Author: Abez

  • A Letter from HF

    Assalamalaikum wa rahmatullahe wa barakatuhu everyone-
    Alhamdulilah we have some very good news to share.  Allah (SWT) is  insha-Allah blessing us with another child. The current expected date is set 2nd/3rd week of June.
    We are very happy about this, especially since we can now justify the minivan with flame stickers and an “R-type” sticker in the back. The kids will love another companion, and we’re pleased that our extensive collection of car seats will provide more value.
    I would be grateful if you could keep us in your duas- duas for our children and for their Islamic character, duas that they may become a source of comfort to us and a sadaqa jaariya. May  Allah (SWT) give all our children a character that He loves. Ameen.
    I know you may already be asking: Waleed, in all of this, how are you doing? I’m doing great, thanks for asking! And yes, so is Abez. She is a fantastic trooper and thanks  Allah (SWT) every day for this blessing.
    Jazak Allah Khair,
    Waleed
  • Randomly Random Ramblings -or- Anything but open my work email, hunh?

    So we make plans, but Allah is the best of planners, so the visa for Joy’s replacement won’t be ready until Joy herself gets back. So Khalid will only start going to school once she’s back again, because as his Case Manager said, there was no point in him coming for snack + playground to drink his juice and play and then go home again, especially without a shadow, because we didn’t want him to be reinforced in negative behavior patterns that he would most likely develop in a trained shadow’s absence.

    So we’ll stay home and play PBSkids.org and practice our handwriting in the mean time 🙂 Alhamdulillah, I know there’s a reason for everything so I don’t feel annoyed at the time lost. And the last thing I want is Khalid running amok in the class (and me hobbling behind him) while the teachers look on warily and then give him the boot after his three week trial is up.

    Also, Iman is lately into negotiating. She asked me for a piece of cake after she had already had one, I told her no. So she asked if she could share a piece of cake. Then she asked if she could borrow a piece of cake. Then she asked if she could buy a piece of cake. When it all failed, she grinned at me and said, “Momma, chokit?”

    No sweetie, no chocolate.

    It’s strange being one hand short at home. On a daily basis, we’re usually a party of 5- Me, Cindy, Joy, Khalid, and Iman- and I remember once shopping in Lulu Al Barsha and turning to look at my entourage- it looked like I had one shopping cart and one nanny per child. And you know, here in Dubai, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen it. I saw a woman with triplets and matching nannies last night. I used to scoff at mothers with nannies but now that I have two kids and limited mobility, I figure as long as they’re happy, well-paid, and earning a halal income, good for them. If a woman who lives in an extended family is allowed to have the grandma and aunties and cousins all pitch in and help without that making her less of a mother, then there’s no reason why hiring help (instead of just being related to it) should make you less of a mother either.

    (And besides, you don’t need a nanny to be a bad mother. There are lots of really bad mothers out there who do all the laundry and diapers and the emotional abuse themselves. Maybe if they had help they’d be less frazzled and more loving. AllahuAalim.)

    Heh- can you tell I still have a wee bit of existential egalitarian typically American guilt about needing help at home? Once upon a time, I was adamant about doing everything myself. My own mother refused to get help, even when we lived in Pakistan as children, and we only hired our first housekeeper when I was 20- long after my mother would have needed help with diapers and hair-pulling. This too was because both parents, as well as every single one of us siblings was working. Daddy and lil’Bro were running Chez Daddy, Momma (mine) was teaching English, I was teaching American accents to diplomats and Owlie was running a news agency. So a sweet young lady named Najma did the sweeping, mopping, and dusting, and because our Momma raised us right, she was a member of the family that my father still checks in on when he returns to Pakistan on an annual basis.

    But I digress. I used to feel guilty. Sometimes, I still do, but I’ve come to accept that help is a blessing from Allah as well as a test of my character as a Muslim, so I ask for help when I can’t get into the cabinets beneath the kitchen counter (you’d be amazed at how important a functioning knee is) but I don’t ask anyone to get me a glass of water. And my kids say please and thank you to Cindy and Joy and obey them- else suffer the Wrath of Momma.

    I never planned to have a housekeeper and a therapist on staff, but then I never planned to wreck my right knee and have a child with autism. And Allah is the best of planners.

  • The enemy within

    Rubaiyaat xx & xxi

    i-xix here

    He whispering, withdraws

    To divert you from your cause

    The snow-white lamb of ‘later’

    Has strangely wolf-like claws.

    ****

    He took the path of arrogance

    And insists you follow suit

    To plant the seed that grows the tree

    That blossoms rotten fruit.

  • Preventing Low Iman

    Preventing Low Iman

    It’s sneaking up on me again- low Iman.  And I don’t mean my novelty-sized daughter.  I mean my levels of faith, how alive my heart feels, how easily I wake up for Fajr and how hard I work to keep my mental jukebox clean and my thoughts of other people charitable.  It’s predictable, really.  In my case the smooth, downhill path takes some routine turns.

    First, I stop making dua consciously.  I figure I need to be quick and so I make it short, sweet, and mentally absent.

    Rabbana aatina fiddunia hasanatuawn wa fil aakhirati hasanatauwn wa aqina ‘azhaban-naar.  Ameen.

    Our Lord, grant for us in this world Good and in the next world Good, and protect us from the fire of hell.  Ameen.   I make dua on auto-pilot and rush off to do something “more urgent” and soon, the loss of concentration in my prayers follows.  It starts with a bit of mental wandering and gets so bad that I raise my hands for takbeer and greet the angels for tasleem and wander off knowing I’ve prayed only because my head is covered and I left my chair in the middle of the floor.

    And then the time-wasting starts-  crappy internet sites with top ten lists of information that add zero value to my existence as a human being. (Seventy years of TV catch-phrases, anyone?)

    And then the video games sneak in and I turn my eyeballs to glue pitting the tiny forces of my massive army against the pathetic forces of some other tiny army waging epic battles that lead to nothing gained and hours lost.

    And if you ask me when I find the time to do this, it’s now- when the kids and even HF are sleeping- when I should be asleep too, or at least working to clear the backlog of email that’s threatening me with a virtual avalanche.  I stay up late for no reason, delay my salah until I no longer feel like skirmishing, pray late, wake up groggy, and every day find myself an few inches deeper into mental muck and a few inches farther away from wanting to get out of it.  Because the farther I let myself wander from Ihsan and Taqwa, the harder my heart becomes and the harder it is to come back to it.

    Other things follow too – hate.

    Yep.  Hate.  I could be soft on myself and call it negative sentiment override, which is defined as seeing what someone else does in a primarily negative light even when it is neutral or even positive.  But whatever you call it, it’s the jaundiced, shaitaan-powered frame of mind that tells you when a person doesn’t call, it’s not because they forgot to, but because they don’t care to because the entire history of your relationship is all take and no give.  If they seem busy it’s because they don’t care to make time for you even when they have time for everyone else in the entire world.  If they stepped on your toes and said sorry, they would only be apologizing because they were rubbing it in.  That’s negative sentiment override, and it’s pure poison.  The only way to get rid of it is to beg Allah for help, because allowing it to remain kills your heart.

    I think it was Marx who called religion an opiate for the masses- an addictive drug to stifle the brain and drowse your way through the harsh realities of life without having to open your eyes to see them through.  Other people have called religion a crutch for those too weak to handle reality.  I tell you- religion is an antibiotic, a vaccine, a super-vitamin, and the only way to ensure good heart health.  Without Islam on my compass, I would be wandering hell-bent on time wasting, hating my fellow man, playing video games all night and snapping at my children all day.  You don’t want to see me without Islam.  I never even want to be me without Islam.  I go off course pretty regularly, but I still have a compass and Islam is still true North and Allah is my destination, whether I go to Him willingly or not.  I just need a bit of help getting back on track.

    So here, dear everybodies, for me moreso than you- is my list of things to help soften my heart and put my Iman back on track.

    NOT SURFING THE INTERNET– This is in caps.  This is important.  Using the internet is one thing, but surfing is a matter of aimlessly clicking from one stupid black hole of time-loss to another.  Surfing is the devil.  You know what I mean.

    Making dua with my eyes open and my brain on- I always thought it was funny how the major phone service provider in the UAE was called Etisalat- it shares the same root word as Salah- prayer- why?  Because they are both words that imply connection.   I need to make my dua a connection, a one-on-one conversation with God where I call upon Him in humility, hope, fear, and sincerity enough to say what I mean and mean what I say.  That’s always a powerful heart-softener for me, because once I get started, it’s like the levy breaks and all the pent-up fear, frustration and need just pours out.  It’s hard to describe how wonderful it feels to really pray- to break down before your Lord and ask to be built again.  It’s humbling and calming and exhilarating and it makes me feel alive after having a half-dead heart for so long.

    Paying attention to Salah: The wonderful thing about actually paying attention to Salah is that it becomes some sort of… religious experience.  Irony intended.  How many of us could call our Salah a religious experience, and how many other things do we call religious experiences instead?  One thing that helps for me is not using the short surahs from the very end of the Qur’an that we’re all taught as kids.  I know that Surah Ikhlas represents something as immense as the Oneness of Allah and His right to be worshipped, but I start from the first Qul and stop at the last Ahad without ever feeling the weight of those verses.  For me, the verses that have the most meaning and hold my attention best are those I learned as an adult because my understanding and appreciation of their message is more mature.  I recite lines that are close to my heart, that I learned during times of difficulty and stress, that bring me relief and when I repeat them, I remember what a comfort and what a blessing it was just to read them.

    (Verily, We have created man in toil. Surah Balad 90:4)

    (There is no soul but that it has over it a protector. Surah At-Tariq 86:4)

    Reading Quran: It’s sad, but when my Iman is low I find this the hardest thing to do.  Why?  Because I still struggle with reading the Arabic, but I recognize that much of the experience is lost if I only read the English.  So doing the right thing is too hard but doing the next best thing is no fun, so I end up doing nothing.  What I ought to do is recognize that one of shaitaan’s most powerful tool is laziness, and hit myself over the head with the Qur’an (reverently, of course) and then just start reading.  Once I start, I love it.  It’s getting started that’s hard.

    Using YouTube: There are some people for whom YouTube is a huge Fitna.  Alhamdulillah, I’m not one of them.  It is a relief and blessing and an immense kindness from Allah that I, who can get addicted to anything and distracted by reading about bacon-flavored mouthwash- find no such allure in YouTube, and my playlist is filled with things that comfort and inspire me, my ultimate favorite being this beautiful recitation of Surah Mutaffifin by Mishary Rashid Al Afasy:

    And then this one,

    Because I love the last part of the Surah that describes how, when the call is sounded on the Day of Judgment, man will flee from his brother, and his father and his mother, and his wife and children out of fear of his own account. It gives me the God-fearing goosebumps, it does. What can I say, Haq ka khauf ajab ghum hay. I don’t know much in Urdu, but I know this line from my Arabic teacher, who taught Owl and I years ago one sentence to separate the Letters of the Sun (Haroof Shams) from the Letters of the Moon (Haruf Qamar), and it’s composed of only Letters of the Moon. Loosely (and badly) translated, it means that Fear of Truth/God/Justice is an amazing/wonderful sadness.  So yeah, YouTube, heh.

