Annie @ PhD in Parenting asked me to write a guest post as a part of her March lineup of guest bloggers. I’ve previously spoken about what an amazing blogger, resource and activist she is, so it was quite the honour to be invited to write for her audience this week.
I’m cross-posting the article here, but I do encourage you all to check out the discussion (and other articles!) happening at her place.
Eryn beat her chubby little arm against my back in excitement as we wandered through the bazaar. Row after row, vendors offered delights for the entire family: balloons; flashing baubles; raw honey; bright and pungent, exotic spice mountains; cheddar cheese stuffed dates; almond stuffed dates; golden and sugary baklava; Arabic language DVDs of The Message, possibly the most popular movie ever made about the story of Islam; red and black henna for dyeing hair and skin; face painting for the kids; black, impressive abayas with shimmering, sequinned designs; heady, musk-scented, oil-based perfumes, and adorable baby clothes decorated with familiar Islamic slogans, “May peas be with you,” and “100% Halaal.”
Men, women, groups of families moved fluidly among the vendors – traditional lines of gender segregation were ignored while people negotiated the crowd. Though, a large group of men stood around the meat shawarma vendor, and double the amount of women haggled at the hijab table, while the matrimonial table stood empty. Arabic, Farsi, Urdu and Turkish overpowered any notes of English that floated around my hijab. The organizers successfully created a slice of Islamic culture in the centre of suburbia.
While hemming and hawing over a red and gold, mirror-embossed throw pillow, the Hubby called me over to the book section. He was holding an Arabic alphabet mat puzzle in one hand, and a mosque building-block kit in the other. I went straight for the baby books.
The books, articles and advice blogs I devoured in early motherhood have made me the family expert on my pregnancy, labour and delivery, breastfeeding, and now for Eryn-specific child rearing. Very quickly I’ve learned to become a fiscally and morally informed consumer, since motherhood leads me to sections of clothing, food and toy stores I would have not have previously considered going to. My expert eye can gauge the amount of preservatives contained in processed foods at 20 paces and I can stealthily repurpose stereotypical gendered gifts without blinking. It’s the same with books.
For the majority of books currently sitting in Eryn’s book nook, I’ve run them past my personal criteria list, making sure they include most of the elements of: strong female characters, diversity, pro-breastfeeding, fat acceptance, social justice, avoiding gender binaries and positive character building. Seeing that she’s only 18 months old, our current rotation includes: The Paper Bag Princess, Olivia the Pig, I Like Myself!, Scaredy Squirrel, the Very Hungry Caterpillarand several multi-language board books on babies, children’s activities, world cultures and animals.
So far, our teaching of Islamic values has simply been organic. Eryn watches us when we pray and joins in when she wants. She knows I put on hijab before we leave the house, and she hands it to me when she wants to get going. She says, “Allah” whenever she passes the Qur’an or wants to listen to her Islamic-inspired music, and I say bismillah (in the name of God) before she eats or nurses. But that’s about it. We’ve never actually sat down with her and instructed her on pictures of mosques, people in prayer, the Ka’abah in Mecca, women in hijab, successfully told prophetic stories from the Qur’an or Bible or dwelt on any other concepts that she’d identify as “Islamic.”
So, it never dawned on me to look at Islamic books. And the first time I did, I have to admit that I was a little disappointed.
The weekend is almost over, and that means another installment of the roundup. This week it’s the local-muslim-next-door edition. We’ve got a K-town local does good, a TO local does bad, a hippy and non-Muslims south of the border pining for the prairies.
Enjoy.
We missed each other by just a few years, but Katherine Bullock and I both went to the same University, took our shahada at the same mosque, settled with our families in the same region, and now consistently bump into each other at weddings and conferences. After successfully launching her Mosque One project, an in-depth look at Toronto’s first mosque, Katherine has published a series of children’s books on Islam. The At the Masjid Learning Series is aimed at 2-5 year olds and combines basic early learning concepts such as numbers and colours with Islamic themes and scenery.
“I yearned for board books of similar quality in English about things to do with Islam,” said Bullock, who converted to Islam in 1994, a couple of years after her marriage to a Muslim man. “I wanted [my son] to grow up in Canada loving the masjid, and so I thought of a book that would bring these two wishes together: a book about a masjid and a first book about numbers. The idea grew in my mind into a whole series, and churned away through the birth of my second and third children.
Mabrook Kathy!
