Connect with us

Books

Belonging & Banishment: Being Muslim in Canada – Book Review

Zainab (AnonyMouse)

Published

on

belongingbanishmentEver on the lookout for the latest publications on Muslims in the West (and specifically in Canada), my interest was piqued when I was notified about a new book titled Belonging and Banishment: Being Muslim in Canada. The book is an anthology of essays by Canadian Muslim writers and edited by Natasha Bakht, spanning a variety of topics related to the theme of Canadian Muslims.

Upon receiving the book from the publishers (TSAR books, whom I thank for sending me a copy), I admit that I was extremely suspicious and cynical of what it might contain – my opinion of Canadian Muslims is, unforunately, rather low after having seen what it is that it is produced by them in the media. The majority of those who have any presence in the public eye tend to be either of the ‘progressive’ strain or cringe-inducingly wishy-washy (feel free to bash, flame, and lynch me now…).

I digress. The book, as I said, is a collection of essays – 11 of them, titled and authored as follows:

  • Muslims and the Rule of Law; Haroon Siddiqui
  • Bearing the Name of the Prophet; Syed Mohamed Mehdi
  • Knowing the Universe in All Its Conditions; Arif Babul
  • Raising Children in a Diverse World; Rukhsana Khan
  • Islamic Theology and Moral Agency: Beyond the Pre- and Post-Modern; Anver M Emon
  • Muslim Girl Magazine: Representing Ourselves; Ausma Zehanat Khan
  • Towards A Dialogical Discourse for Canadian Muslims; Amin Malak
  • Islamic Authority: Changing Expectations Among Canadian Muslims; Karim H Karim
  • A Case of Mistaken Identity: Inside and Outside the Muslim Ummah; Anar Ali
  • Victim or Aggressor? Typecasting Muslim Women for their Attire; Natasha Bakht
  • Politics Over Principles: The Case of Omar Khadr; Sheema Khan

It is difficult to make a judgement of the entire book, to label it as either “good” or “bad.” From an ‘aqeedah point of view, my worst suspicions were confirmed – Ismailis, progressives, and flat-out atheists were the majority featured, with the exception of the slightly more ‘mainstream’ Haroon Siddique, Sheema Khan, and children’s author Rukhsana Khan. However, it must be noted that most of the essays did a surprisingly good job at not portraying their chosen topic with too much of a slant towards the author’s ideological leaning (with the except of “Bearing the Name of the Prophet,” which I found to be absolutely ridiculous and nonsensical).

Political/ Media

Three of the essays dealt specifically with mainly political issues, drawing on well-known incidents involving Canadian Muslims. Haroon Siddique’s Muslims and the Rule of Law, Natasha Bakht’s Victim or Aggressor? Typecasting Muslim Women for Their Attire, and Sheema Khan’s Politics Over Principles: The Case of Omar Khadr were all excellent.

Muslims and the Rule of Law covers the presence of Islamophobia in Canadian politics and media, discussing such high-profile cases as the Maher Arar tragedy, the ‘Shari’a court’ controversy, the infamous Maclean’s brouhaha,  the disturbing Quebec “reasonable accomodations” xenophobia, and much more. Siddique did a fantastic job in analysing the coverage of these incidents in the media, and the political and social responses that were broadcast all over the country. He criticizes and refutes the popular Islamophobic arguments found both in the media, political statements and actions, and amongst the general Canadian population; effectively using Canadian law, examples of  anti-hate and hate-speech incidents from Canadian history, and plain old logic to point out the many faults and inconsistencies of the Islamophobic arguments. The essay concludes with the warning that unless anti-Islam and anti-Muslim sentiments are effectively combated, the very nature of Canada’s tolerant and inclusive foundations will be destroyed.

I strongly recommend Sheema Khan’s article Politics Over Principles: The Case of Omar Khadr for its excellent coverage of one of the most tragic ongoing events in Canadian history. She discusses the background of the case, the latest developments as of publishing date (2008), and the huge waves it has caused in the fields of law, human rights, and politics. Her essay is one of the most comprehensive summaries I have read so far on the subject, drawing upon indisputable sources and emphasizing the shocking oppression being perpetrated in a land that claims to stand for justice and freedom.

Victim or Aggresor? Typecasting Muslim Women for Their Attire by Natasha Bakht was, to me, surprisingly good. She discusses the contradictory stereotypes put out by the media in their coverage of Muslim women, specifically Muslim women who wear hijaab. She lists and refutes the attitudes we have found common in media presentation of Muslim women, specifically those of “Protecting Muslim Women from the dangers of hijaab” and “Protecting Canadians from fraudulent Muslim women.” She refers to the flurry of anti-hijaab bans in the field of sports, and the absurd veils-and-voting incidents. Her analysis of “unhelpful Muslim responses” is also spot-on, pointing out the danger of self-appointed ‘Muslim representatives’ such as the Muslim Canadian Congress who make matters worse when they issue statements declaring that hijaab is simply a patriarchial tool to control women.

Spirituality/ Philosophy

My reaction to the two essays, “Bearing the Name of the Prophet” and “Knowing the Universe in All its Conditions,” were mixed. The former annoyed me intensely, being as it is the insistence of an atheist of Shi’i background that one need not believe in or practice Islam in order to be Muslim. Quite frankly, the piece is a load of hogwash… although it did alert me to the prevalency of the idea of self-identity and (what I perceive as) its absurdity. The idea that one is Muslim simply because they call themselves so, and not because they actually believe in Islam, is about the same as one considering themselves a doctor simply because their father was one. However, I’ll save my spiel on this subject for another time.

The other essay, Knowing the Universe in All its Conditions, is by an Isma’ili. Arif Babul, the author, makes it clear from the beginning what kind of faith background he is coming from, which is good to know as he does refer to Isma’ili beliefs and mentalities throughout his article. That being said, however, the essay is actually a personal, spiritual reflection about how the author does not consider his career as an astrophysicist to pose a challenge to his beliefs, but rather affirms them. Once one filters out the skewed ‘aqeedah, the essay is quite good and most of it is easy to relate to.

The third article which could be included in the category of philosophy is a rather obscure work titled “Islamic Theology and Moral Agency:  Beyond the Pre- and Post-Modern.” To tell the truth, I struggled to get through it without falling asleep, as discussions on qadaa wa’l qadr and its nuances as debated amongst the Mu’tazilah and Ash’arites are not my cup of tea. Sheikh YQ might be interested in it though :)

Muslim Identity in the West

The rest of the essays touch upon the general theme of Muslim identity in the West – raising a family, creating Muslim-friendly media, personal reflections, interactions between the Muslim community and non-Muslim society, and the changing internal views of members of the Muslim community.

A Case of Mistaken Identity: Inside and Outside the Muslim Ummah by Anar Ali was not particularly impressive – a short musing by an Ismaili about growing up as one of the few coloured people in his school; feeling unrepresented by self-appointed spokespeople of Muslims such as Irshad Manji; and his personal experience in writing a children’s book about Ismailis.

In Raising Muslim Children In A Diverse World, Rukhsana Khan reflects upon the difficult, yet not impossible, task of bringing up Muslim children who are aware of their non-Muslim surroundings but firmly grounded in their Deen. She shares stories of her own childhood, and from the journey that continues as she raises her own children in Canada. Her personal anecdotes make us aware that no matter how many times the issue is discussed, Muslim families in the West continue to struggle with the challenges of Islamic parenting in a non-Muslim society. Overall, the essay is good and great to share with non-Muslims who may be interested in the challenges that Muslim parents face in the West.

Muslim Girl Magazine: Representing Ourselves by Ausma Zehanat Khan is a look at the background and birth of Muslim Girl Magazine by one of its founders and editors. I was particularly interested in this article as I once purchased a copy of the magazine to review for MM (my apologies for not having gotten around to it yet), and have a lot to say about it. It was, as expected, a summary of how a group of people felt that the views of Muslim girls were either being sidelined or skewed, and that a new medium was required to fully represent them. Thus was Muslim Girl Magazine born for the Western Muslim teenage girl… to “enlighten, celebrate, and inspire.” Stay tuned for my own full review of the magazine, coming to MM sometime in the future (more likely distant than future), insha’Allah.

Towards A Dialogical Discourse for Canadian Muslims by Amin Malak is a discussion of how Canadian Muslims can reach out, connect, and dialogue with other Canadian citizens as a means to overcome anti-Islamic sentiments and prejudices in general. Basically, it goes on about the responsibilties of Muslims and non-Muslims alike to overcome isolationism, extremism, and stereotypical cliches. I personally found the essay tiresome, if only because this is a topic which has been discussed to death both in the Muslim community, in interfaith/ inter-community dialogues, and online. Nonetheless, it was nice to see these oft-expressed thoughts and sentiments being put down on paper and through a medium that will reach out to a wider audience (although it contains a distinct flavour of modernism/ progressiveness that I find distasteful).

