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Subhanallah, another year has past.

Change, that was the overwhelming theme of 2014.

New city, new job, new focus...

Change brought many a new beginning.

It was also a year of lots of movement.

150 flights, all over the world. Humbling, really.

All blurred into one long cassette tape of memory.

New people, new perspectives.

What did I learn?

I learnt that the older I get, the greyer things become.

That we cannot judge what is in another person's heart, and it is not our place to do so. What should be of concern with is getting our own heart in order.  Controlling our reactions and responses to events is the only choice we have;  a powerful choice and realisation.

I learnt silence is okay, and sometimes time-out is okay too, even though the adrenalin junkee inside may shout otherwise.

"GET UP!"

"Keep moving..."

"Keep doing..."

These things are important, for idleness can always been a poison.

However, thinking, real, deep, critical thinking doesn't happen when we're on the go.  It didn't happen when I was binge watching The Good Wife or dancing in my bedroom when I got up in the morning.

It happens when I find silence and let my thoughts wander.  When I choose to reflect consciously...

I realised my way of thinking is through writing.   All the silence in the world is futile for my clarity without a way to record it, have it played back to me and be able to reflect on it again and again, until it makes some sense.  The very act of writing, of seeing the words articulated on a page or screen gives them a legitimacy that the fleeting nature of my thoughts lack.  The fact that I didn't write enough this year perhaps contributed to the feeling of not-being-present... and so I resolve to return to the habit of writing in 2015 inshallah.

Every new year brings the opportunity for reflection, refocus and recalibration of who we want to be and where we want to be at.

I cannot say with any certainty where I want to be at the end of this 365 day chapter inshallah.

What I do know is that I hope, with the grace of Allah, I find humility, the space to think and write critically, the ability to impact, influence and hopefully, inspire towards a world of greater equality of opportunity and diversity of voices in the public domain. 

Who knows what 2015 brings.  All we can try to do is be truly present for it.

Bless.

Salams,

PS.

Every year I start with a song.  2014 was started with Pharrell's Happy, before it got overplayed on the radio. This year, I chose Bluejuice's 'Work'.

Enjoy! http://youtu.be/pjchHtygrNo?t=1m8s

Sajjeling: #WISH: a step in the door

This piece was originally posted for the fantastic blog Sajjeling. Check it out! 

This was a hard piece to write, mostly because critiquing movements that are helping the community can be construed as unconstructive and vindictive.  However, I repost it in order to hopefully air alternative perspectives. I do not want any critique to de-legitimise what women have felt the campaign has done, but use it as an opportunity to reflect and then ask ourselves: what is next?

***

Perhaps not surprisingly, a campaign that calls for women of all stripes to don the hijab, take a photo and post it online has garnered mixed reviews over the past few weeks.

#WISH, or Women in Solidarity with Hijabis, came about with the idea of show support and solidarity for Muslims, and, particularly, Muslim women, around the country.

With hundreds and thousands of views, digital interactions and imprints, and almost 30,000 likes on Facebook, it is certainly making an impression in the wider Australian community. Women have used it as an entry point for discussion, posting their photo in a hijab and usually accompanying it with a message of hope or solidarity.  On the surface, it all seems very positive and very encouraging, as it provides a space for those who support Muslim women and sisters to very visually ,and publicly, make a stand.

However, responses from other parts of the Muslim community have rejected the premise of the campaign entirely as belittling and disrespectful of the religious nature of the hijab. Not only does the campaign minimise the religious nature of the hijab, but it can allow people to engage without the difficulty of taking on the identity per se; the privilege to be able to remove the hijab and rejoin society as an accepted member of the mass group is one that doesn’t exist for many Muslim women as an option at all. Therefore, women who feel like they have ‘joined’ the group or, after wearing it for a week, realised how ‘difficult’ it may be or how ‘perceptions change’ when you are wearing a hijab are simply Orientalising the garment rather than engaging with its true meaning.

Nevertheless, in spite of commentary about the effectiveness and impact of the campaign, it is worth noting at the outset that it was begun by a Muslim woman in Australia. Therefore, it should be treated as reflective of the wishes of some members in the community.  Some may argue that the campaign is a reactionary way of dealing with the superficial manner in which the public engages with religious belief, however that argument, again, becomes an assumption around a Muslim woman’s capacity for autonomy and choice. Rather than re-emphasise the perception that Muslim women are oppressed and helpless, especially in the face of adversity, this prime example shows that those very women are capable of taking matters into their own hands and finding new ways to change the narrative.

Another campaign in Australia, “Racism, Hatred, Bigotry – #NotInMyName”, is also pushed by a Muslim Australian woman, further defying stereotypes of men being the only leaders in the community.Objectively, there is no denying that the campaign is not the answer to all the Australian Muslim community’s problem, nor does it engage in critical policy creation or find solutions to the increasing incidences of racial and bigoted acts.However, perhaps this is a case of not throwing out the baby with the bathwater?

What the campaign has been successful at doing is allowing many women to engage with the Muslim community in a way they may not have done previously, perhaps because they are drawn to the superficial beauty of the hijab, however ironic that may be.

Most of the women who do engage are doing so in an effort to learn and to demonstrate their solidarity.  Although some may fall under the ‘well intentioned but possibly misguided’ banner that volunteer activists sometimes do, there is still a positive intention that is worth recognising and working with.

Who are we to decide or determine how people learn about Islam?  The Muslim communities expend immense amounts of carbon dioxide talking about how there is little knowledge or information about Islam in the wider community. Should we shoot down one of the most successful campaigns that has allowed positive information to be shared with thousands?

