Tag: Islam

How do I feel about Christchurch?

How do I feel about Christchurch?

Indifferent.

I’ve been asked how I feel about the Christchurch massacre. What I gather instead is that I have been asked to feel. That’s not the same. What that really means and then breaks down to is; we want you to feel, even yet again and more precisely; you are being forced to feel.

I don’t take lightly to being forced. I reject any form of it.
I won’t let people or events sway me one way or another.

Call me cold, but I digress to calling it numbness.

I believe people who are swayed so easily by media are in proper reaction mode, and when I say proper, I am not complementing them. They’re proper according to the swayings of what media wants them to feel.

What’s disturbing is people don’t realise it’s yet another sign of the hour coming nearer….

And yet we’re not scared of that.

We’re mortified by an event but aren’t mortified by our insides and what state we’re going to die in at any given moment.

Look at the first person who died.

His last words were ‘salam brother’, he’ll be resurrected in that state.

What is my state? People are asking each other about it , asking how they feel and I don’t feel a thing.

I’m intoxicated in my disgusting state and occupied in it’s disaster. I have my own massacre inside, I have my own atrocities and they’re on a perpetual replay reel. They never stop, I never get to hear the flickering of film at the end of my movie, it’s on constant replay and I am drowning in that. I can’t surface to catch a breath let alone look at the shore or the scenery.

I’m momentarily torn, mainly angry, I cry a tear for but a brief second of recognition, not because these men and women and children lost their lives, but because I’ve still got mine and I’m a walking disaster whilst they were honoured by their Lord to be taken in a worshipping state.

How will I go? Backbiting? Thinking ill thoughts? Hating, angry, lying?

I’m gathering and walking through these states and don’t know if I’ll be taken in one of them. That’s what scares me and should everyone else.

How does anyone know when they will flip the switch, have the devil take them by the hand to commit any of the above mentioned heinous crimes against ourselves? Because ultimately, that’s what the shooter did, he ignored his insides for so long until they took over.

If each of us stopped to fix five of these ugly internal vices a year, just five, then we’d not be having these conversations, feeling these misplaced feelings, have a lot more honour and respect in dealing with each other and truly love one another more.

That’s why I don’t feel, I don’t hashtag or cry for anyone.

I’m too busy, self absorbed in my own sins to hold anyone hostage for theirs.

Wesam El dahabi

who it comes to

 

All beautiful things are concealed well.
Pearls, diamonds, sages, gnostics and my favourite;
artists and writers who only become apparent when they pass.

If you think you’re going to arrive,
at beauty without a struggle,
wisdom and truth without suffering,
peace without a war inside of you,
if you think you’re entitled to it all by default,
just for existing,
then you’re deluded,
and deserve to be barred from it.

Do the work and be patient.

-Wesam El dahabi

Amazing pieces by Hossein Irandoust

What would you pay?

I don’t think I’ve come across more sadness,
than realising my capacity,
knowing I have to lose everything,
to offer thanks for all I’ve been given.

And yet it offers an ease to this anxiety,
that leeches on my happiness,
relinquishment after all is said and done,
floats like fairness in the air.

If ever there was more of a reason,
to lose myself in work,
it is in gratitude to gifts I know are there,

Losing love,
losing health,
losing time,
status or money,
becoming the target of wagging tongues,
pointed fingers,
the laughing stock,
or despised amongst men,
is a small price to pay,
for surpassing mediocrity.

I’ve never met a man devoted to their art,
who could be easily comprehended,
nor a woman Gnostic and acetic,
who wasn’t indifferent to their appearance,
neglectful of their condition,
enough to misguide the laymen
away from their secrets.

Of things I’ve come to know,
there’s a truth that gnaws and twists,
and that is,
brilliance, has its price.

-Wesam El dahabi

Adhan


Oh Bilal,
I wonder,
if that stone placed upon your chest,
an act of barbarity,
to stifle your tongue,
from mentioning The One, The One,
to suffocate your breath,
didn’t in fact give you lungs,
didn’t in fact expand your breast.