    Write Something: It’s fairly obvious that I use my blog for catharsis, but I also really need it for reinforcing my Iman.  It’s said that the best way to learn something is to try and teach it to someone else, and in my case, the best way of remembering something is for me to tell someone else about it.  Plus, I like to write/do/create/color/sew/Photoshop- arts and crafts was my favorite activity in summer camp and when Khalid and Iman and I sit down to color, I’m looking forward to 96 crayons and some glitter as much as they are.  I just like to make things.  So when I feel down and dead, I like doing things that are creative.   And blogging is easier than writing a poem, so hence, this blog entry. :p

    See? I’m sounding more positive already. 🙂  Alhamdulillah.  My Iman may be low (and my daughter is short, too) but I have control over which direction I let it go in.  And recognizing that shaitaan has tons of seemingly harmless distractions can help me avoid them.  I don’t really ever *need* video games.  If my head is full of steam then I need to vent to Allah or work on solving my problems instead of inflicting destruction upon fake civilizations.  No one really needs to know about bacon flavored mouthwash or seventy years of TV tag lines, and if I’m stressed out and need to unwind, I have a thousand ways of doing so that don’t look like banana peels on the gravelly path to perdition.  So take that, Sid Meyer. :p

  • Out of the noses of babes

    Iman: momma, wook!   issa booger.

    Me: Yes dear, let’s get a tissue.

    Iman: I eat it?

    Me: No! Do not eat that!

    [Iman is startled by my reaction, and then understanding dawns on her]

    Iman: [nodding sagely] Iss berry spicy.

  • Sigh.

    Today is the end of day three without Khalid’s caregiver and therapist Joy, insert witty jokes about the lack of Joy in our lives here.

    Also, I don’t like email any more.  Or my phone.  Or the internet.  It all represents the constant inflow of work/requests/obligations that I am simply not equipped to handle without Joy on staff, and I am beginning to realize that in order to cope I may have to go partially AWOL from work.  Every time I open my inbox I see letters that needed urgent replies yesterday, work that’s overdue, follow-ups that I couldn’t make.  My RTM is an itemized list of so many pending tasks that the red flags are meaningless now.  I am frustrated, and the problem with being frustrated is that even if you do have five minutes to answer an email, you’re too frustrated to try.  It’s cyclical.

    And I’m tired.  And frustrated.

    And in the course of all this, my love, prayers, and admiration to all the autism mothers out there who DON’T have the benefit of trained caregivers, because you are braver, stronger, more patient women than I am.  You are also smarter than I am, because you’re probably not trying to launch a business and do consulting on the side.  You probably have your priorities straighter, and you might sleep better too.

    I know this entry is uncharacteristically depressing for me, but it’s been a tough three days.  Unless I put everything else on hold, I can’t give Khalid the attention he deserves.  But because business moves whether or not you do, I can’t.  But at the end of the day, I might as well, because I’m so far behind that things are becoming irrelevant.

    Sabr and Shukr.  Owl reminded me of Sabr and Shukr.  So I’ll take two of those.  And maybe, if I don’t hate my phone too much, you can call me in the morning.

  • Flying Solo: Khalid’s first day of school and other adventures

    Flying Solo: Khalid’s first day of school and other adventures

    So Joy- Khalid’s full-time caregiver and ABA therapist- is on vacation for a month as of yesterday, which was also Khalid’s first day of school, which was also the day that Iman fell down in the hallway and knocked loose and fractured one of her front teeth.

    This morning was our first day without Joy, as well as the first day that I attempted to run Khalid through his ABA program, as well as have a three-hour instructional design meeting for my ‘real’ job and then take Iman for an emergency dental appointment.

    The morning program was educational, in that I learned that it will take a whole lot more than her whiteboard markers to give me Joy’s superpowers.  The laminator chewed up my flash cards and spat them back out in a smelly, melted mess.  The kids got bored when I took too long to find the next program materials and Khalid knocked a cup of tea into a box of 96 crayons.  Why was the teacher drinking tea in class?  Because the teacher was a sleepy amateur, that’s why.

    The subsequent meeting was interesting, in that Iman sat in with the Business Development Manager and I to color and contribute her professional opinion on the course development- which was generally about butterflies, the beach, and where her marker went.  Also, she told the BDM that she was snotty.  And she was.

    The dental appointment went well in that there was little dentistry involved- Iman’s mouth needs three weeks to heal so that the tooth is no longer wobbly before they perform a root canal and remove the lower-half that is no longer viable.  (It cracked straight across)

    And now, Khalid’s first day of school.

    I think he may have had fun, but Joy and I were quite nervous, especially since Khalid is not really enrolled- he’s being observed for an hour a day, two to three times a week in the KG class to determine whether he can be there without causing massive disruption to the ‘normal’ kids.  I don’t remember kindergarten being that tense when I was a kid, but then the principal and school counselor probably weren’t both in the class to observe me.  And the teachers probably didn’t have the wary, anxious look of two women with 28 three and a half year olds who have just been handed the Unknown Special Needs Quantity X.  Khalid is a year older and a head taller than the other children.  His academic scores put him in second grade, but his verbal and social scores place him in nursery, so KG-1  is somewhere in the middle and our goal is to help bring his social and verbal scores up while maintaining his academic scores at home.

    He had to be interviewed to be let in.  We had to submit his psychological assessment, sign a legal disclaimer, take official responsibility to protect other students from him and answer questions about how loud, how often, how intensely and for what reasons he could freak out.  We spent three hours on the first day with the school counselor and the principal and the registrar, and while I am grateful, Alhamdulillah, and relieved that he’s being given a chance to go to a ‘normal’ school, my maternal hackles have been raised in indignation for Khalid.

    (He pinched Joy, will he pinch other children?)

    (The assessment mentions self-injury, can you tell us about that?)

    (Why are his academics so far ahead?  Why haven’t you been pushing his social and verbal instead?)

    [Gee, maybe he’s a classical case of autism?]

    (If you even think that he might be about to make noise, just take him out of the class.)

    I’m sure Khalid wasn’t offended, at least not by anything the staff said.  Instead, he was upset when he walked into the class and noticed that the letter C was missing from the alphabet lineup on the wall.  He asked where it was, noticed it on the center of the board, and attempted to put it back where it belonged.  We spent a few minutes gently distracting him away from the missing C (and some noise was involved) but then he noticed that the word Sunday was out of place in the days of the week lineup.  It was on another wall because it had a special schedule.  He tried to pull that down too.

    Other children were drinking juice, so he asked for one by writing out J- U- I- C- E with his finger in air-letters a foot tall.  You should have seen how fast Joy and I rushed to get him some.  He sat during snack-time eating his apple and drinking, reading every written word and chart on the wall from his seat at the Brown Bears table while other children chatted and fussed with their food and had the kind of conversations that kids in kindergarten do.  One little girl peed in her chair and was taken away crying.  One little boy got scolded by the teacher, and in turn, Khalid scolded the teacher.  I don’t think that went over well.

    The principal came in and asked Khalid how he was doing.  He answered ‘Fine!’ and Joy and I gave each other looks of desperate encouragement and relief.  When it was time to go out and play, he did a reasonable job of staying in line with the other kids as long as Joy and I were flanking him on both sides.  Khalid climbed and ran and went down the slides, Joy and I got a chance to relax.  But then it was time to go inside again, and Khalid has a hard time with transitions, so he sprinted down the hall out of protest and I had to chase him.

    When I finally caught him, we bumped into one of the staff members from the center that is managing his case, and to be honest, it was a breath of fresh air.  That lady, like other therapists and case managers, looked at Khalid like a miracle, a prodigy, a best-case scenario and the child that every mother is jealous of.  In the world of autism, this may be true- Khalid is making amazing progress, has manageable behavioural issues, and little to no aggression.  The director of the autism center calls him a star and a poster boy for ABA, but here in the world of normal kids, Khalid is a disruption, an anomaly, a little boy who can’t follow simple instructions and screams at adults if they press him for social interaction.   The teachers don’t beam at him and hug him and tickle him and engage with him, they sigh and keep a few feet back.

    This morning Khalid had a cough, so I texted the school counselor to let her know we would stay home.  She texted back saying let him stay home for the rest of week, and she would see him after the weekend.   I know she meant well.  I know there’s no law saying they have to take Khalid.  I know their teachers don’t get paid extra for having a unpredictable, neurologically challenged little boy in the midst of their crying, peeing, nose-picking kindergarteners.  They have enough to handle without throwing Khalid into the mix.  But they could, at least, smile.  Just a little.  And watch with patient kindness instead of stern observation, clipboards in hand.  And say things like ‘Don’t worry if he makes a little noise, the normal kids make quite a fuss too…’ instead of  ‘If you even think he’s going to make noise…’

    Even Joy, who’s  been doing school shadowing and ABA therapy for ten years, was put off by the attitude.  Or lack of warmth, rather.  There’s willingness, but not much warmth.  And I feel like saying ‘take your stupid school, Khalid doesn’t need it!’ but the truth is, he does.  And there are only a handful of schools in the entire country that are willing to consider letting him in, and I should be grateful that there’s one so close to our house and already working with his therapy center to help facilitate inclusion.  And plus, when the kids were supposed to be putting their heads down for some quiet time, and Khalid was doing some worksheets on his own to bide the time, one little boy raised his head, peeked over at Khalid’s work (Write the number twelve, then find which groups of pictures have twelve items in them, and circle them) and exclaimed, “How did you do that!?”  And Joy and I beamed with pride, but then it was time for the kids to go to their Arabic class and it was time for us to go home.  Because the management believes that Khalid would not be prepared to learn one Arabic letter and one color in Arabic per week, even though I told them he already knows the alphabet in Arabic.

    (And he can count to one hundred)

    (And he knows his shapes and colors)

    (And he can add numbers from 1 to 10)

    (And he can read using phonics)

    (And he is computer literate, knows how to type, operate a DVD player, use Google Chrome, YouTube, Starfall.com, and PBSkids.org)

    It took me some time to accept Khalid’s autism, so I should cut other people slack too.  I know.  I need to remind myself that they don’t know where he’s been to appreciate how far he’s come.  And there’s nothing amazing about a him defending himself from interacting with the teachers or not yet speaking in full sentences.   And yelling at anyone who raises their voice in his vicinity is rather disruptive to class.  I’ll admit that too.  But he’s my son- my amazing, unusual, awkward, shy, silly, academically brilliant but socially disabled son and I think he’s the most miraculous child in the world- and anyone who thinks poorly of him because of his disability is going to have a very hard time getting out of my bad books.

