Talk Like An Egyptian

pic borrowed from the web

 

In the American Midwest tree branches are bare. Brown leaves litter streets and sidewalks, frost fogs windows. Crisp blades of frozen grass stand at attention. Breath puffs into the chilly air like clouds.

 

winter in the American Midwest

 

We start out on the couch, but end up cross-legged on the soft, carpeted floor. Books and notebooks whirlpool around us. "Do you want tea or coffee?" she says.

 

No, thank you, I say.

 

She shrugs. Okay.

 

A 6-foot wide tapestry from Kuwait adds a bright bit of color to the cozy earth tone space. There's a dining room table, piles of books. A cheerful, functional kitchen. A bathroom with a spray nozzle built into the toilet seat. With a dial to select level of water pressure and a button to initiate stream.

 

example of portable bidet

pic borrowed from the web

 

We laugh about it, this bit of Middle Eastern preference tucked into America's heartland. "It's cool and refreshing," she agrees. Her smile is bright. "But then you're wet."

 

She has a Ph.D. in law and taught university before moving from the Middle East to Kansas. Where she takes the kids to school, meets up with friends at Starbucks, cleans house, cooks dinner. She's fun, funny, comfortable and smart and she wears a colorful, friendly hijab. She's my colloquial Egyptian Arabic tutor.

 

harakat! I say. In written Arabic the word means movement and refers to those little dots and dashes that appear above and below the looping Arabic letters. In colloquial Qatari dialect it's how a teen might say cool! or awesome!

 

She laughs. "In Egyptian dialect you could say gamda aowee." Which translates to rigid a lot.

 

da soura gamda aowee

not rigid in Cairo, 1974

 

All Arabs read and write using the same letters. Written Arabic has grammar rules, tenses, form, structure and is called fusha (fooS-Ha). It is the language of the Koran, and considered the foundation from which all Arabic dialect is derived.

 

Perhaps you, too, can read and write Arabic. Perhaps there is opportunity to use what you've learned on the street and in alleyways. Where educated Arabs recognize the high form of their language, chuckle at your stilted speech and respond slowly and carefully (because you're obviously not a native speaker). Perhaps communication happens.

 

But not cultural appreciation, personal comprehension, empathy.

 

shiny flask

 

Empathy is what happens in Qatar's silver and mirror lined window-less majlis spaces far from the English speaking streets. Where hidden women insist, just as it was in Egypt 30 years ago, a guest must eat three sugary dates as is stated in the Koran. To be a good guest here one must sip both tea and coffee, nibble cheesy bread and cake. Language flows fast, like the women who sit close, hover and fuss. It seems there are rules for everything from greeting one another to seating assignments, touching and laughing.

 

As in fusha, guttural 'ein is pronounced deep in the throat and "khaaf" spits like a hissing cat. But "jeem," a letter which says its name in fusha, is pronounced "ya" and the letter "qaaf" sounds like "g" as in "gate." Here "ee" means "yes" and "abee" means "I want."

 

Qatar's dialect, like its society, attempts to remain close to Koranic fusha. Both are ordered, structured. And changing.

 

Egyptian children's stage show

performed at Doha's souk waqif, 2012

 

Egyptian dialect, on the other hand, is loose, easy, indulgent, fun. Words flow, structure transforms to suit the moment, sound bits mix, muddle and sing. Egyptian dialect is the language of colloquial Arabic tv, music, books. Cartoons, comic books, children's programming is often produced using Egyptian dialect too. In Egypt, unlike Qatar, people speak their own language in the shops, markets, businesses and on the street.

 

Here, "ah" or a close lipped "mmm" translates to "yes." It's perfectly polite to add "ya" to the front of a person's name in greeting and everyone is "habibi/habibti" (my sweet one). In Egyptian dialect, "jeem" is expressed as "g" in "gate" while "qaaf" is eliminated altogether. There are words like "bass," "kidda," and "mish" which pepper speech like "yeah" and "uh huh" in English and "aiza" means "I want."

 

Sure, there are rules and structure, but rules are meant to be broken, right? The language, like the people, is vibrant, relaxed, comfortable, forgiving.

 

And changing. Like Egyptian society, which has experienced much turmoil in recent years - I am told there is a movement in Egypt to return the language of the street…to fusha.

 

returning soon to Cairo?

An Ordinary Life

Museum of Islamic Art

from the park

 

Her husband works in oil, construction, water, marketing. He's an executive, engineer, architect, accountant, geologist, pilot.

