most people think it’s of my own doing. I always just barely scraped by school with As or Bs, and I didn’t really stand out that much — not in the fields that mattered, anyway. I am temperamentally short-fused, with little patience and a very poor ability to concentrate. Physically, I never seemed to match up to the standard idea of beauty, or even prettiness, though truth be told, I never saw what was so unacceptable about me. In a world where I was beginning to be judged purely by how much I scored in my exams, I seemed to have barely failed everything else.

I’d always felt so lost all those years before I rediscovered my deen, my Islam, and in those times, where all I had were my emotions and my tears and God, I would find myself with paper and a pen/pencil, and I would write. I would live out my daydreams of ridiculously soap opera-scenarios in a small spiral notebook I hid under my sock basket. I would jot down my incoherent anger (although it seems a tad harsh a word) and frustration in my journal, and release my feelings of loneliness and ineptitude in my poetry, which was basically just metaphoric prose.

When I let myself down, I immersed myself in writing, where there are no rules, other than maybe making sense. In poetry, I could say even more, and still safeguard my private thoughts. I enjoyed my despair because it sounded nice in writing. It gave me an illusion of profundity I could hide from the world, and it showed me sides of me I never knew.

Looking back and reading my work, I can understand the pain, although I no longer feel it. I no longer loath myself, because learning and understanding about the person God made me to be has made me accept myself better. I face criticism with careless abandon where the occasion calls for it; otherwise I deal with it with (what I hope is) patience and tolerance. I relish the fact that God made me the way I am, and with a little effort on my part, I could be better if I wanted to be; if God willed it. But I could also be content with the fact that God made me the way I am for reasons I may not know, all the while knowing that it is what’s best for me. And when all else fails, God would be enough.

With these relatively new principles in mind (and heart), I can see my writing grow with me, or on me; depends on where you’re looking. I used to be obsessed about huge, impressive words not usually used amongst humankind; now I prefer simple words that say more. I used to want to relate to pop culture; now I want to relate to now and forever. I used to allow my imagination to run wild, justifying that it’s all unreal; now I hold responsibility for the things I say, and I prefer to keep my feet grounded on firm reality, painful though it might be.

I think I’ve said this before: I want to spark change, open minds and provoke thought.

Words are such heavy loads in our lives. People use words to tell a story and captivate millions; you can affect politics with the phrasing you choose; you can turn words into a war, or you can bring it to a halt. Mightier than the sword, I believe the saying goes.

In retrospect, I understand why the first verses of the Quran that were relayed from Gabriel to Prophet Muhammad were:

‘Read!
In the name of your Lord and Cherisher who created,
Created mankind out of a clot of congealed blood.
Read, and your Lord is most Bountiful;
He who taught men the use of the pen
Taught man that which he did not know.
Know, but man does transgress all bounds in that
he looks upon himself as self-sufficient
Verily, to your Lord is the return of all.’

It seems ironic to me, that a person who is so well-known for doing so little, should choose so important a medium. But I did not choose this, exactly. Were the decision up to me completely, I would have chosen something simpler, plainer, quicker to get over with, so that I could get on with my life, easy. But words, instead, pulled me in their direction; forcing me to take another look, another perspective; give another try and see what it means. At times, inspiration will come to me, and when I am done, I cannot believe all this came out of ME. It can get quite scary, although it makes sense. Scary sense, but still.

Now I understand, the way humankind understands everything — from a purposely stunted point of view. I suppose that God wanted to show me from the start that life is a journey, not mere play, and as Robert Frost once put it –

– ‘The best way out is always through’.

Wassalamualaik.

These days, I wish I was six again…

In a matter of days, I will turn into an adult.

That’s the idea, anyway. In less than two days, I will no longer have the number ‘1’ as the first digit of my age; no longer able to hide behind the overworked suffix of ’teen’.

It’s quite scary, the prospect of losing all valid excuse is.

The way my mother expects it, having a new digit at the front of my age will force me to mature — to grow up into an working, functioning adult. How I wish to have the gall to say, “If only things worked that way, Ma”.

You see, I have always had this aversion against growing up. Now, let me get this straight — I have no problems with becoming a year older; I just have issues with maturity. I prefer regression to cynism; naivete to jadedness.

I think Dawud Wharnsby hit it right on the dot:

I don’t wanna be a grown-up
Like the grown-ups I have seen
‘Cause the grown-ups I have seen
Don’t seem to have much fun.
They don’t get down on the floor enough
To pray, or play with toys
So when I’m a grown-up
I won’t wanna be one.

For as long as I remember, I have always been against growing up. In fact, when most of my peers had already hit the watermark of puberty, I was more than glad to be left behind. I was perfectly happy to be left to my hopscotch and Barney videos (nicely borrowed from my toddler cousin) while the rest of my friends were busy comparing ‘first period’ experiences and boy-hunting.

I suppose you could say that I was late. And happily so.

But now, with my mother heavily hinting about the cumbersome day, I’m becoming rather wary. She’s desperately waiting for me to grow up; become mature. In short, to become less of a worry to her and my father. And to the rest of my aunts and uncles.

And every time I hear about it, I get a twinge in the pit of my stomach. I know how much my family wishes I could learn to be an adult. I just wished I knew how.

Last night, I had a hurried chat with my best friend. She’s happy with where she is in life right now, and I’m glad. My life for the years since we left school has been somewhat lacking her perspective on things. So it wasn’t so surprising that when I asked her opinion of my blog, she gave it to me straight: She told me that I was a little biased, and a little idealistic.