#WISH is not the whole answer, but it is not none of the answer either. What it does is open the doors to a conversation about what the religion means, what the reasoning behind its wearing is based on, and ultimately, what Islam is all about.  It is a non threatening, low-barrier-to-entry way of engaging, and although it may make us as Muslim women feel insecure, frustrated, culturally appropriated and exploited even, no change is made without sacrifice and change is certainly not made if we continuously refuse to engage with the initiatives that have been positive and ultimately, successful.  Right?

Honestly and personally speaking, the campaign can be uncomfortable for some Muslim women, although I speak for myself here. It takes a religious act that for some means daily struggle and constant judgment, and allows it to be worn by many others as a simple ornament, like any other item of jewellery.  The significance of the hijab can be lost in that transaction, and not only is that sad, but it is a misrepresentation of its meaning.  It should be noted that the concept of ‘hijab’ itself isn’t even only just about the headscarf, it includes modestly dressing across the board, and modesty in our actions as well.  #WISH does not communicate that larger message.

But it doesn’t pretend to, either.

Yes, it may be uncomfortable; but is rejecting it the only answer?

Perhaps it should be thought of in this way: #WISH can be the foot in the door.  It may only be a little bit of foot in the door, and perhaps it’s only in the door frame to test the waters.  Nonetheless, if we are serious about changing the narrative and engaging and educating the wider public, the door at least has to be a little bit open. Will we continue to squabble about how the foot got there, holding our post-colonial grudges in our hearts, or will we try to forgive the lack of knowledge and work to ensure that the vacuum is filled?

The choice is ours.  Next move, hijabis.

A Strange Trip on the Newcastle Train Line

Her face was not a gentle one.  It was marked with remnants of resilience borne through struggle, a defiance forged from necessity.  She was travelling to the NRL (National Rugby League) grand final alone.

I wondered.

Her right hand looked deliberate, holding the window sill while her other hand grasped the rubber clad iPhone with authority. The woman's short nailed thumb flicked through Facebook and Words-With-Friends with determination, the seepage of an attitude she probably approached everything in life pervading even her interaction with social media. 

My eyelids drooped, a headache throbbing.  Dehydration; I should have known better.  My mouth was dry as I contemplated dry swallowing Panadol to banish the thought-deadening pound.  My mouth twitched.  Sort yourself out girl, my inner voice chided.

What accent is your inner voice?  Today, mine was British.  Perhaps I internalise the effects of post colonialism more than I thought...

***

My lip curled in slight annoyance when the newcomers walked into my - the - carriage.  It was the quiet carriage, but not for long.   The older man and younger counterpart in a Jack Daniel’s cap started talking loudly and with a familiarity that belied a close relationship.  Father and son, perhaps.

On any other day, I’d jump at the opportunity to talk to people, new folk, humans obviously going to enjoy themselves and open to worlds of possibility.

But as my eyelids grew heavy and my head tightened, my headphone cans acted as a physical barrier disallowing any possible interaction and it was all just a bit too hard today...

***

The younger man’s eyes danced as I looked up from my laptop screen, assessing how irritating their chatter was.  His seat faced mine and our eyes locked briefly as I glared in his direction.  I looked pointedly at the quiet carriage sign but the connection was lost, the communication lines in different languages.

The two men in the seat across the walkway from mine me stood up to go relieve themselves. As they walked past,  the rabbitoh-jersey clad woman turned to look at me, red lips bright on her tanned complexion. Our eyes locked, and after a split second I smiled.  The universal sign…

She smiled back warmly, unexpectedly transforming her face.

I wondered how my face transformed when I smiled.

***

The man whose eyes danced had an interesting face; crinkles around his eyes and an expressive mouth.  Today, that was a gift, the easy smile belying a life which on surface, had been good to him. I wondered if his toothy grin and open face was always that way, or when faced with people like me those lips became tight, the face mean.  I’d seen it happen before, a frightening and trust shattering change.

I wondered what made people whose lives were (on surface) so blessed, so very closed minded.  Perhaps it was an underlying recognition that their life was fortunate and a fear that if they thought about it too hard they might be obliged to share.

I guess noone ever told them that sharing does not necessarily lessen one’s wealth in the way that one might think.

***

The woman behind me wailed.  “I need to go to the toilet!” she cried, her voice high and childlike.

Her hair was white flecked with grey, her girth demanding.

An older man sat across from her.  A husband, brother, carer?  Either way, a man who was invested in this lady’s wellbeing.

“I need to go and I can’t hold it in!”

The man looked at his phone.

The jersey clad men sitting next to me turned around.

“Hey mate, there is a toilet over there”, he said, motioning at the door. “I can help you man if you need it…”

“She can’t fit”, the elderly gentleman replied with resignation.  He stared down at his brown slacks.

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry mate.”

The young man turned around and his smaller mo-hawked friend averted his eyes.

The woman continued to wail and we all sat in the carriage, not acknowledging the difficulty this man was facing.

Politeness or a lack of empathy?

I turned around.

“Excuse me— sir, Excuse me”, I asked, attempting to make a contribution, not matter how ultimately futile. Maybe I needed to feel like I had done something, done the right thing.

“Excuse me sir— “

No acknowledgement.  Mo-hawk turned to look at me.

I turned back around and started to type.

***

The lady started to sob behind me, her sobs turning into wails.

We all averted our eyes.

