Beauty is ...

Many people say beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I never really thought of this line until I came to Beirut. From the moment I stepped foot in the airport until this very day of my life here - I had a feeling that I'm prettier.

All narcissism aside, and all modesty in focus, many people here seem to think i'm beautiful. Women have said this to me in my face, ranging from faculty to friends to acquaintances to the woman down the street. And men, well, let's say they have their ways of expressing admiration. And that's more than bizarre for me. Let me tell you why.

I come from a family of five, three boys and two girls. My sister is two years older than me. Throughout our life, my sister has always been the pretty one - and I've been the ordinary, 'nothing special just a girl' one. She has beautiful dark green eyes, mine are brown. She has a gorgeous little chiselled nose, I have a ... nose.

Or so people have categorized us throughout our lives until our adulthood. Therefore, I've always believed and internalized the fact that i'm okay looking, and my sister is the gorgeous one. The secret is my sister is beautiful both on the inside and the outside -- but not alot of people know that. shhhh, that's our little secret.

Anyway, now I've come to see that beauty changes from country to country. My life in Canada where I used to live has always supported my theory that I'm "okay looking". For example, when I'd walk in a room I'd never turn heads. Those who know me say hi, and those who don't know me don't look my way. Here, in contrast --- if I walk down the street people look, if I walk in a store people look, if I walk on campus students look, if I'm at a sit-in restaurant people look, if I'm on the bus people in and out of the bus look, if I'm in a car the other drivers look. No joke, it's insane like something out of a movie.

At first I thought it was my hijab and that people aren't used to it. Then I realized there are tons of hijabis all around which makes it a common sight to see.

The most troubling part of it is to handle the opposite gender and their 'expressions of admiration'. It's really annoying to be frank about it. What I'm more disturbed of, I guess, is the venomous combination of getting attention and feeling 'valued' which is a positive feeling -- mixed with the state of mind I'm in which is looking for Mr. Right and wanting to find marriage in a halal way.

It's very disturbing to balance out the two as one tries to sift out a decent brother from the masses who are simply annoying and indecent. What if in my frustration I tell off a brother who has good intentions?

The second challenging thing is the test that I feel Allah (swt) is putting me through. I've lived it most my life not feeling like Angelina Jolie walked in when I walk in, you know, and now I'm getting the royal treatment like I'm some model which I totally don't believe I am -- but I get treated that way nonetheless.

I think Allah (swt) is testing my modesty, something I've always liked about myself. By modesty I mean having the ability to stay grounded even when acquiring lots of skills in life that distinguish us from others. By modesty I mean still being able to connect with all sorts of people from all walks of life, no matter how experienced one becomes. I don't want money or profession or skills or whatever to take me away from bonding with people.

I value this quality not only in me but in people around me as well, so it would truly hurt in deep wounding ways to jeopardize this jewel of a quality. What a hard test, may Allah (swt) help me succeed inshAllah. Make du'a for me please. I really need it.

It's not easy rejecting better treatment, for whatever reason. I find myself gazing downwards when I walk down the street. Funny, I used to poke fun at the brothers in Canada who when they see a sister they look downwards almost hitting the pole ahead of them. SubhanAllah.

I also find myself being more "smile-less" especially when having to talk to men. I love smiling, I've always loved it, and now, I fear it because I don't want the guy who's already smiling with shine and glory two sentences into talking to me, to think that I'm reciprocating. In some ways, it's very bizarre to find survival mechanisms for this new challenge I'm facing.

Any tips? .... by the way, the picture with this post is of Tripoli's beaches, about two hours away from Beirut. Now that, my friends, is beauty. Unchallenged. Undisputed. SubhanAllah.

My New Blog from Beirut

I'm lucky enough to get a decent amount of interent connection to be able to blog. I started a beirut-canada blog just a few days into my stay here. I promise to try my hardest to maintain it, and I hope you enjoy it all as much as I enjoy recording it to you. Yeah, I'm Youtubing!