I felt tempted to reply, “When have I ever not been?”

My trip back to Malaysia, which has changed so much and yet remains so familiar, has made me think a lot about how life has changed for me, throughout the years. Ever since I could remember, the mostly part of me grew up here. I guess the change of mailing address has given me a new perspective on things. Little bits and pieces of my past seem to be catching up with me.

Just when so many of my friends are struggling to step away from their past, I’m trying hard to recollect mine.

When I was in kindergarten, I was happy. I was talkative, sure, but I cannot remember a time when I never was. Life was easy, and I suppose that deep down inside, I knew it. Maybe I had an inkling that life then was as leisurely as it was going to get. I remember gymnastic lessons for the annual concert, music classes, and sort-of cheating during after-school Mandarin, and having banana cake for recess. I used to hate banana cake.

When I was in primary school, I felt my first taste of labelling — I was the smart kid; the bookworm; the chatterbox nerd. I think I was even called weird. I didn’t really have much common sense (some things never change), and it was beginning to worry my mother, in particular. I didn’t know how to keep the friends I had. I guess I just valued my privacy too much. Maybe I was just lazy.

Wow. That was painful to remember.

When I browse through my Friends List on Friendster, little flashes of memories pop into my head. I see the classmate I used to hate (he is a guy, which was reason enough, back in the day); I see my first crush; I see winces from social faux pas; I see the first person I was rumoured to be dating (ever just rumours). But only barely.

I see the people I grew up with, for the better part of my life. And yet now, I can’t really see them clearly in my mind anymore, because to me, they no longer represent my world, or even a semblance of the reality I‘ve come to know since leaving the bubble that was secondary school. I used to think life was what we played at between classes, but it turns out I was wrong.

When I stepped into pre-U, I learnt that there was so much more to life than dating, and looking good, and staying in cliques. I immersed myself in the new environment — the new, always nice people and I relished that we all came from such different backgrounds. I was happy that being a smarty-pants was a common thing we shared, and most of all, that being one had brought me into AUSMAT 16 of INTEC. I learnt so much, and I enjoyed life so much.

I guess that was where I learnt to celebrate life, and the person I am.

And just when I thought I couldn’t change anymore, I did, again. This time, it was nearing the end of AUSMAT, just before the exams. I suddenly found myself with a whole new set of principles embedded within me, all without my asking. I found a deeper connection with life, deeper than I ever expected. I also found new meaning in living. The intensity and almost suddenness of that particular change — of me, becoming more of the religious sort I usually evaded all this while — almost made me forget how transitional and parallel it was. In fact, it was that very change of outlook that made me decide on Melbourne.

Melbourne taught me to be ready to change my mind at anytime. The city and its people taught me to never judge a book by its cover — a lesson I’m afraid I’m beginning to forget. Melbourne taught me that each person is like an onion — deeper than the grubby exterior, with many layers to peel, each a different shade. The Aussies taught me not to judge, and the land taught me to be quick on my feet and to trust myself. And my fellow Malaysians taught me everything else.

There, I learned to earn real friendship. I learned about dealing with mistakes. I gained the confidence that was missing from me all those years past. I found myself with so much independence that now that I’m home, I feel stifled and limited. I’m counting down the precious days until I’m forced to leave my family, but at the same time, glimpses of Melbourne appear in my mind, beckoning me to go back.

I used to be so afraid of trying new things. Now I’m just wary, is all.

I used to view change like I did make-up: Nasty and avoidable. I’ve changed my mind some since then.

Now, I’ve realized that if I had looked back more often, the same way I’m doing now, I doubt I would’ve gotten this far. I would’ve been too afraid to do anything other than what I was used to — I wouldn’t want to improve.

So having a poor memory can come in handy too, in turns out.

Seriously though, I’ve learnt that the only way to live is to live in the present. I know, it is an overworked cliché from Christmas-themed TV movies, but it’s true. If you look behind, you’ll lose courage to take that first step forward or away. If you look too far ahead, you’ll lose your footing and crash on your face.

The only way to push ahead is to be thankful for everything you have right now, and know that God has bigger plans for you, made of stuff you won’t even be able to imagine.

So enjoy the moment. And make way for the next one.

Praise be to Allah for my life thus far. I’ll take it all with no regrets, insyaAllah, for as Imam as-Syahid Hassan al-Banna said,

“Nothing is better than what has become.”

Wassalamu’alaikum.

P.S:- Should you happen to read this, this goes out to Najmina (4th of Jan), Sufia (10th, I think), Rizal and Intan Fairouza and Azza and Chie Chie (15th), Lyana (16th), Erin and Duck and Abang Pea (18th). If you happen to be born in the month, do let me know. Happy Birthday, all. Many happy returns.

Traveller’s Guide to Living.

I am a loner, I just thought you should know.

I prefer to be alone sometimes, and I only seek company when I desire it. I am so used to having a license to surrender in self-pity, that now when I no longer am forced to do so, I still retain the habit of keeping to myself.

I read a book sometime ago, where the young intrepid heroine claims that her entire machismo act is just a cover for her ardent shyness. I remember thinking, ‘she got it in words’ when I read that paragraph to myself.

And although I call it a habit rather than a negative attribute that I am so selfish, I have found that as a result, I am seldom aware of my surroundings.

So I guess it makes sense that my two favourite places are the cities I’ve visited nearly every year since I was born. I hope that they count, despite the fact that they are both my parents’ hometowns, respectively.

During the recent Eid celebrations, my family and I travelled to these two spots, and after years away from both, I rekindled my love for Pasir Mas and Penang.