***

It is fascinating how anything slightly different can make us feel so uncomfortable.  Whether or not this lady was suffering from a mental illness I can not honestly say, but it is a possibility.  It only took a few loud lines to make the carriage awkward and unable to deal with the breaking of an unwritten social contract on what is civilised.

What was fascinating is the conversation that took place between the man and the woman as the train journey continued.

***

“You don’t understand how I feel”, the lady commented.

“Yes I do. The whole train does. We all know how it feels to need to want to go to the toilet”.

She whimpered.

“Yeh but you don’t know what it’s like not to be able to fit."

Brown slacks fell quite for a moment.

“Well that’s not my fault is it? It’s yours. It wasn’t my idea to bring all the chocolate or eat so much at breakfast.  It’s a choice you made…"

The temperature in the carriage changed.  No longer was the situation clear cut, an obvious hero or victim.

Cognitive dissonance abound.

“Mate. I’ll help you carry the bags out."

Brown-slacks looks constantly grateful. Its an expression of time and place and legitimacy we’ve done our bit.

That is my transformation exciting.  When help is freely given without string attached

We all just need to chill...

Guys, what Australia is this?

"A woman has been left traumatised after her head was smashed into the side of train carriage during an apparent racial attack in Melbourne's north.

The 26-year-old victim was on an Upfield line train outbound on Thursday night when she was approached by another woman, who began hurling abusive and racist remarks.

The woman grabbed the victim by the neck and hair, and forced her head into the wall of the carriage several times.

She then pushed the victim off the train as it rolled into Batman Station in Coburg North."

Source, The Age

***

It cannot have come to this.  We're so much better than this, really, we must be.

Yes, there are terrible things happening in the Middle East, but let that not destroy us from within.

I wish I could be witty and satirical at this point, but it would only serve to sound a little bit jaded. A fellow rig guy said to me once: "the things is, you can make a terrorist joke...but we don't know if you're kidding or not."

Talk about majorly awkward.

I could focus on the negatives, and there are a lot.  Check out Media Watch's wrap up if you'd like some proof.

However, instead, I choose to focus on the fact that even though there is a lot of misinformation and hatred out there (which does not deserve traffic from my blog, no matter how meagre, so won't be linked!), there is also a lot of good.

Follow the hashtag #WISH on twitter, and check out some of the empathy and solidarity shown.

Meet some regular Aussie Muslims here.

If you're curious, check out my new favourite Tumblr that is about Sharia, PartyTilFajr. 

 ***

In other news...

A child is just about to get his first taste of Formula 1.  #SoManyFeels.  Okay, calling him a child may be a bit harsh and petulant.  The young teenager then...

The Dutch racing driver is set to become the youngest on the track during an F1 weekend, three days after his 17th birthday.

I guess there is nothing like some F1 familial pedigree to ensure your rear end gets a seat.

As much as I adore / love / live for Formula 1, there is no doubting the decadent and brazen level of nepotism and elitism that exists within its ranks.

Yet, we keep coming back...

Brisbane Times: Heightened Terror Threat a Time for Races and Religions to Unite

If you haven't seen it already, check out my piece in the Brisbane Times below.

***

It is said that dividing and conquering is an effective way to deal with an opponent.

With that in mind, the very last thing we should be doing as a community in the face of fear is become divided.

As a community, we are so much stronger than that.

They call themselves IS, and are known by a variety of names including ISIS, ISIL, or as Muslim leaders in the US have begun to refer to them, the Anti-Islamic State (AIS).

Irrespective of what its members preach, this group's actions are not Islamic, nor is it by any means an official state. Every time we refer to it as Islamic, we are actually legitimising a group which is essentially criminal in its behaviour. It is strategic and calculated in its actions, but this makes it similar to militant groups worldwide, rather than especially Islamic.

AIS was formally known as Al-Qaeda in Iraq, but it was seen as too violent even for them. The two groups are now competitors for a type of cruel dominance in the region. At its roots, support for the group is politically motivated. The area's history with Sunni and Shiites is complex to say the least, and AIS has capitalised on that tension and historic power imbalance for their own gains.

All of this has occurred half way around the world though. The question many Australians are asking is what has brought this to our doorstep, and how do we deal with it as a community?

The events of the last few days have been played over and over ad nauseam on our screens. They have shocked many. The allegations have been damning and the responses swift. In the face of all that has occurred however, it is imperative that we take a step back, reassess and regroup.

What is important to us as a nation? The concept of a fair go gets bandied about regularly as an Aussie value. So although there have been raids based on information that security forces have intercepted, if we really are about giving each other a fair go then we will treat those arrested as innocent until proven guilty. Although we may be frightened, there has to be a level of trust and support in the justice system and its capacity to deal with threats to our safety. This does not, however, provide permission for authorities to operate without limits. Due process must. be followed. If we are to allows breaches of justice in the name of fighting against what we fear, we are no better than the terrorists.

Our strength and resilience as a society is not measured by how we act in the good times but how we deal with the bad times and come together in the face of adversity. During the 2011 Queensland floods people around the world were shocked to see traffic jams because of people heading into the state, rather than out of it, so they could offer a helping hand.  Today should be no different. Faced with a threat - perceived or evidenced - it is imperative that we as a community support each other and stand united against fear.

The tricky line is not letting a stance against fear become a stance against a people because of their race, religion or dress code. The threat of terrorism must not become a chance for racial and religious hatred and ignorance to flourish. What it must not become is a conversation about us and them, because that leads us down a path we thrashed 13 years ago. Violence begets violence. For the cycle to be broken, the conversation must be reframed. Rather than basing it on race, religion or ethnicity, let's base it on intention, values and principles. We have come so far since September 11 and we must heed the lessons of history.