Islamic Authority: Changing Expectations Among Canadian Muslims by Karim H Karim was another one of the “meatier” essays which caught my eye. It actually happens to be a summary of a research project that the author was involved in; the findings of which have since been publicized in various media articles including this one in the Toronto Star. The essay examines the way that Canadian Muslims/ Western Muslims in general view ‘Islamic authority’ (that is, the leaders and sources of Islamic knowledge in the Muslim community) and the attitude that they extend to them.

The focus is on the shift of mentality from the ‘back home’/ traditional attitude of trusting fully in the words of the Imam/ Sheikh/ Maulana/ Mufti, to a new way of dealing with Muslim leaders – critically, often doubting or challenging their qualifications and their ability to comprehend, understand, and deal with the context of Muslim life in the West.

The study, conducted in Canada, the U.S., and the UK, asserts that “The faithful no longer continue to think of traditional authorities in the same manner as in the past. This appears to be happening because they tend to have more education than religious authorities, enjoy access to primary intellectual sources of Islamic traditions, continually come into contact with new ideas, and are able to use communication technologies to discuss religious issues over vast distances.” The article expresses findings which have, up until now, been recognized only implicitly in community circles – basically, the changes which the Muslim community in the West at large has been experiencing, as it evolved from being founded by immigrants to incorporating young Muslims born and raised here, struggling with the challenges of studying the Deen and implementing it.

Interestingly, the essay refers to the growth of such institutes as the Muslim College in London and the Zaytuna Institute (although I was disappointed to not see mention of alMaghrib), and how part of the ‘implicit criteria by which [Canadian Muslims] asses the validity of Islamic authority’ has come to include having both an Islamic and secular educational background, as well as being involved in social and/or political activism and work. A variety of quotes from participants in the study are included, expressing differing opinions and mentalities which are prevalent amongst Western Muslims across the ideological spectrum.

The essay concludes that “the sociological conditions that exist presently for Muslims in the West are historically unique,” and I think that this something most of us can agree with. Indeed, this essay was certainly intriguing, for even if it didn’t bring to light anything that we don’t already know, it still emphasized many important points for those of us involved in community activism and Islamic education need to be aware of.

Most of the essays in Belonging and Banishment provided food for thought and were worth the time I spent on them. If nothing else, I appreciated that trends and ideas which have been tossed around, expressed, argued about, and developed by the Muslim community have been brought together in such a concrete manner. Although I disagree with a great deal of what was said in several of the articles articles, I think that for those who aren’t easily confused or impressed by philosophical or intellectual types, it’s a good book to have on hand.

As a whole, I am cautious of recommending the book to all and sundry; there are a few essays which I feel are great for general reading and sharing with friends and colleagues, but there are also a few which I feel can only be fully understood if one has a relatively thorough background in the history of Muslims in the West and their current socio-ideological situations. Certainly, I will be keeping this book as a reference text of sorts, and I have no doubt that many of the thoughts expressed within it will be excellent fodder for future essays, articles, and even books and lectures.

Rating: 4 out of 5 stars

Zainab bint Younus (AnonyMouse) is a young Canadian Muslimah, originally from the West Coast of Canada. She writes about whatever concerns her about the state of the Muslim Ummah, drawing upon her experiences and observations within her own local community. You may contact her at anonymouse@muslimmatters.org She is is no longer a writer for MuslimMatters.org.

15 Comments

15 Comments

  1. Avatar

    abu abdAllah Tariq Ahmed

    April 22, 2009 at 2:36 AM

    Jazak Allah khayr for that thorough review!

  2. Avatar

    umA

    April 22, 2009 at 8:53 AM

    Jazakillahu Khayra for that review. You can regularly find Dr Sheema Khan’s columns in The Globe & Mail, while Haroon Siddiqui writes for another national newspaper, The Toronto Star http://www.thestar.com, may Allah reward them both.

    btw apparently, Muslim Girl is no longer being published. Personally I’m really happy that I now receive the print edition of Sisters magazine: a stunning and riveting read for (dare I say) traditional modern Muslimahs.

    Anonymouse could you please do a review of Sisters Magazine?

    • Avatar

      SALAMI TUNDE IDRIS

      September 28, 2009 at 12:32 PM

      HOW IS WORK AND YOUR FAMILY, I PRAY THAT THE GUIDIAN AND MERCY OF ALLAH BE WITH YOU AND YOUR FAMILY.

      FIRST I WANT YOU TO READ MY LETTER VERY CAREFULLY AND UNDERSTAND IT VERY WELL BECAUSE IT;S ALLAH ALLAH FAVOUR FOR YOU.

      AM SENDING THIS MAIL TO YOU REGARDING THE FORMAL PRESIDENT SON ABDUL LATEEF OBASANGO, I GOT TO MEET HIM THROUGH MY ELDER BROTHER WHEN WILL WENT TO ABUJA FOR MUSLIM CONGRESS FORUM LAST MONTH, AFTER THEN HE HAS ME TO SEE HIM THAT HE HAS A BUSINESS TO DISCUSE WHITH ME, BECAUSE MY BROTHER TOLD HIM THAT AM GOOD IN COMPUTER .
      ON THE 7TH OF MARCH 2009 HE TOLD ME THAT HIS FATHER, THE FORMAL PRESIDENT DEPOSITED THE SUM OF {$32,470,000 DOLLARS} IN A BANK CALL {ZENITH BANK NIG PLC} WITH THE FORMAL PRESIDENT SON NAME {ABDUL LATEEF OBASANGO} AND THE FORMAL PRESIDENT SON HAS MEET WITH THE BRANCH MANAGER OF THE ZENITH BANK WHICH THE MONEY IS BEEN DEPOSITED, BUT THE MANAGER TOLD HIM THAT HE WILL NEED AN FORIEGH ACCOUNT TO TRANSFERED THE MONEY INTO BEFORE THE MONEY CAN BE SPEND, THE MANAGER TOLD HIM ALSO THAT THE DIRECTOR OF THE DID NOT KNOW ABOUT THE MONEY EXEPT HIM ALONE.

      THAT IS WHY THE FORMAL PRESIDENT SON ABDUL LATEEF OBASANGO TOLD ME TO LOOK FOR A PERSON LIKE YOU WHO IS FROM ANOTHER COUNTRY THAT WILL CAN TRUST AND HAVE FAITH THAT HAVE THE FEAR OF ALLAH IN HIS MIND, THAT CAN PROVIDE AN FORIEGH ACCOUNT FOR THE TRANSFERED OF THE MONEY INTO YOUR ACCOUNT, AND HE PROMISE TO GIVE YOU 30% OF THE MONEY WHICH YOU WILL REMOVE WHEN THE MONEY IS BEEN TRANSFERED INTO YOUR ACCOUNT AND YOU WILL HELP US TO TRANSFERED THE REMAINING 70% BACK TO THE FORMAL PRESIDENT PRIVATE ACCOUNT, HE TOLD ME HE WANT TO US OF THE MONEY FOR MUSLIM CHARITY FORUM AND BIULD A BIG MOSQUE IN THE STATE.

      NOTICE—– PLS YOU CAN MAILL YOU ACCOUNT DETIALS TO ME AND THE BANKING DETAILS THEN I WILL REFFER YOU TO THE BANK MANAGER AND HE WILL TELL YOU WHAT TO DO, PLS HIS VERY URGENT.

      I WILL EXPECTING YOU REPLY TODAY PLS WILL DONT HAVE MUCH TIME {ALLAH BE WITH YOU AND ME}

      BEST REGARD
      SALAMI TUNDE IDRIS
      PLS REPLY ONLY ON THIS EMAIL AND THE PHONE 234-8062744424 ttmoney81@gmail.com

  3. Avatar

    Shahzad

    April 22, 2009 at 11:25 AM

    An interesting observation I’ve made which is reflected in this article, is that “mainstream” Muslim writers rarely contribute content of a spiritual / aqeeda nature; most of our contributions focus on political or advocacy issues. Most of the spiritual / aqeeda content I tend to come across is contributed by more esoteric Muslim groups such as Ismailis or Shias. This has to change, considering that tawheed and calling to Allah should be first priority in our da’wah mission. What needs to be communicated to non-Muslims is Islam as a solution for their lives and salvation.

  4. Avatar

    iMuslim

    April 22, 2009 at 3:23 PM

    Nice review, Zainab, masha’Allah. Regarding contributions from those who we, as conservative Sunni Muslims, disagree with: the book was titled “Being Muslim in Canada”, as opposed to “Being A Conservative Sunni Muslim in Canada”… not that I encourage the proliferation of certain ‘skewed’ ideas (especially when it comes to aqeedah), but such variation does exist in the larger “Muslim” community.

    Who was the book aimed at? A Muslim or non-Muslim audience? I imagine the latter, else the message would have been more consistent.

  5. Zainab (AnonyMouse)

    Zainab (AnonyMouse)

    April 22, 2009 at 4:40 PM

    @ UmA
    Ohhh, I hadn’t heard that about MGM… you’re right, though, I just checked the site and there’s a notice about it. Nonetheless, I still hope to do a review of the mag since it raised several ideas and issues for me which I think are really important in regards to Muslims and our presence in the (non-politically-centred) media.

