I'm Sorry, but I'm not Sorry

I’m tired of cringing every time I read the news.  I grit my teeth before I open the BBC news website, or secretly pray before I pick up a paper.  Yet there it always is; ‘Islamist takeover of schools, pupils unprotected’, ‘Pregnant, Christian, Sudanese doctor to be hanged for apostasy’, ‘Halal meat sold by Pizza Express’, ‘British Muslims fight with Syria extremists’, ‘Muslim paedophile gang caught’, ‘Abu Hamza extradited, sentenced’, ‘ ‘Honour killer sentenced’. When will these intolerant, bigoted murderers become extinct? When will I stop seeing Islam portrayed so badly in the media, and when will the media stop poaching all it knows about Islam from a raving, lunatic minority? When is the government going to stop finding even more ways to push their ‘Islamist’ agenda?

Last week I was sitting with my work colleagues, watching the news. I was the only Muslim in the room. They begin to cover the approaching capital punishment of Meriam, a Sudanese lady who renounced her Muslim faith and became a Christian. She was due to be killed, by ‘law’, for apostasy. I started to cringe again. I wondered, should I speak out about this, clarify that this is not what my religion is about? After all I am a Muslim, and this lady was scheduled to be killed in the name of my faith. One of my colleagues commented about how awful this was, and I latched on to her comments, nodding along as I assented, echoing her words. I quickly quipped that I didn't feel this represented Islam.

This didn’t make me feel better. On the contrary, I was suddenly immersed in even more shame. I felt like I had just betrayed someone. Truth is, I had betrayed more than just ‘someone’ and I knew it there and then. With my quasi-apology, I had betrayed my faith. Why did I feel this urge to apologise for an undertaking which I am vehemently against, of which I have no input and relation to? Shouldn’t I be proud of my faith as it is, proud enough not to feel responsible for the madness exuded by other ‘Muslims’? This was the root of the problem. I couldn’t explain the source of this collective ‘responsibility’ for the actions of all Muslims. It’s not like the average Christian on the street is in need of apologising for child abuse in the church.

This ‘guilt’ comes as a result of an aggressive media presence of ‘Muslim’ scum and their actions, an unquenching thirst of the media for more of their material, and the government pushing an unprecedented alienation of Muslims. 10 years ago, it would suffice to say I was a Muslim. Now, thanks to all this unwanted attention, people (Muslim or Non-Muslim) want to know if you’re Shia or Sunni, believe in stunning animals before violently slaughtering them (whilst singing random Arabic incantations), believe it’s ok to kill someone because they leave Islam, believe in ‘Sharia’ law or think girls can’t do PE unless dressed in cloaks.

They’ve won. Once there was a time where collective responsibility was possible, where you felt you could speak out for your fellow Muslims. Now, Muslims are so radically split in their beliefs and practice that some factions will refuse to acknowledge others as Muslim. As a ‘moderate’, you have to explain yourself, wear a badge saying ‘I’m one of the good guys!’, otherwise people will think you aspire to have a hook for a hand. This need to explain yourself, to separate yourself from those dangerous, puritanical and beastly extremists insinuates that there is disunity in Islam, when the reality is there was no unity to begin with (with the extremists that is). It gives the impression that Islam, moderate and evolving Islam, is crumbling whilst the truth is those bad eggs crumbled away ages ago. We have nothing to apologise or feel guilty for. Any semblance of guilt and we are caving in to pressure from both extremists and government.

So I’m sorry, I will not apologise, dear work colleague, for the actions of the Sudanese government. I will instead join you in their condemnation.  

Quantum Brother

His awkwardly adorned frame swayed apologetically, as if ashamed of its owner. Saul, his overseer, negotiated the various felled trees and planted himself in front of him. His heart choked in the shame. He knew that Saul reveled in his authority, preying on fear. Saul smirked, sensed the tension and knelt to wipe the moss off his bright red wellies. Each tortuous second felt like an eternity. Finally, satisfied with the state of his boots, Saul stood to do what he did best.

"Hank. You are behind schedule. Again." said Saul. He took pride in his usage of silence, pausing regularly to add drama. 