Us and them marginalises communities and makes people feel like they don't belong when Australia is all they have ever known. It pushes people away from the mainstream, particularly young people, when often they are looking to be valued and fit in. Marginalisation, as well as entrenched socio-economic disadvantage and language in the public arena that is isolating, fear mongering and cruel, are some of the many reasons people look for other answers. Groups like AIS are happy to be that answer. We cannot let that happen.

 If you are in favour of a society where people live harmony, within a system that is fair and just, then you are for peace and we stand united on that platform.  

So what can we all do as individuals? Have open conversations with one another. Learn about each other without prejudice. Smile and say hi to someone who looks different on the street. Stand up to behaviour that is prejudiced. Make a friend who follows a different belief system and ask them about their way of life. make a Muslim friend. Gosh, if all else fails, email me and I'll regale you with terrible puns and stories all about my car woes (never buy an Alfa Romeo if you're not ready for the towing costs and emotional heartache).

There may be disagreement about beliefs, mindsets and ways of living, but this does not preclude us from living harmoniously together. After all, I continue to disagree with anyone who claims the Blues are a better team than the Maroons (however misplaced you may think that faith is…)  yet, I do still accept those from down south. We do say that sport is pretty much a religion in this country, don't we?

That is what makes us who we are. The ability to rise above and beyond prejudice, ignorance and hatred and truly be mates, especially when the going gets tough.

As Muslims we are told "since good and evil cannot be equal, repel evil with something that is better" (41:34). Let's all make sure we are better than the evil that we so abhor. Let's make sure it doesn't turn us against our neighbours, but rather brings us together to realise that strength lies not in our differences, but in our unity.

What is a moderate Muslim anyway?

This post was originally written for the Attorney General's blog, 'Living Safe Together'.  Given recent events, I thought I would publish it here as well.  It seems a little incongruous now, given the urgency of the current discussion, particularly around young Muslims in Australia...but I will let you be a judge of that.

***

‘Sticks and stones can break my bones but words will never hurt me...’

A fine sentiment, but one that is not quite accurate, particularly when it comes to being labelled by society. An entire life being pigeonholed by a set of criteria you haven’t chosen can be uncomfortable and at times, counterproductive. The effect may be quite unintentional; although words like ‘radical’, ‘extreme’, ‘fundamental’, are obviously polarising, even tags like ‘moderate’ or ‘mainstream’ are descriptors chosen by others to describe the Muslim community and individuals within it – tags that don’t necessarily sit well with Muslims themselves.

It’s easy to labele someone - myself, for example - a ‘moderate’ or ‘mainstream’, as if that is a compliment, as if that indicates that I am not like ‘the others’; those ‘crazier’ extreme types that wish harm on the country and culture we live in.

However, what does moderate or mainstream mean exactly? Does it mean that my brand of Islam or practice as a Muslim is inoffensive enough to not make those around me feel uncomfortable? Does it mean I have given up just enough of my beliefs and culture to become ‘mainstream’, whatever that means in Australia? Does it mean I don’t follow the ‘fundamentals’ of the religion, as otherwise I would be seen as a ‘fundamentalist?’ These are not necessarily easy questions to answer, and not meant to be taken as accusations, but the importance of semantics in this discussion should not be underestimated. Labels have a way of being a self-fulfilling prophecy, for better or for worse.

Being described as moderate stirs up conflicting emotions. On one hand, appreciation of the fact that ‘we’, as Muslims, pose no harm, juxtaposed against an annoyance that this is a sentiment that needs to be expressed. On the other hand, it arouses an uneasiness about being described as ‘average’, in intensity or quality. It implies that well, we’re not a very good Muslim at all. We are just average, and average is all that is acceptable. To be any more devout or religious would be straying into ‘fundamental’ territory, and society can’t have that.

It must be acknowledged that of course, in a land of policy writing and position statements, well-understood labels are the easiest way to describe a group. Labels are the symbolic monikers, shorthand for definitions the community understands. However, across the board that has the potential to make us lazy in our thinking about the people we are talking about. It poses the danger of giving us the space to fall into well-worn thinking patterns, patterns which will only ever produce the same results they always have. To change an entire discourse is no simple matter though, and so it requires careful reflection and a healthy dose of pragmatism. How do you change what a word means to a community?

What is needed is a fundamental shift in thinking. Underlying the conversation is the understanding that there are ‘extreme’ Muslims, and ‘moderate’ Muslims. However, perhaps it should be understood that there are ‘extreme’ Muslims, and then, well, just Muslims. In the same way that there are Christians and Jews, and then there are extremes in both - the same concept applies. There is no one moderate Muslim community. In fact, there is no one single Muslim community at all; that is part of the richness of the faith. However, one view that is widely prevalent among various groups is the reluctance to be framed by a label that has been bestowed on us in an effort to determine friend from foe.

What needs to be remembered is that we (Muslims) are all part of the community as well, and are in invested in seeing it remain a safe place for us all to live in. Rather than frame the conversation in a dichotomous fashion, we (Australian society broadly) should focus on supporting each other and the young people in our community. Empowerment can be found in fulfilment through education, religion, meaningful employment and providing reasons not to become disengaged and disenfranchised. Obviously there is more to the story, but we must start somewhere. It’s the same in any community - those who are vulnerable are those most likely to fall prey to manipulation. If they do, it is a failure on us as a society and as a community for failing to support and enabling growth in a constructive way.