 

She's lived in Doha 5 years. Before that, home was Bahrain, then Kuwait. Her children attended American schools abroad, university stateside. Grew up, married, reproduced.

 

feeding the birds

on the Corniche

 

She lives in a three story villa tucked inside a walled compound with other families from her husband's company. There's a pool, tennis courts, gym, spa, convenience store. A live in maid mops floors, scrubs bathrooms, walks the dog. A driver escorts her to American Women's Association meetings, Tuesday Ladies Group, monthly mani pedi, weekly kaffee klatch.

 

Qatar National Theatre

from the inside

 

Her highlighted hair is neatly coiffed. She wears a loose fitting cotton shirt in the Middle Eastern style, Donna Karan jeans, high fashion pumps. Her bag is Gucci, bought cheap at that little place, I'll take you. She's a skilled bargainer, as demonstrated by the gold that shimmers at her neck and wrist, and glistening pearl earrings.

 

shopping Doha

International Trade Festival

 

She travels home three or four times a year, enjoys golf and shopping weekends in Dubai and Istanbul, beach holidays in France and Greece.

 

Bob and Chris

atop the singing dunes, 2014

 

Some people camp the dunes, shop the souk, eat a late meal at Kempinski, she says. "But we mostly stay home at night. We eat dinner, watch tv, go to bed. Get up, do it again." A young man in a white waist length vest slips between us, spirits away the used dishes. The smell of just baked bread courts the scent of honeyed lamb. An air conditioner hums.

 

ladies' tea

 

She slides a cube of sugar into milky tea and circles the confection with a shiny spoon. It clinks against the saucer. She wraps pink fingernails around glittering porcelain, breathes in the bitter and the sweet.

 

There are perks to the adventure, she admits. But for the most part, "we live an ordinary life." She smiles. "In an extraordinary place."

 

Baseball and Abayas

Bob, Kyle, Brad, Matt, Dawn (with little Mikus on deck), Aaron

celebrate the home team's ALCS victory 3am in Doha

photo credit: Matt Mikus (read Matt's travel blog: postcards and playlists)

 

Thousands of miles away and across the road too, the rest of my world celebrated the Kansas City Royals baseball ALCS victory and qualification for World Series competition.

 

Go Royals

 

I slid into abaya and hijab to attend Arabic classes at someplace new.

 

Maryam Center "Markazy Maryam" offers courses in Arabic, Quran and Islam

to Muslim women

 

The villa was surrounded by a high wall and tucked into a quiet community near a mosque. In front of the wall, a man guarded the sandy street. Behind the modesty-protecting barrier, shrouded women slipped through a paper covered door.

 

sorry, guys

 

Inside, black garbed women circled a stairwell. Windows covered in stained glass muted the hot sun. Like everywhere interior Doha, the air conditioning was set to "arctic" and the chill raised goose bumps on my blanketed skin. Three ladies worked at computers as dark eyed women rustled in and out of quiet rooms. In a windowless office, a lone woman sat at a mahogany desk, her title etched in Arabic on a wooden nameplate.

 

A brief consultation and the mudiera left the room. When she returned, she said: "Our classes are for women who are already Muslim. But you are so," here she supplied an Arabic word that she explained meant you-seem-Muslim, but might also refer to the preacher kid in me, ie, perhaps-your-dad-was-a-pastor-and-your-mom-a-church-pianist.

 

She handed me a registration packet. "I told him I wanted to give you a chance."

 

"Him" (no, not God): the unseen man who maintains unilateral authority

no matter how grand the boss-lady's desk.

 

For three years I've participated in the Arabic program at Fanar, the upside down ice cream cone minaret lighthouse-for-God at the center of downtown Doha. After a three month summer hiatus, one other woman and myself were ready to begin the final session of Fanar's five level program. That's when everything changed: new leadership, teachers fired, upper level courses moved from mornings to evenings. And new rules: we needed three more students before our class would be scheduled.

 

My classmate, a busy young Muslim mother and French expat, chose to go on to other things. I determined to follow our previous instructor to her new teaching position at Markazy Maryam.

 

abaya and hijab required

 

Here's what it's like to climb stairs carrying a purse and book bag as a newbie in abaya and hijab: sheer fabric clings to jeans, tangles at knees like a bed sheet to pajamas and (especially if it's front snapping) the robe flaps open. You instinctively release the handful of material gripped to prevent abaya from dragging as the skirt extends beyond shoes. Muted hallway sounds increase as you flail at the fly-a-way robe. Meanwhile, hijab slides off ears, slips over face. Disoriented and off balance, you, too, might shuffle over the abaya's hem, drop purse, trip over bag, turn the wrong direction and, blinded by a scarf, face plant.

