paparazzi

For a while now, I’ve noticed that for some reason, random people have been taking pictures of me. It’s not a series of isolated incidents anymore; it’s becoming more frequent.  For example, it’s happened at least twice in the past three days.  Even more times than I care to keep track of last month. You could say that these unwanted experiences have caused me to become more acquainted with the different types of creeps with cameras.

There’s the discreet creep.  Or so he/she’d like to think.  They’ll lift their phone up to face level, conveniently pointed in your direction, as if it makes texting easier.  Click.  Or they’ll go for the classic “I’m taking a picture of that thing right next to you.”  You know, the wall that became interesting all of a sudden.  And then when you try to sidestep their camera, it follows you. For a few seconds, you’re doing what looks like a weird ritualistic two-step, but then you give up, because you realize their camera is faster than you could ever be. Click.  Add flash, if they’re gutsy.

What really irritates me is the smirk.  That smug look that Nat Geo wannabes get when they think they captured anything remotely ethnic in its natural habitat.  And by natural habitat, I mean downtown.

There’s the asks-for-permission creep.  They’ll stop you in places like streetcorners or the subway.  If they’re polite enough, you feel bad saying no.  But you still wonder what the hell they want to do with those pictures anyway, if it’s a possibility that hijab fetishes are the new thing now, and how annoyed you’d be if you found your picture on some lame, grammatically incorrect blog.

And then you have the shameless douchebags with cameras.  They believe it’s their God-given right to take your picture.  And you better damn appreciate the fact they chose to take a picture of you.  You are now in the same club as the squirrels in Washington Square Park (only the best).  Or that Colbert graffiti.  Or sleeping homeless man.  You’ve been graced by his artistic presence.  You’re welcome.

I was graced by a class D creep today.

I shifted from studying in the library to studying in Starbucks today, just to make a change.  I nabbed a seat in front of the window, where I could observe the Wall Street protesters in Washington Square Park and the cops who wanted to brutalize protect the protesters.

Not gonna lie, I was so eyeing their belts for mace.  I’m not completely sure I saw mace compartments, but the two-foot batons and Glocks they carried were enough to make me wish I weren’t a minority.

While I was sitting by the window trying not to think about how many Islamophobic “training” videos they had probably watched, a rather slovenly man with a disposable camera stops on the sidewalk, directly in front of me.  I notice him watching me and try to ignore him by focusing on my laptop.  He raises his camera.  I look up again.

Oh no he isn’t.

Flash.

Did that just happen?

Yeah. It did.  And it’s not like I was doing anything remotely interesting that usually causes people to take my picture, like… walking to class.  I was just sitting there being boring.  There’s no excuse.

He took a step forward to get another shot of me.  I stood up and sidestepped his camera by standing behind the wall.  He made a rude, ‘what the hell do you think you’re doing’ gesture and had the most indignant expression on his face.  Excuse you.

At this point, I can’t help but wonder if some of these people are more than weird tourists or wannabe photographers.  Getting snapped by a random man at Starbucks was eerily reminiscent of the CID in Dubai. For those who don’t know, the CID are plain clothes government agents who work in law enforcement. The eyes and ears of the city.  They drive taxis.  They go through garbage. They lurk in parking lots.  They patrol the malls. They could be anyone, and they blend in perfectly.  I had a run-in with someone in the CID in the mall once.  When he found me, I was surprised at how normal he looked.  He didn’t look like a cop.  He looked like your average Arab guido about to meet up with his friends at the mall.

The NYPD has no qualms about spying on Muslims.  I wouldn’t be surprised if there actually were plain clothes cops or agents taking pictures of Muslims around the city to keep tabs on the population.  I suppose we’ll find out eventually.

9/11: ten years later

I have a terrible memory.   There aren’t many parts of my childhood that I can remember.  I don’t know if my memories are genuinely fading or if I repress them more than I realize.  But there are some things I can’t repress.

I was nine years old when the Twin Towers fell and the Pentagon was attacked.  I, like so many others, lost their innocence on that day.

It was back when I lived in the D.C. metro area full time, before everything changed.  I was in the living room, drawing instead of doing my schoolwork (naturally), when I heard my dad on the phone with one of his employees.  My dad was also in the living room, about to head to D.C. for work when he got the call.

Don’t come to work.  The Pentagon’s been hit.  They got New York too.  Just turn on the TV.