Those that are currently feared may be the very ones that need our help the most.

Back to Sudan: No, I did not get Ebola

Ah, it seems sometimes I avoid writing because I am a little afraid of what will come out when I start...

Oh Sudan, how you tear me in two.

***

I just got back from a whirlwind trip to Sudan, the land of my birth.  I was there for a total of 4 full days; three days and two half days. If you consider all the flying, I was almost in the air as long as I was on the ground.  I returned for the weddings of cousins and to see my Grandmother, a lady who I have lived with and who has taught me so much (the School of Life, as she refers to it).

As the plane came in to land (Alhamdulilah), I thought of the last time I was in Sudan. Coming out of university, going to study Arabic: it was a time of hope, of growth, of the Arab Spring, of something new and exciting. They were memories of rose tinted (or sand blasted) glasses, gleaming with the nostalgia of a time gone by, before #riglyf or the ruin of Syria...

It was not until my return to the hustle and bustle of the extended family home, the dramas surrounding preparations for the weddings or the two hours the hairdresser berated me for the state of my hair (HOW DARE YOU LEAVE IT CURLY?! Don't you know a woman's hair is the crown of her beauty? Don't you want to be beautiful?! How do you think you will find a man? Don't you want to feel attractive?) that the other memories of Sudan began to resurface.

(My favourite comment the hairdresser made: Oh look, I know you think you're an engineer and you're with all these men so you shouldn't take care of yourself, but girl, don't kid yourself. Men want a womanly woman. Just remember that.  When I made noises about having a man not being the most important thing in my life, she fell quiet for a few minutes.  A few blissful minutes of peace, before the barrage began again, with a different tact: Didn't I want to show everyone else in the house I could be beautiful? I could only muster and agreement-sounding moan).

Returning to the other memories of Sudan: although I'd forgotten, it was the only time in my life that my actions were constantly not enough, not right, not adequate - in a big way.  Having not been brought up in Sudan but being of Sudanese origin, I was expected (by this age) to espouse the 'correct' and perfect Sudanese way of being a woman.  This, as hard as I might, was not yet achieved.  Sure, if I worked at it as hard as I did my engineering degree, I'd probably be a hell of a lady by Sudanese standards, but to be perfectly honest - it just didn't rate with the priorities.  That doesn't stop the judgement though...

What were these 'correct' rules that were meant to be espoused? Some simple examples include:

- To make the perfect cup of tea (when to serve, how much sugar, how much to pour, the correct herbs to be added and to do it all with the utmost grace and such),

- To look like the perfect lady (preferably short, thin, not too thin as to look malnourished because that is undesired but not too large as to look like you weren't in control of your portion sizes (and definitely not muscled, lord, that was for men!), with neat manicured nails, smooth, moisturised skin - the whiter the better - with as few markings as possible, straight hair that would be coiffed into rolling curls and once whooshed out of the hijab it had been covered in under 40 degree heat all day, would gleam like the sun and smell like fairies; make up that looked good but not too fake, henna that was done well and not fading, clothing that was attractive but not too tight and shoes that were classy but would withstand the mud... you get the gist)

- To be able to cook, well (No elaboration necessary. Isn't this a prerequisite for every culturally diverse woman?)

- To be interested in womanly things, not politics and cars and football and engineering and the things that were reserved for men...

- To be the a witty conversationalist but also to talk about polite topics and not stray into overly satirical humour (not sure it translates...)

Alas, I may be being somewhat facetious.

However, the truth of the matter (as far as I can see) is this...

Sudan, north Sudan in particular, is a deeply traditional, communal society.  Societies that are tribal and based on community in the way that the Sudanese are can often be deeply judgemental.  In this world, a woman's reputation is her only weapon, her beauty of uptmost importance and her ability to hold a household and care for a family paramount.

Many of the things I have learned to value here in Australia - the community work, the breaking of the barriers in the industry I work in, the influence in public conversations - yes, that is of passing interest to the families in Sudan, but really, honestly?

It doesn't rate in comparison. 

So I go from being someone who is confident in their ability and place in the world to someone who feels like they don't know the rules at all really, and the rules I do know, I don't adhere to very well at all.

The kicker? This is supposed to be where I am from.  This would be where I was from, if my parents hadn't decide to make that audacious journey to the other side of the globe in 1992.

So, Sudan is a place where I feel I have roots - deep roots - my only roots.

It is a place I feel I must

Yet although I know I must learn to love Sudan, because it is a place that keeps me grounded and connected, it is also a nation that makes me feel judged and inadequate.  It is a place whose values and traditions I know I should espouse, and yet, I find myself disagreeing with.  The issue then becomes that yet if I reject these based on the Australian values embedded within me, well it means I am then becoming 'westernised'.

'Westernised' being synonymous with losing my identity, not being 'true or genuine', or almost taking the side of the oppressors.  It isn't a rational fear, as those aren't all rational reasons or statements, yet, somehow, it is there.

The implication is that somehow, by trying to be different, I am implicitly forsaking my Sudanese identity and redefining myself as a true coconut - black on the outside, white on the inside.  The implication is that taking the identity of the 'white' and the associated individualistic, capitalist nature, is clearly the wrong thing to do.

It can't be.

I am Australian, Muslim, born in Sudan with mixed heritage. I get to pick and chose what I want to take on, right?  Yet, every time I go back, I feel guilty about my choices.

Why? I don't know, but this cannot go on...Surely, something has to make it through this madness.