Pasir Mas has always existed in my memory. The first realization I had that every year, I was going back to Kelantan, came when my mother announced to a friend over the phone that she was from Kelantan. I was six, and this discovery was something of a surprise to me.

“But Ma,” I couldn’t stop myself from saying, “I thought we went back to Johor every year.”

When I told her recently, she claimed that she wasn’t surprised, considering the state of the organization of my mind now, that I was so clueless, even as a child.

My grandmother’s mostly-wooden house was built from the highest quality wood (I forgot what kind) by my grandfather, who saw to it that it would last generations. Every year, on the way to my kampung, I fall asleep in the car, anticipating the solid thumps of the wooden panels as my young cousins, in the tens, run around indoors, either making barricades out of pillows and playing fort, or simply catapulting themselves from the window and onto the pebbly underside of the house. Much to the fear of their parents.

I look forward to the scent of mosquito coil smoke, staying put to our clothes and hair until days after we arrived back home.

I look forward to watching as old men work their trishaws past our house, or listening out for the tinkle of the homemade ice cream man on his bicycle, with wafer cones and tinny hot dog buns for ice cream sandwiches.

I look forward to watching wooden homes, each uniquely designed and painted, dotting vast spaces in between green bushes or yellowing paddy fields. In my mind, I would compare them to the ugly, bland uniformity of the housing areas back home, and relish the sights.

I look forward to slipping past my mother and her sisters and their respective husbands, as they flit through the kitchen, each bustling with getting kinder for the outdoor grill (which is still the best way to get anything cooked) or coconut leaves for the nasi impit, or peeling the onion and skinning the ginger. This year was notable for my being assigned kitchen duty. Dang.

This year was different. The house was coloured different, it was a different Eid, there were fewer people than I was used to, and my grandmother didn’t really favour the rich smell of the mosquito repellent coils anymore. But then again, I had not visited in years, no thanks to the awful timing of my exams. And I had been out of the country, so maybe everything seemed different, regardless.

This year was also different, in that I finally had a digital camera of my own, and as the competitive streak in me searched for bright, attractive photos for my Flickr page, I found my usually fleeting and random thoughts actually find some sort of continuity as they moved through my head, feeding me with comprehension.

I finally understand what I feel about my Malay heritage.

I guess it was also different because I was too old to camp out in the living room anymore. And also, my grandmother, Mek, could no longer afford to foresee the entire cooking operations down in the tiled kitchen. Her feet have been giving her some serious pain, and now she only moved from her room, to the telephone table overlooking the indoor kitchen, and if she could bear it, to the front.

It hurt me, to see her life so different from how I remembered it. I imagined having to change as much as she had. Looking back, I should have sat down more hours with her, and give mind to the guilty pang I felt every time I passed her by.

But I didn’t really, and before I knew it, it was time to kiss farewell to everyone, and make our way to Penang.

I have always had a particular fondness of that island-city. I was born there. I guess that’s reason enough.

But it’s more than that. It’s about how I’ve always known that when I entered Penang, I was entering another city, another state. There is a different charge in the atmosphere, a different vibe. It’s a land the rest of time forgot, until recently. I have never seen another city where everything took its own time to age and grown old. Penang really managed to age gracefully.

You know when a city is proud of itself. I see it in my Penang, where the current generation still live in the old houses they grew up in, even though they drive around in the latest Mercedez models. New businesses open up in abandoned Edwardian mansions. The same couple my parents used to visit for desserts still work where they left them, nearly two decades ago. And according to my parents, they look as young as ever.

The same ocean front, Gurney Drive, remains a famous dating spot, and an outdoors lounge for families at night. Not even the tsunami, which brushed up against it, could change anything much. Every time we leave the Evergreen Laurel, which overlooks the ocean, my mother glances up at her dream home: an apartment at Number One, Gurney Drive.

I cannot pinpoint my most vivid memory of Penang, but one of the stronger ones would have to be driving along the Penang Bridge, the third-longest in the world, with the windows rolled down and our heads jutting out, just so we could feel the face-whipping breeze past through our mouths, never mind that we whiffed more exhaust than ocean breeze.

Line Clear, the nasi kandar stall which operates in an actual alley, still makes the best stuff in the world. Near it would be the Indian clothing boutique, where I bought my most favourite peasant blouses. We would always pass the gorgeous Eastern & Oriental Hotel, and on cue, my parents would repeat stories of haunted elevators, and how Anna Leonowen’s husband was buried in the nearby cemetery. This year we didn’t visit Komtar, which used to be a modern landmark before I was born, mainly because nothing’s changed. At all.

I’ve always had the feeling that I, the directionally challenged, would actually succeed at driving in Penang, because I’d end up in the same familiar circles, going through streets with British names, and always passing the same girls’ school or kopitiam.

It is a small, cosy island, the soil I was born to. Now, I realize that the only fitting thing would be to visit the hospital I was born in, as I reach my twentieth birthday in eight days. It would be a trip I would go alone, because nobody else would understand. Also because I wouldn’t stand the company.

I guess now, compared to my primary school years, I am a loner by choice.

In any case, just like in Melbourne, I wouldn’t mind wandering the streets of Pasir Mas or Penang alone, safety reasons aside. I can just imagine it: Me, walking through the streets, snapping up photos of nearly everything and imagining what Helen would comment about them, and thinking –

– as easy as God has given this to me, He can take it all away.

Life is a celebration; a gift from God. Treat it with respect and dignity. And treasure it.