    But I’m a grown up, so I can’t be defensive, I have to be the most outgoing, outspoken, cheerful, useful, special-needs shadow mom that KG has ever seen, and I have to support these two overworked young ladies and help teach them how to manage my ABA poster-boy.

    (And if the thumb tacks should go missing and unexpectedly end up on someone’s chair, I’ll try to keep Khalid from reacting to the noise of their satisfyingly shrill surprise.)

    By Momma, the end.

  • An Abaya Built for Two

    So Iman has this routine that’s specific to us praying at home, which generally involves getting on all fours, crawling between my feet and then standing up inside of my Abaya.  Because I use a chair for half of my salah (for sajda, specifically) the space between my feet exists for the entire prayer, although previously, Iman has thought of better things to do halfway through salah and crawled out from underneath of my clothes and then run away to do something really worthwhile, like pinch her brother.

    Today though, she almost made it through all four rakat of Isha.

    Because she brought a book with her.

    About dinosaurs.

    And she read it.

    From beneath my Abaya.

    Alhamdulillillahi Rabbil ‘Alameen….

    Momma, di-no-sho!

  • Where’s my lawyer, waaaaaanh!

    (Iman, laying in her bed and protesting the gross injustices that are forcing her to be subjected to an obvious violation of her civil rights – a nap – resorts to bargaining.)

    Mommmaaaaa!

    — (no response from Momma)

    I want coffee!

    I want milk!

    I want water!

    (I offer her a sippy cup of water, she refuses it)

    I want masjid!

    My nose hurts, ow!

    I want wake up!

    (Iman falls asleep)

  • *urp*

    I don’t know why I’m even blogging right now, except that occupying my mind helps distract me from the state my body is in right now. I slept until 1pm today. Straight- or nearly straight- through from ten pm the night before. And I woke up in a pile of toys and books and vaguely remember Khalid and Iman coming to jump on me and kiss me and yell MOMMA YAKE UP! enthusiastically, but then Joy and Cindy very kindly removed them from my dream and sleep continued.

    And here I am at 8:45 pm, HF is putting Khalid to bed, Iman is already asleep, and my stomach is churning itself in bright green waves of turbulence. On the plus side though, I did manage to get out of the house today and met not one, but two nice people.

    Nice Lady No. 1 gently tapped me on the shoulder while I was morosely nursing a cup of coffee outside of the Ikea in Festival City. She had a free spot at her table, and invited me to join her and her adorable hot-dog eating six year old. May Allah bless her for her kindness, we chatted for about twenty minutes and I even almost forgot how sick I was feeling.

    Nice Lady No. 2 is, apparently, a neighbor from up the street who Joy introduced me to, and she sat with me in the park this afternoon while we let the kids have their daily run-amok. Warm late-afternoon sun, sounds of children laughing, nice conversation- it was another mini-vacation from being sick and exhausted, and I think I may be beginning to understand why it is such a blessed act in Islam to visit the sick. Conversation helps. Thinking about something other than how toxic you feel helps take your mind off how toxic you feel. I need to remember how good it felt to talk to someone and why I must remember to pass this on to someone else if I get the chance.

    And of course, there’s HF- who helped me make dinner, and yesterday ordered lunch, and is putting Khalid to sleep right now, and who gently wakes me up for Fajr after having turned the water heater on first, who covers me up when I fall asleep in an arm chair and goes out of his way after work to buy Khalid’s hypo-allergenic breakfast cereal.

    May Allah bless you, HF, and Nice Ladies No. 1 and No. 2. May the kindness you’ve shown me be returned to you a hundred fold in this life and the next.

  • Beware of Panda Chinese in the Sharjah City Center

    Day four of noodle-induced food poisoning. Being brave and having an egg for breakfast. If anyone needs me, I’ll be laying down on this soft, soft keyboard.

    *urp*

  • Why I feel sorry for Spiderman

    Why I feel sorry for Spiderman

    So there are special needs school in Bahrain that do a wonderful job of catering to children with Down’s Syndrome and CP, but not a single ABA therapy center for children with autism on the whole island. There is one doctor qualified to diagnose for autism, but he doesn’t, because he feels he is cheating parents by presenting their children with a plan of action that no one in the entire country can implement. We met over forty parents desperate for a diagnosis, and people begging us to open up as soon as possible because there were no treatment options for their children and time was ticking. Bahrain was eye-opening, welcoming, depressing, and amazing in so many ways.

    And Pakistan- wow, I didn’t even talk about Pakistan. People are pretty much in the same boat. It doesn’t matter whether you’re rich or poor, if you have a child with autism, you’re on your own.

    I go to sleep at night with half-baked ideas churning in my head for how the heck ABA therapy can be brought to Pakistan and Bahrain. We have someone in Bahrain who is well-placed to become a local partner, but no one in Pakistan yet. And when I think of the thousands and thousands of children never getting diagnosis or help, and the stress their parents are in, and the paralyzing fear of watching a non-verbal, completely dependent child grow into a non-verbal, completely dependent adults with no way of earning a living, caring for themselves, or even being able to feed themselves- I get really, really overwhelmed.

    And being unable to separate my professional self from the parental self, it just makes me want to cry. I can’t help everyone. I can’t save the world. I’m one single parent and I’m starting with four ABA therapists and I’m starting in Dubai and it may be a very, very long time before I can do anything in Pakistan. The only thing I can think of is appealing to wealthy overseas Pakistanis to help sponsor the training of Pakistanis so that we begin to grow a community of local therapists, because the cost of importing therapists to Pakistan (as well as Bahrain, btw) is well beyond unsustainable. The distance between a Dubai salary and a Pakistan salary can be measured in light years. People spend, for a nice family dinner one night in Dubai, the amount that a middle class family in Pakistan will earn in a whole month.

    I feel sorry for superheroes sometimes. If he were real, I’m sure Spiderman would lie awake at night (when, and if he attempted to sleep) beating himself up about crimes that happened two blocks away from another crime that he was busy preventing, because he can only be in one place in one time, and he can’t save everyone from everything.

    But here is where I have an advantage over Spiderman. I believe in Allah. And I know that he will only ask me about what I was capable of doing, and that the ultimate responsibility and care and guardianship of every one of those non-verbal, completely dependent children is with Allah. Whatever their situation is, whatever their parents and families are going through, Allah has promised that it isn’t more than they can handle, and the entire purpose of hardship is purification, fortification, and evolution of the soul. And I remember how proud one mother in Bahrain was as she told me that her blind, autistic, non-verbal daughter was inventing her own sign language. She was beaming, and I could tell from the look in her eyes that there was joy, not bitterness.

    If Spiderman were real, he would have to believe in God, and he would have to believe in a Day of Judgment where all the muggers, murderers, rapists, child molesters who managed to get away with crimes while he slept were given their due. If he didn’t, he would have gone mad out of the sheer frustration and futility. He would be a man with his back against a tidal wave, being able to protect only the sand under his feet, if at all.

    I am so, so grateful, SubhanAllahi wabihamdihi!- to know that the world has a Caretaker, and He’s not expecting me to do His job. I can help my fellow man, my fellow autism parents, the children that I think of like my own beautiful and silly son, and it is a benefit to myself and a purpose for my life, but it is not the filling in of any sort of gap. Allah leaves no gaps. Everything happens for a reason, and His reasons are always good ones.

    So, if you happen to a rich Pakistani or Bahraini, or a human being who loves other human beings, and you’re interested in helping train ABA therapists for families who would otherwise not have access to ABA therapy for Allah knows how long, email me. Or leave a comment. Or just make dua. We can’t save the world, but there’s a little bit of sand in the palm of my hand, and if you can help me, we can try to keep it from getting washed away.

  • Fox Host: All Terrorists are Muslim

    Source

    Rick Sanchez was fired by CNN this month within 24 hours of his sort-of suggesting that Jews run the media.

    Compare the response to that episode to the non-reaction of the media today after Fox & Friends co-host Brian Kilmeade said, “Not all Muslims are terrorists, all terrorists are Muslim.”

    Kilmeade’s statement is both inaccurate and prejudiced, in a way that’s more clear-cut than Sanchez’s semi-coherent rant.

    But it’s been instructive to watch how Kilmeade’s comments haven’t created much of a stir at all. Maybe it’s because this sort of thing is expected from Fox. Or maybe it’s because you can say a lot of bad stuff about Muslims with impunity.

    Just in case we’re wrong about this, we’ve put in a request with Fox (and reached out to Kilmeade on Twitter) to see if the network has any comment about the appropriateness of his rhetoric.

    Abez sez sigh.

  • Would you like fries with that?

    Me: Iman, what would you like for breakfast?

    Iman: Hmm?

    Me: What would you like for breakfast? Would you like some cereal?

    Iman: No. I wanna helicopter.

    Khalid: Hummus!

  • And later he told me that he had a race car bed, but I don’t think I believe him.

    Sometimes your eyes are sleepy but your brain is awake. And that’s why it’s past midnight and I’m on the computer. (Sorry HF, I tried!) And I will probably just put in half an hour of trying to figure out my shiny new wordpress theme at AutismUAE.com, but first, something I want to remember.

    Khalid and I went to Ace Hardware today. We were browsing through the garden section, and Khalid found a swing and sat down. So I sat down next to him and we starting swinging. Then he laid down and put his head in my lap. And I looked and him and said “Hey, what’s your name?”

    And he said Khalid.

    And I pointed to myself and asked, “What’s my name?”

    And he answered the same- Khalid.

    And I said “No, my name is Momma!”

    And he looked at me and said “Momma. I know.”

    And that was amazing. You may not understand why. And I don’t think I can explain it. But I don’t want to forget it. SubhanAllahi wa bihamdihi.

  • 4am: What, us? Nocturnal?

    On the bright side, if Khalid didn’t wake up in the middle of the night, I might never blog. On the annoying side, it’s 4 in the morning and he’s been up since 1:30, jumping, rolling, climbing, and lavishing WWF-style affection (half-nelsons, not pandas) on his stubborn “WE ARE STAYING IN BED!” momma.