An audit has revealed that the Islamic Society of North America-Canada has mismanaged charitable funds intended for zakat and fitra — finding that out of $810,777, the local charity only gave $196,460 to aid the poor. President Mohammad Ashraf is at the center of the scandal, who is well known in the community for his enthusiastic, captive-audience, fund raising techniques every night of Ramadaan. Charitable funds were apparently shuffled through ISNA’s affiliated services (possibly the bookstore, halaal meat certification agency, and travel agency) — and went toward beefing up security around the mosque and health benefits for Ashraf’s daughters. The audit also found several instances of improper issuing of charitable tax receipts, and that a non citizen was on ISNA’s payroll in order to help her immigrate to Canada.
A note on Facebook recounts this past Friday’s khutbah at the mosque where some of the accusations were addressed, questions The Star’s appreciation of the situation and is asking for the community to withhold judgment before spreading gossip and dishonoring “an honorable man and an honorable institution.”
The BBC has a nice piece on “The Imam of Peace” — John Butt, the only Westerner to have graduated from the Darul-Uloom Deoband, South Asia’s largest Muslim seminary. He arrived in the late 60’s as a pot-smoking hippy and:
was hooked from the moment he saw Swat, describing to me snow-capped mountains, rivers like flowing jewels, forests and alpine pastures. It was, he says, “like Tolkien’s Middle-earth, magical and other worldly” inhabited by tribal people who were “very pleasant, big-hearted, tolerant, easy-going and welcoming”.
When his fellow hippies grew up and went home to become accountants and lawyers, John stayed on – becoming fluent in the Pashto language and studying Islam. But John’s world changed in the late 1980s, with the arrival of jihadists, who came to the border areas from all over the world to fight the war against the Russians in Afghanistan.
“I saw the rural, religious Pashtun way of life I had come to love so much being diluted, contaminated and poisoned, in particular by Arabs from the Middle East,” he says. “The way they practise Islam is very different to the tribal areas, but they used money and influence to impose their own set of values.”
So he decided to fight for his adopted culture.
He seems really, really sweet, dedicated and sincere — and he mentions Tolkien. Hooray!
Finally, much to the ire of right-wing, conservative, American commentators, Katie Couric has suggested that the US could benefit from a Muslim version of the Cosby Show. Bring on Little Mosque!
I was looking at Eryn in the rearview mirror, when she suddenly took her fingers and slanted her eyes. We were singing “Old MacDonald” while driving to school and her shocking non sequitur gesture was horribly out of place. Like a game of “one of these things is not like the other” in the Twilight Zone: Cheerios, children’s rhymes and creeping racism.
Stunned into silence, she spoke before I could even think about what to say: “Why did he do that mommy?” — and that’s when, much to my relief, I knew my little girl wasn’t trading racist jokes with her friends during recess.
While watching coverage of the 2012 Olympics this past August, a one-minute segment was aired recapping the career of Brazilian swimmer Cesar Cielo — and showed video footage when he slanted his eyes for the cameras after winning gold at the 2008 Beijing Olympics. It’s amazing that a two second scene from two months ago made such a lasting impression on her. And makes me wonder what the daily exposure to subtle racism, or skin colour and body preference is doing to form her worldview.
I’m not sure if this will become a regular feature on the blog or not — it just seems that the past few weekends we keep doing so much fun STUFF.
Since we were out and about looking for a place to have some winter fun (which failed miserably since the local ice rink is “closed for maintenance”) we had the lucky fortune of praying maghrib at a mosque on Saturday. Actually, we’re pretty privileged in that we have a choice of mosques in which to pray.
I opted to not pray at the mosque where a very kind, but masha’Allah, busy sister talks through half the prayer telling other sisters that they’re a) praying incorrectly or b) wearing incorrect clothing. Instead we went to ISNA:
But Mama, I want to be where the REAL action is!
ISNA has a lovely prayer area (though, their “mother’s section” is less desirable) — but all Eryn wanted to do was join Baba and check out the minbar.
That's RIGHT Eryn, transcend barriers and go pray at the front!
After prayer we headed to the ISNA bookstore — which is a massive bazaar area filled with DVDs, hijabs, Muslim kitch, abayas, car decals, tasbeeh, kufis… oh, and books. I much prefer the SoundVision bookstore where I can find obscure titles and a wider variety of children’s stories.
But really, you can’t go wrong at a place that sells fezzes.
There was a time when I would wear layers of heavy makeup, hiding behind a gothic, sexy demure because I thought my value as a woman lay only in receiving attention for my sexuality.
Media and technology are delivering content that is shaping our society… they’re shaping our children’s brains and lives and emotions.
There was a time when I would abuse stimulant diet teas and spend two hours daily at the gym just to give myself the permission to eat.
The fact that Media are so limiting and so derogatory to the most powerful women in the country — then what does it say about Media’s ability to take any woman in America seriously.