    Insha’Allah I’ll try to do my best wrt reviewing SISTERS; the trouble is that it’s not available in print (my preferred format) in my area. We’ll see, though, insha’Allah :)

    @ Shahzad
    Yes, this is definitely something I’ve noticed also, and think that we as a (conservative Sunni) community need to address. Actually, I have several ideas about books that I hope we (the MM team, along with others, insha’Allah) will be able to compile, publish, and distribute to a wider audience.

    @ iMuslim
    Yeah, that is something which I recognize… what I’m disappointed about is that the majority of the time, especially in Canada (North America?), the modernist/ progressive/ other sect minorities have a larger presence in the media – whether it be on TV, the radio, books, etc. Conservative Sunnis, on the other hand, tend to be portrayed as fundamentalists or the more ‘unfriendly’ Muslims. This is something which we need to address, insha’Allah through such means as I mentioned above (publishing our own books for a wider non-Muslim audience).

  6. Avatar

    umA

    April 22, 2009 at 6:02 PM

    Zainab you can’t receive it where you are? I receive it in Ontario. But you know they should really send you a sample for review. Email me if you’d like more postage info.

  7. Avatar

    Mustafa

    April 23, 2009 at 10:31 AM

    @iMuslims
    @Zainaib

    When reading a few of the comments I came across “conservative” sunni muslim. What is a “conservative” sunni muslim? I have never heard of that before. I’ve heard of Sunni Muslim or Sunni Orthodox Muslim, but I have never heard of “conservative” sunni muslim. Can you guys please explain?

    JazakAllah

  8. Avatar

    iMuslim

    April 23, 2009 at 3:21 PM

    @Mustafa… Personally, I see the terms ‘conservative’ and ‘orthodox’ to be synonymous. Not sure what Zainab thinks.

    ‘Sunni’ refers to the root aqeedah and ‘conservative’ to the interpretation of that aqeedah. There are many Sunni Muslims, but we don’t all have the same views on how we should act upon the Sunnah. Even amongst conservatives, there are significant differences of opinion.

    I am not seeking to divide, but rather to define, in order to illustrate why such books about “Muslims” are not always so representative of everyone who chooses to go by that label.

  9. Zainab (AnonyMouse)

    Zainab (AnonyMouse)

    April 24, 2009 at 9:45 PM

    @ Mustafa
    iMuslim’s explanation is correct as to how I too view ‘conservative’ and ‘orthodox’ Sunni Muslims.

  10. Pingback: C L O S E R » Blog Archive » Closing the week 18

  11. Avatar

    barakah

    June 22, 2009 at 9:04 PM

    The Ismaili Imam, His Highness the Aga Khan, has spoken about the term “Clash of Civilizations” which is used to describe the relationship between the West and the Muslim World. He attributes this so-called phenomenon not as a “Clash of Civilizations” but rather as a “Clash of Ignorance” which he says can be overcome if both sides make a concerted effort to understand each other’s civilizations – he certainly places the onus more on the West with its highly developed educational system, and has proposed ways to overcome the ignorance.

    First though, I think as (educated) Muslims we have to address our own ignorance that we seem to have of each other, and which I am afraid websites like yours appear to perpetuate and spread.

    I am of course referring to your inappropriate labelling of the Ismailis as “flat out atheists.” This term is derogatory, abominable and an unacceptable insult to a community and their leader who certainly believe in Allah and carry an abiding love for the Holy Prophet Muhammad (sas) and his descendants. Honestly, to me and others I have spoken to, this particular statement harbours on the fringe of a hate statement. But Ismailis, due to the advice of their Imam, do not react with threats and violence to provocations such as these!

    My teenage daughter was quite shocked to read this! What a shame on your part to disgrace people, including children, along these lines and to poison people’s attitudes and minds towards an admirable and highly respected Jamat.

    Perhaps you and your readers and highly educated Phd contributors who harbor similar opinions should avail yourself about the Aga Khan’s remarkable insights on the issues of the day. No leader that I have read speeches of has placed as much importance on the equilibrium between the practice of Din and Dunya as he has.

    Please read his speeches and the wonderful work the Ismailis do before you judge an entire community.

    I recommend that you visit http://www.akdn.org to educate yourself. By doing this you will play a part in your own little way to overcome the “Clash of Ignorance”.

    Thank you and may Allah’s Grace be bestowed on you.

    Barakah

  12. Avatar

    Abu Noor

    June 22, 2009 at 9:34 PM

    Barakah,

    I think you’ve misread the article. Sister Zainab does not call Ismaili’s “flat out atheists.” She talks about writings in the book coming from Ismailis, progressives, and “flat out atheists.” These are three different groups, although each of them is different from the Sunni Orthodox aqeedah, sister Zainab is not saying they are all the same thing.

    • Avatar

      barakah

      June 22, 2009 at 11:43 PM

      Yes, I seem to have misread it but her bias against the Ismailis is quite evident from reading the review. Of course, the aqeedah of the Shias and the Shia Imami Ismailis will always be problematic to individuals like Zainab. Just as Nabuwat is for all Muslims a Divinely Ordained Institution so is Imamah to the all Shias, including Ismaili Shias.

      With regard to “flat out atheists”, yes their opinions are impotant too. Do we know the workings of the Almighty Creator – can we predict the time and period of His immense Grace and Bounty? In life we encounter situations of extremes sometimes, don’t we? People sometimes go astray and others who were flat out atheists all their life are led to the straight path….

      Anyway, apologies to Sister for misreading her and thank you Abu Noor for drawing that to my attention.

  13. Avatar

    Aalia

    June 28, 2009 at 12:32 PM

    Of course, the aqeedah of the Shias and the Shia Imami Ismailis will always be problematic to individuals like Zainab

    For somebody who knows the correct `aqeedah and are not confused by innovations or misguided sects, the `aqeedah of Shia Imami Ismailis would be problematic to ANYONE.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Books

Grit and Resilience: The Self-Help vs. Islamic Perspective

Omar Usman

Published

on

grit

I don’t really care about grit.

Persevering and persisting through difficulties to achieve a higher goal is awesome. High-five. We should all develop that. No one disagrees that resilience is an essential characteristic to have.

Somehow, this simple concept has ballooned into what feels like a self-help cottage industry of sorts. It has a Ted talk with tens of millions of views, podcasts, keynote speeches, a New York Times best-selling book, and finding ways to teach this in schools and workplaces.

What I do care about is critically analyzing if it is all that it’s cracked up to be (spoiler alert: I don’t think so), why the self-help industry aggressively promotes it, and how we understand it from an Islamic perspective. For me, this is about much more than just grit – it’s about understanding character development from a (mostly Americanized) secular perspective vis-a-vis the Islamic one.

The appeal of grit in a self-help context is that it provides a magic bullet that intuitively feels correct. It provides optimism. If I can master this one thing, it will unlock what I need to be successful. When I keep running into a roadblock, I can scapegoat my reason for failure – a lack of grit.

Grit encompasses several inspirational cliches – be satisfied with being unsatisfied, or love the chase as much as the capture, or that grit is falling in love and staying in love. It is to believe anyone can succeed if they work long and hard enough. In short, it is the one-word encapsulation of the ideal of the American Dream.

Self-help literature has an underlying theme of controlling what is within your control and letting go of the rest. Islamically, in general, we agree with this sentiment. We focus our actions where we are personally accountable and put our trust in Allah for what we cannot control.

The problem with this theme, specifically with grit, is that it necessitates believing the circumstances around you cannot be changed. Therefore, you must simply accept things the way that they are. Teaching people that they can overcome any situation by merely working hard enough is not only unrealistic but utterly devoid of compassion.

“The notion that kids in poverty can overcome hunger, lack of medical care, homelessness, and trauma by buckling down and persisting was always stupid and heartless, exactly what you would expect to hear from Scrooge or the Koch brothers or Betsy DeVos.” -Diane Ravitch, Forget Grit, Focus on Inequality

Focusing on the individual characteristics of grit and perseverance shifts attention away from structural or systemic issues that impact someone’s ability to succeed. The personal characteristics can be changed while structural inequalities are seen as ‘fixed.’

Alfie Kohn, in an article critical of Grit by Angela Duckworth, notes that Duckworth and her mentor while studying grit operated under a belief that,

[U]nderachievement isn’t explained by structural factors — social, economic, or even educational. Rather, they insisted it should be attributed to the students themselves and their “failure to exercise self-discipline.” The entire conceptual edifice of grit is constructed on that individualistic premise, one that remains popular for ideological reasons even though it’s been repeatedly debunked by research.

Duckworth admitted as much in an interview with EdSurge.

There was a student who introduced himself having written a critical essay about the narrative of grit. His major point was that when we talk about grit as a kind of ‘pull yourself up by your bootstraps,’ personal strength, it leaves in the shadows structural poverty and racism and other things that make it impossible, frankly, for some kids to do what we would expect them to do. When he sent me that essay, of course, I wanted to know more. I joined his [dissertation] committee because I don’t know much about sociology, and I don’t know much about this criticism.