    This is how it works. Joy puts Khalid to bed by eight o’clock. HF and I get to bed by around 11, realistically speaking. Khalid starts thrashing and kicking and whining by around midnight, and I wake up and pat him and he goes back to sleep. I fall asleep again and am woken abruptly an hour or so later by a 45 pounds of kisses and head-butts and elbows and knees and pinching- he likes pinching. He doesn’t do it out of malice, he does it out of love, and if I’m asleep (or not awake enough to defend myself) he goes to town with it and so in addition to being lovingly jumped on, I’m also adoringly subjected to severe irritation. I wish I was more patient in my sleep. Also, that someone made pinch-proof pajamas. I have ideas- a single head-to foot suit made out of two layers of quilted flannel. Like a giant potholder. *nodnodnodyawn*

    But I’m up, Alhamdulillah, so I might as well make the most of it and do a proper update. We picked our first therapist, but we couldn’t hire him because he had an immigration ban due to having had Hep B in 1992 (immigration can be rather strict about this) so he’s going back home on Saturday, poor guy. We’re screening other therapists and need to pick at least four by… wow. I just forgot what I was doing and answered work email for forty minutes. Right. By next week. We need to have two picked immediately and all four picked asap. Hiring the fifth would be good, but should wait just to make sure we have that many parents ready to go as soon as we can provide them. Because I’m operating as close to cost as I can in the pursuit of making things affordable, we have to be very precise about scheduling. I can’t afford to hire therapists who haven’t been placed yet, so inevitably, the parents say yes, and then they wait a few weeks while I get the therapist. I wish the process was quicker, but I’m a startup and let’s see how this works, InshaAllah.

    But I don’t want to talk work. I live, eat, even sleep in AutismUAE right now. The other day, when Khalid was awake all night (again) my half-asleep brain was angry at him because every time he climbed in and out of my bed, he was using up one of my employee visas! And then a few nights later, I invited him into my bed because I thought we needed a receptionist for the office. :s

    But right, NO WORK!

    So, I was stealing a few minutes to relax in bed this evening when Iman discovered me laying down in the dark. She climbed up next to me and said Momma, I wanna story!

    So I told her to bring me a book, and I covered my eyes with my arm and hoped she would forget what she went to go get. But she came back with The Hungry Caterpillar, and instead of handing it to me, opened it up and started to read to me.

    Momma wook, a strawberry!
    Turnna page!
    Whereza strawberry milkshake?
    All gone, a butterfwy!
    The End!

    And then she looked at the wall and said Momma, it’s a eight o nine o cwock!
    (It was six)
    Momma sleep! Close eyes!
    (she poked me in the eyes to make sure they were closed)
    Then, she gently stroked my face and hummed, and after a few seconds, kissed me gently on the forehead.
    Then she whispered night-night and slipped off the bed and tip-toed out of the room.

    Sometimes you don’t know whether to laugh or cry, but in this case, I could happily have done both, Alhamdulillah. 🙂 I burst out laughing and Iman, realizing that something fun was happening, ran back into the room and jumped on the bed and we had a hug and a nice roll-about in bed. Khalid heard the fun and joined us, and I ended up feeling refreshed and awake and happy without even having snuck in a nap. 🙂 Children are such a blessing, SubhanAllah, and I would call it magic except that magic does not explain the thousands of mercies that Allah gives us through our offspring, their ability to make us feel alive and loved being just one of them.

    I’m also amazed by how quickly Iman and Khalid pick up my behavior and speech patterns, with Iman putting me to sleep and Khalid opening up the refrigerator and parroting the “Hmm, let’s see…” that I didn’t even realize I said until both children started saying it too!

    Ah, it’s 5:22 and time to pray Fajr. Maybe we’ll even go to sleep. One things we’re definitely not doing today though, is going to work. Again. But on the plus side, the other guy cancelled the meeting first, and I’m not happy that an already overdue project will be further delayed, but I am relieved that I’ll be able to get some sleep before my second meeting in the afternoon. Now if only the car hadn’t died and was being towed to the mechanic, I might be able to make it to that one too. SubhanAllah. 🙂

  • Letter to my boss

    Hi D, R-

    Am sorry to say that Khalid has been up all night for reasons known only unto him, so I will be unable to accompany HF into work today, howsoever much I was looking forward to a producitve and focused day of work that didn’t involve legos or people under the age of 23.

    -Abez

  • Choo-choo?

    Once upon a time there was a little engine who thought it could. And one day it decided to take on a few extra cars and take them over a big hill. It started out nice and slow and was chugging along (I think I can, I think I can!) and it slid back a few times but was still chugging away, and then one day, a powerful locomotive train appeared behind it and said ‘Hey, are you taking those cars over the hill?’ and the little engine said ‘Well, I’m trying to!’

    And so the locomotive hitched itself to the little choo choo and floored the engine and the little engine suddenly found itself screaming up the hill with it’s cars practically streaming behind it, and the little engine went ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!’

    And that is the story of how AutismUAE, with business license barely applied for and website not yet updated, is receiving phone calls from parents who want their therapists yesterday and finalizing the itinerary for a tour of the GCC, the first trip of which will be in just two weeks. :s

    My little choo-choo is being helped along by Stepping Stones Center for Autistic Spectrum Disorders, an organisation with four offices in three countries and a wonderful director who is excited about making ABA treatment affordable for kids in the entire GCC. And Pakistan. And any other country where the parents are willing to come to Dubai once a month for case management meetings. That’s all that’s required. AutismUAE will give you a therapist, Stepping Stones will give you a program and put a psychologist in charge of your child’s case, and you check back in with us once a month to make sure that everyone- child, therapist, parents- is doing well.

    And the little engine that could looked at the proposal, and the fact that it had the word ‘Global’ written on it, and then it felt the sudden urge for a warm fluffy blanket and a cup of soup and a tiny cottage somewhere to enjoy them in.

    Not that I’m not excited, I’m very excited. But I am nervous, over-busy, missing deadlines, behind in my “real job,” and learning much more about time management than I ever wanted to. Case in point: When was the last time my blog was updated? If I were to create a list of ‘work’ that I enjoy, I would put my blog at the top and the real job at the bottom. AutismUAE would be second and third would be Muslim Matters, though they could easily tie for second place. It would look like this:

    1. Blog
    2. AutismUAE
    3. Muslim Matters
    4. Real Job

    Compare that to the list of things that are receiving top priority, which looks like this:

    1. AutismUAE
    2. Real Job
    3. Muslim Matters
    4. Blog

    Even blogging right now makes me feel guilty, because I can see the number of unread messages in my gmail tab and I know that none of them are fluff and all of them are important. But I have to stop and breathe and think. And sometimes, I even have to write. Right now, as I sit here, Iman is determinedly putting one-dirham coins into my pockets, and with each one, singing out, “Here you go Momma!” And yesterday, when we asked Khalid what he wanted for lunch, he thought about it and said ‘Big burger!’ and we asked him how many and he said “-one- uh- ten burger!” and we had a beautiful laugh, and for lunch, Khalid had many tiny burgers instead of one big one.

    And Iman’s back with a 25 fil coin and one US penny, and I should probably check where my purse is and where my two and a half year old is getting loose change. And Khalid and Iman have started to have arguments, which is amazing in terms of Khalid’s development, though infuriating from a parenting perspective. Iman and Khalid can be strapped into their individual car seats, sitting in silence, and Khalid will point to Iman and say, Iman! Stop Crying!

    And Iman will defensively reply Iman not crying! Iman talking!

    And Khalid will insist, Iman crying! Iman stop crying!

    And then Iman will escalate and yell back- Iman not crying! Iman talking!

    And Khalid will say No crying! No crying!

    And of course, Iman will reply Iman not crying! but by this point, she will be crying.

    One day passes beautifully, chaotically, unexpectedly and predictably into another, and before I know it I have 37 unread emails and a tour of the GCC. And I haven’t even printed my business cards.

    And before you think I’m in over my head or I’m complaining (yes, I’m talking to myself) I am not complaining, I do not need to be rescued, and I am not going to give up without a fight. The express train of Stepping Stones is a blessing, because once upon a time my client base was zero, and now, in a space of three weeks, it’s international. I asked Allah, I prayed and said Dear God, if AutismUAE is the right thing to do then make it easy for me, and lo and behold, I’ve skipped over the problem of too few clients and jumped right into too many. I’ve been partnered with an international service provider before I’m even a licensed business, and just last night I had a phone call from a mother who said “We’re waiting please, when will the therapist get here?”

    And none of this is from me, all of this is a blessing from Allah. Opportunities have appeared out of nowhere to land neatly in my hands. Now all I have to do is say Alhamdulillah, roll up my sleeves, and get to work.

    I think I can, I think I can.

    Choo-choo!

  • Today is not that day.

    One day, when I’m a grown up, I’m going to go to sleep at night at wake up in the morning.

    Khalid woke up at 3:45. And Iman woke up at four. So it’s a party. Hooray! 😀

  • 2am again, or, Why blogging in stream of consciousness should be done in full consciousness

    SubhanAllah.  It’s 2 am again.   It turns out that the reason why Khalid has been cranky, fevery, and screamy all night for the past four nights is because he has a throat infection.

    This is the fourth all-nighter that Khalid and I are pulling in the past four days.  And I think I neglected to mention that he got his hand caught in an elevator earlier this week.  An area of skin about the size of a quarter was scraped off from his right hand, and despite our attempts to keep it clean and well-bandaged, it turned gooey and yellow by the next day, and the fever immediately followed.  So that’s when we took him to the ER at 2 in the morning.

    Did I mention that we were in the ER earlier this week.  It was at 2 in the morning.  The doctor looked at his finger.  But apparently, not at Khalid’s throat.

    Today we saw the doctor again, because the finger was getting better but the fever was getting worse.  The doctor took a look at Khalid’s finger as well as Khalid’s throat, and prescribed antibiotics.

    Now, I’m pretty sure that even parents with neurotypical children have to battle their kids into taking the antibiotics, otherwise they wouldn’t be camouflaged with strawberry flavor and a pleasant fruity smell.  With our collective powers combined, Joy, HF, and I begged, cajoled, bribed, attempted to coerce, and then eventually forced the antibiotics into Khalid’s mouth for two of his three doses for the day.  You can guess how that went.  By the time we had all had enough, Khalid needed hosing down, the sofas needed wiping off, and HF’s beard had a pleasant fruity smell.   I sincerely hope that of the 10ml we put into Khalid’s mouth, at least 5 made it down.

    I hope, InshaAllah, that Khalid is feeling better by tomorrow.  My work productivity is zero, my email response time has shot up to one week , my brain feels like tofu, and I’m sure Khalid’s tired of waking up and screaming in the middle of the night.  Poor thing.  When he woke up two hours ago (midnight) HF and I had just gone to bed, and neither of us had fallen asleep yet.  HF and I calmed him down and lay in bed hoping he would fall back asleep.  HF eventually dozed off, but Khalid’s eyes remained open.  I tried to fall asleep, and Khalid did a commendable job of staying in bed for over an hour, but after that, he’d had enough.

    He got into my bed and took the pillow out from under my head.  Then, he threw it.  Then, he unwrapped the blanket from around me and threw that off as well.  Next, he took me by the hand and started to pull.  When that failed to get a response (I was pretending to be asleep) he took my head in both hands and began pulling.  And then he said…

    Wemonade.

    So here we are.  Khalid is drinking wemonade and watching Super Why.  There’s an hour and half before it’s time for me to wake up (heh) and make suhoor, so I’m attempting to fill it with productivity.  After I’m done typing this mishmash of an update, I’ll answer some work email, attempt to finish a presentation on customer pyramids (BLAH!), and maybe sneak some of the cold pizza in the refrigerator.  Don’t ask me about the cold breadsticks.  They didn’t make it past 2:15.