‘Do they not travel through the land, so that their hearts (and minds) may thus learn wisdom and their ears may thus learn to hear? Truly it is not their eyes that are blind, but their hearts which are in their breasts.’

[Al-Hajj, 22:46]

Sound Advice

“You are truly selfish, that’s all I have to say to you!”

“Hey!” she protested, thinking it was a bit unfair to be hurled such heavy accusations in the middle of the night, with a pounding headache to match. She rubbed the creases on her forehead that seemed to deepen by the day. She shut close the laptop and turned to glare half-heartedly at her roommate, Nadirah. Her head couldn’t handle full-fledged at this point. It was ready to buckle, and the lone pillow that lay just less than a foot away from her was beginning to beckon seductively.

“Well, it’s true!” her opponent insisted. “Look, you’re tired, you should take a break. It’s impossible, really, seeing you work at those letters all night long. Plus, it’s pretty hard to sleep with the light emitted from that machine distracting my eyes from its deserved rest.” She shook her head in frustration. “You won’t even share the load, even though we work in the same department. I mean, come on, it’s not as if you don’t ask my opinion for half the problems in there, anyway.”

Dania let out a sigh and leaned back against the frame of the bed. She wasn’t in the right mind to argue to win. She’d just have to mumble her way through this one, because she recognized that obstinate look on her friend’s face.

“Dirah, come on, it’s my job, and I’d feel guilty if I don’t finish it on my own. You know how strict Hazirah is,” she reasoned, giving a feeble raise of the eyebrows. “She nearly came down on me this morning for asking for an extension for my deadline. Regardless of the fact that the impact of her merely sitting on me would be enough to cripple me for life. She’d freak if I don’t complete this month’s column by tomorrow.”

Nadirah shook her head again and tutted Dania’s choice of words, making Dania squirm. “No ghibah; no backbiting our fellow sisters, y’hear? You should apologize to her tomorrow. Even if she is sleeping in the room next door and can probably hear you anyway, since she seems to NOT WANT TO SLEEP!!” Dirah rapped the adjacent wall sharply, to the retorts of, “Yes, Cik Dirah, I will sleep after I’m done fixing this issue’s margins, okay? You get some sleep; you’re driving us around tomorrow, sister, and there will be no arguments about it!” An ominous chuckle emanated through the wall, and then the furious tapping of keys resumed.

“Read the du’a for sleep first, Haz!” Dirah grinned and sat down on the bed opposite her and absently tapped the humming laptop. “But get some rest, okay Nia? I know you still have that oral presentation for Ms. Ng tomorrow.”

The monitor was back up. “Hm. I’ve got it under control.” She had barely typed two characters when she looked up, straight into the concerned eyes of her friend. “Look,” she reasoned, “I only have one letter left. I’ll try to make it a really long solution, so I’ll fill it up to the margin. Then I’ll get to bed. Okay?”

Dirah hesitated for a second. “Fine. But only one letter. Or I’m calling your mother.”

“I didn’t know you’d stoop that low.”

“Hey, we had an agreement. I keep an eye on you and make sure you get out of this semester in one piece, and she gives me all the chocolate cake I need.”

“Careful, you’ll get sick with too much of that stuff.”

“You’re just jealous because you tire of chocolate easily.” She stood up in a flourish, finishing with a bounce of her feet. Dania marvelled at the abundance of energy her roommate had, even at – she faltered, checking her computer’s clock – 12.30 a.m. “I’m going to wash up and get ready for bed.”

“Ya. Just get some sleep, will you?”

“Going, going, gone.”

Dania fingered the letter which contained the predicament she was addressing. The author of the letter was having trouble getting enough sleep at night. Dania could relate. she still had a term paper to complete, plus she had to add the finishing touches to the graphics accompaniment to her oral presentation. Sleep was becoming a distant friend.

However, she thought the Sleepless in Selangor’s problem was a bit more medical than it was logical. SiS had been unable to sleep for weeks. She was dead tired, but she couldn’t seem to fall into slumber. Dania really didn’t see how she could possibly give any advice for this problem.

Salaam Sleepless in Selangor,

Your problem seems to be more complicated than you think it is. Trust me, I completely understand your dilemma. Now that we’re in university, slumber seems to be the only goal in mind; maybe even the one thing that keeps us going through the endless lectures and tutorials. The way I see it, I only have two options:

I can be irresponsible and recommend you this wonderful sleeping drug you can get over the counter, and possibly get slapped with a manslaughter suit, or
I can tell you to go seek professional advice (I suggest a doctor, rather than a shrink because no matter what you say, insomnia is a medical problem) and end this response now.

I choose the latter.

Sweet dreams!

Cracking her knuckles, she stole another glance at her pillow in the corner, and fixed her eyes on the computer screen determinedly. She scratched at a mosquito bite at her elbow.

“Lisa, will you fumigate the room with Shieldtox for us, please? Thanks, dear!” she called to her housemates in the next room.

“We’re all out. Will Ridsect do?”

“I can’t care less, as long as you get rid of these nasty creatures!” She clawed ferociously at her elbow again, and plucked out the final letter for the night.

Covering her yawn with a free hand, she fingered the edge of the paper. She recognized the crinkle of the paper and the smudge of the black ink. The person wrote the letter in a hurry, and she suffered from a severe form of hyperhydrosis. Also known as ‘really sweaty hands’. She knew the side effects firsthand.

Dania quickly skimmed through the letter to determine what she was dealing with, so she could work out the generic reply in her head. She did that whenever she was pressed for time. Sure, she felt ostensibly guilty about it later, but there was always last-minute editing. Praise Allah for technology.