 

Other activities, like the aerobic event that is the Arab greeting, maneuvering into a student desk or using the bathroom will be left to your imagination.

 

My teacher did not immediately know me with my sun-bleached hair and western attire hidden. Upon recognition she wrapped me in her arms and joyfully praised God.

 

"No, I'm not Muslim," I whispered in her ear as that's where my mouth was at the time. "I'm here for your class."

 

She squeezed me tighter. She kissed my cheeks and introduced me.

 

 

I settled into a front row seat and, along with six other ladies in black, learned about 3, 4 and 5 letter past tense root verbs using examples from the Quran.

 

foretelling baseball future?

Christmas Day Dhow ride, 2012

Go, Royals!

Goodbye, Lighthouse...?

In Arabic, fanar means "lighthouse."

In the same way a lighthouse illuminates safe passage for those seeking the comfort of shore, Doha's Fanar Islamic Cultural Center seeks to share the good news of Islam with the world - and you.

 

Inside, a wide, two story, tiled entry. A guard at a podium. An ornate split staircase leads to a first floor balcony. A tall vase stands at the heart of three doors.

 

To the left is a majlis meeting space with authentic-ish red and white cushions. Glass bookcases highlight Qatar's achievements and a ceiling mural depicts the country's proud history.

 

The middle door opens into a narrow hallway filled with cozy leather couches where, if you sit, a bearded man in a long white robe might bring you a glass mug of sweet Arabic tea. "Welcome, welcome," he'd say as you peruse ancient Korans and other artifacts in square wooden display cases and read a book about Islam etched on the walls in life-sized, full color print.

 

 

A third door, to the right of the vase and tucked under the stairs leads to the Ladies Section.

 

This is where women from all over the world - including Qatar - meet for the purpose of spreading the good news of Islam - that all, including you - might see the light and be saved. If you are persistent, you might learn some Arabic here too.

 

You visit the lighthouse this week in hopes of enrolling for an Arabic class. After three years of study and association, all that remains is the final course in the Center's five level program.

 

But it seems that Fanar is under new management. The familiar, hardworking teachers you'd come to know are gone; fired. Arabic class times are limited. In the same way that laws pertaining to freedom of speech took your blog, and malware lodged in your internet provider curiously limits access to your own website…new rules promise to swallow your Arabic classes too.

 

An optimistic woman in black pledges to intervene on your behalf. "I will ask him to make a time for you," she says. But she does not add in sha allah.

 

 

You pay the fee for a class that doesn't exist in hopes of maintaining a connection. Then you leave the way you came in: through the door tucked under the stairs.

Waving a Smile, Making a Connection

Bob and I walked the Pearl. He wore a tee shirt and to-the-knee shorts, just as he might stateside. I wore shin length, sweat wicking capris with a hip shielding tee shirt. No shoulder revealing tank tops or visible running bra for me; nope. No thigh high Nike jogging pants; uh-uh. Even as we sped, arms swinging, past strolling expats in spaghetti straps and tight dresses. As more of Qatar's expat women toss aside scarves and modest attire, I persist in covering up.

 

Why, you ask? Because the Qataris asked me - and everyone else - to:

 

Please cover from shoulders to knees.

- Dear Expat, About Your Cleavage

 

At 7:30pm lights across the bay twinkled, a party like reflection in the mirror smooth water. Brisk air temps not quite 100F; this is fall in Qatar. Still, 57% humidity and no wind translates to sweat drenched tee shirts and capris so heavy I tugged through my tee shirt to keep them at my waist.

 

Droopy drawers at ankles might not be modest, even if they were capris.

 

A golf cart swept past us. My eyes met the dark, mascara and pencil-lined orbs of one of two teen/young adult-ish girls. Both covered top to toe in abaya and sheyla, faces visible. They took up the two seat space at the back of the cart, facing the direction from which they'd come.

 

The young girl smiled at me; I smiled back. Her smile got bigger, so mine did too. I raised my arm and waved, and she waved back.

 

"Do you know them?" Bob said.

 

"No." And I thought:

 

Perhaps there isn't true freedom of speech in Qatar. Perhaps the ladies don't return my emails or phone calls. Perhaps I've worked hard to learn a language I'll never speak - in Qatar, at least. Perhaps all my efforts to get to know the people and culture were for nothing. Perhaps. Still, this beautiful (ma sha allah) young woman is smiling and waving and HEY, here's a connection!

