M is for Madrassah

The word "madrassah" is an Arabic word that literally translates as "school". For a Muslim, it refers to the Islamic equivalent of Sunday School, where young Muslim children go to learn about their religious history, to learn of the practical applications of Islam (prayer, fasting, charity, pilgrimage) and to read Arabic (thereby enabling them to read the Qur'an).

Of all of my mother's children, I was the child most resistant to this stage of my life. Yes, I went. I learnt how to read Arabic, and I learnt how to pray and fast, but I did not enjoy the experience, and my religious duties were for a very long time a chore to me. We were always warned of the punishment that we would receive if we did not follow our Creator's laws correctly.

At the age of 23, I got to perform my obligatory pilgrimage. It was the most difficult, but the most profoundly beautiful experience of my life, but it also made me realise how poor my basic knowledge of my religion was. A year later, I left my job and enrolled at an institution that offered religious studies for adults. I stayed at this institution for three years and my experience with madrassah this time around was completely different to my experience as a child. I was not only reminded of the correct manner of the various forms of worship, I also learnt why they were important and how they developed over time. I got to know my Creator better and my love for Him and my religion grew.

I didn't enjoy madrassah as a child because my teachers did not instil a love for Islam in me.

I still do not follow my religion perfectly. No one can because we are human, and therefore imperfect. 

But whatever I do now I do happily and willingly, from a place of understanding and love.

L is for Letters

During the eleventh grade at high school, a group of my girlfriends and I received a naughty letter as a joke from a group of our male friends. This became a competition to see who could scandalize the other more…and ultimately led me to my first boyfriend experience.

Said boyfriend and I were together for thirteen months. During that time, he used to write me letters when he was in English (he had an arse-numbingly boring teacher) which he used to slip to me during intervals (we were not in the same class).

I kept these in a special box, which still smelled like him four years after we broke up.

I love receiving letters – not email (although I don’t mind these when they’re personalised messages instead of chain mail) but hand-written ones. There is just something about it – the smell and texture of the paper, the handwriting of the writer, colours and types of ink…these things can tell you so much about the writer, and what they think of the person they're writing to.

Mostly though, I love them, because a hand-written letter says to me that someone finds me worthy of their time and effort.

K is for Keats

I was flipping through the movie channels one afternoon and came across a movie called “Bright Star”. For those of you who do not know (like me), Bright Star is the title of a poem written by John Keats. I happened upon this movie somewhere towards the end, but I do know that it documents his life and, more importantly, his relationship with Fanny Brawne, the inspiration for Bright Star.

We read some of his poems at school (Ode to a Nightingale and Ode on a Grecian Urn comes to mind here) but beyond that, I have no other knowledge of him. But the character of Keats was so beautifully portrayed by Ben Whishaw (I mean, I was completely convinced of his love for Fanny, despite the fact that Mr Whishaw is not attracted to girls) and it led me to do a little bit of research on the poet.

I was amazed to discover that he studied medicine and had received his apothecary’s licence, which allowed him to practice as an apothecary, surgeon and physician. He left the medical field because it interfered with his writing (brave chap) and composed a number of poems and wrote many letters.

Unsurprisingly, I am more drawn to his letters, than his poems. “They glitter with humour and critical intelligence. Born of an ‘unself-conscious stream of consciousness,’ they are impulsive, full of awareness of his own nature and his weak spots.” The romantic that I am is naturally drawn to the letters he wrote to Fanny. Reading them showed me how powerful words can be and inspired courage in me, who, as a fledgling writer, is extremely self-conscious and afraid still to display her weak spots.

Sadly, he did not linger long in this world. But for me, John Keats is the perfect embodiment of the following words from Virginia Woolf:

“Every secret of a writer’s soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind, is written large in his works.”

J is for Jane Eyre

Over the last five years or so, I’ve fallen in love with the classics. Not all, as I am struggling with Thomas Hardy, but among my favourites are Shakespeare, Austen and recently Orczy (thank you again, Holly, for introducing me to the Baroness).

I tend to favour romances, and as a rule, only read stories with happy endings (real life is hard enough and I unapologetically prefer my entertainment to be as far from reality as possible). It is for this reason that Austen is a particular favourite of mine.