Tapping her pen on the temple of her forehead into a percussion beat from one of her nasyid, she wondered absently why their magazine even ran an advice column, anyway. And then she remembered how it all evolved from a few questions addressed to the editor, before it became a teensy slot in the middle of the double-spread features presented monthly, and then became the sleepless epidemic it now was. How had a magazine focused on the female Muslim college student get an anonymous ‘big sister’ like its other more entertainment-focused, intellectually-insipid counterparts? If Dania wasn’t only doing this to help her fellow ukhti, she probably would never have taken up this job. It had started out being only a few lines long, but then the letters kept on coming, and they soon lost track of where the problems ended and where the solutions began.

There would be no problems in the world if everyone would just focus on accepting whatever God has presented them with in life – the good and the bad. But as she formed the words in her head, aimed to address her blog audience, she realized that that sort of generalization was really quite unfair. Some people really felt lost and alone on campus. She was just blessed because she had chanced across a close network of sisters who supported each other through everything.

There were also those who really knew what they wanted to do, but were just looking for a second opinion; a person to aye or nay their alternatives, because despite what we say all the time, we actually like having a majority support for what we do. It makes us feel more sure of our decisions, and less afraid of the consequences. So really, Dania couldn’t blame the people who (unwittingly) turned to her for advice. She had no business scorning them, even if in her head, because they were all only human, and relied on other humans to get by. But it still made Dania wince when she saw that some people just do not realize that sometimes the faith and strength they truly needed and wanted can only come from God.

How many times was it that the dhikr would bring such calm into her heart? And every time she cried a little after prayers, during supplication, she would feel the pressing burden on her chest recede and lift away. Every time she sought refuge in Allah, it gave her renewed faith, because she was sure that everything from then on would be alright. Even if it wasn’t, she would be fine with it, because God would not give her something she could not handle.

‘Allah does not charge a soul except [with that within] its capacity.’ (2:286)

Dania calmly focused her now slightly aching eyes on the next letter. She was not really sleepy, but her head was throbbing a silent beat against her veins, and she felt sudden longing for rest. But she had promised herself sleep only after this letter was answered, and she could not do away with it. She soldiered on.

Dear Ukhti,

I know that this is not your usual run-of-the mill letter, and I would like to apologize firsthand, in case you do not approve of what I am about to say. I think I just really need to put my problem down on paper, before I can sort it clearly in my head.

I think I am in love.
I don’t know if I’m in love.
But something that makes me suffer this much, it should be Love, shouldn’t it?

I have what you may call a crush on someone. Actually, I’ve had a crush on him for years. Although I’ve spent most of my life trying to be an independent woman, I’ve found that a single man can still occupy the deepest threshold of the female heart.

My friends call it normal, but it worries me that so much of my emotions and my time should be preoccupied with him and his existance. I know he does not deserve my affections. He ignores me outright, even though the signs are all there. He looks away whenever he sees me. He talks to all my friends, male and female, but acts like he doesn’t know me. If he can so callously treat my heart that way — to pretend that I, along with all my feelings, don’t exist — then I know I should forget him.

But I’ve tried, and I can’t.
Maybe I haven’t tried my best.

I don’t think I’m looking for advise. I’m not really looking for a solution. All I want is another person to know how I’m feeling, and not judge me for being me, but just for being another person in her life, who doesn’t amount to much. I want my thoughts to be read by someone who does not know me, and cannot make the decision for me.
But I would really like to know what you think of this particular subject.

Wassalam,
Anonymous.

Dania realized that her gape was spreading, and that Dirah was giving her funny looks from the doorway. She decided to ignore Dirah, knowing that being the ukhti that she was, Dirah would not ask unless Dania said. And as for Dania herself — well, she felt that she could find no way to explain this. Nadirah had not been a part of her world prior to university, and had not been present during Dania’s more painful years. She found it hard to swallow as she contemplated telling her friend, who she knew would not judge her, of her old five-year heartache, pining over the same boy.

He was one of the more popular guys in school, back when popularity was the thing, and he had stolen her heart by accident, during that fateful afternoon when she had heard him sing for an end-of-year contest. It might not seem macho, the thought of a guy singing, but he did so in such a gruff yet sweet way that even though Dania had developed a resistance against all things superficial-cum-popular, she could not but think of him over and over again afterwards.

She supposed that was how all crushes began. With persistent thoughts, until a pattern, so hard to shake, developed.

Maybe she was to blame for nurturing what she had deemed to be harmless at the time. She had begun by confiding her person of interest in friends, and then allowed them and herself to create an obsession in her mind, making it fashionable and almost acceptable to be wallowing in self-pity over the level of his response. Dania could not suppress a groan from deep within as she recalled all the stupid things she had done to grab his attention, all of which were to no avail, because he had taken to studiously avoiding everything to do with her. This, of course, spurred on more indignation and depression. The painful cycle that came from having a crush — the irony of the word’s other meaning gave her a small smile.

“Nia, you okay, sayang?” Dirah ventured from her posting. “You’re being rather quiet, and it’s scaring me.” Dania could feel her grin without even glancing up. “That loud groan reminds me of when I wake you up in the mornings when you oversleep. Scary, by the way; don’t ever do that again.”

“Afwan,” Dania apologized. “It’s just…” She paused, taking in the scenario for a second. “Dirah. Do you remember your last crush?”

Dirah’s cheeks flamed on cue. “It’s definitely not something I like to talk about,” she admitted.

“Was it awful?”