 

The cart was speeding away fast and so was she, so I straightened my elbow and waved a half circle smile at her…which she returned.

 

"Why is she waving at you?" Bob said.

 

I shrugged. "Just like Western women like me are curious about the Middle Eastern ladies…I guess they're curious about us too."

 

Thanks to the abaya - and distance and dark - I'd never know her if I saw her again. Still, the exchange made me feel good. Like maybe I should keep writing? Even if it's no longer public. Even if there are no more hits from curious strangers living in places all over the globe. Even if it's just for me (and my mom and dad).

 

Even if.

Najla**

Two beautiful Western women on red couches,

ma sha allah!

 

The room is full of chattering Western women in jeans, skirts and tee shirts. They sit on red and black cushions placed in rows on the floor, facing a wall sized screen where two Asian men with beards huddle over a computer and projector.

 

In a corner, a shrouded figure stands quietly against the wall. Of course it's a "she" - a black scarf is draped over her head and face. The sheer fabric shields her features, hides the curve of her shoulders, neck and chest, until it meets her abaya which conceals the rest of her from arms to toes. She is silent behind the veil, calm, unmoving. I have to look twice to realize she's a person and not part of the wall.

 

 

I search for the shadow behind the curtain. I smile. "Salaam alaykum."

 

"Wo alaykum salaam," a voice whispers. She chuckles and I know her. I say her name with a question mark. We hug.

 

She's not separated herself from me; I know this. She's stepped away because there are men in the room and her traditional interpretation of Islamic principles inhibits interaction of any kind between non mahram men and women. The covering is one expression of her conservative Islamic beliefs.

 

A woman's mahram is a person whom she is never permitted to marry because of their close blood relationship (such as her father, grandfather, great-grandfather, etc., and her son, grandson, great-grandson, etc., her paternal and maternal uncles, her brother, brother's son and sister's son)…

islam qa

 

I feel the curiosity in the room, hear the whispers as women peek at her and wonder to each other: Who is she? Why is she hidden? Doesn't she want to be free? Who told her she had to cover herself?

 

Of course she knows what they're saying. She understands the discomfort and confusion and isn't bothered or offended. Her job is to teach, explain, enlighten Qatar's female visitors. Her mission is to share Islam.

 

 

I want to go from person to person and introduce this amazing, bright, enthusiastic, intelligent woman no one can see. I want to tell them how she's a diplomat's daughter who's travelled all over the world and speaks three languages. She has a university degree. She's an accomplished presenter and writer who is happily, joyfully married to a man she adores. She's fun, funny and smart. She has a large, loving, welcoming family who, if you were fortunate to visit in their home, would ply you with sweets, coffee and tea. They would intervene when your daughter is asked if she'd consider marriage to a local man ("she's focused on her studies at this time") - and send you home with a bag brimming with chocolate.

 

I want to tell them to look beyond the veil and the differences it represents.

 

But instead I find a spot against the wall, sit.

 

After the men leave it's just us girls. The veil comes off and personality takes its place. Questions are answered. She is a warm and welcoming representative of her country and culture as well as a bridge to understanding both Qatar and Islam.

 

Curious? No need to whisper. All you gotta do is smile and say hello.

 

**Not her real name, of course.

 

 

Yes, my blog is late this week. Thank you to everyone who wrote to let me know! I'm spending the summer stateside where I will be very busy jogging in the street, working in my green, green garden, fixing my house, eating Chipotle and watching Big Bang Theory with my beautiful (ma sha allah) children. Plus and especially, loving on the two most wondrous grandbabies God ever made (ma sha allah!). As such, my blogging schedule may be less routine - and more eclectic - than usual. Thanks for reading!

 

Machbous, Prayer and God

Each guest received a laminated cookbook

 

The voice echoed pure, smooth, clear off stone walls and tile floors, sailed into the glass dome that fed light into the majlis space, filled every corner of the larger-than-my-apartment rectangular shaped room. Full, rich, angelic. Trills over a monotone, alto to soprano, singing but not.

 

More than 50 women from France, Germany, Spain and other countries settled into couches along the walls. Voices quieted. Movement ceased. Conversation ended. The only sound was the smooth, honey textured voice.