What you'll get in this blog is everything that comes to mind -- I'm not selecting my entries, I'm not choosing things and leaving out others. I want to put a human face to it all, through the lens of my mind, eyes and imagination, with all its limitations and curiousity. Do forgive my shortcomings but don't forget to enjoy it all! :)

The blog address is:

www.canada2beirut.blogspot.com

Much salams,
Quest

I'm Going to Beirut!

Assalamu alaikum Quest readers and awesome blog friends!

A while back, about a year ago, I applied to teach English literature in Beirut. A few months back, I got the job!

I've lived all my life out of Lebanon or any Arab country -- never visited too. This will be my first visit, and stay, for a year, inshAllah. Come with me on this new adventure!

The child raised in the West grows up and goes back 'home' to explore her roots and culture and the country of her forefathers, with all its turbulent politics. The question of Gaza, for example, continues to shape the pulse of the streets in Lebanon.

I plan on doing many things there, but if marriage prospects comes my way, you will be the first to know, I promise. I wonder if I still have to come down the stairs rehearsed over there, or if they accept improv.

Finally, and this is more of a thought, I wonder if I should start a beirut-blog ...

Stay Tuned!

Dancing on Coals

Didn’t know what to think when I read that Israel stopped the attacks on Gaza, and is pulling out, despite Hamas’s continued rocket firing. Thousands dead. In between it all.

I've been following it all from the start. Senseless like child-play. I swear.

But sometimes, for a change of rhythm, we got to turn it off, for a while, walk away and breathe. Smile. Be.

… So I pick myself up and go to liza’s house. She’s my Indian-Afghan friend and she shows me a new bollywood flick – Slumdog Millionaire. Her eyes lit up like two diamonds when she said: “it won a golden globe this year!” Or when she said, “A R Rahman did the tunes for the movie. I grew up listening to this guy sing, it’s like I’m up there taking the globe with him. One for India. Bam!”

The stars of the movie are about to be interviewed on Ellen Degeneres. Aha! What? They’ll do a live bollywood dance, too? This is spoiling me. I run to the kitchen, grab some minute maid, a bowl of bhel puri, I sit on the couch, grab the remote control cuz ya know that’s mine, and I’m ready for the show!

Phone Rings.

Liza picks up. She talks.

....

Uff! Those commercials. They take forever man I’m almost finished my snacks …

I hear Liza on the phone: “… no way. Oh no…”

Liza Liza Liza! Come on it’s starting hang up hang up just come! Woooooooh! I get up and dance.

“hey narges was on the phone and she said Hizbollah might get involved more from Lebanon. Then, it’s Iran”.

Jai Ho! Aaja Aaja Jind Shamiyane ke Tale … WOOOOOOOOH AHA AHA that’s how we do! Come dance with me Liza! Jai Ho!

“look I’m serious. You need to be more serious. Don’t you have family in Lebanon. Even at the refugee camps?”

I somehow turn around, and catch a glimpse of her face. It’s serious. The diamond in her eyes, it's gone. I stop. Dancing.

“I know you don’t know them, because you’ve lived here so long, but …”

Look. I don’t want to think about it all the time okay. I just want to dance!

She looks at me. I look at her. We both look back – at the T.V. We both listen, silently, to the Indian music …

[translation to lyrics]

I’ve passed this night dancing on coals
I blew away the sleep that was in my eyes
I counted the stars until my fingers burned

Palestine. If You Were a Bride

Marching in a protest against the occupation of Palestine always, always keeps me wordless. And I am a wordy woman. On normal days. When I forget where I come from.

I think I just found my words. I went to Suheir Hammad. I mixed her voice with my wordless scream. Like a mute thunder. Her words give me voice. Always.
__________

Palestine.

… Because I come from somewhere
I come from some people
Us who put our lives on the line

I don’t want to hurt nobody
God knows
How do I tell American Youth that popular culture means nothing to Justice
And everything to keeping them numb to the world

How do I scream
When I have no voice left
Who will answer me

Even I -- it seems -- have developed a callousness to the deaths of Palestinians
There are people who say I am not supposed to go there
To Palestine. I am North American. Stay here.
No passport. No citizenship. No money. No power will keep you alive.