I learned a lot from him over the years. I think the lesson for me is that when someone criticizes you, when someone criticized me, the natural thing is to be defensive and to reflexively make more clear your case and why you’re right, but I’ve always learned more from just listening. When I have the courage to just say, “Well, maybe there’s a point here that I hadn’t thought of,” and in this case the Grit narrative and what Grit has become is something that he really brought to me and my awareness in a way that I was oblivious to before.

It is mind-boggling that the person who popularized this research and wrote the book on the topic simply didn’t know that there was such a thing as structural inequality. It is quite disappointing that her response essentially amounted to “That’s interesting. I’d like to learn more.”

Duckworth provides a caveat – “My theory doesn’t address these outside ­forces, nor does it include luck. It’s about the psychology of achievement, but because psychology isn’t all that matters, it’s incomplete.” This is a cop-out we see consistently in the self-help industry and elsewhere. They won’t deny that those problems exist, they simply say that’s not the current focus.

It is intellectually dishonest to promote something as a key to success while outright ignoring the structures needed to enable success. That is not the only thing the theory of grit ignores. While marketing it as a necessary characteristic, it overlooks traits like honesty and kindness.

The grit narrative lionizes this superhero type of individual who breaks through all obstacles no matter how much the deck is stacked against them. It provides a sense of false hope. Instead of knowing when to cut your losses and see a failure for what it is, espousing a grit mentality will make a person stubbornly pursue a failing endeavor. It reminds me of those singers who comically fail the first round of auditions on American Idol, are rightly ridiculed by the judges, and then emotionally tell the whole world they’re going to come out on top (and then never do).

Overconfidence, obstinance, and naive optimism are the result of grit without context or boundaries. It fosters denial and a lack of self-awareness – the consequences of which are felt when horrible leaders keep rising to the top due, in part, to their grit and perseverance.

The entire idea of the psychology of achievement completely ignores the notion of morality and ethics. Grit in a vacuum may be amoral, but that is not how the real world works. This speaks powerfully to the need to understand the application of these types of concepts through a lens of faith.

The individual focus, however, is precisely what makes something like grit a prime candidate to become a popular self-help item. Schools and corporations alike will want to push it because it focuses on the individual instead of the reality of circumstances. There is a real amount of cognitive dissonance when a corporation can tell employees to focus on developing grit while not addressing toxic employment practices that increase turnover and destroy employees physically and emotionally (see: Dying for a Paycheck by Jeffrey Pfeffer).

Circumstances matter more than ever. You’ve probably heard the story (of course, in a Ted Talk) about the famous marshmallow test at some point. This popularizes the self-help version of delayed gratification. A bunch of kids are given a marshmallow and told that if they can avoid eating it for 5 minutes, they’ll get a second one. The children are then shown hilariously trying to resist eating it. These kids were then studied as they grew older, and lo and behold, those who had the self-discipline to hold out for the 2nd marshmallow were far more successful in life than those who gave in.

A new study found that a child’s ability to hold out for the second marshmallow had nothing to do with the ability to delay gratification. As The Atlantic points out, it had much more to do with the child’s social and economic background. When a child comes from a well to do household, the promise of a second marshmallow will be fulfilled. Their parents always deliver. When someone grows up in poverty, they are more attuned to take the short term reward because the guarantee does not exist that the marshmallow would still be there later. The circumstances matter much more than the psychological studies can account for. It is far easier to display grit with an entrepreneurial venture, for example, when you have the safety net of wealthy and supportive parents.

Valerie Strauss writes in the Washington Post that grit discourse is driven by middle and upper-class parents wanting their spoiled kids to appreciate the virtues of struggling against hardship. Unfortunately, this focus on character education means that poor students suffer because less money will then be spent on teaching disadvantaged students the skills they need to be successful. Sisyphus, she notes, had plenty of grit, but it didn’t get him very far.

Strauss asks us to imagine if a toxic dump was discovered near Beverly Hills, and our response was to teach kids how to lessen the effects of toxins instead of fixing the dump.

The grit discourse does not teach that poor children deserve poverty; it teaches that poverty itself is not so bad. In fact, hardship provides the very traits required to escape hardship. This logic is as seductive as it is circular. Pulling yourself up by the bootstraps is seen as a virtuous enterprise whether practiced by Horatio Alger’s urchins or Silicon Valley’s entrepreneurs (bootstrapping is a common term in technology finance circles). And most importantly, it creates a purported path out of poverty that does not involve any sacrifice on the part of the privileged classes. -Valerie Strauss

This approach is a way to appear noble while perpetuating the status quo. It provides the illusion of upliftment while further entrenching the very systems that prevent it. We see this enacted most commonly with modern-day Silicon Valley style of philanthropy. Anand Giridharadas has an entire book dedicated to this ‘elite charade of changing the world’ entitled Winners Take All.

The media also does its fair share to push this narrative. Stories that should horrify us are passed along as inspirational stories of perseverance. It’s like celebrating a GoFundMe campaign that helps pay for surgery to save someone’s life instead of critically analyzing why healthcare is not seen as a human right in the first place.

Islamic Perspective

Islamically, we are taught to find ways to address the individual as well as the system. Characteristics like grit and delayed gratification are not bad. They’re misapplied when the bigger picture is not taken into account. In the Islamic system, for example, a person is encouraged not to beg. At the same time, there is an encouragement for those who can give to seek out those in need. A person in debt is strongly advised to pay off their debts as quickly as possible. At the same time, the lender is encouraged to be easygoing and to forgive the debt if possible.

This provides a more realistic framework for applying these concepts. A person facing difficulty should be encouraged to be resilient and find ways to bounce back. At the same time, support structures must be established to help that person.

Beyond the framework, there is a much larger issue. Grit is oriented around success. Success is unquestionably assumed to be a personal success oriented around academic achievement, career, wealth, and status. When that is the end goal, it makes it much easier to keep the focus on the individual.

The Islamic definition of success is much broader. There is the obvious idea of success in the Hereafter, but that is separate from this discussion. Even in a worldly sense, a successful person may be the one who sacrifices attending a good school, or perhaps even a dream job type of career opportunity, to spend more time with their family. The emphasis on individual success at all costs has contributed to the breakdown of essential family and community support systems.

A misapplied sense of grit furthers this when a person thinks they don’t need anyone else, and they just need to persevere. It is part of a larger body of messaging that promotes freedom and autonomy. We celebrate people who are strong and independent. Self-help tells us we can achieve anything with the right mindset.

But what happens when we fail? What happens when we find loneliness and not fulfillment, when we lack the bonds of familial solidarity, and when money does not make us whole? Then it all falls on us. It is precisely this feeling of constriction that Allah subḥānahu wa ta'āla (glorified and exalted be He), give good news to those who are steadfast, those who say, when afflicted with a calamity, ‘We belong to God and to Him we shall return.’ These will be given blessings and mercy from their Lord, and it is they who are rightly guided.” (2:155-157)

Resilience is a reflex. When a person faces hardship, they will fall back on the habits and values they have. It brings to mind the statement of the Prophet ṣallallāhu 'alayhi wa sallam (peace and blessings of Allāh be upon him) that patience is at the first strike. He taught us the mindset needed to have grit in the first place,

“Wondrous is the affair of the believer for there is good for him in every matter and this is not the case with anyone except the believer. If he is happy, then he thanks Allah and thus there is good for him, and if he is harmed, then he shows patience and thus there is good for him” (Muslim).

He also taught us the habits we need to ensure that we have the reflex of grit when the situation warrants it –

“Whoever would be pleased for Allah to answer him during times of hardship and difficulty, let him supplicate often during times of ease” (Tirmidhi).

The institution of the masjid as a community center provides a massive opportunity to build infrastructure to support people. Resilience, as Michael Ungar writes, is not a DIY endeavor. Communities must find ways to provide the resources a person needs to persevere. Ungar explains, “What kind of resources? The kind that get you through the inevitable crises that life throws our way. A bank of sick days. Some savings or an extended family who can take you in. Neighbours or a congregation willing to bring over a casserole, shovel your driveway or help care for your children while you are doing whatever you need to do to get through the moment. Communities with police, social workers, home-care workers, fire departments, ambulances, and food banks. Employment insurance, pension plans or financial advisers to help you through a layoff.”

Ungar summarizes the appropriate application of grit, “The science of resilience is clear: The social, political and natural environments in which we live are far more important to our health, fitness, finances and time management than our individual thoughts, feelings or behaviours. When it comes to maintaining well-being and finding success, environments matter. In fact, they may matter just as much, and likely much more, than individual thoughts, feelings or behaviours. A positive attitude may be required to take advantage of opportunities as you find them, but no amount of positive thinking on its own is going to help you survive a natural disaster, a bad workplace or childhood abuse. Change your world first by finding the relationships that nurture you, the opportunities to use your talents and the places where you experience community and governmental support and social justice. Once you have these, your world will help you succeed more than you could ever help yourself.”