 

A rustle hummed beneath the melody, just a whisper. I searched the room for a microphone or stereo, but there wasn't one. All eyes seemed to be focused on the high arched entryway, just outside my field of vision.

 

We'd been invited to attend a presentation about prayer and Ramadan offered by the Qatari Women's Association (QWA) for ladies from organizations throughout Doha. I'm not a member of any group, but learned about the program through a Qatari friend.

 

ready to learn about Ramadan and prayer

 

I emailed interest and provided the name of our inviter. I received a map to our host's home: a walled villa the approximate size of a city block located just outside town.

 

The gate was ajar. Inside, a freshly dug garden surrounded a wide covered porch and concrete patio. Thobe-wearing little boys with skateboards scattered as we approached. We climbed the stoop, pushed the glass door, stepped over the threshold.

 

Inside, a group of Qatari ladies dressed casually in jelabiya, suits and dresses circled a wide entry. Thick rugs were placed neatly over tile under a high ceiling. Warm arms enveloped us, pulled us close for hugs and kisses and passed us from one woman to the next. How are you? Where are you from? We're happy you're here, welcome, welcome! Please sit, would you like something to drink?

 

We twisted, turned, hugged, squeezed, kissed, touched cheeks, chattered in the traditional Qatari greeting - until we popped out of the huddle through the arched opening and into the tile floored, domed living room/majlis/meeting space.

 

QWA women made their way around the walls of the majlis shaking hands and offering kisses. Our hostess's young daughters offered tea, water, soda and bright, welcoming smiles.

 

In Islam, a smile is considered a charity and a gift

 

Our speaker sat in a chair at one end of the room. There was tea and soda and low tables for cookies and drinks. There were familiar faces, new friends, questions, answers, good conversation.

 

And then, without accompaniment, microphone, or introduction - this sweet voice.

 

I left my cushioned seat, stepped into the middle of the room, turned toward the arched opening.

 

In the entryway before the front door were three lines of women wearing black abaya and sheyla. They stood shoulder to shoulder, eyes closed.

 

In the middle of the front line a young woman raised her head and her clear voice sailed forward.

 

In Qatar, a woman may lead the women's prayer.

She receives no special training

and is called an imam, just like the leader of the men's prayer.

In a private home, the imam is usually the hostess

but may be anyone who knows the "rules of prayer."

The Maghreb prayer always has an imam.

It's better to pray congregationally than alone

but either are acceptable.

 

Following the angelic uttering, each woman's lips moved silently. All together, in harmony, synchronized through years of piety, they stood, kneeled, bowed, head lowered to the floor, stood again. Behind the last row, two women sat on plastic chairs near the front door. When lines of ladies' heads bowed, the sitting women lowered heads too. When lines of ladies stood, sitting women sat high in seats.

 

How to Pray

From My Prayer Book, Darussalam

 

I'm not Muslim and don't know the prayers or rules of prayers but from the looks of things (and factoring in my own biases), I imagined the young imam uttered the Muslim version of this:

 

"Now we'll do the part where we pray for special intentions…"

"Bend at the waist, ladies…"

"Tap your knee once here…"

"Raise palms to your face and lower them while saying Allah…"

"Kneel and say this…"

"Get ready to stand…"

"Turn to the left and then to the right and repeat after me: salaam alaykum wo rahmat allahee…"

 

How to Pray

From My Prayer Book, Darussalam

 

A final note and then, it was just - over. Eyes opened, lines dissolved. Some ladies sat on the floor where they'd ended, others gathered in groups or wandered off.

 

Only an echo remained. God?

 

louqaimat

saffron and cardamom donut holes-ish fried in honey

melt in your mouth deliciousness

 

Later, the wide entry was stocked with long tables and food: chicken and lamb machbous, harees, madrouba, louqaimat and more. Each member of the QWA had brought a local dish, potluck style. Take away tins were provided so guests might share the culinary wondrousness with the folks at home.

 

Welcome

 

Tea, conversation, information, friendship, machbous, prayer and God. What could be better?

 

QWA Machbous Recipe

(My favorite Qatari dish)

Why I love Arabic

study time

 

First it was me and the girls from the 5A class, chatting in the hall. The Turkish student didn't speak English so conversation was necessarily in Arabic.

 

Where are you from? How long have you studied Arabic? How many children do you have? How old are you? What languages do you speak?

 

Then class, as always, conducted in a rapid fire mix of classical Arabic with a side of Egyptian dialect, garnished in English (but only when absolutely necessary).