    It’s amazing how little we control our own lives.  I mean this in a good way.  No matter how much I intend, attempt, and fight for going to bed on time so I can wake up and stay up from Fajr, Allah has other plans for me. 🙂  This week, we’re on the night shift.  Maybe when Khalid feels better our schedule will return to normal, but for now I can’t be sore about being nocturnal, despite how much it exhausts me and hamstrings my productivity.  There are far worse things in the world.  Alhamdulillah. 🙂

    Cold pizza, anyone?

  • It finally happened…

    It was bound to happen at least once this Ramadan, though I was hoping it wouldn’t happen at all- HF and I did it this morning- we slept through suhoor and Fajr both.  Not only did we miss Fajr prayer, we also missed the pre-dawn food and water that we’ve been heavily relying on for these 15 hour fasts in 40+ C heat.  That’s 104 F for those of you who don’t think in Celcius.  Yesterday that car told me it was 48.  Then, I burned my fingers on the steering wheel.   I believe the car.

    SubhanAllah, what a blessing suhoor is.  For this Ramadan, HF and I have been starting our day with suhoor- not just waking up, eating, and praying, but getting dressed and going to work.  HF goes to his office, I open my laptop and clock in- I work from home- and then we stay up until the afternoon.  I take a nap at around 1 pm, HF naps when he gets back from the office at around 3.  Then we break our fast with dinner, pray, hang out a bit, pray again, and then go to bed.

    When HF suggested this schedule before Ramadan, I was reluctant to try it.  In fact, he’s been suggesting we wake up at Fajr, nap in the day, and  go to bed after Isha for quite a while, but I resisted because I believed that it wouldn’t be enough sleep for me and I would be exhausted.  In actuality, I’m loving the Fajr to Isha schedule.  Yes, it puts a bit of a dent in my social life, but I don’t have much of one anyone anyway, and I don’t want much of one in Ramadan.  I’m not big on social iftars.  The variety of foods tricks me into overeating through curiosity, and then we don’t get home until 11, which makes waking up again at 3:45 quite a challenge.  That’s exactly what happened yesterday.  We had a lovely time, but we ate too much, stayed up too late, and messed up our schedules for the next day.  Considering that Ramadan only comes once a year, I can’t say it was worth it.  Even if there was caramel custard.  :p

    So today, I’m hungry.  SubhanAllah, I’m not complaining. I’m reminding myself what a blessing food and drink are, and how kind of Allah it was to make suhoor part of the fast.  I’m also reminding us all that there are people in Pakistan right now who are fasting without suhoor and breaking their fasts without food.

    There are 35 minutes left until iftar, and the kitchen is exuding the fragrances of haleem and biryani- I do batch-cooking in Ramadan so that I don’t have to cook every day.  My stomach is turning itself in knots, and my mouth has that gluey feeling.  May Allah increase us all in patience, and help us gain control over our physical urges to put our spiritual selves first.  May Allah feed those who are hungry, give drink to those who are thirsty, and increase us all in gratitude for His favors.  Ameen. 🙂

    So, who wants some pizza in their pocket?  :p

  • A culmination of hope and fear- AutismUAE.com

    A culmination of hope and fear- AutismUAE.com

    I’m about to do one of the scariest things I have done in my entire life.  On purpose I mean.   I’m scraping together all my savings, which isn’t much and is quite slow to recover, and I am buying a business license.  I am opening a business to help provide affordable autism therapy and case management support for children in the GCC, and maybe even Pakistan if anyone from there asks.

    I feel nervous just writing this, because making it public means I can’t go back.  As if it isn’t public already, I had my first meeting today with an autism center here in Dubai to draft an agreement so we can work together.  They will provide case management services and I will provide live-in therapists for families whose children need ABA therapy, school shadowing, or full-time care.   I began laying the groundwork for this almost a year ago when I bought the domain- AutismUAE.com.  Since then I’ve only managed to occasionally populate it with autism news, because I’ve been afraid to carry it forward as well too busy with work to pursue the business plan seriously.  Basically, I had been waiting to have the time for AutismUAE.  Now, I understand that I have to make the time, and I will have to quit some of my design clients in order to focus on its development.

    I’ll be losing a source of income as well as digging a huge hole to pour money into.  I’m hoping that money will be the seed for something that grows into something great, but I’m a bit of a timid gardener.  I’m worried- not only because I will be financially bound to maintain the cost of my business license, but I will also be responsible for the health, welfare, safety and security of ABA therapists who could be dispatched anywhere, depending on where there is a family in need.   As an employer and a Muslim, I need to make sure their contracts are equitable, that their working conditions are safe, that they are treated with dignity and respect when so many ‘domestic employees’ in the world are treated like animals.  I have to make very, very sure that these therapists- who hold bachelors degrees in psychology and special education and occupational therapy are treated with the importance that they maintain in the child’s future.  I have lots of faith in God but little faith in mankind in general.  Even Joy, Khalid’s therapist, has spent over two months in the low-budget prison that is deportation because her previous employer was unhappy with her decision to move to another family (us) and dropped her off at the police station a day before her flight to Dubai with nothing but the clothes on her back.

    She basically disappeared- her phone was taken away, we had no idea where she was, even her clothes were stolen.  She lived in a crowded penal facility with almost a hundred other women who ate meager rations and divided themselves along racial lines, forming violent gangs in the desperate bid for self-preservation.  And this isn’t prison, it’s deportation.  Think Mad Max and anarchy, but with women crying themselves to sleep each night and living like ghosts because some official forgot their case and they have no way of contacting their families or reminding the world that they’re still in there.

    And that is exactly what I don’t want to happen to my therapists, my people.  I haven’t even hired them yet, but already I’m shaking at the thought of being asked by Allah what I did to protect them, whether I made sure they were going to families that were safe.  I am relieved, extremely relieved, that at the meeting with the other autism center the director agreed to the term that I felt was most important- that if the families should mistreat or neglect my therapists, that all services with the family, from both my organisation and hers, would be terminated, and the family would be blacklisted.  There are limited resources in the UAE- the other center is one of only two credible ABA therapy providers in the UAE, and if you want your child to have a future, then you better make sure you treat your therapist with respect and honor your contract.

    In an autism therapy center where the visas are with the company and the therapists live in their own homes, there is very little danger of abuse.  They go home when their hours are over and if they have problems, the company is legally bound to honor all exit clauses.  In the case of a private visa, the sponsor is unaccountable, and the employees are strangers in a strange land, with no shelter except in the house of their employer.  Which is why domestic workers the world over are so badly abused- there is no government authority to protect them, and they become prisoners in their employer’s homes without phone or internet access, and often without wages for months at a time.  Sometimes even without food.

    May Allah protect us all from such evil, such injustice from one human to another, and hear the prayers of the oppressed against their oppressors.

    Scary.  It’s so scary that I convince myself to abandon the entire business idea at least twice a week.  I tell myself that I don’t need this accountability, this terror of being responsible for people that I can’t see, this nagging fear that something will happen to someone that I was responsible for, and they’ll be hurt or abused, or thrown into deportation where people lose their mind.  But then Khalid climbs into my lap and gives me a kiss.  Or asks to hold my hand.  Or smiles proudly because he can add two plus three and he knows he got the answer right.  And the cause of this progress is Allah, the Most Merciful, but the catalyst for this progress is Joy.  She is there in the background, prompting, teaching, guiding Khalid through his program, working with him twelve hours a day with patience and epic perseverance- when Khalid is having a melt-down, it’s her he pinches and hits, because the principles of our behavioral intervention say I should walk away, and Joy should walk Khalid to the corner until he calms down.

    I thank Allah for Joy, and I wish every family who needed someone like her could afford to have her in their lives.  And when I have the ability to make that possible for children throughout the Gulf, it’s selfish of me to not to.  I want for other families what I have myself- I want for their children what I want for mine- a future.

    And I know what I don’t want- I don’t want children to be left behind because their parents don’t make more than twenty thousand dirhams a month, which is around 5,500 US dollars- and that’s how much families spend on average for a moderate ABA therapy regime.  That’s moderate.  Therapy starts at 50 dollars an hour, because it’s a highly specialized, one-on-one teaching model that requires repetition, repetition, repetition.  A good ABA program is 40 hours a week.

    Forty hours a week, a fifty dollars an hour.  You do the math.  You tell me whether only rich people have autistic children.  And then tell me whether only their kids deserve a chance to learn their own names.

    We switched autism centers recently, and it wasn’t actually by choice.  We were failing to meet a ten-hour a week minimum for ABA therapy, and were only going for an hour a week for Joy to check-in with a senior therapist for any questions she may have had.  We also saw the Case Manager- a behavioral psychologist- only on a quarterly basis- but because we had Joy at home giving Khalid ten hours a day, we were making phenomenal progress.   Khalid didn’t need any more center-based therapy because he was getting all the intensive therapy he needed at home.  And to be honest, we couldn’t afford to pay both Joy and the center’s ten hours.  And I told the director very flatly- that if it came to a choice between Joy or the center, I would pick Joy, because my obligation as a parent was to Khalid, and to getting the most treatment for him possible with the limited resources I have.  And I asked if they would keep us anyway.

    And they said no.

    And I asked what parents did if they couldn’t afford the ten hour minimum.

    And the director said “They never begin services with us.”

    I wrote her and the case manager an email asking her whether the center was there to support the children or the children were there to support the center.  She has yet to reply.  It’s been well over two months.

    So we left.  And we walked to the other center, right up the hall, and started with them instead.  And I don’t like to name names, but I do want to talk about Stepping Stones Center for Autistic Spectrum Disorders.  They have no hourly minimum, and if you tell them your budget, they’ll work very hard to make sure they can help you help your child in whatever way they can.  And that’s why I will be partnering with them to provide home therapists to families who don’t have access to center-based therapy, either because there isn’t a center in their country- like Oman, Kuwait, or Bahrain, or because their center is so prohibitively expensive that it may as well not be there- like Dubai.

    On a side note, insurance companies refuse to give a bent nickel for autism therapy.  If Khalid got hurt and sustained brain damage, they would have to pay for his hospitalization.  But he was born with brain damage, so we’re left on our own with no financial support whatsoever.

    So, my name is Abez and welcome to my soap box.  Give me a hand up, will you?

    -ahem-

    I believe that all children on the autism spectrum deserve a fighting chance at recovery, and neither financial status nor location should be a barrier to a child’s potential.  If there is a limit to what a child can learn, let it be set by God, who created his or her brain and knows what it is capable of.