The one major missing ingredient here is tawakkul (trust in Allah). One of the events in the life of the Prophet ṣallallāhu 'alayhi wa sallam (peace and blessings of Allāh be upon him) that epitomized grit, resilience, and perseverance was the Battle of Badr. At this occasion, the Companions said, “God is enough for us: He is the best protector.

“Those whose faith only increased when people said, ‘Fear your enemy: they have amassed a great army against you,’ and who replied, ‘God is enough for us: He is the best protector,’“ (3:173)

This is the same phrase that Ibrahim 'alayhi'l-salām (peace be upon him), while displaying the utmost level of resilience, said when he was thrown into the fire, and it was made cool.

There is a core belief in Islam about balancing between fear and hope. Scholars advise when a person feels despair, they should remind themselves of the traditions that reinforce hope in Allah’s forgiveness. When a person feels themselves sliding further and further into disobedience to Allah, then they should remind themselves of the traditions that warn against Allah’s punishment. The focus changes depending on the situation.

Grit itself is a praiseworthy characteristic

There is no doubt that it is a trait that makes people successful. The challenge comes in applying it and how we teach it. It needs a proper level of balance. Too much focus on grit as a singular predictor of success may lead to victim-blaming and false hope syndrome. Overlooking it on the other hand, enables a feeling of entitlement and a victim mentality.

One purpose of teaching grit was to help students from privileged backgrounds understand and appreciate the struggle needed to overcome difficulty. Misapplied, it can lead to overlooking systemic issues that prevent a person from succeeding even when they have grit.

Self-help literature often fails to make these types of distinctions. It fails to provide guidance for balancing adapting the advice based on circumstance. The criticisms here are not of the idea of grit, but rather the myopic way in which self-help literature promotes concepts like grit without real-world contextualization. We need to find a way to have the right proportionality of understanding individual effort, societal support, and our reliance on Allah.

Our ability to persevere, to be resilient, and to have grit, is linked directly to our relationship with Allah, and our true level of trust in Him.

To stay up to date with more articles from Omar, sign up for his email list at http://ibnabeeomar.com/newsletter

Continue Reading

#Culture

To Kill a Muslim – Part 1

Yahya noticed the obscene gesture that the man across the street gave him, but he ignored it, and chose not to tell his wife Samira. He knew how deep racism ran in these small towns. He would just have to be patient.

Avatar

Published

on

1. Ragheads

Rotting wooden porch steps

Nursing a warm beer, Chad sat on the ramshackle front porch with the rotting steps and peeling paint. His hand clenched tightly the beer can as he watched the filthy camel hugging family move in across the street. Liquid sloshed over his fist.

It was unbelievable. This was Alhambra, a white town in America. Trump’s America. Making America great again, putting the freaks and coloreds back in their places. Sure, there were wetbacks in Alhambra – you couldn’t escape them in California – but there were hardly any blacks, and there were certainly no terrorist camel huggers.

Until now. There they were across the street and two houses down, unloading a trailer hooked to a silver Honda Accord. It was a whole family of ragheads – a woman with her stupid oppressed scarf on her head, a little boy and girl, and the father. Chad studied the man with contempt. The guy was tall, maybe 6’1 or 6’2, and black. Well, maybe he was African or some such, ‘cause he wore one of those long, colorful African shirts. His skin was mud colored, and his hair was short under that stupid beanie. He was skinny though. Chad was pretty sure he could kick the guy’s ass. The man noticed Chad looking and waved. Chad flipped him the bird. The man frowned and went on moving his crap.

Chad spent a lot of time sitting on the porch nowadays, ever since he’d been fired from his loss prevention job at Walmart. That still made his jaw clench and his vision go red every time he thought about it. Some black dude – a gangbanger no doubt – had tried to shoplift box of tampons, of all things, and Chad stopped him. A scuffle ensued. Chad recovered the tampons, but the banger got away. And Walmart fired him. Said he’d violated the terms of service of his employment, which required no physical engagement of any kind. You were supposed to ask the thief to return the goods, but if they refused you were not supposed to stop them, follow them, or “engage” in any way, due to the liability to other customers if the encounter turned violent.

So the shade goes off scot-free, and Chad gets fired. A law abiding, hard working, white American gets fired for doing the right thing. It made him want to smash something. Actually it made him want to smash someone, ideally his Filipino woman boss at Walmart, but any foreigner would do.

So here he was, twenty two and unemployed, nothing but a high school diploma to his name, sitting on his mom’s porch. All his old high school friends had jobs and girlfriends. Some even had wives. A couple had gone to college.

It wasn’t right. His life wasn’t supposed to turn out like this. He’d been a track star in high school – hundred meters and hurdles – and was supposed to have gone to college on a scholarship, but he’d blown out his knee, and they’d all abandoned him. It was like, if you weren’t of use to people, they didn’t give a crap about you. You were disposable. Blood sucking leeches. They’d given his spot on the track team to a black kid, a sophomore. Kid probably couldn’t even read. Was that piece of crap out there now, living the life that should have been Chad’s? How could this happen in Trump’s America? That was the problem, that it hadn’t been Trump’s America back then. It had been Barack Hussein’s America, the Commie Muslim traitor, damn his terrorist soul.

He seethed with the unfairness of it. He was no genius, he knew that. But he’d been a good runner, talented. He’d had the opportunity to make something of himself, to be the first in his family to go to college. He could have been more than his parents. A teacher maybe, or even a lawyer. His mother survived on welfare and what she could beg, borrow or steal from her string of boyfriends.

As for his dad, sure, Chad admired him in some ways – the man had been a shot caller in the Aryan Nation prison gang, able to point a finger and have another man killed. He’d been looked up to and respected. And he’d taught Chad what it meant to be a proud white man, standing up for your race and not taking any crap from coloreds. But let’s face it, Dad had spent 90% of his adult life in prison, and in the end had died the way he lived, with a knife in his gut. That wasn’t what Chad wanted for himself.

Plus, if Chad was being honest, he’d evolved beyond this father’s way of thinking. His father always used to say that the coloreds – no matter the shade – were filthy and inferior and should all be eliminated, even if that meant a race war across the face of America. It was a certainty, according to him, that the race war was coming. RaHoWa, he used to call it – Racial Holy War. The coloreds were secretly plotting to wipe out white America. It was an assault on the white, Christian values that had built everything worldwide in the modern world.

But when Chad had worked at Walmart he’d been forced to work with people of all colors and even folks from other countries like Filipinos and Chinks. He´d asked a few of them about RaHoWa, trying to find out about their plans to destroy the white race, but they seemed genuinely clueless. Chad slowly realized that RaHoWa was a myth, and that the coloreds were ordinary people like himself. They liked the same sports teams he did, played the same video games, watched the same shows. Yeah, they ate some weird crap and some of them smelled different, and their music was garbage. And they weren’t as smart of course. That was a fact. White people were the smartest, they had invented everything. That was why they ran the world. But the point was that the coloreds weren’t evil.

He had come to the conclusion that what was needed was not a race war, but separation. Let the coloreds live in their own neighborhoods and go to their own schools. Let them marry their own women and breed their own brats. And Chad and the white people would do the same. Live and let live. Not the Filipino bitch who fired him of course, he still wanted to bust her head open. But the others, yeah.

But the Muzzies – the Islamics – that was a different story. They were terrorist, cult following traitors. Not normal people. Muzzies were evil and sick in the head. Everybody said so. Plus, they lied as part of their sicko religion. It was called takaya or some crap. What kind of twisted bullcrap was that? They beheaded people, for Christ’s sake. If you were Christian in their country they would cut off your head with a hunting knife. They were devil worshipers. They should all either be kicked out of the country or killed. Period. And then Mecca should be nuked, and that would be the end of it.

But instead of taking care of business, the government was letting them go around like normal people. Even Trump had wimped out. The evidence was right in front of Chad’s eyes. Ragheads in his neighborhood, on his street. It was insane. How could terrorists go around openly showing off their rags? Where was Homeland Security? That was a good idea, actually. See something, say something, right? He took his phone out of his pocket and called 911.

2. Moving Day

Yahya Mtondo noticed the young man across the street staring. He waved, and when the fellow gave him an obscene gesture in return he frowned. In the old days – that is to say, in his angry and lost years of his youth – he would have marched straight over there and punched the man in the face, and damn the consequences. But he wasn’t that man anymore. So here merely shook his head and turned back to the job of moving.

His wife Samira must have noticed his expression. “What’s wrong habibi?”

He forced a smile. “Nothing’s at all, mchumba wangu.” Usually he called her mpenzi wangu – my love. But when he wanted to tease her he called her mchumba wangu, my homemaker. It was actually a term of endearment in his native Kenya, or at least it was what his dad always used to call his mom, may Allah have mercy on them. But he knew it annoyed Samira. In any case, he wasn’t going to tell her about the young man across the street. Samira tended to worry – she even had anxiety attacks sometimes – and he didn’t want to give her anything more to stress over.

“Just tired from the fast,” he added. “But I love it. I feel so light and free. I’m a bird doing loop de loops. Oooh!” He spread his arms. “My feathers are as cool as ice.”