 

And finally, the ladies:

 

Wahashteenee! I've missed you! How is your health? How is your family? When is your baby due? (Not mine.) Where will you travel this summer? When will you be back?

 

The Sudanese jewel was a teacher in her country but stays home now. The Moroccan is expecting twins. The Kenyan's first language is English but she learned Arabic in Mombasa where a dialect is spoken. The young girl from Nepal is learning Arabic like me.

 

I ping ponged through the building, collecting hugs and kisses, laughter, words. One young mother liked my Arabic children's books. A ten year old is learning Arabic in English at her French school. There was talk, reading, writing, explanations, diagrams, corrections and fun.

 

With a limited vocabulary spanning a narrow range of subjects, I float in a sea of sound in search of the island of understanding. When opportunity for conversation meets a day my brain is (more or less) tuned in, I'm reminded of the many reasons why I love Arabic. Here are a few:

 

Interesting display near the Convention Center

God is part of everything. When I expressed joy over a friend's pregnancy, she hesitated then said, like a mother telling her child to remember to eat his peas: "say ma sha' allah" (what God wills).

Hospitality is so deeply engrained in the language that it overflows into culture: a greeting must be returned in the same or bigger manner. Kind words are a gift. A smile is a form of charity. The most difficult subject gets an alhum du il allah (praise to God).

There's music in the alphabet: the hissing cat (khal), long breath (Haa), gargle ('ein), growl (ghein), pause (hamza), open throat sigh (Saad), hollow dee (Daad). Sounds mix, flow, surge, rest. One word may mean many different things and an altered tone or pitch, length, vowel choice or the placement of the word or sound in a sentence can change the essence of an interaction.

the chameleon "jeem"

makes a different sound depending upon where the speaker is from

 

I like that differentiation in order or pronunciation is generally chalked up to dialect (and not a slow brain). And that if I talk for more than a minute, someone always, always asks: are you from Egypt?

 

Qataris cheerfully break speech speed records but Egyptians talk slow and easy. A Syrian can say the exact same thing and I don't understand at all (to my ear it's like the difference between American English and whatever it is Australians speak).

 

Innumerable dialects add confusion and misunderstanding but also multiply, divide and grow nuance, beauty, mystery, magic, music.

 

I like the way comprehension doesn't come from a single word but a combination of meaning, form and intonation. And that understanding happens in waves that stream over you like a warm summer breeze. "You must feel the language," says my teacher.

 

I'm a grammar geek, so I love that there are countless rules and word groups. For example, "kanna and her sisters" and "inna and her sisters" affect sentences in opposite ways. And you only add alef to tanween when it comes with fatha but not if there's an alef lam. I like searching text for mafgool bihee and mansoob and the many different forms of fael. And how Sifa the describer must match moosouf the described in gender, markings, number, grammar. And that majroor follows harf il jar the preposition which predictably - in a seeming morass of unstructured structure - calls for kessra.

 

And I like that that none of this - none of it - matters once you start talking.

 

But among the most important reasons I enjoy Arabic: I like the ladies.

 

jelabia

for special occasions

The woman in abaya and sheer red and yellow hijab sat in an empty classroom, Arabic Koran and notebook open before her. Sabah al kheer, I said. Good morning.

 

She blinked.

 

Kayf ilhal? I said. Izzayik? Chismich? Hatha ghorfa f-ay mostawa? How are you? What's your name? Which class is this?

 

In a lilting Indian accent, she replied in English. "No, no. I'm in the Islam class, so I only read Arabic. I don't know what the words mean." She took my level 4B Arabic book, slid a finger below individual words as a Kindergartner recites from a primer.

 

"You see? I can read." She shook her head. "But no meaning. Yet."

 

Ahhh. Her fun is just beginning.

Charles Hedrick Birthday and Poetry Month: On Niqabs and Tattoos

Charles Hedrick

April is milestone birthday month for my dad, the theologian, author, rabble rouser and poet, Charles Hedrick.

 

Read Charlie's blog where he waxes scholastically philosophical on all things God, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Bible, spirit, soul, peace, prayer and much more. (http://blog.charleshedrick.com)

 

Visit Charlie's website to view presentation videos, pictures, and learn more about Charlie's latest publications. (http://www.charleshedrick.com)

 

As all Charlie ever wants for his birthday is socks and poems, I'm posting this month's blogs in 80 word meter, a number which may be important to Charlie's big celebration (but you didn't hear it from me).