You see, even by calling it madness, I am wracked by guilt.  Doesn't Sudan have enough haters, my conscious asks me.  Do you really need to be like all the others and hate on it as well? What makes you any better than all of them... why aren't you backing Sudan?

My conscious can be a right burr sometimes.

Oh Sudan.

TBS: Well-behaved children – Use the stick or (discounted) carrot approach?

Check out my 'Smoke and Mirrors' piece at The Big Smoke! A little bit snarky and cynical, but hey... ;)

***

Have we lost the ability as a society to do good without being incentivised for it?

Or is that me being a little too cynical?

Hearing of a “well-behaved kids’” discount at a cafe (GET A DISCOUNT OFF YOUR FOOD BILL FOR GOOD BEHAVIOR? IN CALGARY AND NICE, YOU CAN! originally published on Lost @ EMinor) made me cringe and roll my eyes simultaneously (a strange sight on a train, let me tell you).

Why?

Well apparently there are now cafes in Calgary where you get a $5.00 discount for having “well-behaved kids.”

Nice…

At first glance, I can see why this is a catchy idea. It can be argued this will encourage people to keep their kids in check. After all, what motivates people more than a discount? The recipients of the discount expressed their joy at being rewarded for their well-behaved daughter, which is delightful.

Yet, it seems slightly judgemental, slightly misplaced.

Why?

To answer that question, another must be asked. What does a financial incentive for good behaviour say about us as a society – particularly when it comes to the behaviour of children?

Granted, we live in a capitalist society where behavioural change is swift if it affects the hip pocket. Still, is this the best way to deal with a perceived “problem,” particularly in the case of well-behaved children? What is the problem that we are trying to solve with this type of incentive? Is targeting the parents the best way?

These café owners clearly think so.

Perhaps it is a little old fashioned to want society to encourage and espouse good values and behaviour for the sake of it, rather than for financial gain. To be fair, this seems like a well-intentioned move by the café – a “thank you” to parents for controlling their children.

However, not everyone will be fortunate enough to have well-behaved children, and it may be more effective to have “family friendly” hours.

I could be completely off the mark. It might be argued that I am hating for the sake of hating.

I do know, by all reports, that was a discount my parents never would have had the pleasure of receiving…

***

Check out the original piece here, and spend some time on the site, it has some awesome reading!

Ramadan Kareem!

 

There are as many forms of fasting as there are organs of perception and sensation, and each of these has many different levels. So we ask to fast from all that Allah does not love for us, and to feast on what the Beloved loves for us.

Let us certainly fast from the limited mind, and all that it conjures up.

Let us fast from fear, apart from fear and awe of Allah's majesty.

Let us fast from thinking that we know, when Allah alone is the Knower.

Let us fast from thinking negatively of anyone.

Let us fast from our manipulations and strategies.

Let us fast from all complaint about the life experiences that Allah gives us.

Let us fast from our bad habits and our reactions.

Let us fast from desiring what we do not have.

Let us fast from obsession.

Let us fast from despair.

Let us fast from not loving our self, and from denying our heart.

Let us fast from selfishness and self-centered behavior.

Let us fast from thinking that only what serves us is important.

Let us fast from seeing reality only from our own point of view.

Let us fast from seeing any reality other than Allah, and from relying on anything other than Allah.

Let us fast from desiring anything other than Allah and Allah's Prophets and friends, and our own true self.

Essentially, let us fast from thinking that we have any existence separate from Allah.

Fariha Fatima

What *really* happened in Monaco: Day 1

The Monaco Grand Prix is known as one of the most glamorous events on the global social calendar, and a definite chart topper in the Formula 1 season. 'A sunny place for shady people' they say, and with the multimillion dollar yachts, billionaires making deals and supercars the norm, you can see why...

I had the fortunate of reporting for Richard's F1 - my third ever Grand Prix as an internationally accredited reporter - at the Monaco GP this year, and I had absolutely no idea what to expect honestly.  My plane arrived on the Friday before the GP weekend and the events that unfolded over the next few hours make up one of my favourite traveling tales to date...

***

I arrived in the French Riviera exhausted but pumped: I had driven three hours from a tiny place in the Netherlands to the Hague and then on to Amsterdam, dropped off the rental car (that had served me so well on the Autobahn, thank you VW) and caught the flight to Nice.

A friend had told me I could stay at an apartment she had sorted in Nice, so accommodation was sorted - or was it? Logging onto the airport wifi informed me that in fact the girls had changed plans and were staying at a villa in Monaco.  Armed with the new address and instructions to message them on arrival, I picked up my new chariot, a turbo Astra.  The two gentlemen helping me with the hire car were lovely, but were interestingly very quick to correct me when I asked if they were from the area.

"Oh no no no, I am from France," one said.  "Monaco is weird. The people are weird, their cars are weird, the lifestyle is weird... you'll have fun though. Enjoy your time here!"

Cheers! My thoughts were joyful as I sped off.

What a drive! Honestly, television does not do the difficulty of navigating that street circuit justice. Driving to Monaco that night gave me a tiny taste of the adrenalin rush the drivers get for 78 laps...

Almost the entire trip almost was on the edge of the cliffs with winding streets and tiny lanes; the blind corners and fast cars are an intoxicating combination. I drove the hell out of that Astra and thought to myself: 'Welcome to Monaco girl. You've made it!'.

