I am an Anglo-Moroccan Muslimah who loves languages, books, tea and Islam.
This here is a collection of all (read some of) my random musings and interesting finds.
I’ve been AWOL on my blog for a couple of days and although I visit my dash every now and again, it seems like I can’t do anything properly (or as my mother likes to say ‘bil itqan’).
I seemingly can’t revise and blog so I’m gonna take a proper break from Tumblr (and other social networking sites), insha’Allah. Of course, we’ll see how long this commitment lasts.
I’ve got my resits coming up in exactly a month and I’ll finish them on June 3rd, so the idea is that I won’t be actively blogging until the summer (ya Rabb, it be sunny by then - this cold weather is wearing me down!).
If you’re reading this, I’d appreciate all the du’as/prayers/positive vibes you can send! Not just for success in my studies but in the Akhirah too. This really is my last shot: it’s all or nothing and - despite my sometimes crippling apathy - I need to knuckle down, study-wise.
As for spiritually, that’s another story altogether.
I also wanna extend my warmest appreciation to every single one of you who bothers to read/follow this. Every interaction has been a little gem and even though some of the things I see on this site make me facepalm, other things bring me fresh perspective and new ways to interact with the wider world. For that, I’m grateful.
Keep blogging beauty!
Last night, I attended a live performance by Amir Sulaiman at Rumi’s Cave.
It was an intimate affair: cosy, low lights, packed out, seated on cushions, we were transported to somebody’s living room, not a hall, having a conversation on art and spirituality, love and violence.
My respect for certain people on here has increased massively, even if they didn’t mean to tell me about what happened, per se.
Just had a video conversation with the family in Morocco: the audio kept cutting so I had to get creative with my facial expressions and gestures.
For the most part, they understood what I was saying but I cracked up so much when I tried to sign that “I’ll be there [in Morocco, ze3ma] in 10 mins, just let me get my kharqa on and I’ll grab the next flight.” They thought I was saying, “I’ll be back in 10 mins, I’ll get my kharqa on cos I’m gonna pray.” Not quite.
I miss them so much.
A close Iraqi classmate once told me that the summer of 2003 would forever be etched into his heart, that the Black-Eyed Peas’ song “Where Is The Love” was personally significant. He told me about an uncle who had served in Saddam’s army, decades ago, but he’d had to flee with his family and go into hiding because he’d disobeyed direct orders to massacre fellow Iraqis. That classmate told me he would never forget the where, the when, the how-it-was-like of that day when British troops rolled into Iraq.
I had several Iraqi classmates. Nobody liked the war. The guy above and another used to enjoy ribbing each other in class. They constantly cussed each other but it was always playful, never with malice, never with spite. The former was Sunni, the latter Shi’i, but those were never important labels when they were together. One day in Biology, after finishing their work, they talked about family, about Baghdad. They, then, accidentally uncovered that they were related. Second cousins, twice removed or something of the sort. Closer brothers than they had imagined.
Years down the line: at another Iraqi friend’s house, I was sipping Coke. The gaze of Sayyidna Ali looked down on me and I was unsettled. I’d never seen paintings like this before. Besides his depiction, there were black-and-white photographs of young men: portraits and one group photo. I asked who they were. She looked me in the eye, told me in a matter-of-fact voice that those men were her uncles and that they had been murdered. Murdered, under Saddam’s regime, for the crime of being Shi’i. I shuddered, eyes lingering on their frozen image. The party had suddenly lost its fun and fizz.
A Kurdish friend, who’s brother’s wedding I had attended, let me know that they played Khaleeji music mostly because “we’d moved to Kuwait, when Saddam had started his assault on the Kurds”. They were Kurdish, they were Iraqi but they’d become Kuwaiti and now British, too.
So many stories - no, more than stories - so many lives shaped and reshaped and misshaped by the folly of a few.
Getting ready for BSL class.
Language-learning is a sure way to de-stress.
I feel like a total idiot but I just broke down over the phone to a guy from Complaints over our faulty cooker.
It’s been months since the thing was damaged and it’s taking so long to get a replacement and we’ve been bloody sent all over the place to try and speak to who’s in charge and I’ve had enough of hours on the phone and sending millions of emails to never get a reply and it’s so frustrating and stressful so when somebody answers and is actually soft-spoken and kind - instead of patronising and short-tempered - and sounding like he wants to help I end up crying instead of ranting and raving down the phone like I told myself I should.
I keep slipping,
On this path that I’ve chosen - was it really me? -
And I’m a discourteous traveler, distracted,
Almost lame, dragging behind me the luggage of my self.
The only way I can move forward is to shed this weight,
Through tears of thankfulness.
But these eyes are dry, so I pray the tongue at least stays moist.
I scrape the bottom, but I don’t think I’ve hit rock.
Please, God, break my heart.
Bs7a wa ra7a - (May you be blessed) With good health and comfort.
Bought a new outfit? Bs7a wa ra7a!
Perhaps some new trainers? Bs7a wa ra7a!
Heck, maybe just a new haircut: iwaa, bs7a wa ra7a!