She gave Dania a look. “That would be heading into the territory of ‘talking about it’.” She pretended to be miffed before relenting. “But yeah. It was pretty bad. I hate being in no control of my emotions like that. It was scary, being so uncertain all the time. I hope I never go through it again, insyaAllah… or if I do, that I’ll actually do something about it rather than sit around and mope.” Dania looked up from the letter to peek at Nadirah’s determined face.

“Taking a leaf out of Kak Basirah’s book, I take it?”

Another wicked grin. “For sure.” Kak Basirah was a senior of theirs, who had recently gained a reputation among their bi’ah for having proposed to her now husband. She had decided that she had had enough of letting thoughts of a guy cloud her head and her judgement, and felt that marriage would probably place them in a better perspective. She had reminded her sisters that it would be better to marry a guy and live with him for the rest of your lives, rather than to let obsessive emotions over him to weaken your memory and reliance on God.

Dania doubted whether she would ever have the gall to do such a brave deed, but she could relate, especially when she thought back to her school days. She gave another shudder. The things overreacting to feelings could make you do… Dania folded her legs under her and propped her elbow on the bed.

“Let me guess. The reader’s problem?” Dania nodded distractedly, handing over the letter. “What would you do without me?”

“Get less threats over chocolate cake bribes?”

“Su’uzon ke?”

“Eh, no. Only joking, dear.” Dania gave her an apologetic grin. “Forgive me?”

“Hm.”

“Jazakillahu khayr. So. What should I tell her, you think?”

“The truth.” She snuck a glance at Dania. “How do you feel about crushes and dating? Start with that. Be completely honest, as she wants you to.” She gave a reluctant yawn. “A’uzubillahi mina syaitan nir rajim.”

“I’m sorry, habeeb. I forgot you were on your way to bed.”

“Ah, relax. A little less sleep didn’t hurt anyone. Waking up early tomorrow?”

“I can’t,” she said meaningfully.

“Ah. Oh, well. Salaam.”

“Wa’alaikumussalam. ‘Night.”

Dania had wondered what she could possibly tell this girl. It’s at times like these, when the responsibility squared itself on her shoulders, that she was reminded of how things were, before she understood. Before she saw how things really worked, and before she started fully embracing everything about her religion that she had previously been scared of. Before she realized that Islam was a way of life filled with ‘can’s, and few‘cannot’s.

Things back then had felt easy, perhaps because she had not felt guilty about being selfish. She had no need to consider the consequences of her actions. She could’ve been inconsiderate, for she had felt good manners to be merely a moral chore. She had not felt the need to stop and think. The memories gave her an involuntary shudder and she felt a pang of annoyance at the person she once was.

Well, she thought, better to learn now rather than never.

Dania kneaded the back of her neck, knowing instinctively that this would be a very long reply. Hazirah would be happy, and should she finish this soon, she would get some sleep, which would make her effectively pleased as well. But how to start?

She listened to the steady, reassuring tap-tap of Hazirah’s keyboard in the next room, knowing that Haz would work late into the early morning and not sleep much. She admired that her friend would sacrifice so much of her own pleasures for the sake of helping spread the message around, knowing that Hazirah’s intention, insyaAllah, God willing, would always be on the right path. Sometimes Dania found herself questioning the state of her heart, and the heart of her niyyah. She wondered whether anything had come in between her doing this purely for the sake of Allah.

She pleaded silently to God to keep her on this path He loved.

And then it came to her. Slowly taking form at its own pace, the thoughts, rearranging into words, settled themselves at the edge of her mind. She cracked her knuckles with a sharp cry of praise, “Alhamdulillah!”, and let it run through her.

Salaam Anonymous,

Trust me, at one point in my life, my situation was almost exactly like yours, except that it took place during my formative secondary school years, which were awful at educating me about how the real world worked. Try placing yourself out and away from the problem, and tackling it from that sort of perspective. Look around you and see whether there are guys better than this guy you’re crushing on. Ask yourself why you’re still hanging on to something that he doesn’t want to happen, and don’t fool yourself by thinking that you know better than he does right now.

And as your sister, I’m telling you: When that daydream involving him arrives at your doorstep, crush it like the bug it is. Don’t let it live, because it’ll just feed something that does not exist, and thus, is not worth your time.

I know I sound awfully harsh, but the truth is, Anon, that I have experienced firsthand the life-sucking capabilities such crushes have, and I am keen on removing such fallacies from anyone I know with even the earliest symptoms. I refuse to allow anyone to look back at their lives and feel a pang of regret over having wanted to date a guy who isn’t even man enough to acknowledge that you exist. Don’t sink further into the manhole, dear.

While we’re at it, and since you asked my opinion of it, I’ll give it to you straight: I do not believe in dating. I used to dream about it, often with the question nagging at the back of my mind: After all the fun is over, and we’re married, where would we begin again?

Close observation of the people around me tells me that we’re not honest when we date. Of course we’re not! We just want to be happy, to enjoy each other’s company. That involves hiding certain things and making up others, either with intention or not. In the end, the person you choose to spend the rest of your life with is no longer the person you fell in love with. Which upon even closer observation, reveals that it hurts.

However, if you love a person, and a person loves you for the sake of God, and you both share a great love for Him, then you would, in your deepest of hearts, not want to damage either relationship. You would both do what God asks of you (which is to not to even approach anything that encourages pre-marital relations, as a reminder), and do what is right by the both of you. You would learn about each other before marrying, as per sunnah, but if your love is for God, if it is fillah, then by God, you would do anything in your power to make it work, wouldn’t you? Despite differences, and despite odds.