There as a time when I thought my value as a woman was tied up in my hijab and in the natural, inherent, biological sex roles originally determined by patriarchy and phrased with obedience to the Divine as the ideal way to live as a Muslim.
If people knew that Cuba, China, Iraq and Afghanistan have more women in government than the United States of America… that would get some people upset.
I have no doubt that the Media will effect the way Eryn lives her life. I want her to grow up loving and devouring books, but fear she’ll be part of a generation of babies who believe every LCD screen is touch-enabled to provide hours of educational and mindless entertainment.
She has never watched television outside of a football game or the 6 o’clock news (okay, maybe one or two Bollywood Soaps and one episode of Doctor Who). Eryn knows who Thomas the Tank Engine, Dora and Caillou are only because she sees their pictures on the library wall. But she knows the Babies documentary off by heart and has watched the new Winnie the Pooh movie about 18 times. Last week we introduced to her to a 1980s Anime production of Heidi — dubbed and subtitled in Arabic. We don’t have cable — and we’re generally conscious about they types of media entertainment she’s being exposed to. But the consumption of Media is ubiquitous.
My heart falls when I grab her navy blue t-shirt and she says, “No mama, boy!” I have no idea how she picked that up, since I have never made gender distinctions about her clothes.
We take turns grabbing and loving our tummy rolls and I’ve taught her that a jiggly bum is fun and wonderful. But I’m just waiting for the day when she comes home from school to tell me that so-and-so can throw-up on demand. Or when she weighs herself with a sigh.
As a parent, I’m trying to shield and guide Eryn the best I can. For discussions on the Media portrayal of women versus a woman’s real worth, I know Islamic principles valuing mind over body, education over ego, and humility over flamboyancy will help. But it’s not only the Media I worry about.
I also worry about popular stories and myths, “innocent” comments from family and friends and most certainly, what she will hear and experience as a woman in the mosque. Until now, I’ve never really felt the enormity of what it means to raise a little Muslim feminist.
These thoughts came pouring out after watching this brilliant clip from the documentary Miss Representation. I don’t often do PSAs, but if you haven’t already seen this — it’s a must watch.
It doesn’t take long for me to regain my commuting feet. Everyone is tired, cold and jaded. But I have a spring in my step and navigate the crowd like a pro — pushing through to get to my stop. It’s been over a year since I’ve made the trek to the downtown core for work, and I’m exhilarated. It’s time for the annual office Christmas party.
New mothers who are slated to return to work within the new year are invited and expected to attend. It’s good office politics to meet old and new colleagues, get caught up on office gossip, and schmooze. But it’s impossible not to feel like you’re just there to be judged and observed. Is your mind a mashup of children’s rhymes? Have you forgotten how to write policy or code? Have you even kept up on business developments?
Within minutes of arriving I have two people ask me if I’m pregnant, and it’s not because of my body shape. When I push through to meet the CEO, I have my witty retort ready: “Oh K, it’s wonderful to see you! What’s new? Pregnant yet?” “Yes. With twins.”
My deadpan response elicits an appropriate level of polite laughter. But there’s so much left unsaid by my colleagues. I spend the rest of the night playing the good and intelligent office worker — yet no one seems interested that I’m writing and thinking critically while I’m owning mommyhood. I’m obviously not on the same level, or even worth assessing by those in a position of authority. I’m just a mommy and no longer a sharp, career-driven, Bay Street worker. I’m completely defined by what may or may not be in my womb.
It was a sleepy Saturday morning on June 1, 1994. I stood next to the kitchen wall phone, shuffling nervously, heart pounding up into my brain and holding my breath while begging a coworker to take my morning shift. After a long pause they said yes, and I nearly passed out.
Within the hour I was on the train to get to the HMV on Yonge Street in Toronto, and arrived early enough to be 10th in line. For hours complete strangers chatted, sang, and joked with each other. A few came dressed to the nines in top hats and walking sticks. I’m surprised I didn’t see a snake.
When the line began to move I stopped thinking rationally. This experience was happening to another person — I was only a spectator. We walked deeper into the store, right to the back where a black table was set up with posters and commemorative books. Two burly security guards in bright orange shirts stood behind it. I shuffled closer and grew sick with excitement. After an eternity, it was finally my turn.
He signed my CD album cover and told me that he rarely sees this particular album outside of Europe. I laughed and told him that I bought it while on vacation in Germany. I found all of his obscure albums there. He smiled and I told him it was my favourite. He thanked me for coming by and before leaving I offered him a hand shake. He took my outstretched hand in his warm, black leather glove, and in mid-shake, I turned it over and kissed it.
The security guards moved quickly to stop me, but he leaned back and grandly announced, “Oh, don’t worry. She’s worthy.”
wood turtle 