It was only when I arrived at the villa that I realised I would need to find a place to park, and unlike places in suburban Australia, not every house has a dedicated car parking spot. Furthermore, streets are not just straight, up and down and grid like - they wind in and out, up and down and across the landscape in an insane manner, meaning my semi-logical mind lost all sense of direction almost as soon as I passed the address.  I did a couple of laps of the suburb looking for a park and eventually capitulated, parking about a couple of kilometres away.

An easy few kilometres... or so I'd thought.

Walking back to the villa, I got completely and utterly lost.

Completely lost. To the point I eventually started going up random streets in the hope I would see something I recognised, and up and down stairs for the faint chance of a spark of inspiration. I couldn't find any wifi for a map, and didn't want to ask anyone - because what kind of non-shady person is up at this time of the night?! At one point I tried to retrace my steps but didn't want to pass by a bunch of guys who were lingering outside a shop...I'd passed them once and if I walked by again it would be obvious I had no idea where I was going.  Dilemma!

After a stroke of luck and a healthy amount of internal praying that I stumbled across the right street after about an hour of walking.  Success! I skipped to the door... and stopped.  There were about 8 different villas for the one address, and I had absolutely no idea which one the girls would be staying at...

Not one to be dissuaded, I perched on the steps in front of the villa and began searching for a wifi connection, which I eventually found (after paying an exorbitant fee, naturally).  My phone was inoperable overseas, thank you Telstra, so I was dependant on the Weefee connection.  I sent off some messages, confident that I would now be all sorted, and waited.

Nothing.

I decided to make a couple of calls via Skype and Viber.

Nada.

Oh dear, I thought. Hmm...

By this point, I'd reached the early hours of the morning and it was quite cold. People were starting to return from their night out, and I was running out of viable solutions.  Hmm...

I googled the nearest hotel and was glad to see it was noted as an 'affordable option'.  Trundling over, I pressed the doorbell and the guy at reception reluctantly buzzed the glass door open.

"Englay?" I asked, hopeful.

His face grew even more unimpressed.

"A leetle."

"Is there any chance you have a room for the night sir?"

He looked at me, eyebrows up.  "Miss, it is impossible! 500 Euros a night, but we have nothing. Very very busy until Sunday."

500 Euros! My goodness.

"Can I use your phone then?"

"Oh no miss, impossible, impossible. Try Olypmica, they may have a room."

I picked up my luggage and shuffled out. No way was I trying another hotel.  What were my options? Well, I was running out of battery on my phone, so option one was to head back to the car and charge the baby.

A seed of thought formed as I made my way to the silver beast.  I sat in the driver's seat and pushed the back all the way down.  There was enough space, I thought. Let's just have a nap...

I slept in the car! Never have I had to do anything like this before, and it was ironic that I was slumming it in the ritziest place on earth...

***

Three hours later I woke up, freezing my rear end off. Although the place is sunny during the day, the temperature drops significantly overnight and my Australian body was not able to handle it.  Heater on full blast, I scrubbed my eyes and contemplated the next step.

If I had checked the wifi, I would have seen my friend message and say the doors of the villa were open. I missed her message by about ten minutes though, and drove again to Nice.  Again, through the crazy awesome roads - stopping briefly to check out the view - and found a parking spot right out the front of the Nice apartment I was originally to stay at.

As luck would have it, it too was in a set of blocks so I had no idea which to choose. Too much effort I thought, and put my mind to the next dilemma.

Where to have a shower?!

Tired, not-very-fresh and in need to head to the media center in a few hours, I needed a shower stat.  However, apparently these are not a readily available commodity in Nice.  I wandered around the streets with my luggage (again) looking for a hotel or a place which would work.

Zip. It seemed like everywhere was closed at 5.30 am...but seriously?! How could this be!

I walked into a bar (the only place open!) and remembered that in French, shower was 'doosh'.

"Doosh?" I asked the lady behind the counter hopefully.

She looked at me puzzled, and replied in French.  A few minutes later, we came to the conclusion that there was no place I could get a doosh nearby.

Le sigh.  What's a girl to do...

It was almost 7am, so attention turned to the stomach.  The bakery in front of the apartment was open and smelt inviting, so I walked in and the baker was a Muslim lady. Success!

"Madam, do you speak Arabic?" I asked, remembering that there was a large population of Arabic speakers in France.

"Wee!"

Double Success! I asked in Arabic whether she knew where I could have a shower.  She didn't, but asked the other customers in the bakery.

A lovely old lady behind me quickly replied in French and the Muslim baker turned to me.

"You can have a shower at her house, she said you're welcome to!"

I couldn't believe my ears!

"Really?"

She nodded, and said some more in French.

"Je parle un pue," I said quickly, emphasising the 'un pue' - only a little French. She nodded and motioned for me to follow her.

***

The apartment was tiny: a single bed, a desk and a sink, adjoined by a tiny bath, but I felt so incredibly grateful. Nicole, her name was, and she opened the doors of her home to me. I had a steaming hot shower, got changed into my Monaco outfit and we sat together in front of a French kids TV show, making broken conversation. She had two kids and a grandchild and was a former French Professor at the University of Cannes.  An accident that had damaged her head meant she was no longer able to work, but she seemed happy and laughed at my terrible attempts speak her language.  She made me tea and breakfast, with a loaf of bread that looked like it came out only on special occasions. I felt so incredibly blessed to have been invited into her home, and found it ironic that it was those with the least to give who gave it most readily...

"What do you like?" I asked, "Qu'est ce que tu aimes?"

She laughed.

"Smoke cigarettes!"

***

I left Nicole's house on a cloud and after lots of hugs and kisses.  I returned to the car, keyed in the address in Monaco and began to make my way to the media centre...