No stone, nor mountain,
would in future find more peace,
and tremble with love and awe,
than by hearing your voice,
And have your breath between them soar.

God made that stone and every stone, subservient to your Ruh,
your Reeh,
your zephyr that passes between your teeth,
from the well within,
far too deep,
for the materialist minds,
for the societal sheep,
to do anything but misunderstand,
but a thousand years and a thousand more,
still makes every believer weep.

W.E.

Bilal Ibn Rabah, was the first African to become a Muslim.
He suffered tremendously for his pronouncement of faith.
At a time where the Meccan dignitaries were oppressing anyone, be they of nobility or a layman, the punishment endured by Bilal was nothing short of an extension and proof of the putridness that lay within them, the barbarity and hostility they had towards anyone who professed to believe in One God.

Bilal’s would go on to become one of the most infamous rebellion stories.
A slave to wealthy Meccans, upon hearing the call to believe in one God, the equality of men and women before God that Islam espoused, Bilal defied his owners and would not whip Ammar bin Yassir when asked to make an example out of him. So instead, his owner and the rest of Mecca decided to make an example out of Bilal.

They whipped and punished him, dragged him around town with rope around his neck, even dipped him in boiling water, and still, Bilal could only echo ‘Ahadun, Ahad’, – The One, The One. Two syllables that would enrage the Meccans who wanted him to denounce one God and instead worship and acknowledge their many gods.

Umayyah ibn Khalaf, became enraged, being the owner of Bilal, he set about from the start to orchestrate all the punishment. Finally he had a stone brought forward which took four men to lift and placed it upon Bilals chest. Defiantly, Bilal would not succumb, ‘Ahadun, Ahad’, The One, The One.

It was at this time Abu Bakr, paid for Bilals freedom, when Ummayy had realised he could no longer have any use for him, he thought, being the materialist oppressor he was, that the money is better than a ‘useless’ slave.

Bilal was bought off and set free by Abu Bakr.

Upon hearing his story, the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) became extremely fond of Bilal.

Bilal would go on to be the official Mu’adhen (caller) to prayer. The Prophet Muhammad preferred him over anyone else because of his sincerity and piercing voice.

So here we have a man, thought of as nothing, a former slave who was persecuted and tortured by the Meccans, now calling the prayer for all Muslims.
His call, which he saw in a dream, has become the only call to be recited by all Muslims around the world 1430 years later.

Bilal lived out his life alongside the Prophet Muhammad and the companions until the day came when the Prophet (peace be upon him), passed from this world.
Bilal was making the call to prayer and upon reaching the part mentioning the Prophet, broke down inconsolably. He finally finished the call but couldn’t bare to be around the place where the Prophet’s scent still lingered, and joined the convoy of Muslims heading to Damascus and settled there.

One night, he saw the Prophet (peace be upon him), in his dreams who asked him ‘Oh Bilal, why is it that you don’t visit me?’ Upon waking, Bilal immediately packed his belongings and set for Madinah.

Upon arriving, he was greeted by Al Hassan and Al Hussayn (God be well pleased with them), the noble grand children of the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him). Bilal had a deep fondness for them, because they were so dear to the Prophet. So when they requested he make adhan for prayer, he could not refuse their wish.

Upon initiating the call, suddenly Madinah and all its inhabitants fell into shock. For a moment, they reminisced, they were all taken and thought that the Prophet Muhammad had returned and began crying and coming out into the streets, rushing to the central prayer mosque. Upon arriving the joy was apparent on everyone’s faces, it wasn’t the Prophet, but it was his beloved companion and preferred caller to prayer, Bilal. This was the last time Bilal would call the prayer in Madinah.

Bilal would eventually return to Damascus where he passed away.

His story reminds us today that no matter the persecution, God always has a plan far grander than any punishment oppressors can dish out.