    Please make dua for me, that Allah purify my intentions and make this endeavor a halal source of income, a good deed, and a sadqa jaariya for me.  I seek refuge in Allah from shaitaan, and from the paralysis of fear, and from the lure of profit and greed, and I ask Allah to let this business be a help for children and parents in need.  Allah, please protect my therapists, keep them safe and well-cared for, and let their experience in Muslim households be a beautiful introduction to Islam and the high standard of human ethics that You have set for Your slaves.

    Ameen, Ameen, Ameen.

  • Boy, talk about tough love!

    Khalid used an entire bottle of sunblock to finger paint my bedroom with, here I am pouting about it online to HF:

    Me: Khalid painted the room in sunblock.

    HF: OH NO

    Me: sigh.
    I am really mad and trying to remember that he is creative and funny and pleasant smelling
    but the carpet has lost color in some places

    HF: he is hilarious

    Me: and the floor is greasy

    HF: is he ok?
    did he eat any?

    Me: he’s alright.
    he smells really nice, heh

    HF: and perfect for the park!
    he’s exploring
    this is a good thing

    Me: well, he is on his way to the park right now
    and he used up all the awesome lip balm nizreen gave me

    HF: better then him being a vegetable
    can you imagine that?

    Me:
    ok, point taken 🙂

  • I think he’s trying to tell me something.

    Both kids have been sick for the past two days, it’s 3:45 in the morning right now, and Khalid has been up since 11:30 last night. He spent most of the night crying and kicking and thrashing around, angry because he couldn’t sleep. The rest of the night was spent in jumping on me and entertaining himself once he realized he wasn’t sleepy any more. Right now, he’s running between the two arm chairs in the living room, throwing himself face-first onto each one and then quickly doing a 180 and running to the opposite chair to do the same. It’s been a weird night. Momma is very, very tired. Momma has a headache. Momma is cranky. But Momma is ok. Because Khalid had a good point. He opened the refrigerator. He picked up a lemon. He handed it to me and said “Oh, wemonade?”

    SubhanAllah.

  • Maybe AntSlayer has a better ring?

    Ramadan Kareem!

    As everything in Dubai must either be the world’s biggest, best, or most deserving of a superlative, here we have the world’s hottest, burningest ant bites. Iman was bit by an ant a few weeks ago- I heard her scream from halfway across the house and ran to find her clawing at her foot as an obviously stepped-on ant tried to make a feeble getaway. Iman kept crying ‘Hot! Momma, ow foot!’ and we spent some time sitting on the edge of the sink and running her foot under cool water. I’ve had one of those ant bites before, they really are intensely, shockingly painful, and they burn for hours.

    Shortly after the bite, any ant Iman saw resulted in her running away and calling for reinforcements- “Oh no!! Ant!” And then Momma would come to the rescue with a shoe, and half the time Momma would come to rescue Iman from ant-like pieces of lint, but it was a good system. Iman would sound the alarm and I would send in the cavalry. And when the ant was gone, Iman would earnestly recount the story of what just happened, being sure to include the phrase ‘ant scawy!’ a few times for emphasis.

    Fast forward to this evening- Iman came running up the hall with a sippy-cup of milk in her hands and to deliver an important message:

    Iman: Momma! Ants inna milk! Livingwoom!

    Me: What? Ants? In milk?

    (I look around. I don’t see any ants in any milk, and we’re already in the living room.)

    Iman (nodding): Ya. Milk. Livingwoom Ants!

    Me (I look at her suspiciously): Show Momma.

    Iman leads me up the hall to the play room and points to the floor, where I find two ants drowning. On the floor. In tiny puddles of milk.

    I look at Iman.
    I look at her sippy-cup.

    Evidence would suggest that as punishment for previous crimes against Imanity, the ants were sentenced to death by drowning, one drop at a time, from the supposedly spill-proof sippy cup of doom.

    Iman looks to me for approval.
    I nod at her and she nods back.
    A warrior is born.
    And henceforth, they called her AntBane.

    Oh, and Ramadan Kareem! 😀

  • JazakAllahuKheiran, Yasir Qadhi -or- Have you stopped beating your wife yet?

    JazakAllahuKheiran, Yasir Qadhi -or- Have you stopped beating your wife yet?

    For nearly a year ago, delivering a lecture in Dubai where he posed three questions commonly asked by atheists to argue against the existence of God, one of which was:

    If God is all-powerful, can God make a rock so heavy that he can’t lift it?

    I was actually asked this question by a co-worker over dinner the night before, and instead of replying with the ‘wha-?’ that went through my head the first time I heard it, I was able to smile and give the answer. See, the questions is a logical fallacy. It is constructed in a way that guarantees there is no answer that confirms God’s omnipotence. It’s like asking a man “So, have you stopped beating your wife yet?”

    If you say no, it means you’re still beating her. If you say yes, you’re admitting that you used to beat her.

    To the God question, if you say no, then you’re saying that God is unable to create something of that size. If you say yes, then you’re saying that God is unable to lift a rock that he himself created.

    So what’s the correct answer? The correct answer is this: God can create infinitely large objects and lift infinitely large objects, rocks or otherwise. And just because he CAN do something doesn’t mean He will. He’s not illogical, even though that question is.

    There were two other questions, but I can only remember one of them, which was: Can God create a triangle with more than three sides?

    God could create a shape with more than three sides and He could call it whatever He wanted and you could call it a square or a pentagon or a hexagon or if it made you happy, a dodecahedron. A triangle is, by your definition, a shape with three sides. If you still want to call something with more than three sides a triangle, then that’s your problem, not God’s.

    So, does anyone remember the third question?

  • Left my heart in San Francisco

    And my camera in Oman!  Noooooooooooooooo!

    Alhamdulillah ála kulli haal.  Praise be to Allah in all circumstances. 🙂

    Ok, so I have interesting stories but no pictures, and on top of that, I have a week of office work pending.  So let me take care of some emails before they burn a hole in my inbox, and then I can think about blogging Oman.  In the mean time, crank it up! (voice and percussion only)

    And let it down softly…

  • Hey, Oman has Internets!

    So, Khalid and Iman’s first road trip was interesting- we carefully and gently took them from their beds at five in the morning, hoping to deposit them, still asleep, into their car seats.  Well, we hoped.  In actuality, Khalid and Iman were both so excited to be in the van and on the road that they burst into full awakeness and giggles and screams of VAN! VAN! VAN! and they napped briefly around 9 am, but then stayed awake for the entire drive, laughing and screaming and fighting over toys, and pointing out the camels and trees and eating cereal in a cup for breakfast and chips in their laps for lunch.

    We made it to Muscat by 11 am, and have been happily enjoying HF”s younger cousins and big-screen TV, where Dora the Explorer has been playing nearly non-stop.  Iman and Khalid are running amok in a new house, and Iman has already managed to poke the TV with her fingers, find & dump out some detergent and suspiciously poke it around with a toothbrush, though her teeth don’t look any cleaner.

    Also, all the decorations and knick-knacks have been moved to the top of the china cabinet.  We’re having a nice time, the weather isn’t too bad- it’s time for me to go frost a chocolate cake, and later we’ll roll some sushi.

  • Bingley bingley beep

    So we’re leaving in the morning for a road trip to visit HF’s family in Oman, and my phone doesn’t work there, and chances are internets may be in short supply.  So leave a message after the beep.  And maybe we’ll be back by Tuesday.  With some pictures.

    Beep!

  • Bittersweet: A Spiritual Perspective on Special Needs Parenting

    Bittersweet: A Spiritual Perspective on Special Needs Parenting

    Reposted from MuslimMatters.org

    I’ve tried several times to begin this article and this is my third attempt. I’m supposed to be writing about special needs parenting from an Islamic/Muslim/Spiritual point of view, and the challenge is finding a balance between the bitter and the sweet. I have had some experience, my son Khalid was born with autism, a neurological disorder with complex genetic causes and no known cure. He woke up crying every two hours from the day he was born until he was almost three. He learned how to talk just last year and he occasionally still freaks out if you laugh too loudly in his vicinity. He used to bang his head against windows and walls and cry until he threw up. He’s made wonderful progress, Alhamdulillah, but at the end of the day, he still has autism, and we still have our daily challenges.

    It’s hard to understand autism from the outside, and to be fair, no two people are affected in the same way. On the severe end of the scale, there’s our friend Dan, who does not talk, cannot walk properly and was in diapers until 13. His parents put him in leather gloves to prevent him from biting his hands to the bone when he is frustrated. On the other end of the spectrum is our friend Zaina, who has Asperger’s Syndrome, which is a form of autism that Hollywood likes – she’s extremely intelligent, is physically normal, but so socially impaired that she barely talks, cannot make eye contact, and cannot even begin to understand the complexities of interacting with other people. My son Khalid is somewhere in the middle. He has his funny quirks, but he can pass for physically normal unless he’s spinning in circles or flapping his hands. He’s no genius, and his mental age may be behind his physical age, but he’s slowly learned his ABC’s and even attempts to play with other children. Alhamdulillah, his autism is moderate.

    IMG_2893In the two years since his diagnosis, I’ve learned more about patience and trust in Allah than I had in my entire life before that, and having a child with autism has been a blessing that I cannot imagine living without. I’m sure there’s more to learn still, but I know that once upon a time, I thought waiting for an hour was a long wait. Until a few months ago, putting Khalid to bed took an average of an hour and a half every night – sometimes less, often more. I would sit next to him, or lie down next to him, and wait for the screaming, bouncing, kicking, pinching and crying to fade into silence. And I had to sit quietly, and not move or talk, and do my best to imitate some sort of maternal rock as the storm of Khalid battered against it.

    I didn’t do a very good job at first, I would yell at him to lay down, and he would become scared and cry. So I would yell more, and he would scream, and I would yell more, and it would escalate until he would be shaking with fear and I with rage and at some point it occurred to me that my own son was genuinely terrified and couldn’t understand why he was being yelled out. And then, Allah gave me sabr, and then a diagnosis, and then the understanding that Khalid wasn’t disobeying, he just had no idea what was going on.

    Even today, when Khalid is having a weird night and half an hour turns into an hour and a half, I just sit in the dark and do dhikr, or plan the next day, or think, and if he’s still not tired after about two hours, we just get up and go play for a bit. I’ll have a glass of water and maybe even a cookie. Khalid will get on the computer (yes, he uses the computer) and play games for as long as is takes for him to start looking tired, after which we’ll go back to bed again. And I’ll sit next to him in the dark, and he’ll roll around and count his toes, or sing quietly to himself, and occasionally he’ll sit up to make sure I’m still there, but eventually he will doze off and I can finally get to bed, sometimes three or four hours after we “went to bed.” And before you accuse me of being exceptional, Aal’s mother spends three hours just feeding him, three times a day. And he still hits himself.

    Yes, I have a lot of stories. We autism moms tend to gravitate towards one another, not because we have a manifesto or a secret handshake, but because at the end of the day when your child took off their dirty diaper in the mall and got lost in the parking lot and wouldn’t eat their lunch because some of the carrots were too orange, no one else will understand you except for another autism mom.