"I can't -"

"No. No Hank. Wrong answer. Try again" growled Saul.

"This axe -"

"No! Is that what you're going to tell your wife when I sack you?" 

Hank paused. Saul wasn't bluffing. 

"No sir. I'll get it done sir. I promise sir."

Saul took a step forward, leaning into Hank's face. His breath, laden with gin, poured into Hank's soul.

"To call you a piece of shit is an insult to shit. It is an insult to the pigs that eat, grovel in it and the maggots and flies that thrive in it. At least it serves a purpose. No, you are beyond comparison. You are pathetic beyond familiarity. You will live nothing, and be nothing."

Hank had ceased to listen. Somewhere in the midst of the abuse, he finally found tranquility. He couldn't understand it, but his body certainly did. His body had known all along that today was the day he be born. Call it what you will: fugue state or psychosis, Hank's body was on autopilot, fueled on an angst and hunger long suppressed. 

Saul is still preaching.  It is a one way conversation;  delivering a tremulous speech worthy of a theatrical soliloquy. He begins to stutter, his voiced laced with fear and the hopelessness of betrayal. He had seen the transformation happen inside Hank, his eyes now  alight with primal fire. He also saw the axe rise in the air. This didn't happen as he had planned. It was the fault of the world for keeping the reality of his insignificance insignificant. He lifts his trembling hand, the pointed finger oscillating in sync with his racing heart. He realises that death is a contradiction; acting as the ultimate wake-up call in its capacity as eternal sleep.

Hank held the axe above his head. His brain, accustomed to tackling tree trunks, calculated the trajectory and power needed to slice Saul's neck off clean. Saul saw the axe angle towards him. He crumples to the floor, his voice quavers into a whimper, his demands reversed into pleas. 

Silence ensues. Hank slowly lowers the axe, Saul tortured with every passing second that the axe stayed in Hank's hands. He lets it drop by his side, hitting the soil with a soft thump. As Saul descended into relief stricken tears, Hank turned around and sat on a tree stump, staring at his hands.

He marveled at his callus ridden palms, the leathery texture grafted by his axe. It was all he had to show for a life in which he was largely absent. He looked up at the sky and thought:

What if, in some parallel universe somewhere, his quantum brother had chosen to live earlier than he?

Recruiting

(This short story below is inspired by one of the same title by Nabokov… and is entirely fictional. I wrote this when I was in a café and saw a man on his laptop.)

I was sitting in a coffee house one Saturday afternoon. I was not alone in being alone, sipping on a ‘medium’ coffee in the corner. Far across the saloon sat a man who, in his blandness, was a perfect recruit. I almost pitied the man. By walking into the coffee house he had unknowingly walked into the trap of my imagination. As I watched my oblivious prisoner I couldn’t help but smile. How little he knew of his crucial role in the moments that followed!

He was a well built man, the breadth of his shoulders filled out a dark, corduroy blazer. He wore a black cap, which in the context of his blazer and shirt gave him the vibe of a retired, celebrity sportsman. His graying beard was as sharply chiseled as the shape of his jaw and his orbits were contoured with wrinkles. This combination of facial features gifted him a permanent contemplative expression, duping not only his friends but also his work colleagues into believing he was highly intelligent. This unintentional mask, a result of years of bafflement and confusion, had resulted in his promotion to Manager of the malfunctioning human resources department.    

So here he was, struggling on his laptop in the corner of a coffee house. His missed deadline stared angrily at him through a spreadsheet on the screen. He had realised the night before that the numbers were not adding up. It was in desperation that he was staring at the spreadsheet, hoping it would cease its antagonism and save him from his boss. He blamed the spreadsheet because he couldn’t blame anyone else. He also surrendered to the idea his brain was more inanimate than the numbers that tormented him.

He was the subject of a cruel joke. This spreadsheet was an editable omen of his future, one that foretold his redundancy as things stood. The cruelty came in the fact it was his incompetence that paralysed him into being a spectator to his own failure.