From the chains of slavery, Bilal became the echo on every Muslims lips, five times a day at the minimum, reminding them of God, calling them to prayer, calling them to success, calling them to establishment and rectitude of their affairs, reminding them to reconcile, admit error, improve ones affairs and repent from evil or wrong doing. To ask for forgiveness, and to beg pardon. To have thanks and gratitude for fortune and misfortune, knowing well, whatever lay in stall for them, is of the wisdom and knowledge of their maker.

W.E.

*Ruh – Soul
*Reeh – Subtle breeze or zephyr

Entitlement

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Entitlement

If you cannot see,
that the reward for obedience,
is obedience,
then you are void of obedience,
and have no business,
demanding a reward.

Conversely,
even if you are obedient,
seeing your obedience,
is self-aggrandising,
and since you witness yourself so well,
you will be called to account,
against yourself.

And the one rancid in disobedience,
aware of their disobedience,
may just reap the reward you so seek,
from the remorse and brokenness of their state.

W.E.

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-No Filters

mosque1

-No filters

Fitting for the thoughts that this place always inspires,
like the hand of a saint brushed past it’s walls,
it haunts, and liberates me all at once.

What is this litmus between you and I,
neither of fire,
nor of water,
a breath escaping from the prison of my mind,
a gasp reverberating in syncopating time.

Finding you, finding me, finding you,
has become an obsession of improbable magnitude,
the lower I go,
the more sinful I am,
the stronger my urge,
the needier my purge.

Aching spine,
wretched and supine,
almost torn twine,
and all I can do is hold my eye lids open,
trying not to flinch as it snaps.

Oh the sap, oh the sap,
the strumming of a harp,
the belting of a flute,
paralysing, humiliating me,
to absolutes and mute.

There’s silent mourn,
guilt and yearn,
torture and patience,
dead ends at every turn,
but grief is worth this slow twist and churn,
cold knife, the only way to learn.

W.E.

not feminism

not-feminism

not feminism

once upon a time
newborn girls were buried alive
out of shame

the world hasn’t changed
now we have no shame
we just extend the funeral procession
and women are walking dead

W.E.

Prior to Islam being established amongst the Arabs, Pagans, Christians, Jews and the like of the era would bury their female newborn alive.

A social norm, a collectively accepted and unquestioned custom.
At the outset of Islam, it abolished many social and cultural traits that were deemed inhumane, unjust and unlawful according to divine laws as prior espoused or by new dictates.

Women were to be offered rights the world had not seen or heard of,  seen in the light that they should be seen, the mothers of humanity, the only womb carriers, the only child bearers, in essence, the only warmth of mercy that can extend love appropriately to suckle humankind into social and spiritual cohesion.

This wave of beauty wouldn’t last long before men, being men do what they do and exhorting their social, political and physical dominance, interpreting texts and mandates as they see fit to suit their agendas and forcing a social oppression on the development of women.

Occasionally, a woman of grandeur would slip between the cracks of normality and society would see brilliance, mercy, beauty, kindness that was missing. Like a bosom engorging once again with milk that we all need to drink from after such a long pang of thirst from the origin of where we came from.

Such a woman, whether by force, or by the inability of the world to counter such beauty and mercy or whether it be by the utter mercy God may have protected her with comes and goes but they are looked at with marvel and disbelief. Heralded as saviours with utter ignorance of the perpetual miracles that take place daily in pregnancy, child birth and rearing amongst other meaningful and important things, albeit these things alone, placing her far above the achievements of men.

We now have male created industries of band aid solutions, with labels and slots conveniently appropriated, but otherwise monitored and manicured by men. Industries misleading women into a false ideal that they need to be represented by a silly label to be someone.

Well, it drains me, it literally anchors the soul of my existence to drudgery to have to constantly explain to both males and females alike, that not a soul possesses the right to oppress another soul, irrespective of gender.