This is not a poem. This is not a treat. This is a promise
I will chant the names of the innocent
I will stand with those who have kept their hands clean of blood
And their hearts clear of hate
It is hard not to hate right now

But I have been loved. I have loved.

She is dead now. Our bride in white. And the ocean will miss her gaze.
Her family will miss her breath.

Palestine.

Speak Out on Quest!

Your Place. Your Voice.

This blogger wanted to tell it all on Quest. So, I've posted the comments. If you have any words, ideas, expressions, thoughts, vent-words, art, poetry, lyrics (or anything else) about your take on marriage, email me.

FYI: SunniPath, an online Islam academy, is offering a course on successful Islamic marriage -- by a female teacher.

FYI: Sheikh Yaser Birjas has launched his matrimonial training/marriage site.
__

So Quest was kind enough to let me contribute to her blog. Thanks, Quest!

Along the theme of ethnicity in suitoring. Yay for all Arabs and Desis (men and women). You guys don't need to worry as much since your market is big, and there are ample varieties of choices. But sucks to the 'minority', non-Arab, non-Desi because everyone wants to marry their own ethnic group (sometimes it is the village!). So what do we non-Arab-Desi people do? Some sit and wait, some proactively go out and ask Arab-Desi friends to let them into their network, some look for reverts (but these reverts want Arab-Desi spouses themselves), some....... well, just give up.

Often times the current generation actually does not mind what ethnicity the other person is, but the parents do, so that's a no again. I understand that everyone has his/her own preference and reasons for his/her choices, but that's why this whole marriage trhing is so inefficient. You have women sitting at one side of the city lamenting over how difficult it is to find a suitable half, and men sitting on the other side of the city doing the same thing.

I mean, we non-Arab, non-Desis can't even get to the stage of evaluating a suitor's deen and akhlaq, because there ARE no suitors.

Frustration of the century.
Ying-Yang (Blogger Name)

The Day I Came Out

Once upon a time there was a Muslim girl who after long thinking decided to put on the veil. She’s good for heaven. The End.

No, wait. Ends are cruel. Everything’s a beginning.




The day I Came Out
by Quest

My brother screams in pain limping on one foot. Two men shoulder him up. He was playing basketball at the court in one of the Masjids that day while my mom, my sister and myself chat with some friends. My mom was wearing her head scarf, the one she wears always, everywhere.

I was wearing one too, my temporary scarf, the one I wore for Allah in the Masjid. But not outside. You see, mine came off away from the Masjid, in the midst of strangers, people I knew nothing of, but of whom I was highly aware. Their questioning eyes had a hold on me for most of my adult life.

We raced towards my brother’s screams, his knee was the problem. Into the car we all jumped and the next scene was the emergency room. They take him in. We sit down not a word said. “We need someone to help fill out some forms please”, she says.

The receptionist seems to look at me, so I go to her. “His first name?” “Ahmad”. “Age?” “Sixteen”. "Allergic to?” “Penicillin …you know he might be allergic to Morphine too”. “Are you his sister, dear?” “Yes".

The Doctor walks in. “Can I talk to Ahmad’s mother please?” “Hi. I’m his sister. I can translate to my mom”. “Yes, Ahmad has a fracture in his knee. Some bandage, a good doctor and Voila!, good as new!”.

The doctor was right. We were home in no time. Ahmad was sleeping peacefully in his bed that night. I went up to my room walking tired, deflated, at ease---but wait, wait, wait.

I look in the mirror. Oh my. I’m wearing, yes … I’m … still … wearing ... my ... head ... scarf, I’m still wearing my head scarf!

What? You mean it was on all the time, in the car, at the parking spot, with the nurses, the receptionist, the doctor, the policeman at the road check, the emergency room, the car park, the ill people at the emergency room, the healthy people, the guy at the vending machine --- all these people, you mean they all met me looking like a Muslim woman?