He stopped seeing numbers. The spreadsheet blurred away into his reflection in the screen. He studied his own face and for a moment smiled as his mind began to wander. He remembered the first time he saw his wife. He was trying on the very same black cap he was wearing, angling it on his head whilst posing in front of a store mirror. He caught her watching him whilst he was pouting. His eyes locked onto hers. Her face betrayed a character of innocence and longing. She flushed red at the reflective encounter and before she could even turn around in shame, he strode towards her and asked her out.     

That was five years ago. Her naivety coupled with his idiocy was a recipe for ignorant bliss. Life seemed easy, a stream of coincidental events recycling the past into the future. They revelled in the monotony that shaped their love. When one has low expectations of oneself and one’s worth, it is easy to be content with any level of monotony. She never tired of his face, and he of her laugh. They walked the straight line of their life, unaware of the precipice that lay ahead.

How was he going to tell her? All he knew was he had to. He closed his laptop and slid it into his bag. I watched the hero of my story get up, with the intellectual expression on his face which plagued his life. He took slow, calculated steps out of the coffee house and directed himself towards his flat. Each successive step propelled his confidence. His heart raced as he got to the dingy stairwell leading to his home. Adrenaline was now overcoming the inertia of reluctance. He steps into his hallway and stops as he sees his wife.

She stood in front of him, her face a pale mirage of the first time he saw her that fateful day. Her hands were behind her back, stretching the stained apron draped around her body.

They stared at each other, dueling with the knowledge that what was going to be said would change their lives forever. He didn’t have to wait for her to speak. He saw the reflection of her slender back in the mirror. He saw the reason for her silence in her hands and she saw that he knew.

She was holding a positive pregnancy test.

The Not So Normal Attachment

‘I definitely enjoyed it but can’t see myself doing it’. I gave this diplomatic, yet honest answer to the Consultant Psychiatrist on the last day of my 6 week placement. Truth is I was grateful it was my last day and as we walked to the wards, I couldn’t help but remember all the things which made this such a mentally exhausting attachment.

My first day was vaguely disturbing, a good reflection of how dangerous naivety can be. My firm partner and I thought it was a good idea to clerk someone in the acute admissions unit. It didn’t seem too bad. A few patients loitering around a glass box which ‘sheltered’ the staff. They would bang their fists on it from time to time, asking to be seen by someone. We picked out the least rowdy person from the crowd and decided to speak to her in the kitchen as there was no other room available at the time.

My partner and I were confused. This lady seemed perfectly normal, almost pleasant to have a conversation with. Why was she here? She didn’t seem to know. All of a sudden, things decided to get pretty sinister. A man spotted me from outside the kitchen and rushed towards me. He put his face an inch in front of mine and stared into my eyes. I was perplexed. Now what? I told myself to keep calm. He smelt awful. My eyes darted around the room in the ridiculous hope something would magically intervene. This didn’t please him at all. He told me not to move my eyes off his as it disturbed him.

So here I was, locked in an epic staring contest with a man in full invasion of my personal space and sense of smell. Meanwhile, the patient we were speaking to was being accused by another patient of being a spy. This didn’t go down too well. The shouting attracts another patient into the room, my saviour. This newcomer, almost randomly, prods my invader in the back and claims he owes her 20 pounds. He answers the accusation with a right uppercut to her face, which she dodges by falling into the fridge. Chaos ensues as the glass box of nurses empties into the kitchen. My saviour comes up to me saying I should act as a witness when she takes the incident to court. I look at my partner and we flee the scene.

The subsequent days were far less dramatic but just as confusing. I came to the conclusion that I wasn’t talking to people or even ‘patients’ on the ward but to the conditions they were afflicted by. I was talking to Schizophrenia, Bipolar Affective Disorder and Depression. It was like speaking to a puppet whose strings were tangled. The confusion eventually resolved into a chronic sense of helplessness. I am a heavily empathetic person, and empathising with an irresolvable emotional façade had become a terribly exhausting, guilt-ridden experience. I remember in particular feeling terrible after speaking to an elderly suicidal lady. All our efforts to encourage her fell flat in front of an eerily rational approach to suicidality.