The whole family ran to the kitchen and huddled around our small TV.  It must have been 10:13 am when we turned it on.

I remember the gasp of my mother as we watched the Twin Towers fall on replay, each time more gruesome.   It just didn’t seem real.  I can’t remember anything those talking heads said.  Everything became silent, and time stood still.  Those images were burned into my memory, and always will be.

What I remember most distinctly was how my knees buckled.   I couldn’t support myself, and I fell to my knees in shock. It was the only thing that ever brought me down.

It didn’t really sink in that the attack had been by so-called “Muslims” until later.  We were in shock.  This sort of thing never happened to America.  We were untouchable.   Who could even try?

Anger came immediately after the initial shock.  Anger that someone hijacked not only airplanes, but my religion, and committed an atrocity in my name, shared with one billion people.

I was young, I didn’t understand how someone could kill innocent people in the name of religion.  They had Muslim names, but they weren’t Muslim to me.

Didn’t they know any better?  Hadn’t they read the Qur’an?

Anger, then fear.  It dawned upon us that the terrorists who did this either died or made their getaway, but we as American Muslims would bear the brunt of everyone’s hate, pain, or bigotry.  We still do.  My family and I became criminals in a matter of minutes.  Just like every other Muslim.  Ten years later, we’re still public enemy #1.

My mother, a distinctively Muslim hijabbi, was the first to realize.

“Basel… what’s going to happen to us?”

My father told her to stay in the house, babe.

Good thing, too.  A number of Muslims, mostly women, were attacked or harassed soon after.  I recall hearing about a Muslim woman who was stabbed with a machete outside my library, less than five minutes away from my house. They called her a “terrorist pig” and told her to “go home.”  She was just one out of many victims in the D.C. area.  I read about boys in trucks terrorizing women in Arlington, and so many more victims that we forgot all too quickly.  Many Muslim women removed their headscarves out of fear after 9/11.  Many women still feel uncomfortable wearing a hijab in such an anti-Muslim climate.  Ten years in a culture of fear.

I remember hoping things would get better.  I would wonder what things would be like in ten years, if we were still around.  So much happened in those ten years.  I never thought I’d be in Manhattan, of all places, today.  I don’t know if things did get better.  It seems to have gotten only worse, at least for American Muslims and those living in the war zones we created.

9/11 was the end of my childhood, the beginning of Islamophobia, the catalyst of many unjust wars, including one that would take my father to Iraq and eventually my entire family overseas, where even more struggles awaited us.

The tenth anniversary of 9/11 isn’t about remembering one event.  It’s about remembering the entire decade. Not only the 2,977 deaths on American soil, but the 8,813 deaths in Afghanistan, the 1,455,590 Iraqis who died, 9,620 Pakistani victims, and more.  For most of us, 9/11 is a bad dream we remember occasionally, but can move past and forget most of the time.  For the families of the victims, American Muslims, and the millions of innocent victims of American imperialism overseas, the effects of 9/11 can be felt every day.  We were terrorized for five minutes, left with memories that stung from time to time.  We spent the next decade terrorizing others in more far-reaching ways than we could imagine.

Ten years ago, I lived in the D.C. metro area next to the Pentagon.  Today, I can see the place the Twin Towers should still be from campus.  Two beams of light shooting straight up into the sky, reminding us of what we lost, and how one event changed the world.

I want to go to the 9/11 memorial, but I don’t feel safe leaving my dorm.  Emotions are running high, and a visible Muslim would make a great opportunity for a hate crime.

My father called me from Dubai to specifically request me to stay close to home today, and stay away from crowds or memorials.  Regardless of how safe or unsafe it is right now, I’m honoring his wishes.  But the fact that I as an American don’t feel safe leaving my home is a sign of how much farther we need to go, and how little progress we have made since 9/11.  Fear is a hideous emotion.  It’s fear that divides us and prompts us to give up our rights in exchange for safety.  Isn’t it ironic that by living in fear for ten years, we have given the terrorists exactly what they have wanted?

I didn’t think I was going to get this emotional today.  They say “we will never forget,” but when you live it everyday, wouldn’t you like to forget once in a while?

bye-bye, dubai

The first thought that comes to mind before I travel is that this could be the last time I ever see my family again.