However, Austen’s heroines are too perfect. I like stories which depict women as equally strong and vulnerable, and equally virtuous and flawed, and Anne Elliot is the only Austen heroine, in my opinion, who portrays this beautifully, which is probably why Persuasion is my favourite Austen novel.

My absolute favourite classic story though, is Jane Eyre. Those who know me well might find this surprising, as the story has a very dark element, as is indicative of the Brontë sisters. I’ve read Jane Eyre quite a few times, and in addition to the story, the language always surprises me. I know language changes and evolves with time, but I wouldn’t mind at all to be wooed in the way Rochester woos Jane. Some of my favourite scenes include the part where Jane leaves to visit to her sick aunt and Rochester’s happiness at her return to Thornfield Hall.

My favourite line from the novel comes from Rochester, when he tells Jane, “I have a strange feeling with regard to you. As if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly knotted to a similar string in you. And if you were to leave I’m afraid that cord of communion would snap. And I have a notion that I’d take to bleeding inwardly. As for you, you would forget me.” In all of my reading, I have yet to come across a more beautiful way of saying, “I am in love with you”.

As regards the actual story, a few things come to mind, which gives me hope as regards life and romance…

The heroine is a teacher, and makes a significant difference in the life of her student; Jane does not compromise her principles or dignity for the sake of a man; Rochester falls for Jane’s mind, heart and spirit, not for her arse; Jane is tested in many ways, but never takes the easy way out; the plain Jane, not the princess, gets the guy in the end.

Of all the tales I’ve read in my life, this one will remain one of my all-time favourites, for imparting the simple wisdom that life may not be a fairy-tale, but it is quite possible to experience fairy-tale moments and fairy-tale endings.

I is for Introspection

Plato asked, “…why should we not calmly and patiently review our own thoughts, and thoroughly examine and see what these appearances in us really are?”

Two years ago, I would have laughed uproariously at the above question and said that Plato = NATO (No Action, Talk Only). All my life, I have been a doer. The bare minimum thought before taking action. Always the one who had no patience for talking or thinking (in excess, I mean), and no patience for people who basically live in their heads, and not enough in the real world.

However, Plato has a point, and circumstance and people have steered me towards a path where I had to sit and examine my conscious thoughts and the motivations behind my actions.

It is human nature to readily be critical of others, but to turn that critical eye on oneself…it is one of the most difficult and uncomfortable experiences one will ever have to deal with.

I still believe that it is dangerous to permanently reside in your head. A tree does not become a piece of furniture because the carpenter wished it so – he had to get off his ass and convert the tree into timber, and fashion the timber into a table, or chair, or book shelf. Action is imperative when you want to progress.

But action without thought, can be infinitely more dangerous (I was the poster child for this), and it is up to us to be able to strike a productive balance between the two.

H is for Hiddleston

This challenge would be incomplete if I did not find a way to talk about Tom Hiddleston. Sigh. Where do I begin? Or rather…instead of going on and on and on about his perfection (which I most definitely can do), perhaps I could talk share two positive ways my actual life has been impacted due to this person and the madness that is the Hiddleston Fandom.

Unexpected Friends: My favoured means of social media is Twitter. If I’m having a particularly bad day, I can simply open my timeline and my mood is instantly lifted. It is there that I officially became part of this fandom, which consists of millions, all ages, all shapes, sizes and colours, spread all over the globe. I must thank you, Tom, for the new friends I have made through you. I have yet to meet any of them in person, and I sincerely hope that I will get the chance to, because they have been a comfort and solace through a particularly difficult period. Together with Tom, they have re-introduced me to Shakespeare, expanded my reading repertoire, encouraged me to try new things and celebrated my successes with me.

Embracing the woman: For as long as I can consciously remember my life, I have been a tomboy. I was a little girl who played with toy guns instead of dolls, played sports, preferred jeans and dirt to dresses and make-up. Even when I hit my teens and twenties, getting me to dress up or even just presentably was a chore. Grooming was not my thing. But then I became part of this crazy world and became kind of infatuated with this man. As I watched his interaction with his female co-stars, or just females in general, I became more and more aware of myself as a woman. I want to be someone’s Peggy Bell, Kate, Virgilia, Eve…

I take a little more pride in my appearance these days and I embrace what makes me woman. 

Who knows? Someday Tom and I may run into each other (the world is such a small place these days)…and I want to make him turn around and look again. 