Samira rolled her eyes. “You’re such a nut.”

He had not been crazy about the idea of moving to this poor, mostly white enclave in Central California, about twenty miles northeast of Fresno. He knew from experience how deep racism often ran in such towns. And he had two strikes against him in these people’s eyes, since he was both African and Muslim. Not that he was ashamed. He was proud of his Kenyan heritage, and was grateful that Allah had guided him to Islam.

They were here because his wife had just completed her medical residency in Fort Worth, Texas, where they’d moved from, and Alhambra Community Hospital had unexpectedly offered her a fellowship in her specialty of oncology. The salary was not spectacular, but it was better than she’d earned as a resident. Between that and his income as a rideshare driver, plus the low property values here in Alhambra, they’d been able to buy a house for the first time, alhamdulillah – thanks to God for all His blessings.

Craftsman bungalow cottage

The best part of all was that there was no ribaa involved. No interest. They’d gone through a group called Central Valley Islamic Finance, which helped qualified Muslims to buy cars and homes without interest. Yahya was deeply relieved about that. He ́d made plenty of mistakes in life, but so far he’d managed to avoid the sin of ribaa, sometimes making great sacrifices in the process.

It felt like an achievement. He could see himself on Yawm Al-Qiyamah – the Day of Resurrection – standing before some great angel who held in his hand a parchment listing Yahya´s sins, each with a small checked box: anger, resentment, cursing, jealousy, ingratitude, and more. But then Yahya ́s eyes would settle on the one little unchecked box – Ribaa. He would point to it excitedly, saying, ̈Look, look!̈ And he ́d hope that it might perhaps, offer him a chance for safety on that Day.

It was pretty sad, he knew, when avoiding a major sin was your last chance for salvation. Welcome to the 21st century. Or maybe that was a cop-out. He sighed.

̈Come on babe, tell me. What is it?̈ His sweaty-faced wife touched his cheek. She was always so alert to any sign of inner turbulence on his part.

He smiled. ¨Nothing.¨

She slid her arm through his. ̈Look at our house. Our house. SubhanAllah.¨

He set down the box he had tucked under one arm and studied the house. 701 Minarets Avenue. They had taken the street name as a sign. Their own little homestead, their own piece of earth – of course it all belonged to Allah, but it was theirs to care for. He would import a few elephants and a lion and call it Little House on the Serengeti. He chuckled at his own joke.

The house was small for a family of four – only 1,100 square feet. But it was cute – a little Craftsman bungalow built in 1901, painted teal with white trim, and featuring a small covered veranda to relax on when the weather go too hot, as it often did here in Central California. The yard was planted with wildflowers and native shrubs, while an immense magnolia tree grew in the front yard, casting shade over most of the house, its thick, waxy leaves glowing deep emerald in the morning sun. Some sort of songbird trilled from deep in the tree, praising God in its own language. Yahya loved it.

As an added bonus, Samira’s family lived in Los Angeles, only a four hour drive from here.

Allah the Most High had opened a door for them, and they’d walked through, taking the path that the Most Wise chose for them. Yahya knew in his heart that there would be good in this path, or Allah would not have set them upon it. That was trust, tawakkul. Doing your best, then putting your life in Allah’s hands and trusting Him to bring you through whatever obstacles you faced. Tawakkul was not, as some thought, naivete. Yahya had not lived an easy life. He ́d experienced terrible tragedies, and had walked through trench and terror, metaphorically speaking, just to stay alive. No, tawakkul was a choice and a mindset. It was faith.

As for the young man across the street, Yahya would make an effort to reach out to the neighbors, get to know them. Weren’t Muslims commanded to be kind to their neighbors? Only through kindness could an enemy become a friend.

He kissed his wife on the temple and bent down wearily to pick up the box.This was Ramadan, and Yahya’s energy level was at rock bottom. He hadn’t taken any food or water in many hours. Fortunately, all the family’s possessions fit into a small U-Haul trailer, and the moving was nearly done. That was one advantage of being poor, he thought wryly. It made moving easier.

Ten minutes later, hefting a 6-foot bookshelf and turning, he almost tripped over Sulayman, his four-year-old son, who had picked up a table fan by the cord. Yahya resisted the temptation to chide the boy. The irritability he felt was a byproduct of his hunger and weariness from the fast. Part of the challenge of Ramadan was to overcome that irritability and replace it with compassion. Instead of anger, to give love. Instead of resentment, to exercise generosity. Instead of self-absorption, to expand your sphere of concern to include your family, neighbors, the community, the Muslim ummah, and finally the world. That was Ramadan, and that was Islam.

Sulayman and his three-year-old sister Amirah were only trying to help in their little way. But yeah, they were getting underfoot. He was about to suggest they go play inside the house when he heard sirens approaching. It sounded like there were a lot of them, and they were close. Curious, he set the bookshelf down in the driveway. The sirens kept getting louder, and a moment later a black-and-white Alhambra police cruiser careened around the corner, then another right behind it, tires squealing. Yahya didn’t know what was going on – a burglary in the neighborhood, or a domestic dispute maybe? – but he wanted his family out of harm’s way.

“Samira,” he said urgently. “Take the kids into the house, please. Right away.” His wife had also paused to see the source of the commotion. She stood near the front door of the house, her hands gripping tightly on the box of dinnerware she was carrying. Like him, she was tall – about 5’10” to his 6’1” – and though she was Palestinian, her skin was a beautiful shade of brown that fell somewhere between copper and mahogany. Her purple hijab concealed long black hair that she typically wore loose beneath her scarf.

While Yahya was quiet and contemplative, Samira could be loud. She had a laugh that rang out, and a smile that stretched a mile wide. People were drawn to her brash and bubbly personality. Only those who knew her best understood the insecurities and worries that she hid beneath that bright and happy laugh.

As the wailing sirens mounted Samira dropped the box. Whatever was inside shattered when it hit the ground. She scooped up the kids, lifting them bodily off the ground, and disappeared inside the house.

Cop with gun drawn

What on earth? What had gotten into her? Yahya was about to go after her when the police cars skidded to a halt in the street in front of his own home. Doors were thrown open, and officers kneeled behind them, pointing their guns at his house. Yahya looked around in confusion. Was a fugitive hiding in his yard?

“Put your hands on your head,” someone bellowed through a loudspeaker, “and get down on your knees!”

Again Yahya looked around. Surely they did not mean him?

“You with the hat and the beard! Put your hands on your head and get down on your knees! This is your last warning!”

SubhanAllah, they did mean him! He considered protesting or at least asking for clarification. Then he looked at the barrels of the firearms pointing at him, one of which was bright yellow for some reason – some kind of phaser pistol? he thought crazily – and realized this was not the time for anything less than obedience. Moving slowly so as not to alarm the cops, he put his hands on his head and went down to his knees. Two offers charged forward, their weapons trained on Yahya’s chest. One pulled his hands behind his back and handcuffed him, then shoved him forward. He fell, turning his face to the side at the last second and striking his cheek on the driveway. The impact made him grunt in pain. He thought he heard the muffled cries of his wife or children from inside the house. They were probably watching through the window.

This was not something he would have ever wanted them to see. He struggled to rise up, to say to the officers, “Come on now, what’s this all about?” He was not personally afraid. It was never his way to be afraid of people or the things people did. He was good with God and trusted in the path. He just didn’t want his children to see their father being treated this way.

The cops tased him. He didn’t understand at that moment what was happening. Every muscle in his body seized in a terrible cramp. His limbs thrashed uncontrollably and his torso flopped like a dying fish on the floor of a boat. His vision went red as agonizing pain blasted his consciousness. He still heard his family screaming, and in the distance he heard laughter as well – triumphant, mocking laughter. The agony seemed to go on forever, then vanished without a trace, leaving no remainder of pain.

He regained control of himself and turned his head to look at the officers. The one who’d tased him stood rigid, his arms in a classic firing pose, his muscles quivering. He was young and slender, pasty white with red hair and a prematurely receding hairline. What Yahya noticed most of all, however, was that the man was petrified. His eyes were wide with fear. SubhanAllah, what was he so afraid of? He was staring as if Yahya were some mythical monster laying in the driveway, like an abominable snowman. Except he wasn’t an abominable snowman. He was an abominable Muslim, apparently.

“Hey,” Yahya said in what he hoped was a soothing tone. “It’s alright. I’m not-”

“Shut up, faggot!” one of the officers bellowed, and once again the electricity coursed through him. He spasmed and fell hard, striking his mouth this time. Then he felt hard objects hitting him, striking his legs and back. A hammering blow clapped the side of his head, and darkness descended upon his mind.

* * *

Next: Part 2 – The Black Jesus

Reader comments and constructive criticism are important to me, so please comment!

See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories on this website.

Wael Abdelgawad’s novel, Pieces of a Dream, is available on Amazon.com.

Continue Reading

#Culture

Gravedigger: A Short Story

A fist crashed into Ghada Aziz’s eye, snapping her head back and turning her legs to straw. Pain exploded in her face and she wondered if her orbital socket had just shattered. Somehow she clung to consciousness, covering her head with her arms, then lashing out with a punch of her own.