What I should have realised at the time was that my naïve attempts at understanding these people were both futile and frankly patronising. My feeble mental stamina is not worth an iota when compared to what they are going through. You can’t empathise either. Saying ‘That must have been difficult’ is an offensive statement to make. It is impossible for someone of my background to imagine what their experiences must feel like.

It wasn’t always like this though. There was always an intellectually challenging patient. One day I was trying to figure out why a man in front of me thought he was the Messiah. His indefatigable belief mixed with outrageous and plausible theories made me question myself and whether this man was indeed ‘The Awaited One’. It was that surreal an experience. You only really appreciate how blurry the definition of reality is once you speak to someone who can’t tell the difference.

So it was with relief that I finished the attachment. Safe and sound in a world where ‘normal’ was far easier to define and less guilty to be.

Band Review: Le Trio Joubran

A Palestinian fraternity, Le Trio Joubran have been a refreshing presence in the world of the oud. Their music is a product of three ouds and some percussion, forgoing any vocals. It is easy to place Le Trio Joubran with other Oud contemporaries such as Naseer Shamma, but their performances as a group give a different, deeper dimension to their music.

As their name suggests, the brothers founded and developed a fan base in France. It is unsurprising that they are more popular in the West, where there has been a growing interest in Middle-Eastern music such as that of Souad Massi. Samir invited his two younger brothers Wassim and Adnan to join him in France after his success as a solo artist. The birth of Le Trio Joubran was marked through the release of the album Randanain (2005).

Their repertoire is entirely instrumental, so it is more likely to expect Le Trio Joubran to feature as background music in a café rather than on the radio waves. This doesn’t do them any justice as their music is rich, stimulating and should be appreciated as solid classical compositions.

Le Trio Joubran’s triumph is best experienced through Masar, a track off their second Album; Majaz. It exemplifies the strength of the Arabic maqam, even though the track is essentially constructed on one repeated riff. It gradually progresses in rhythm, with a subtle introduction of percussion building up to a climax. The track is a celebration of the maqam, giving it the starring role in a sequence lacking any unnecessary extravagance. This unassuming composition is far more evocative in its simplicity than the Arab pop so heavily circulated in the East.

Their latest album, AsFar (meaning ‘Travels’) is a play on words. It is another chapter in the maturation of the group, with tracks such as Nawwarand Dawwar al Shams showing a lot more versatility of the trio with bolder use of percussion. Although more complex, they have successfully maintained the beauty of the maqam as their centre piece.

Oi Blad

There is a specific demographic in our community which is now looked upon with a blend of dismay and apathy. Discussing them, even in jest, is usually done with serious undertones and accompanied by expressions of consternation. We look at them through Orwellian lenses, attributing to their present life a dystopian disposition and predicting in their future failure. I am talking about the ‘Youth’ of our community.

“Who are these ‘yobbos’?”, you ask yourself. They forgo a belt to showcase their Armani boxers. They limp and waddle down the street, challenging evolution’s choice for our gait. Their only contribution to society is noise pollution and the dramatization of conspiracy theories. We all know that it is this generation in particular that has taken things too far. Being a rude-boy is one thing, but smoking in the car park is too much. “They’ll be drinking and clubbing next”, says an Uncle one day. Who are you kidding? They are probably down at Tiger Tiger as we speak. Our youth are a catastrophe.

We find it incredibly easy to condemn young people as disappointments. “They’re straying from our culture and the heritage we inherited from our forefathers” is the mantra widely used. It was also the same thing a father told his young son, Ibrahim, when he came up with this radical idea there was only one God.

I care not for the reasons behind this ‘rude-boyation’ of our youth. I see this as a natural progression of our culture as it is diluted over generations. What I do care for is how our community elders react. You can’t just shrug your shoulders and sigh with displeasure. You can’t just give up on them and pigeon-hole them as outcasts. You can’t just judge them without knowing them, without trying with them. There is definitely a culture of apathy and blame when it comes to our youth and it alienates them.

Doing the opposite and actively engaging them is what is needed. I don’t mean forcing them into futures they don’t want, or squeezing the rude-boy out of them. That only breeds rebels. It’s true that they want freedom. It is also true that they want the community to trust them in their practice of freedom. If we believed in our youth and had hope for them, then the tremulous journey that is adolescence will be less turbulent for both parties. They would always have a community to fall back on, and one they feel they respect, belong and adhere to.