G is for Guns

When I was sixteen, my sisters and I went shopping a few days before Eid (the one we celebrate after fasting). I was tired and cranky, and decided to wait with the trolley near the exit while they ran into one last store. I sat down on a bench facing the store and suddenly I heard screaming and gunfire. It was a good few seconds before I realised that I was in the middle of the crossfire, and ducked behind my trolley. I managed to sprint into the store when the firing stopped, and thankfully, none of us were hit. But when I got home, I went to my room and burst into tears.

Ever since that day, I’ve had an issue with weapons. Even if I saw a police officer (trained and licensed to carry a firearm) with his weapon, it caused a mild anxiety attack.

My phobia was cured eighteen months ago. My younger sister decided on a very unconventional “Cowgirls and Indians” bridal shower. There were the usual games and food (but of course) and her fiancé had sent along an assortment of handguns and rifles (these all fired pellets, not live ammunition) and set up targets in our back yard for archery and shooting. I became acquainted with a rifle called Buttons, who helped me get over my fear of weapons.

Last year, for my new brother-in-law’s birthday, we arranged a paintball shooting party and there was a section of the park with metal plates placed at various distances for target shooting. My bro-in-law is anally safety conscious and is a patient shooting instructor, and that day, I discovered that shooting is, within a controlled environment, a great way to relive stress, and that I have quite a skill with a rifle.

I had to wait a few months, but finally managed to purchase my own one.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is Loki.

F is for Friendship

I don’t have many friends, true friends, and I am quite okay with it.

Friendship is, in my opinion, the most difficult relationship to successfully maintain – as with all kinds of relationships, there is always the risk of an imbalance, and you don’t have a contract binding you, like a marriage, but there is a level of emotional intimacy; you are privy to another’s best and worst, and there’s really nothing to stop you from saying ‘screw this shit’ and walking away when there is difficulty or conflict.

Being someone’s friend, in the truest essence of the word, takes a lot of effort, and the challenge for us all is to find that person or persons who are worth the effort and who think that you are worth the effort.

I read a beautiful quote on Twitter the other day, which says: “Friendship isn’t about who you’ve known the longest. It’s about who walked into your life, said ‘I’m here for you’ and proved it.” It resonated with me because it is something that I have experienced most acutely over the last few years.

I have drifted so far from some of my oldest friends…but I have been caught by a person, who has been there for me (and continues to be) through some of my darkest hours. And if my lot in life is to only be able to call this one person my friend, I would be more than contented and happy.

E is for Envy

“Envy is the ulcer of the soul.” – Socrates

“Blowing out the other person’s candle will not make yours shine brighter…”

I’m one of those mental characters who celebrates others’ good fortune more than those persons themselves, and what grates on me is when people cannot be happy for the success of another.

Envy is an emotion which is natural in everyone. Wikipedia describe it as occurring “when a person lacks another’s superior quality, achievement or possession and either desires it or wishes the other lacked it”.

I do not have a problem with desiring to possess good that I see in others for myself, be it in qualities, achievements or possessions. A moderate dose of envy could be a motivating factor or catalyst to achieving your goals. Those who have achieved more than me inspire me to be more than I am. But I am not going to injure another in order to gain, nor am I going to wish misfortune on those who have what I want or desire.

It is absolutely exhausting to be envious of another person.

At the end of it all, the envier is more affected by it than the one envied.  

D is for Dreams

I cannot wait to go to bed at night. Not only for the “dear repose for limbs with travel tired” but for the “journey in my head, to work my mind when body’s work’s expired”.

The title of this post does not refer to aspirations or goals, but refers to the journeys my thoughts take when I close my eyes at the end of every day. I’m not sure whether everyone experiences dreams the same way, but mine are very sensory and real, as though I were transported into another reality. I feel every touch, I smell every smell, and I feel…every single emotion, amplified times ten. Some things I have yet to experience in life, I have had a taste of through my dreams.

Dreams have been the inspiration for most of my attempts at fiction. And I suppose if I want to become better at my craft, I need to progress to drawing my inspiration from real life and actual experiences.

But this is a process, and not one that should be rushed. And while I amble through it, I happily welcome Nature’s soft nurse, to weigh my eyelids down and steep my senses in dreamy bliss.