 

poet, linguist, theologian

April's posts are written for him

(but if there's a royalty

endorse those checks over to me)

 

Happy Big Birthday Month, Dad.

 

 

On Niqabs and Tattoos

 

Tattoos are haraam, forbidden;

they're permanent, cause pain and change

the body which God created.

 

Our hostess removed her niqab,

and scarf and answered questions on

covering, Islam and tattoos.

 

All Muslim women don't cover,

said the Iranian, her scarf

draped loosely over tinted hair.

 

And, my eighty-seven year old

mother, prayerful Muslim woman,

just got her first tattoo. I thought,

 

Except for the permanence, scarred

skin, pain and God thing, at eighty-

seven, I might get a tat too.

 

 

**It's possible I don't write serious long or deep enough to be a real poet, but, in Charlie's honor I'm sweating rhythm and sometimes rhyme over at the Writer's Digest Poem a Day Challenge. For easy retrieval, those poems are reposted here (http://cindikennaley.blogspot.com).

Zamzam: Drink, Pray, Believe

"I brought you something." She reached into her bag, pulled out two small, plastic bottles.

zamzam water

Imam ibn al-Qayyim al-Jawziyyah, may Allah have mercy on him, said, "Zamzam water is the best and noblest of all waters, the highest in status, the dearest to people, the most precious and valuable to them. It was dug by Jibril and is the water with which Allah quenched the thirst of Isma'il."

-sunnahonline.com

The Story of Zamzam

The story of Abraham, Sara, Hajar and Ishmael appears in the holy books of many faiths. This is the Koranic version, as it was shared with me:



Abraham's wife Sara was old and couldn't have children so Abraham took a second wife. Her name was Hajar. When Hajar's baby Ishmael was born, Sara became jealous. The conflict created an  unpleasant home environment. Abraham asked Allah what to do.

Allah told Abraham to take Hajar and Ishmael into the desert and leave them in an destitute area between two mountains called Al-Safaa and Al-Marwaa.

Abraham took his wife and baby to the sand and windblown place. He gave Hajar a few days' worth of food and water and walked away.

Hajar followed her husband, calling out, "Why are you leaving us here?"

Abraham didn't answer.

Hajar said, "Did Allah tell you to do this?"

"Yes," said Abraham.

"Then it's okay," replied Hajar. "Allah will take care of us." She smiled at the baby in her arms. "Allah knows best."

When the food and water were gone, Hajar's milk dried up. Ishmael cried.

Knowing Allah would take care of them, Hajar ran from Al-Safaa to Al-Marwaa and back, pausing at the top of each rocky dune to search the desert for signs of food, water or a passing tribe. Once, twice…seven times she ran over the desert and up each mountain. Always stopping to check on Ishmael where he lay in the sandy space between.

Baby Ishmael became weak. He stopped crying. He began to die.

The seventh time Hajar stopped to check on Ishmael he was weaker than ever. But this time something was different. Beneath his little foot, there was a furrow in the sand. Water poured from the spot.

"…she heard a voice, and she said to that strange voice, 'Help us if you can

offer any help.' It was Gabriel (who had made the voice). Gabriel hit the

earth with his heel like this (Ibn 'Abbaas hit the earth with his heel to

illustrate it), and so the water gushed out."

-islamweb.net

"Zoom Zoom!" said Hajar, a word which meant in her language "to stop" or "to

collect something precious." She reached forward with her arms and made a well from mud.

"…the Prophet said: ...May Allaah bestow his mercy upon her (Hagar, the

mother of Ismaa'eel), had she let go (of the water of Zamzam) it would have

become a spring (rather than a well) whose water shall never dry." [Ahmad]

-islamweb.net

With the water, Hajar's milk supply returned. She nursed Ishmael and he grew.

An ancient Bedouin tribe heard about the well, visited Hajar and asked to share the precious liquid. She agreed to share the water in exchange for food. "But you have no right to own the water," she said. They agreed.

A community sprung up around the well.

The community became a city.

Today this city is the Muslim holy place, Mecca.

When you drink its water you should

face the direction of the Qiblah,

remember Allah,

drink it in three breaths,

drink as much as you can,

and praise and thank Allah when you finish drinking.

-onislam.net

Today, Zamzam Well is moved below ground to facilitate modern distribution through pipes, hoses and fountains for the millions of faithful, grateful pilgrims who visit Mecca every year. Each Muslim circles the Kaaba seven times in honor of Hajar's struggle. They drink, wash, cleanse in the water and may collect it in containers to take away to places all around the world.