In a few years time, The Salaam Centre will stand tall and proud in North Harrow. It will be the youth of today who will run and represent it. Don’t judge them before you have trusted them. They are our future, and therefore the embodiment of our hopes and aspirations.

My Iraqi Identity: A Nostalgic Nostalgia - Part 2

In Part 1 I introduced my neologism of a 'Nostalgic Nostalgia'. I like to think this is the major factor still tying me to my homeland, and the distinguishing variable between myself and my countrymen back home.

This train of thought started last week Sunday. I went with a couple of friends to watch 'Son of Babylon', an Iraqi movie directed by Al-Daradji. The plot followed a grandmother and her 12-year old grandson in search of his father who had disappeared under Saddam Hussein's regime in 1991. For me, the film was a harrowing but important experience. I walked into the screening room with a false understanding of my Iraqi 'pride' and 'patriotism'. I discovered that not only had I totally misunderstood the meaning of these words by patronising them with my blindness, but I walked out totally embarrassed that I had even considered myself a patriot at all.

It is this smoke-screen of Nostalgic Nostalgia that has dazed us second generation Iraqis abroad. We are duped into believing that just 'feeling' patriotic is enough to be Iraqi. We forget that our Self-Realisation of Iraq is an entirely abstract experience inherited from our parents, whilst Iraqis back home actually 'experience' patriotism by generating their own Self-Realisation.

It is this experience which defines whether one has a claim to Iraq. Son of Babylon detailed a journey of two dependants from one mass grave to the next. It was painful to watch a mother looking for her son amongst the piles of bones, still hoping to find a body she could bring home. What was even more painful though, was how useless I felt. I was forcefully coaxed out of the comfort-zone simulated by my nostalgic nostalgia and it wasn't nice. If you were to place me next to this grieving grandmother and then had to identify which of us was Iraqi... the answer would be obvious.

Saddam Hussein's legacy is patented by his inhumanity. His reign had a permanent stamp on the Iraqi people's Self-Realisation. Generations of Iraqis grew up with the cancer that was Saddam's brutality. It would eat away and take over their feelings for Iraq. You wouldn't be an Iraqi if you hadn't experienced Saddam Hussein.

Here I am, a fortunate escapee of Saddam Hussein. It is absolutely pathetic of me to say I am a patriotic Iraqi. This would place me on par with the Iraqis back home who genuinely suffered. Am I really equal in my experience of Iraq as this grandmother? Absolutely not. It is an insult to the people of Iraq to consider myself a patriotic Iraqi. I know nothing of the word.

I'm not saying I haven't suffered under Saddam Hussein's reign. Indeed, my family managed to escape the atrocities and the tyranny. My parents suffered when they were refugees, and worked hard to regain their former position in society. Throughout all this I was an oblivious child.

What I have suffered from is a confused identity. I am like a lion in the London Zoo; I have a primal instinct which I can't exercise because I'm in a strange land. I'm moping about in an environment I wasn't brought up to be in. I have this nostalgic nostalgia as my only foundation for nationality, and I can't apply it. I'm lost. Iraqis in Iraq are growing up with Iraq, whilst I am growing up with outdated, rotting and irrelevant bits of information as my sole source of Iraqiness. This I blame entirely on Saddam Hussein.

I don't think this is enough of an excuse to justify my being Iraqi. As it stands, my nationalistic tendency is patronising and offensive to those that have earned it back home. I have to accept that never in my life will I understand or feel Iraq as they have. I will always be the outsider, pampered and sheltered.

Thus, I have set myself an ultimatum: I either capitulate and assimilate completely into the UK as a British Muslim, or I go to Iraq and live there for some time, contributing to its growth and repair. Maybe by doing the latter I can finally atone for what has actually been a failure of identity. By contributing and living in Iraq... I will finally quench my nostalgic nostalgia and find a purpose for my under-used upbringing. I will finally have a chance at achieving true Self-Realisation.

It would be like... finally finding Home.