You'd think that is where the drama ends, but of course not.  The rest however, is for another post...

How do we Lest to Forget...If we never knew?

Can you adopt a country's history if it isn't your birth or ancestral background?

When you become a citizen of a country, do you absorb its triumphs and tragedies? Does your new country's commemorations become yours?

ANZAC day is something of a sacred day for Australians.  Thousands wake up at dawn on the 25th of April to listen to the solemn, heart wrenching tones of the Last Post, to honour the fallen soldiers of yesteryear and to thank those who continue to dedicate themselves to the defence of our nation.

To be honest though, ANZAC is probably something that holds mixed meaning to those who, like my family, migrated to Australia and do not necessarily have the shared history.

Gallipoli, for example, is a huge part of the ANZAC legend. Yet that campaign was fought against the Ottoman Empire, and many of those troops were  Muslims from Turkey. How does someone, born as a Muslim in Turkey but who grew up in Australia, reconcile that?  Closer to home, how does someone who arrived to Australia perhaps as an Afghan or Iraqi refugee, fleeing from a war in which Australian troops took some part in... how does someone like that be a part of the fabric of the ANZAC story?

This can be construed as treacherous talk, definitely.   War and conflict are hugely emotive issues and often form part of a national identity.  It isn't treacherous though; it is so important that we as Australians get it right.  I am a lowly civilian, I have no history (Alhamdulilah) of war or conflict of any kind to relate to (my family are engineers through and through, and everyone needs engineers!) so can't claim to know the way things should be commemorated or in any way intend to warp the import of the history.  This isn't intended to be sacrilegious, but an opportunity to start a conversation.

I am passionately Australian and to share in what is a huge part of the Australian identity is a must.

So how to relate to and reconcile the history? How do I, as a migrant Australian Muslim, find my value and space in the ANZAC legend?

I look at it as a human.

Often, there is no one truth, nobody who is 'right'...only those 'left' standing.

So rather than dehumanise any 'side' by seeing them as the enemy, I think of our shared history as humans.  I see ANZAC day as an opportunity to commemorate those who chose to give their lives up for a purpose larger than their own.  I chose to pray for, my heart aches for, young lives lost, missed connections, misunderstandings.  For troops who became friends on no-mans-land in downtime only to realise these were the people they were then to kill.  For young people today who go away to fight for something they care about, whether it be a country or a tribe or a even their religious freedom - who am I to judge what is worth fighting for? For those who come back with PTSD and suffer even longer, that sacrifice perhaps less appreciated...

For if ANZAC is about bravery, mateship, fighting for what's right... well we all have our own manifestations of that.  Yes, for many it is about slouch hats and medals, but sitting alongside that surely it is about recognising our humanity as Australians and being grateful for a greater sacrifice.

We do adopt a country's history when we choose to call it our home, because history is part of a nation's identity.  It is what it is. Although we may not remember it, it is our duties to make sure we do not forget.

We humans too often forget the lessons of our past...

***

Edit @ 5:30pm 25th April 2014: 'Turkey' was replaced with 'Ottoman Empire' to reflect the true nature of the conflict.

How much is your mother worth?

"How much is your mother worth? How much money would your brother, sister or aunties be worth?"

The words rung in my ear.

Yesterday, I had the fortune to sit in a presentation by the Larrakia Foundation, a group that advocates for the interests of the Larrakia, the Aboriginal people of Darwin.

The cultures of the traditional owners is remarkably fascinating, and it always surprises me how little I know whenever I learn something new.

Granted, there are hundreds of different Aboriginal nations in Australia, all with their own languages, customs and types of beliefs.  Some things though, like the kinship system are found in many different 'nations', and I was amazed to only be finding out about it yesterday!

The lady in the presentation talked about many a thing, but one line in particular has remained with me.

"How much is your mother worth?" She asked.

"People tend to think the apology is about compensation. Tell me, how much money would you want if your mother was taken away?"

I shook my head to make sense of it. Although I have always had compassion for those affected by the stolen generation, it is when messages like that are shared that it is really brought home.  

Yes, we are not personally responsible as individuals who are descendant from those who made the decisions to persecute and oppress others.

However, we are responsible for having compassion for one another. We are responsible for ensuring that as a society, we look out for each other and not let race be a determining factor in our interactions.

That brings us to where we are now as a nation. The repeal (technically the amendment but it's so weak it is essentially a repeal) of 18C and 18D in the racial anti-discrimination act is something I have been fuming about for a while.  You can send in submissions, and I'd suggest that.

Fundamentally though, for those who aren't across the changes, my issue is this:

If we are to give people the right and permission to 'be bigots' as adults, what on earth are we teaching our children?

We talk about fighting bullying, yet we let people bully each other, publicly, because, why? It is in the interests of a small minority of powerful men? We talk about a fair go, and yet want to judge insult by the standards of the perpetrator?

Sometimes we get so wrapped up in the litigious nature of things that we forget the bigger picture.

The bigger picture is this:

Multiculturalism and diversity do not happen by accident.

We aren't a beautiful mixed nation of migrants because a bunch of random people just decided to visit a huge island.  The fabric of our society is delicate, and something to be worked on.  We have to proactively support multiculturalism and cultural diversity in order to keep Australia thriving, not tear it down bit by bit so that groups feel more and more marginalised...

One day I hope we will look back and think, "woah, wasn't that crazy? We almost let that happen... Thank goodness we didn't."

In this day and age though, I am not so sure.