I had been looking forward to going back to New York all summer, yet it didn’t really sink in until around 1:30 am, after I finished packing.  Once it hit me, I tried to make my last few hours at home count.  I played Pokemon with my youngest sister (the new Pokemon are super weird, btw. I feel so old).  I laughed at my little brother’s jokes.  I goofed around with my other sister, and talked to my mom, who tried to pull an all-nighter to stay up with me.

I always try to get one last look of my loved ones before I travel.  At least then, if anything happens, I have a visual to fall back on.  I have a series of snapshots in my head from many different occasions.  I remember every time, date, and face.

Sometimes I feel like I wasted too much time this summer.  There were things I meant to do, but didn’t because I didn’t want to isolate myself in my room to work on them.  But time spent with family is never really wasted.  Even if it’s just bumming around the house, as long as I’m bumming around with family, it’s time well wasted.  Bumming around the house alone is tragic.

This could be the last time I see my family.  But only for now.   There are certain bonds that transcend death and distance.  Some things never really end.  Goodbyes can be hard, but I like think I’m getting better at this.

dreams on hold

Today, my mother and I took another crack at pre-Jordan shopping.  Much to the envy of my siblings, I’ll be missing out on this year’s trip to Jordan because of classes.   The prospect seemed pretty sweet at first, but it doesn’t feel right somehow.

Naturally, we broke the mall-silence as soon as we got back to the car.  Mom was talking casually, commenting on how we were cutting it close to iftar, how one of the car washers in the yellow jumpsuits looked like he was about to pass out, etc.  And then she said something that caught me by surprise.

“Honey, do you think it’s too late for me to go to medical school?”

Wait, what?  I wasn’t sure.  Can a person ever be too old to go to school?  I asked her if she had fulfilled her requirements.  She reminded me that she was premed in college.  It slowly sunk in that whoah, she’s still thinking about med school after 25 years.

The thing is, I try to block it out.

My mom was a chemistry major on the premed track when she was in college.  Things changed after she met my dad, who didn’t want his wife to be a doctor.  He wanted someone to stay home and raise his kids. She switched to accounting, got married, and forgot about med school. Every time she told me that story, I felt my insides sink a little.  How can a woman be so set on achieving her goals… until a man comes into the picture?  Is there even any point in aspiring to pursue a career?  Or would I set aside my own dreams someday just like my mother did?  She always reassured me that having kids was the best thing that ever happened to her, but I find it uncomfortable to think of myself as the barrier between my mom and her dreams.  It’s almost as disturbing as the idea of someone coming into my life and controlling me.

I wanted to be a doctor ever since I was young.  I think it was probably the first real aspiration I had as a child.  Somewhere down the line, however, I became discouraged.  Between being told flat out that there was no point because “you’re going to get married, and your husband probably won’t want you to be a doctor” and having a bad experience with chemistry in high school, I shifted my focus sharply away from the sciences and towards the humanities.  I guess my first year of college taught me that while I love the humanities and am naturally geared toward that side of the spectrum, success in the humanities revolves around bullshit.  And there’s only so much bullshit I can take in and dish out before I get bored and start looking for something more substantial.  I don’t need college to teach me how to bullshit.  I was born a bullshitter.

I’ve been thinking about going premed recently, and talking to my mom about it.  I don’t know if it’s too late or not.  My mom is surprisingly supportive, and while her experience is somewhat discouraging, I’m not going to allow it to be an obstacle.    Hearing my mom talk about going to med school was comforting in a way, even if it was just a passing thought.  Maybe she didn’t completely give up on her dream.  Maybe she just put it on hold.

me gusta

The last hour before iftar (breaking the fast) is the hardest part of the day for me when I’m fasting.  It’s when I feel the most dehydrated, and that’s what really gets me.  Anyone who knows me knows that I’m weird about drinking water and staying hydrated, to the point where I’m constantly drinking water and don’t drink anything else (unless I need caffeine) because I don’t want to feel the difference in being slightly less hydrated.  Call it a desert habit.

The other day, I was feeling particularly bleh in that last hour, and struggled to stay awake.

So, I made Rage cupcakes.

Okay, so I didn’t actually make the cupcakes.  My mom made a batch of cupcakes on a whim, because that’s what moms do.  I just nabbed a few before she could put sprinkles on the icing.

My favorite:

First, second, third attempts.

I’d like to give this another shot, but on bigger cupcakes next time.  Or maybe a cake, so I could actually pipe the frosting instead of using a toothpick on a teeny cupcake.  I don’t mind the sloppiness too much.  In a way, it’s kind of supposed to be.

religiosity

“So, are you religious?”