Avatar

Published

on

fight, life, death, grave

A fist crashed into Ghada Aziz’s eye, snapping her head back and turning her legs to straw. Pain exploded in her face and she wondered if her orbital socket had just shattered. Somehow she clung to consciousness, covering her head with her arms, then lashing out with a punch of her own. She couldn’t take much more. Her left leg was swollen and numb, her ribs deeply bruised, and blood poured into her eyes from a cut on her forehead.

MMA ringShe never saw the blow that knocked her out. She crashed to the blood-spattered canvas, mouth open and drooling, dimly aware of the referee shielding her. A roaring sound like an avalanche filled her ears, and knew it was the sound of the crowd cheering her opponent. This was her sixth loss in the last two years, and the fourth by knockout. She’d once been the seventh ranked female bantamweight fighter in the world, but she was done. Twenty seven years old and washed up, her MMA career was over.

Was it for this that Baba – her father – had fled Iraq with her when she was twelve, leaving behind the land where his wife and son – her mother and older brother – had been slaughtered? Was it for this that he gave up his work as a radiologist to work as a janitor in Los Angeles, somehow managing to pay for her English and karate lessons?

And how had she repaid him? Other Arab-American children became doctors and engineers, but Ghada dropped out of college, driven by her passion for martial arts. The fighting ring was the only place where she felt completely in control of her destiny. Life delivered one crushing blow after another – losing loved ones, loneliness, grief – but in the ring, standing over her opponent in triumph, life was powerless to harm her. Only in the ring did she feel in control, secure.

She wouldn’t have blamed Baba for being disappointed in her, but he’d been proud, even when the local Arab community criticized him for letting his daughter adopt immoral ways. He dropped in on her training sessions and hung news stories about her on the wall. Unlike many fighters Ghada had no nickname, and Baba used to teasingly say that she should call herself The Saracen, or The Arab Assassin. As if she needed to call attention to her heritage. She already received death threats from Americans and Arabs alike. The only thing Baba would not do was attend her fights. He couldn’t bear to see her getting hit. Baba also supported her financially until she began to win, at which point she bought him a little house in Eagle Rock with a garden that he tended lovingly.

Then he died, his heart giving out on a cold January morning as he raked the leaves in the yard, while Ghada was away at training camp. Her shame at having neglected him was a worse blow than any she’d ever taken in the ring.

Someone gripped her arm. Sibni, she thought in Arabic, her cheek glued to the canvas, her braided black hair soaking up blood. Let me be. But the coach pulled her up and mopped her face as the cut man pressed the freezing end-swell disc into her forehead to stanch the flow of blood. She hung her head, not wanting to see the faces of the leering crowd, many of them overjoyed to see the Arab bitch lose. So much hate she’d faced. All for nothing.

She remembered being surprised at how many people came to Baba’s funeral. Arabs and other members of the Muslim community – Pakistanis, Indians, African-Americans, and the odd Latino or white convert – stood in rows to pray.  Non-Muslims came as well, approaching her to offer their condolences. She didn’t know most of them. They spoke of her father’s generosity or his guidance. While she’d been focused on training, Baba had intertwined with many lives, touching many hearts. That should have been comforting, but it only reminded her that she hadn’t been there enough to truly know him. She hadn’t been involved. Her grief was a thunderstorm in her head and would not let up. She skipped training sessions, lived on instant noodles and delivery pizza, slept past noon every day and lost fight after fight, unable to win the outer battles while the inner ones raged.

Now that her career was finally over, she fell into a pit of despair. She stopped bathing, washing the dishes, and paying the bills. Late notices came. Sometimes the doorbell rang and people called to her. A few times she recognized the voices of Farah and Summer, two Muslim friends she’d had in high school. They’d drifted away after she became an MMA fighter. Or had she pushed them away, preempting the threat of their rejection? They’d attended a few of her fights as well – she’d seen them in the front rows, cheering. She’d always refused to acknowledge them, fearing that they were there to judge her. They both wore hijab after all, while she was out in front of the world wearing knee-length shorts and a lycra shirt, making a spectacle of herself. So she’d deliberately avoided them, not meeting their eyes when she left the ring after the fights.

Sometimes she thought about killing herself. She resisted the idea, knowing it was against her religion and everything her father had taught her. But… there was no way forward. She was an unemployed college drop-out, finished in her career, alone in the world, and – judging from the unopened late notices she was receiving from the state – about to lose her father’s house for non-payment of taxes.

One miserable night, unable to sleep and equally unable to bear her own thoughts, she walked into the kitchen. Roaches scattered. Filthy dishes stewed in the sink. In the middle of the room stood a small table and two folding chairs. Her father used to sit there when he read the newspaper and paid the bills. Why had he kept two chairs there? Perpetually waiting – hoping – for Ghada to return home and join him at that little table? Atop the table stood a glass vase filled with desiccated morning glories. Those same dead flowers had been there since Baba died.

Kitchen knifeShe went to the cutlery drawer and took out a large steel vegetable knife. Her father always kept the knives sharp. She placed the tip against the inside of her left wrist. She would make a long, deep cut, then she’d do the other arm. Then she’d lie down in bed and wait for it to be over.

She pressed the tip of the knife into her wrist. It broke the skin and blood welled up, running in a rivulet into her palm and dripping from her middle finger. It was time to die.

Except… she could not make her hand move. She could not go further. An inner voice said, “This isn’t right. There’s always another way, a better way. You’re a fighter. Don’t give up now.” She ignored that voice and cut a little further. Blood began to pour now, running down her wrist and hand and spattering onto the kitchen floor. Her arms trembled. One of her elbows bumped the vase on the table. It tipped over, rolled off the table and shattered into a hundred fragments.

A memory came to her in a flash. She was a child in Baghdad, in the small villa they’d called home. Mama was standing on a stepladder, removing a burnt-out fluorescent bulb – the long kind – from the ceiling fixture. She handed it down to Ghada, who was her assistant in everything, whether cooking, cleaning or home repair. “Pass me the new one,” Mama said.

“I’ll do it, I’ll do it!” exclaimed tousle-haired Ibrahim, her younger brother. Before Ghada could stop him he snatched up the new bulb from where it leaned against the wall – and dropped it. Slivers of glass exploded across the floor. Both children froze, expecting to be punished. Their cat, Halawa, came padding in to investigate the commotion. Mama sighed and instructed Ghada to put Halawa in the bathroom before she cut her paws. It was the only room with a door, since the others had only curtains in the doorways. As they all worked to clean the broken glass, Halawa kept crying to be let out. Ghada felt bad for the cat, but it was for the kitty’s own good. When they were finally finished and released the cat she trotted out with her tail high, giving them all an accusing look.

Later, Mama said, “What we did with Halawa is a metaphor for how Allah protects us.”

“What’s a metaphor?” Ibrahim wanted to know.

“An example. Sometimes we feel trapped in our situations. We can’t find a way out. We cry and complain, not understanding why Allah has closed the doors. Our vision is small, so we don’t see the broken glass all around. We don’t realize that we are exactly where we need to be in that moment, and that Allah is protecting us. But if we are patient, the door will open when the time is right.”

Remembering this now, remembering her dear, patient mother, and imagining what her mother would say if she could see her daughter in this moment, Ghada cried out and dropped the knife, which fell to the floor with a clatter. Her entire body trembled, with what emotion she could not say. She would wait. She would… try something. What, she did not know.

She left the house for the first time in two weeks and went to visit her father’s grave. It was located in a sprawling, hilly cemetery that belonged to the city of Los Angeles. She sat on the grass of his grave and wept, fingering the plaque set into the ground. Sami Daoud Aziz, beloved husband and father. She tried to speak to him or pray over him, but no words came.

On her way out she saw a sign on the gate: Help Wanted. She saved the number in her phone and called it the next morning. The cemetery was looking for a full-time gravedigger. The job paid $15 per hour plus benefits. It was no fortune, but it might allow her to pay the bills, and more importantly she’d be close to Baba. She applied and was accepted.

For the first six months there was hardly a day when she did not think about quitting. The work was grueling, even harder than MMA training. Even as a full time fighter she’d only trained four hours per day. The rest of it was just healthy eating, watching and analyzing training videos, and getting nine hours of sleep every night.

This job, on the other hand, was what she imagined when a convict was sentenced to “hard labor.” Not that the environment was forbidding – it was actually extraordinarily beautiful. But this was a green cemetery, which is why the graves were hand dug. There was no gas-powered machinery of any kind, and only two maintenance workers for this entire, sprawling cemetery – herself and Dave, the groundskeeper. No embalming chemicals – Ghada learned all this in time – were used in burials, nor any grave liners or vaults. Only shrouds or biodegradable wooden caskets. Wildflowers were allowed to proliferate freely. Songbirds, squirrels and deer could be seen roaming the grounds, and butterflies were everywhere. With oak and bay trees covering the slopes, it looked more like a natural woodland than a traditional cemetery.