Zamzam water is pure, never going bad, always nourishing, filling, sustaining, life giving. Just like it was in the beginning.

"You must say a prayer when you drink," said my friend. "And - if you believe - your prayer will come true."

About Zamzam

• may only be obtained in Mecca, Saudi Arabia
• free, pilgrims may collect it in containers and take it home
• the well is 35 meters deep and topped by a dome
• the well is located approximately 20 meters from the Kaaba
• satisfies both hunger and thirst
• high in calcium, magnesium salts, fluoride and other minerals
• heals the sick
• does not go bad
• the water is not chemically treated or chlorinated
• there is no unwanted biological growth or algae in the well
• no break in its flow; the more that's consumed the more there seems to be
• say a prayer as you drink, and, if you believe, whatever you ask will come true

-ezsoftech.com

-qul.org.au

Drink. Pray. Believe.



"Zamzam water is what one intends to drink for. When one drinks it to be healed, Allaah heals him; when one drinks it be full, Allaah makes him full; and when one drinks it to quench his thirst, Allaah quenches it." [Ahmad and Ibn Maajah]

-islamweb.net

Tea and Arabic

Hospitality Tea with Mary Anne at Fanar

March 2013

 

I'd passed her desk three times - as I skipped from administrative offices, to the bathroom, to class, to offices.  Hurry, hurry, rush, rush.  "Salaam alaykum!" I said.  Peace be with you.

 

"Wo alaykum salaam," she said.  And with you, peace.  She was covered from head to toe with a dark veil over her face.  She held out a hand as if to say, Stop, wait.

 

I am fluent in Arabic - as long as dialogue is limited to:

Hi.  How are you?  I am good.  How do you say (English word)?  Where are you from?  Where is the bathroom?  Do you have it in red/black?  How much?  That's expensive!  I'm married.  My husband works (here/there/Heart of Doha).  I love you/him/her/them/it.  Yes/no/maybe.  Wow, that's a lot of cars/traffic!

 

I can also say:

• "where" in Qatari, Egyptian and classical Arabic (wayn-fayn-ayna?)
• please/thank you/excuse me/I don't understand
• no problem/whatever

I can greet a man or a woman in Qatari dialect (Shlonich?  Shlonak?).  And, while I don't always remember the exact, proper response, I am ready to reply "things are good" (the only acceptable answer to "how are you?") in a variety of ways: bikheer/tammam/alhumduilallah/kwayiss.

 

Of course, my fluency is enhanced when the person I'm talking to: a) confines conversation to words I already understand; b) doesn't speak Arabic; c) doesn't respond.

 

"The Arabic language is beautiful and easy."

- Fanar Arabic book, level three, pg. 45

 

But that's just the spoken language.  Written Arabic is another thing altogether.

 

Subject, predicate, noun, verb, object - these are concepts that translate into English (sort of).  Rufa', mansoob, majroor, majzoom, moodahf wo moodahf ilee - these ideas are harder to reconcile with my current knowledge-on-tap.  Plus, in Arabic, there are words that change depending upon where they appear in the sentence (ma'raab) and those than keep the same form (mabnee) "no matter what."  There are singular, plural and dual tenses for - literally, it seems - everything; male and female adjective endings and those circle and dash-like symbols that appear above and below words.

 

Yeah, those little marks mean something.  Sometimes they mean everything.

 

Qatar's national language is Arabic but given the distorted expat to homeboy/girl ratio, English is more widely spoken.  This means that studying Arabic in Qatar today is much like attempting to learn Arabic in, say, New York, Kansas City or Sweden.

 

I speak Arabic for approximately two hours, twice a week.  In my class - which is conducted in Arabic.  And at Fanar - where kind ladies from a variety of places pause in the midst of their busy workday to wait patiently for the puddle in my head to form and output something response-worthy.  Every now and then I get it right.  But most days these wise, wonderful, patient women earn extra points toward heavenly rewards thanks to two hours, twice a week of, well…me.

 

Um.

 

The woman grasped my hand, pulled me close.  She flipped the veil over the back of her head.  "Anti heloo," she said.  You're sweet.  She smiled.  "But you must relax, slow down, sit."  She patted the chair beside her.  "Drink tea.  The language, it will come."

 

To pause the clock for tea while there are questions to ask, books to read, places to go, things to do, language to learn?  This is a lesson too: in patience, tolerance, culture, understanding…and, it seems, Arabic.

 

You must feel the language.

- Arabic teacher