    Another mother, Noura, called me a few weeks ago, and she had that quiver in her voice that we all get from time to time when we need to break down a bit so that we can put ourselves back together. She had been trying to get her daughter into a school, and no school would take her. She had been trying to get her daughter into a swimming class, but when she went for her first trial, the instructor refused to accept a child with “such behaviors.” Noura had been running desperately from one place to another to get her daughter accepted into social and educational programs of any sort, because her daughter will be turning eight and has never been to school. She told me these things crying over the phone, frustrated and burnt out and just needing to hear something to keep her going. “I just don’t know,” she kept saying, “I don’t know what else I can do.”

    I didn’t know what else she could do either, except for what I do, which is to ask Allah for help. We have been told that a child’s Jannah is beneath his or her mother’s feet, but in some cases, a mother’s Jannah may be beneath the feet of her special needs child. And perhaps the father’s too, Allahu Aalim. The tables get turned on both parents, and those who were relying on their grown children for care in their old age are instead preparing to care for grown children who cannot feed, bathe, or even clothe themselves. Instead of looking forward to retirement, parents dread the time when they can no longer earn an income to support their children.

    If you want to see an adult cry, ask a father or mother what will happen to their special needs daughter or son after they die. If you could see inside of their head, you would see an exploding matrix of questions, fears, worries, and desperate plans. You would re-read every news story you’ve ever read of neglect or abuse, or even rape, of special needs adults by paid caretakers who take advantage of individuals who do not know how to defend themselves or even speak. You would hear the point and counterpoint of a mind divided between wanting more children who could potentially care for the child, versus not wanting to risk having another child with the same genetically linked condition. You would see mental excel sheets tallying savings and money spent on current treatments versus saved for future life-long care, and money not saved for the education of the other children, and you would see a lot of figures in red. Special needs parenting is expensive. And scary. But here’s something unexpected – it’s also beautiful, and humbling, and when undertaken with trust in Allah and faith in His decisions, it is the catalyst for spiritual evolution.

    Recognizing that our special-needs children are a trial as well as an opportunity to earn blessings, we are able to change the stories we tell ourselves. When we look at our children, and Shaitaan whispers “Why you? Why your child? How could God do this to you? It’s not fair,” we can bravely answer back. Allah chose me for this because He knew I could handle it, and He never gives anyone more than they can bear. I am not Khalid’s Rabb, Allah is, and when I die, He will look after Khalid with a love seventy times greater than my own. I can only save so much money and teach his sister to look out for him only so much. Khalid’s care is with Allah. His rizq is with his Lord. And he may never learn how to work and he may never get married or hold a job, and he may die alone, or he may die before I do, but he will be raised as an innocent – one who will be exempt from the fear of judgment because he never knew what sin was. If he never had a job, then he will never be asked about his wealth. If he never speaks, he will not be asked about lying. And these things are terrifying for me to think of, to type even, but I know that Allah has given my son autism for a reason, and all of Allah’s reasons are good reasons.

    The Messenger of Allah (sallallahu `alayhi wa sallam) said,

    “The greatest reward comes with the greatest trial. When Allaah loves a people He tests them. Whoever accepts that wins His pleasure but whoever is discontent with that earns His wrath.” Narrated by al-Tirmidhi (2396) and Ibn Maajah (4031); classed as hasan by al-Albaani in Saheeh al-Tirmidhi.

    “How wonderful is the affair of the believer, for his affairs are all good, and this applies to no one but the believer. If something good happens to him, he is thankful for it and that is good for him. If something bad happens to him, he bears it with patience and that is good for him.” (Narrated by Muslim, 2999).

    Sometimes, when I look at Khalid I wonder what life would be like if he were ‘normal.’ He has the most enormous, beautiful brown eyes. He skin is a light olive, he has silky dark hair and a smile that could melt the polar ice caps. Perhaps normalcy would be too dangerous for Khalid. Or maybe he would be fine, maybe the autism is for me. I know with absolute certainty that if my son did not have autism, I would not have been a dedicated parent and a desperate Muslim. If I had not been pushed through fear for his future and hardship through the present, I would never have understood what it really meant to pray. My trust in Allah and acknowledgement of his Rububiyya(Lordship) would never have moved beyond the superficial. Can you dread for your child’s future without losing hope in Allah’s mercy? Is your taqwa greater than your fear?

    It has taken me some time, but I can finally thank Allah for Khalid’s autism. It may save him from accountability , and it has definitely saved me from living in the unreal world – one where I care more about my child’s postgraduate degree than his iman. And while I have an entire lifetime of challenges to look forward to, I am keeping faith that Allah intends nothing but good for Khalid and I. If that means waiting until the resurrection to see my son as a normal young man, then so be it. Khalid and I will meet again at Al-Kauthar, and sit in Jannah with an eternity of ease to make up for one small lifetime of hardship.

    May Allah have mercy on all Muslims, and ease whatever difficulties they are facing, and strengthen their iman and increase them in sabr, and reunite them with their loved ones in the company of the righteous. Ameen.

  • SubhanAllah!

    I realize that I may already have a few posts titled SubhanAllah or Alhamdulillah or maybe even Astaghfirullah, but sometimes praising God is the only way to do justice to how I feel.  Khalid and I have had our first conversation, a conversation being an exchange of words.  Previously, he has used a word or two to get his point across, or occasionally answered a question, but we’ve never had a conversation where I said something, he responded, I replied to his response, and he added a concluding remark.  But SubhanAllahi Wabihamdihi!  We’ve had our first conversation!

    Me, leading Khalid to elevator in mall: Khalid come on, it’s time to go home.

    Khalid pulls away and holds up his index finger: No pwease!

    Me: You don’t want to ride the elevator?

    Khalid: Lay-tuh. (later)

    Me: We need to go home Khalid.

    Khalid: I wan… banana.

    Me: You want a banana?

    Khalid: Caddy-fo! Okay!

    Awestruck, we go to the grocery store (in Khalid’s world, all grocery stores are Carrefour) and buy Khalid a banana.  All is the right with the world so we head happily home.

    SubhanAllah. 🙂

  • A Judgment about Judgments

    Hebah Amhad recently posted a very honest, and very insightful article on MM about fighting down the nafs when it comes to how we see other Muslims.

    “She is not wearing hijab, tsk! tsk!”

    “He is laughing with that woman who is most certainly not his wife or family member, shame!”

    “How can she possibly show up here with her clothing so tight?! Scandalous!”

    “I know she does not buy Zabiha so I am sure she is serving people non-halal food!”

    “Does his mom see how he is behaving…where is the Islamic upbringing?  That’s what happens when you send your kid to public school!”

    It’s a great read, and thank God, it concludes with some practical tips for changing how we see and interact with other Muslims.  I related to the entire post, and in all honesty, anyone who can’t is very blessed.  I think most of us regularly fall into judging and condemning other Muslims  while working hard to avoid the condemnation we anticipate from them in turn.

    I know that for years I avoided religious classes and gatherings, and even “religious-looking” people because I was intimidated and afraid of being measured and weighed and coming up short.   Even these days, I sometimes feel a twinge of nervousness when attending classes where I am in a non-niqab wearing minority, and it takes a deliberate mental effort to remind myself that wearing a niqab doesn’t make anyone judgmental or holier-than-thou.  Also, it helps for me to remember that as a scarf-wrapped, black abaya-wearing female, I can seem scary to people intimated by/unfamiliar with Islam and hijab.

    (But then I’m seldom seem without this big cheesy grin, and in my old age I’ve become the kind of person who talks to other people in elevators whether they want me to or not.  Owl says I’m crazy.  I say I’m entertaining people who are just as bored as I am and might never be likely to talk to a Muslim woman unless they were talked to first.  Also,  sales people remember me and I tend to get lots of free samples :p)

    Having lived in the UAE for over five years now, I finally have many, many friends who wear niqab, and I’ve come to realize that the initial awkwardness wasn’t their fault, it was mine.  Underneath of the niqab are normal, entertaining, intelligent, and very funny women who joke about sometimes standing near good friends without realizing who’s “under there,” and washing ice cream out of black chiffon, and beneath the billowy black abayas they wear things like purple sequined ballet slippers, and overalls, and sometimes- their pajamas.   The mental barrier was of my own making, because I was afraid they would see me as falling short of their greatness, so I accordingly  bristled with subtle indignation from a judgment that was never made.

    “I don’t think niqab is fard,” Sabah said to me one day over cookies and coffee eating with her niqab flipped up.  “I just think it’s extra points, and I have no problem saying that God knows I really need some!”

    I’ve come to recognize her by her height, the shape of her abaya, her green purse, and the way her eyes crinkle at the corners when she’s smiling under there.  And I no longer find her intimidating, I just find her normal.  She isn’t a member of the pervasively judgmental and highly exclusive organisation of ‘The Niqabis,’ she’s just Sabah.  And Farzana is just Farzana.  And Noura is just Noura (and occasionally talks about Star Wars) and none of these women are defined by the clothes they wear any more than their husbands are just ‘beards.’

    In the printing world, a stereotype is a copy of the original, and they are both the same.  In the Muslim world, a stereotype is an assumption that all religious people are the same, and they all think you’re lame.  And it’s very rude of them to say such a thing, and you could never attend a class with people who think so badly of you, and you would never, ever want to be like them!  Hmmph!

    When we see others with a negative filter on our vision, we see everything they do as wrong.

    (So, the niqabi likes Star Wars? How hypocritical!

    Hey, don’t you have the whole action figure collection?

    Yes, but no Muslim is perfect!)

    (She’s wearing purple sequined ballet slippers?  Wow, that is so flashy.  What is she trying to do, attract attention to herself despite the niqab?

    You’re wearing a purple sequined tank top.

    Yeah, but Allah knows that I have modesty in my heart!)

    (She struggles with her Iman on a daily basis?  She’s human just like everyone else, so why does she have such a holy attitude?

    You’ve never spoken to her, how do you know what her attitude is?)

    Sterotypes are illogical, and as far as Muslims are concerned, they generally stem from fear of judgment and our own perceived inadequacies.  We are conscious of our shortcomings, and we assume everyone else is too.  Our own deficiencies are more conspicuous in front of people who seem to have spiritual abundance, in the way that a normal woman feels fat in the company of supermodels.  Ok, that’s a strange analogy, but I think you know what I mean.  And maybe some more stuck-up supermodels really are tsk-tsking in their heads and thinking that you let yourself go, but the majority of them are probably just normal people who are really skinny.  And skinniness is not the zenith of human fitness any more than a niqab or beard is the zenith of spiritual achievement.  So if you tell them they look nice, they’ll say oh man, I have such awful hair!  I love your hair!  In the same way, when you talk to Sabah you realize that in her mind she’s standing at the bottom of the spiritual ladder and has a long, long way to go up.  She’s not looking down on you, she’s looking down on herself, just like you are.  The only difference is that she doesn’t think you’re looking down on her too.