He makes a circular motion around his face with his hand, a gesture towards my hijab.

Here we go again.

The term “religious” is on my list of words I can’t stand, right up there with “moist,” “fierce,” “confuzzled,” and quite a few others too heinous to be mentioned here (oh, but how I do love the word heinous).  As I bite my tongue and refrain from ranting, it occurs to me:  It’s a lose-lose question.

The way I see it, saying no gives the impression that I don’t care for my religion, which isn’t true. If I say yes, then I’ve just jumped onto the same boat as a bunch of other crazies who self-identify as religious.  And we all know that some of the craziest people call themselves religious.  And as for those who call themselves “devout”—or my personal favorite—“saved”—you’ve just entered nutcase territory.  Westboro Baptist Church, anyone?  I’m pretty sure Jerry Falwell and Robert Spencer fancy themselves as religious, as do most professional bigots.  Come to think of it, aside from atheist bigots, I can’t think of any bigots who don’t self-identify as religious.  Bigots like Ann Coulter and…  I just grossed myself out with the C-word.  Which is synonymous with the other c-word.  Go figure.

But who couldn't love a face like this?

Moving on.

My point is that the S.S. Religious is a big boat of bigots and crazies that I would rather avoid and not be associated with in any way.

Self-identifying as religious opens the door to judgment and scrutiny, as does any other claim a person makes about themself.  I know that my first reaction to any personal claim is usually along the lines of “Oh really?  Prove it.”  Which is exactly the problem when it comes to self-identifying as religious.  Once you make that claim, you’re doomed to trying to prove that it’s true, which would tie you to the opinions of others.  And if you can’t back it up, you just look like a hypocrite.  Sometimes it’s better not to ask personal questions or claim certain qualities for yourself.

For some reason, people make it a game trying to gauge the religiosity of others.  Many take a different approach, such as the not-so-subtle line of questioning:

Do you pray five times a day? Do you drink? Do you have a boyfriend?

While not as disturbing as asking outright because you get to avoid the damning implications that come with answering yes or no, it’s still pretty disturbing in the sense that you’re being judged anyway, and this time, based on more detail.   The only time these sorts of questions aren’t completely creepy is when a person is looking into a potential spouse.  So knock it off, ladies; I know you’re curious, but it’s never going to happen.

The main reason I highly dislike the term “religious” is that, in my experience, being religious has nothing to do with being moral or actually practicing one’s religion- especially when it’s self-described.  In fact, there seems to be a positive correlation between self-described religiosity and general douchebaggery.  It’s science.  But really, there is such a disconnect between being religious and actually practicing.

I know some people who talk the religious talk but don’t practice even the basics.  As in refusing to pay zakat, scoffing the idea of fasting, and rejecting prayer, among other things. But if you were to hear the way they talk and how many times they can squeeze “Allahu Akbar” or “subhanallah” into a sentence, you’d think they were saints.  Stick around a while longer and you’d think otherwise.  And you wouldn’t even need to ask them if they’re religious, they would be the first to say: “Yes, ya’ani, I am very religious. Ya’ani, I love Allah.  So much.  The faith is in my heart. Bismallah, Allahu Akbar. Laa ilaha illa Allah.  Allahu Akbar.”

Boogity boogity boogity amen.

My grandmother’s pastor is pretty religious too.  Between preaching the Good Word and telling inquisitive minds (such as my own mother) they were destined for Hell if they questioned religion, he had multiple affairs with women from his flock, left his wife for the organist, and refused to support his ailing mother.  But as long as you’re religious, you’re good to go. Right?

The real issue is how we categorize others.  I find that there is something problematic about the way we like to label others as religious versus non-religious, as if we have the right to do so.  But it’s all based upon assumptions, and you know what they say about people who assume.  (Hint: you make an ass out of yourself.)  That girl who isn’t wearing a headscarf could be way more practicing than the girl wearing abaya.  A man can go to the mosque and seem personable, but be abusive to his family when he gets home.  You just don’t know.

The fact of the matter is that we don’t know someone’s intentions. We know that according to Islam, there are scholars and reciters of Qur’an who will enter Hell because their intentions were worldly, not godly.  And we know that a prostitute can attain Paradise because of a sincere act of faith and kindness.  There are more important factors at work here, factors we don’t have complete knowledge over.