With prayer and love and tolerance and understanding — basically by doing everything Allah asks you to do — it would work, insyaAllah. And I know this sounds idealistic and somewhat unreal, but I’m telling you because I believe in it; because I’ve seen it work, and working still.

So worry not about the future till it comes. If you find yourself falling for someone, take that faithful plunge and go for it; make it worth something by the sanctity of marriage, and then make it work. Don’t allow opportunities to let something as wonderful as love, mess with your head and make you lose hope.

I’m sorry if I sound too passionate, but something about your plight struck a chord, and here’s to hoping my dear editor would not cut me too much slack in making this a tad long.

Wassalam.

Standing up, Dania trudged out the door and into the next room, leaning on the doorframe for a second, absorbing the sight of a person working harder than she was at 1.30 in the morning. Feeling someone’s eyes on her, Hazirah finally looked up from the thick pile of notes in her lap and gave Dania a nod.

“Yes?”

“I’m done.” She was glad she could say this, finally.

“You want me to see it.” A statement, rather than a question.

She shrugged. “If you must.” She offered a grin, surprised when Haz smiled back. Haz had just moved into the house, and Dania found that she was slowly bucking almost all of Dania’s ideas of her from the very day she arrived. It helped allay the odd feeling of having her previously physically distant editor separated from her by a single wall.

“I will, then.” They both made the few steps into the next room and plopped down on the floor. Dania purposefully looked away as her editor’s eyes quickly scanned the laptop’s monitor. Suspense never agreed with her.

“I approve.” Dania looked back at Hazirah in surprise.

“Seriously?”

Haz nodded, a half-smile stuck to her face. “I think it’s a good response. Could lose the last sentence, though.”

Dania gave a loud chuckle, making Nadirah shuffle uneasily in her sleep. “Alright. Sorry about that jibe about you being able to cripple me, and all,” she said earnestly.

Haz shook her head. “Eh, forget about it. And you can tell her you were merely repeating what I said.”

“And let her tutting get at you instead? You serious?”

She considered this for a moment. “On second thought.”

I want to write.

Assalamualaikum wrh. wbt.

I was blog-hopping as I regularly am, and I was stopped in my tracks by a story posted by my fellow blogger (go hunt the tale down Circling Thought by yourself).

It has been so long since I sat down to write something. I mean, really write something I could be satisfied of.

Ever since I learned how to read, I had started writing. There are several book from my early years, where proof of my writing by sheer mimickry is still evident. So I suppose that though I was late in realizing my natural gravitation to the written word (thanks to much prodding from my dear Weili), it was always there, waiting to come out.

Right now it feels like I’m being barraged by inspiring and aspiring writers. A quick stroll in the local bookstore, and I see the Cerekarama-type romance novels given cute, modern bookcovers. I pick up the paper, and I read a review on a book about a novella by a Malaysian teenager who had attempted something along the lines of Cabot’s Princess Diaries (which I can’t believe I fell for hook, line and sinker). I look out the window along PJ old-town, and I see a billboard for a movie based on a fantasy novel written by a mere kid.

It’s enough to make anyone with literary aspirations and a sore case of writer’s block frustrated.

Back when being famous was all the rage, I decided that I would write a novel. And actual novel, mind you, with chapters, and credits, and all that. Not to forget the current must-have of pop culture name-dropping.

I was going to write about the main plot of the story, but it sounds so contrived, unoriginal and silly that I’ve decided I won’t even bother embarrassing myself.

But I take it that maybe a few people have read it, considering I even put up a blog for it, hoping to be discovered by some talent-hunting publishing house from the States.

Yeah. I truly was that naive.

Still, I have to admit that the narrative was much better, and sounds far more natural than anything I so much as attempt nowadays. It makes you wonder, how much self-restraint is enough?

I like to think that I’ve grown up, somewhat (although my parents, upon listening in to my first argument with my brother when I got back, prefer to disagree), and true to nature, my mind has made itself up about a lot of things. It contains a whole lot more principles now that insyaAllah, I will try hard not to jinx.

Along with this new turn of events, I’ve realized that writing has to be more than just a means to be rich. It’s more than just a way to be famous.

It’s about carrying the burden named ‘responsibility’ as best as you can.

If I can scoff at horrid novels and half-hearted writing, then I sure don’t want to be all that.

I want to carry a message.
I want to help educate.
I want to set things clear.
I want to stimulate thought.
(A little argument may result of this, but a little, I can handle.)
I want to spark change.
And oh Allah, I don’t want to be a hypocrite. Na’uzubillah.

(O Allah, prevent me from doing something for the wrong reasons altogether — please let my niyyah be pure. Amin.)

I just wish I knew what I could write about.

I am very welcome to ideas right now.

Help is very much appreciated.

Wassalam.

Isnim bina, wa nu’min sa’ah.

Sometimes.

I feel as if little time has passed between before and after Melbourne.

And then a nagging feeling strikes me between the lungs and asks me:
“Have you forgotten everything you went through in Melbourne?”

And every time someone asks me about how it’s like, studying overseas,
I wonder if I have.

The things I do seem to suggest that.

Have I tripped at the first step, yet again?

Sometimes I stop to think. I falter at the thought of nixing my principles.
It’s hard to be the bearer of change.
It’s hard to tell people that something is wrong –
Not by you, but by God.

The thought unnerves me.
What scares me more is conforming to what I feel is wrong, merely because I feel like I cannot overpower culture, not on my own.

And when I see what goes on around me, it catches me by the throat that all I can do is just criticize it in my heart.