    If she did, then she might be afraid that all non-niqabis think that she’s oppressed and unintelligent, and has made her own intellect subservient to her husband’s desire for her to dress in a black cloud of fabric, and that given the chance, she would throw caution and headscarf to the wind for just one ice-cream cone that doesn’t get smeared on her niqab.

    (Ok, not really.  Sabah’s more secure than that. But you see what I mean.)

    So where does this pervasive feeling of mutual persecution come from?

    And say to My servants that they should speak only what is gracious, for satan (is keen to) provoke discord among them. Satan indeed is an enemy to the people, disuniting (one another).

    –The Qur’an 17:53

    When we feel judged by people before we’ve even spoken to them, and we exclude ourselves from the company of ‘religious’ people solely because of their religiousness, we’re doing exactly what Shaitaan wants us to do, which is hate, separate, and isolate ourselves from other Muslims- aka- divide and conquer.  Good company helps us maintain good behavior, so Satan gives us reasons to keep away from practicing Muslims.  Regular reminders of Islam make it easier for us to remember Allah, so Satan creates distance through self-consciousness that helps us forget.  In accusing others of judgment, we ourselves are making a tremendously unfair judgment about others- we assume that their righteousness is just a way of lording their superiority over other Muslims, that their actions lack sincerity, and their perceptions of other Muslims are harsh, unforgiving, and holier-than-thou.  Where do we get off making harsh judgments about the state of another Muslim’s Iman when Allah alone can see what is in a person’s heart?

    Returning to the point where we started from, one of the comments following the article had some wonderful advice which I would like to share.

    Sa’eed bin Al-Musayyab was reported to have said:

    “Some of my brothers among the Companions of the Prophet, salallahu alayhi wa sallam, wrote me the following message:

    “Give your brother’s action the best interpretation you could find as long as you have not seen any proof that would make you think otherwise. Do not ever give the word uttered by a Muslim bad interpretation as long as you can find better interpretation for it.

    But he who makes himself vulnerable to suspicion should blame only himself. He who conceals his secrets has the options in his hand.

    The best reward you can give someone who disobeys Allah through you is to obey Allah through him. Be always truthful even if truth is going to kill you. Do not envy anyone except in regard to something for which the dead person is envied.

    And consult, in respect to your affairs, only those who fear Allah in their privacy.”

    The Leader of the Believers, ‘Umar bin al-Khattab, may Allaah be pleased with him, said, “Think only well of a word that leaves your believing brother so long as you find a way of understanding it in a good way.”

    [Quoted by ibn Kathir in the commentary of 49:12]

    May Allah have mercy on us all, and protect us from the whisperings of Shaitaan, and protect us from fitnah. Ameen.

    So go on, hug a scary-looking religious person today!  They’re not judging you, and even if they might have been, you were judging them first.  So there. :p

  • A nod’s as good as a wink to a blind man…

    Sometimes old memories pop into your head out of the blue, and they’ve been so deeply buried that remembering them is almost like experiencing them again for the first time.   Banana Anne recently posted on her experience as a new hijabi, and one bizarre incident that happened to me nearly ten years ago came to mind.

    While living in Pakistan, I was doing some freelance writing here and there.  One interview for a news magazine found Owlie, my co-journalist, and I taking an interview with a very elderly, very respectable Muslim doctor who was also a director for the same magazine.  When I say elderly I mean over seventy.  We were both wearing hijab as well as jilbab, and the interview was interesting but uneventful until in the middle of a sentence, he looked at up at us and said:

    “You know, a naked girl on the beach in Cannes has nothing on you.”

    I would imagine we both looked pretty blank at that point.

    “Your beauty,” he said leaning forward earnestly in his chair, “It is in your mystery!”

    He nodded, and smiled in a grandfatherly way, and then went on with the interview as if nothing happened at all.

    0_0

    The End.

  • My little hero, MashaAllah

    My little hero, MashaAllah

    Some children are bad at taking turns, but my kids are good at it for all the wrong reasons.  When Iman is getting an involuntary manicure, she’ll plead “Khalid’s turn!  Khalid’s turn!”  And when it really is Khalid’s turn, he’ll do the same.  “Iman’s turn!  Iman’s turn!”

    To say it’s the other sibling’s turn is loosely translated as “Not me, take him instead!”  On the other hand, when Khalid is playing with a toy that Iman finds interesting, she has no hesitation in grabbing it and yelling out “Iman’s turn!” and when Khalid wants to use my computer, he’ll stand at my elbow and cheerfully announce “It’s Khalid’s turn!”

    Turn-taking has been anything but an altruistic skill, until now.

    Iman had a dental appointment two days ago, and of course, she screamed bloody murder while having her teeth cleaned.  I held her in my lap, Cindy held her legs, one assistant held her head while a second handed tools to the dentist- a lovely lady who works with the rapid expertise of someone with a small window of opportunity in the midst of a big fuss.

    In all of this, Khalid was just outside in the waiting room, playing uneasily with the legos and periodically trying to come in to see what was happening to Iman.  Joy redirected him back to the legos several times, but he was quite upset by Iman’s screaming.  And my brave little boy, you know what he said to Joy as he tried to enter the room again?

    “It’s Khalid’s turn.”

    SubhanAllah, MashaAllah, Alhamdulillah. 🙂

  • They don’t make bubbles that big :p

    Doc: So, how’s your knee feeling?

    Me: Alhamdulillah, pretty good!  It’s not yellow anymore, and it’s not creaking or grinding.

    Doc: (Throwing his hands in the air) Thank God!  Now stop getting into car accidents!  Or we’ll have to install a bubble around you or something.

    Me: InshaAllah.

  • Random Rubiyaat

    Fight the world if you have to

    Even yourself if you must

    Forgiveness is for the forgiving

    And mercy is owed to the just.

    ***

    (Bi Iznillah)

    How can I fault the world

    For the turmoil that’s within it?

    It’s all of what He said

    And none of what He didn’t.

  • Morphine Bad, Knee Good.

    So the surgery went well, Alhamdulillah.  It’s only been two days since the operation, but already the knee is free of the crunchy, audible grinding that was the result of damaged cartilage rubbing against damaged cartilage every time I flexed or extended my knee.  Alhamdulillah, Alhamdulillah, Alhamdulillah.  I am happy and hopeful and optimistic about getting some of my mobility back.  I may never be able to run a marathon, but climbing stairs without creaking and being able to play in the park with the kids would be really amazing, InshaAllah. 🙂

    I was given spinal anasthesia for the knee arthroscopy, so I was totally awake for the surgery.  It was interesting, being paralyzed from the waist-down you feel like half of a person, and as I watched the surgeon, I was sure that the iodine-painted foot planted on his chest and the carrot-colored leg he was wrapping up must have been someone else’s.  They were miles away and felt like no part of my own body.   When I got back to the room, I was laughing.  HF and I had a good time trying to move my toes, and although I was vaguely aware of sensation, I couldn’t tell how or what was touching any part of me.  It was so bizarre.  It didn’t last too long though.  The surgery was at ten, and by around 12:30, I started to regain feeling in my legs.  And then the pain level started to climb the stairs by twos, and even though I hadn’t wanted to, I had to ask for some pain relief.

    Now, about morphine.  Whoever has been doing the PR for morphine should get a bonus.  When you think of morphine, you think of drowsy, blissed-out addicts sleeping their way into a happy oblivion.  Morphine is, after all, named for Morpheus, the Greek god of dreams.  If there was a Greek god for vomiting every time you adjust position and losing consciousness all day, then it should have been named for him instead.  Morphine was awful.  When they were injecting me, HF asked the nurse “So, how long before this takes effect?”

    The nurse said, “The full effect will take half an hour, but you should start feeling it right away.” That was when my head started spinning.  Right then and there, with the ceiling going down and the floors going up, I told HF that I needed to get out of bed, do wudu, and pray before I wasn’t able to.  And he looked at me skeptically, but he helped me out of bed, walked me to the sink, held me up while I staggered through wudu, washed my feet for me, and then led us in jamaat (I prayed in bed) where I briefly lost consciousness during the third of four rakats.  At some point, we had visitors who brought doritos and cookies and nuts.  HF said I giggled too much, I don’t remember.  My head felt like it was full of cotton, and I couldn’t hear very well.  I had some doritos and passed out  sitting up in bed.  Some of my sleep wasn’t sleep, it just felt like being deactivated.  My eyes were closed, but I could still hear everything going on around me.  And then some of my sleep felt like dreaming awake, which was scary and vivid and I woke up disoriented and not sure whether the dreams had been real or not.

    Then there was a shift change, HF left and Owlie came in, and then the vomitting began.  I was mentally fuzzy and twitchy and remarkably pain-free, but every time I changed position in bed, I threw up.  I would doze off, wake up, vomit, fall asleep again, wake up, vomit, fall asleep… the cycle lasted until 9:30 pm, when I was alert enough to complain to the nurse, who then gave me another injection to control the nausea.  Then the vomitting stopped, Alhamdulillah, and Owlie and I went to sleep by around 11pm, and the next morning, SubhanAllah I woke up feeling like myself again.

    I have to say, the morphine was worse than the surgery.  I cannot imagine why on earth people take it voluntarily.  This wasn’t the first time I’ve had morphine, but it was the first time that it was given to me when I was conscious enough to be able to determine what it did to me.  The last arthroscopy I had, I was partially sedated and given morphine before I even woke up, so coming out of surgery was hot, cold, itchy, shaky, nauseating, confusing, and mentally fuzzy for nearly eight hours afterwards.  I didn’t know what caused what, it was all too much to deal with at once.  With this surgery, once the spinal wore off, I was back to normal, and at no point was I nauseated, uncontrollably drowsy, or mentally fuzzy until I was given morphine.  Which I would NOT ever take again voluntarily, thank you very much!

    But right, the knee.  Alhamdulillah, my surgeon (Hooray for Dr. Ali Al Belooshi!) cleaned up and trimmed down the damaged cartilage so that it no longer gets pulled and mashed and ground against when I move my knee.  Yes, there’s less cartilage in my knee than there was before, but at least my knee no longer hurts to move, Alhamdulillah.  I haven’t taken any pain killers since Friday morning (when the morphine finally wore off) and I am trying to stay that way.  My knee doesn’t feel post-surgical painful, it just feels like a really, really bad day for my knee, which I have had plenty of in the past six months.  So this pain isn’t out of the ordinary and is well within tolerability, Alhamdulillah. 🙂

    JazakAllahuKheiran for the duas, I don’t know if I can post the surgery video yet, because my own laptop has died and this borrowed office laptop doesn’t have a video encoder, but as usual, the inside of my knee looks like a the inside of a cloud with frayed lining, which is then eaten by a small robot with revolving teeth.  A typical arthroscopy.  🙂

    Alhamdulillah 🙂