On a typical day Ghada had to dig two or three graves, which meant a full eight or nine hours of digging. She’d wake up in the morning with her muscles still aching from the previous day. At first her hands blistered, then they bled. Finally they grew calloused.

The plus side to the job was that she was close to Baba. She’d sit on his grave every day at lunchtime, sometimes crying, sometimes praying, sometimes just talking to him. Was this morbid? Was she psychologically damaged, unable to let go of the past? She didn’t know. She only knew that being near her father comforted her.

Time passed. She paid off her bills. Her muscles stopped aching. Her almond colored skin darkened to cafe-au-lait from working in the sun every day. And she stopped crying. She began to pray again and to fast in the holy month of Ramadan, two things she hadn’t done since she was a teenager. Her own transformation amazed her at times. She thought back to the night she’d pressed the knife to her wrist. Was it Allah who’d put that memory in her head at that moment – the memory of her cat Halawa and the broken glass? Regardless, alhamdulillah – all praise to God.

* * *

baba, death, suicide,She tossed the last spadeful of dirt and mopped her brow. The sun was straight overhead, illuminating even the inside of the grave. Unhooking a tape measure from her belt, she checked the grave. One shovel deep, two and a half feet wide by seven long. Industry standard. Satisfied, she tossed the shovel out and leaped out of the grave, tucking and rolling as she cleared the top. Time for lunch.

The back east acre was screened by a row of pines. Management kept the maintenance equipment in a shed back here, but there was a narrow stretch of clear grass. Ghada always spent the first half of her break practicing martial arts here. It was something she’d come back to this year. She wasn’t training for anything. It was movement for the sake of movement. Running through footwork and strikes, angling in and out, the workout left her physically energized and as emotionally serene as a summer sky. She hadn’t been in a gym in two years, so she worked on fundamentals, sometimes combining the moves she already knew in inventive ways.

Later, sitting on the grass of Baba’s grave, she unwrapped the ‘eggah sandwich she’d prepared that morning. It was a dish her mother had taught her to make – a patty formed from a blend of eggs, broccoli and cheese, served in pita bread with a hummus spread. With it she had a cup of hasa al-khadr – vegetable soup spiced with ginger, garlic, cilantro and cumin. Eating these traditional foods made her feel that she was carrying on her cultural heritage in some way, and also kept her healthy for the extreme labor of this job.

The warm sunshine on her face felt pleasant. The air smelled of bay leaves and wild roses. Two squirrels chased each other around a tree and up and down the trunk. Watching them, Ghada smiled. Life was good. It amazed and pleased her that she could think this. The only thing lacking in her life was companionship. She had no family, no friends. She was all alone in the world.

As if disproving her assertion, Dave the groundskeeper sauntered over from where he’d been digging out a patch of invasive broom grass. He carried his lunch bag in one hand and thermos in the other. Ghada didn’t mind. Nearing forty, tall but stoop shouldered, Dave was harmless, not to mention married. He and his wife June were MMA fans. He’d been thrilled to meet her when she first started, as he’d seen her fight when she was in her prime. He kept telling her she should be coaching fighters, not digging graves. She always shrugged this off. Maybe someday. The fighting world felt too much like the bad old days – though, if she was honest with herself, there was still a part of her that wondered how far she could have gone as a fighter if Baba had not died.

They ate in silence for a while. This was one of the things she liked about Dave. The two of them were well attuned to each other’s moods.

“You don’t talk to your dad much anymore,” Dave said. He nodded to her father’s plaque.

Ghada remembered how she used to sit here and confess her sins, sometimes weeping, sometimes telling Baba haltingly about her life, as if she expected him to condemn her failings. Why had she thought that? He’d never condemned her in life, after all. He’d done nothing but love her. My shining star, he used to call her.

“I’ve said it all.”

“So you two are good?”

She smiled. “Yeah.”

“You’ve changed since you started here.”

“No kidding. I don’t wake up with my limbs aching like I just ran a marathon. I remember when digging a single grave was exhausting. Blisters everywhere, my back sore, everything.”

“Not just that. You’re peaceful.”

She nodded. “It’s this job.” She waved a hand at a bluejay that sat on the branch of a nearby oak tree, watching them and waiting for crumbs, no doubt. “Life amid death, you know? It’s a constant reminder to live in the moment.”

Her phone rang. That was odd. No one ever called her. She dug it out of her pocket and looked at it, then frowned. It was her coach. She hadn’t spoken to him in two years. For a moment she thought of not taking the call. But that was the old Ghada. The new Ghada had nothing to fear from the past. “You sure you have the right number?” she greeted him, then listened as he spoke. “I’ll get back to you,” she said when he was done. “I know. Give me a half hour.”

“What was that about?” Dave asked. “You look like you’ve seen a dead body.” He grinned at his own joke. Funerals were a part of daily life here.

She said nothing.

“You’re scaring me, kiddo.”

“Sorry. You know the WFC? The World Fighting Championship?”

“Of course. You know I’m a fan. There’s an event tonight. June and I are going.”

“Oh. Well, the woman who was supposed to fight against Viviani Silva had an injury. They want me to fight her.”

It was Dave’s turn to gape. “Viviani ‘The Monster’ Silva? That’s a title fight!”

“No one else wants it on such short notice. Or if they do, they’re too far away.”

“Man! Wait ‘til I tell June. She’ll freak out.”

Ghada put up a hand. “I haven’t said I’ll do it. Listen, do you mind leaving me alone for a bit?”

“Sure.” He scooped up his lunch and hurried off, no doubt to call his wife.

She ran a hand through the grass of her father’s grave. She was not afraid. Where once the storm had raged inside her, now she was the eye. “But Baba,” she said aloud. “That’s not my life anymore.”

Does the dream still live inside you? came his reply. If so then seize it, habibti, my love, my shining star.

* * *

“I owe you big time for taking this.” Her coach hustled her into the arena. “No one expects you to win, okay? All you have to do is put on a show. Flash that Aziz spirit, try to make it through the first round. Even if you lose you make fifty grand. You look fit at least. Better than the last time I saw you.”

Not much of a pep talk, Ghada thought. To hell with him if that was all he thought of her. She’d fight, but for herself, not for her coach or anyone else. Oddly, the thought of the fight itself excited her more than the $50,000 purse. What did she need $50K for anyway? She had everything she needed in life. What thrilled her was the opportunity to plunge into combat once again, to hit and be hit in a battle that was mental and emotional even more than physical. Those electric, brutal, and vivid minutes in which she was more fully alive than 99.99% of human beings.

Five minutes later she stood on the scale at the weigh-in, fight officials all around and press bulbs flashing. Viviani ‘The Monster’ Silva had already weighed in, but was there to check out the competition. The thick-jawed, heavily tattooed woman postured and called out insults. She looked exotic and mean in her skin-tight short-shorts and halter top.

Ghada, on the other hand, wore her usual knee-length shorts and a form fitting long sleeved shirt. It was her concession to Islamic modesty and she knew it was insufficient, but it was the best she could do in the ring. Her jet black hair was braided in cornrows, close to the scalp. She ignored The Monster and let out a slow breath, unperturbed. She saw surprise on the faces of the officials. Did they remember the out of shape, emotionally depressed wreck of a fighter from two years ago? Her eyes flicked to the wall mirror, curious to see herself as they saw her. Standing 5’7”, she weighed in at 133 pounds. That was near the upper weight limit for a bantamweight, but there was not an ounce of fat on her. Her legs were rock solid and rippling with muscle, her arms powerful and well defined even through the shirt, her shoulders like two small boulders. She looked like a granite statue. The gravedigging, she realized. Digging graves was the most physically taxing thing she’d ever done. When she’d first started she couldn’t dig a single grave without resting multiple times. Now she could dig for ten hours, wake up the next day and do it again, as easy as babaganoush. She’d never been stronger in her life, both physically and emotionally.

She looked to The Monster and saw a flicker of doubt on the woman’s face. The hair stood up on Ghada’s arms. I’m going to win this fight. The premonition hit her like the light of the summer sun, leaving no room for doubt. She was going to win. She was going to become the next women’s bantamweight champion of the world.

What would she do after that? Would she continue to fight, or become a coach as Dave was always telling her to do? Or would she go back to digging graves? She didn’t know. But she was sure she was going to win. She could feel it in her bones, as surely as her ancestors had been able to feel the approach of a sandstorm or the coming of the rain.

Someone called out her name. She looked over the crowd and spotted Farah and Summer at the back of the crowd of spectators. They grinned and waved. How had they known she would be here? In the past she would have looked away, not wanting to acknowledge them. But this time she smiled and waved, genuinely happy to see them. Their faces lit up and they shrieked as if they’d just met a celebrity.

The fight announcer approached, shook her hand. “Do you have a nickname you want me to use when I announce you?” he asked.

Ghada’s smile spread into a grin. Then she laughed out loud. “Sure. Call me Gravedigger.”

THE END

* * *

See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories. Wael’s novel, Pieces of a Dream, is available on Amazon.com.

Continue Reading

Trending