As someone who’s made all sorts of bad judgment and who has been judged, I’ve come to realize that it’s better to take each person as a person, not a category, and to try not to judge—it’s pointless when you think about it.

After a second of consideration, I have an answer.

“I don’t know about ‘religious.’ I just do my best.”  Rant avoided.

desert days

The Arabian Desert. Its emptiness is the stuff nightmares are made of.  It’s just terrifyingly barren. I remember how I used to despise the desert when I first moved to Dubai. It reeked of death and desolation, so empty I could hardly stand it.  To someone who was used to living around lush Virginian forests, the desert was like a graveyard. Life, to me, was trees and rivers that could grow and sustain life. The desert symbolized death and frailty. But the longer I lived in the desert, the more I got used to it and learned to appreciate it for the same reasons I had once hated it.

There’s something about the desert that make you face yourself.   It’s the emptiness.  It acts as a mirror into your own soul.  There isn’t much to focus on when you look outward into the desert, so you naturally withdraw into yourself. And when you do, you can see exactly who you are, what you’re made out of. Do you have substance, or did you forget to cultivate yourself?  It’s terrifying for most people, because they know that if they take a look, they won’t like what they’ll see.  It was probably the hardest part of living in the desert for me, too. The desert is empty, and it’s up to you to find something to fill the void with whatever you choose, and it’s always a reflection of your inner state.  Some people choose to fill the emptiness with their idols, material possessions, spending their time accumulating as much wealth as possible.  Material items never fill a person, and the people in this category are as barren as the desert on the inside, much like your typical Dubaian.   Some react to the isolation by filling the void with an abundance of children to strengthen their families and tribes in the interest of pride and power in numbers.  Others take the desert’s apparent deadness as motivation to cultivate themselves, seeking knowledge and things of substance for enrichment, trying try to fill the desert with life by letting their actions speak and take on an energy of their own. Each person reacts to the desert in his or her own way, and no matter what someone tries to fill the desert’s emptiness with, the idea remains the same: be your own oasis.

When you’re in the desert, you see things with more clarity. It’s that emptiness again.  It’s the perfect environment for reflection.  Somehow, good and evil are more easily apparent, and magnified.  A small act of kindness seems more than gracious, and wrongdoing seems more atrocious in the desert than in other environments.  The gravity of a person’s deeds is somehow more palpable.  A person’s essence can easily pervade the emptiness of the desert, and it echoes all around.  It is easy for you to hear yourself, to feel your essence, and it’s easier for others to be affected by you.

The desert is uniquely timeless.  There are no forests to uproot, nothing to carve or shape.  Just the same old sand that the wind carries from place to place.  And it’s the same sand that the Prophet (saws) and his Companions lived in 1400 years ago.  That’s probably my favorite part of living in the Arabian Desert.

In the desert, you can find peace.  I remember laying in the sand under the stars one winter night in Muzdalifah. It was like it was just me and God out there. No words can describe it. The same emptiness that once terrified me that amplified the moment into something I could never forget.  I have never felt peace anywhere else.  Maybe there’s a reason why Muslims are supposed to make a pilgrimage to the desert at least once in their lifetime.

And then you have Dubai.  Dubai’s answer to the charms of the desert was not quiet reflection or an appreciation of their .  It was to build, build, build. For the hollow and material-minded, only the biggest and gaudiest can fill the desert void.  The world’s tallest skyscraper.  The world’s only “seven-star” hotel.  Man made islands in the Gulf. The world’s biggest mall.  Don’t forget the indoor ski slope.  In Dubai’s designs to attract tourists and expats, it tried to banish as much sand away from the city as possible to give the illusion that it is a world apart from the desert rather than a city in the desert.  Buildings and roads attempt to cover the sand they’re built upon.  To cover up the patches in-between, unholy amounts of water are wasted to grow grass where it has no business being grown.  The effect of Dubai’s efforts to attract fresh blood to do its dirty work is surreal, and plain unnatural.  Desert reflection wasn’t good enough for Dubai.  The Arab standard and tradition was rejected in favor of what would be more appealing to expats, particularly Westerners. They gave up the sands that produced some of the most accomplished intellectuals known to man.  Yet, try as they might, the desert still pervades.  And they’re trying to simultaneously banish it and fill it in the most expensive, gaudiest ways possible.  They raped it with a skyline and called it progress.