I do not agree.

I am so worried that I act as if I have never undergone change.

For now it often strikes me that I do not act like an example should.

So maybe this is a cry for a little help.

Please.

(Missing the bi’ah)

Dissection of jumbled thoughts.

This past week has been pretty hectic. I’ve gone from spending languid days with my parents, them trying hard not to spoil me when we go out for meals and at family outings to the mall, to practically meeting a new relative every other day.

You see, my cousin is getting engaged to her best friend. This Saturday has been over twenty years in the waiting, and you’ll be sure that everyone on both sides of her family will be there for noisy moral support. She won’t have it any other way, either, what with half-joking threats to her cousins that they shall all attend without fail. A bride-to-be, regardless of how far off the wedding is, is a formidable thing to behold.

The relatives from our mothers’ side are coming out of the woodwork. It’s a funny thing. I get all excited and bubbly until I tend to forget myself, and start becoming as peaky as the younger children on Mentos. But large families are really something. They’re filled with drama, laughter and a lot of undeclared love, the gruff, unconditional sort.

They’re also a really good study case on human behaviour.

My mother always told us that the best way to know what a person is thinking is to observe the things they say and do; their reaction towards you. She particularly stresses on this whenever she feels that either one of us has crossed any limits. Taking her advice subconsciously to heart, I’ve found myself making inferences on what it’s like to be STARTING a family.

All this talk about engagement and weddings, and having an insider’s take on what goes on behind it all, has unnerved me somewhat. I have never been a fan of anything adult, and getting married, with a ton of responsibilities to boot, has always struck me as a dreaded but inevitable part of the future: to be put off for as long as possible.

Living by ourselves has led most of my friends and I to often ponder over what it’s like to be married and living with someone you don’t really know (take it from me, you never truly know what a person’s like until you’ve LIVED with them). There’s the initial deal about choosing the right person to spend the rest of this lifetime with, and then there’s the part about procreating and setting forth your offspring into the great big world out there.

Shudder. Astaghfirullah al ‘Azim.

If the idea of being responsible for a full-grown adult (in the form of spouse) scares me enough, the thought of having children simply terrifies me. Don’t get me wrong; I love kids, and I no doubt want them as part of my future. I just can’t imagine being responsible for the total well-being of a new person.

You’ll have to raise them, feed them, make sure they’re healthy and safe, give them an education, instill the best morals and principles, and try not to turn them into miniatures of you, all at the same time.

I mean, think about it. MasyaAllah, what a job. And it’s been going on for eons, but still. Nobody really understands what it’s like to be a parent until the dutiful day comes, and then nobody really treats it like its a big deal. But what an incredible responsibility.

Seriously, think about it.

In my case, I wonder what sort of a parent I would make. I wonder how I would go about explaining Islam to my kids, and making sure that I do all I can to keep them on the straight and wide. I wonder how I would deal during those formative years, so that I wouldn’t have to worry so much later on.

Everything I place on/in my kids will be questioned on the Day of Judgement.

I try to place myself in my parents’ shoes, and I feel their pain and agony. I guess my parents never expected that they’d still have to worry about their grown daughter, after all these years. I would never wish my lack of common sense on my kids. I can just picture my folks, worrying in the middle of the night over whether they’ve explained something correctly, or whether what they’ve given us, physically, spiritually and emotionally, is enough. How much is enough, anyway?

It’s at times like these that I feel most grateful for my parents, and regret all those times I underappreciated them.

I look at my older cousins and their kids and feel a surge of pity for them. What a journey it must be. What a burden on such young shoulders, to have to pretty much SHAPE the next generation, the idea of things to come.

I wonder if they’ve ever thought of it that way, or if they just try to go through things day by day, so as not to feel overwhelmed.

I wonder if they’ve ever stopped to consider where they’ve gone wrong, or whether they think that there isn’t enough time to muhasabah, so they shouldn’t even bother.

I wonder if they feel as if they’ve loved their kids enough — if they’ve considered being on the other end of all that emotion and affection. Do they think their kids understand how much they care? Do they expect love to come as a given?

I wonder if they’re emulating their parents, or if they’re trying to go in the opposite direction, or if they realize that no amount of concentration will undo the fact that they’re raising their children the way their parents raised them.

I guess I cannot help such thoughts. I’m beginning to feel a lot older and sheepish, as I finally meet my younger cousins, all of them some nine months older — gangly joints, toothy grins, mature vocabulary and all. They grow up so fast, and yet I am envious of their comparative youth.

I wonder if their parents have ever had the chance to stop and reminisce, and enjoy their children as people looking in from the outside. I also wonder what they would see, whether they would be pleased with their handiwork.

I also happen to know that no matter what happens to a child, they could barely be objective and look the other way in neglect, simply because he/she is their child. I’m almost positive that a parent has no room for hatred for their children, no matter how terrible the crime.

I completely admire the apparent selflessness of nearly all parents. No wonder they are blessed by God. How amazing it must be, to be granted the gift of being able to ignore yourself, and place the life of another above your own. How incredible the sacrifice, and what a feeling.

Here’s to all parents of the past, present and the future. Us young ones can only dream of such courage. Until the day comes, insyaAllah.

And serve Allah and do not associate any thing with Him and be good to the parents and to the near of kin and the orphans and the needy and the neighbor of (your) kin and the alien neighbor, and the companion in a journey and the wayfarer and those whom your right hands possess; surely Allah does not love him who is proud, boastful

[Surah an-Nisa', 4:36]

Wassalamu’alaik.