In the context of the above, males reserve no right to hold women hostage, thus extending this pre-islamic cultural barbarity, spreading it beyond the pales of just ignorant Arab circles to the Colosseum of human fibre, to every nationality, religion and culture. Males, not religions, males, forcing their way on to women, entrenching our social narrative to appear on the surface with such labels as being pro-women, but in reality, still a cover of soil ready in their hands, to bury women’s voices, their opinions, their actions and their souls under the ground of our ignorance.

As such, my daughter does whatever my sons do. She will have to choose her path when I die and I would rather her raising her hands in litanies of hope for forgiveness and mercy for her father than calling upon Gods curse for the stifling I may have incurred.

I want no part of a male narrative ready to spit back into the womb that bore them. Ingrates, nothing more! There is nothing uglier than a man who will not acknowledge truth except on equal measure a woman that reinforces it or takes his words to be by default superior.

Superiority is through truth and action not gender and as Moses implored his Lord, I pray it manifests even if on my enemies tongue. I care not for the source as long as it is made manifest, truth after all is genderless, ironically why one of the meanings of the word Kufr is ‘covering’, in this context, a covering over truth.

It is knowing well in the pits of you the answer but choosing to intellectualise or philosophise against it for the establishment of nothing more than egotistical dominance.

W.E.

when huwa huwa takes over

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-when huwa huwa takes over

be, as though you never were
be, because He never wasnt
be as though you never have
be, because He never hasn’t
i, am not what i think i am
i am, what i think i am not
i’ll be, as though it always is
because He never isn’t

-W.E.

strange vultures of longing hover over what?
burst open you stubborn seed
so that i may spread in the belly of the bee
and rather than a vulture waiting for a carcass
i can be soil waiting for pollen.

maybe it is the season
of life that inspires this.

virgin awakenings to what is fragrant and beautiful
bashful stirrings of butterfly’s
anxious innocence of a love that is too grand for one.

i’ve felt these pangs since I could breathe
and they visit me over and over
two
seven
twelve
thirteen
fifteen, fifteen and fifteen
perpetually until forty.

and now they haunt me
daily reminders of how i am meant to be
jolts of lightening igniting ignorance
exchanging it for remembrance.

forgive me my Love,
I long for thee down to the pits of me
but why, did You create this world
and keep You from me
except it spurts of sporadity
coming when i am lured by the stench
of pungent mortality.

This world is not for us
it cannot be,
when He is He,
huwa, huwa,
huwa hu
hu!

W.E.

Art source: https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/yibnawi/49202177588

Sons under the sun – France, Saudi, same, same

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the irony of course is not the women,
not the liberation, not the oppression,
nor the men policing them either,
but it’s the sand.

the connectedness of this dry and pale backdrop,
which I don’t know if the artist meant,
but I also don’t know if people realise.

Men, dry from the moisture of comprehension,
but wet behind the ears,
still oblivious to the idea,
that they don’t own other men,
especially other women.

and despite our outward appearance,
we haven’t evolved anywhere in the world,
secularist, fundamentalist,
dogmatic or pragmatic,
oh they love the words,
both pride themselves on arbitrary definitions.

what kind of wombs bore you,
i wonder if they deplore you,
would you police your mothers too,
would you still hold the same view?

if it were your mother that was dressed,
or undressed,
would you still feel the need to oppress?

I wonder,
what the world would look like if right from the start,
women were just left alone,
how much more would we as a civilisation,
have grown?

This arid backdrop is the wasteland of what we have become,
of two images of things that can’t be undone,
both burned into our retinas,
by women’s sons, under the sun.

W.E.

Art by Khalid Albaih
https://www.facebook.com/KhalidAlbaih

-how to pray

how to pray

-how to pray

poetry is the prayer of the tongue tied
the meek before God
the downtrodden and humble
who dare not raise their eyes in vain

-W.E.

how do I pray she asked
find everything that hurts and make a raft

cut the rope and leave it to the eastern winds

if the raft returns
your supplication has been answered
cut the rope and send it again

don’t be stingy with your conversation with He
He who sends back the raft every time

-W.E.