One day a young man asked the wise man in his village:
‘Please our wisest, tell us; who can be the dearest, the closest to the heart: your brother or your friend?’
The wise man looked at the questioner and said: ‘My brother,’ and paused, ‘when he becomes my friend,’ he added and left.
I agree.
Wishing you all the best,
Nahla
Inviting others for Iftar (breakfast); friends, relatives, or some acquaintances is a popular tradition in the month of Ramadan. Muslims believe that if one shares or offers a meal with/to others, he/she will be heavenly rewarded. When I started writing this post, I mainly thought of the manners that both visitors and hosts are supposed to have in order to enjoy their time together. I did not think of those sophisticated rules of etiquettes; what to take as a gift, how to sit, how to eat, what to say and so on. These are great rules but I thought of something very general, sometimes that can be very hard to apply. Can we try not to poke our noses into others’ affairs?
One day, a friend visited me after I gave birth to my daughter. It was her first time to visit me and apparently she liked both the place and the house. After giving her warm congratulations; she started a series of investigations all about how many? how much? how far? All those ”hows” made her 30 minutes visit pass like 5 hours. I pretended that I didn’t know most of the answers and changed the subject to her little son. That was why she left early; ‘ You look tired,’ she said and left.
There was a story in Arabic; I have read recently. It teaches one of the visiting manners. The story was about a Muslim scholar whose best student used regularly to invite him at his house. One day, the scholar’s cousin offered to give him a ride to his student’s. Once they had arrived, the host invited that cousin to join them. They talked and ate and then it was time to leave.
On their way back, the cousin poured all his thoughts;
‘ Your student is a real gentleman; kind and generous. His house is so big, clean and tidy. His attire looks expensive and neat. And the food, it was the best I have ever tasted. His people have high skills of cooking. I’m sure he is very wealthy.’
The scholar did not comment. He was riding his cousin’s donkey and listening while watching the sun setting.
‘But they have bad manners; they let women serve food and drinks. Have you seen that woman who was holding the water jug for us to clean our hands after dinner? I don’t like that,’ his cousin added
The scholar looked at his cousin and said; ‘ I have been regularly visiting that student for ten years. I ate their food, I drank their juice and I washed my hands in their house countless times, and yet I don’t know if I was served by men or women.’
His cousin said no more.
The lesson is; they were invited to have a meal, not to interfere in other’s life.
Wishing you all the best,
Nahla
How many times did we move to a new house? 🤔 don’t count, please!
This is not because of me ( sometimes not always) but our circumstances change: having children, finishing studies, my husband starting a new job in a different city, problems in old house, …
When my children watched their old photos, they would say; how many times did we move mama? That house was the best? Yes, we remembered that doll’s flat, we cannot remember that one, we were too little, … it’s fun to talk about moving but it’s really a hard time: packing, unpacking, tidying, cleaning, changing address, and endless list of chores
Our new house key lock is so hard, it takes time to open the door, sometimes it’s stuck. My son gave up, every time texted me; open the door mama, I’m very close. I would have ignored his text and let him try till he open it, but it might end up with an extra charge for door damage.
Though different but this reminds me of our first flat at university accommodation which was like a maze; every time when coming back, I tried hard to open the door, and it refused, no way it insisted, until I gave up, raising up my face, oops It wasn’t ours. When we became friends, I told my neighbour about those countless numbers when I thought hers was mine; ‘ I have never noticed that,’ she said, ‘ and ‘ this is why we become friends,’ I thought.
Wishing you all the best,
Nahla
Imagine one day, you were sitting peacefully in the bus, watching people getting on and off and waiting for your stop, when an old woman, poorly dressed, walking step by step like a one year old child, dragging carefully her shopping trolley, got slowly on the bus. You decided to move back to give that old woman a space, but instead of taking that place, she went after you and took the seat just in front of yours, and placed her trolley on the way of other passengers, blocking them from going forward or backward. It was unavoidable within this close distance not to smell her coat fully soaked with sweaty smell of cigarette and alcohol, when all of a sudden she turned her head back and stared at your face. ‘Thank you,’ you would expect to hear but instead she whispered, ‘chaaaaaaange.’
Would you give her or would you not?
While writing this post, I remembered this story that I have read long time ago:
Once upon a time, there was an old kind man, he was well-off but not that rich. He was living in a quite village, just few miles away from the city. One night, on his way to pray at the village mosque, a young lady stopped him and asked for some money, she need money to feed her children who were starving for days, this was what she said. The old man gave her what he had in his pocket and went to pray. The following night, a young girl stopped him asking for money to get some medicine and food for her old poor father who had been sick-in-bed for days. And again the old man gave her money and went to pray. On the third night, the old man was walking with a friend to the mosque, a guest for a couple of days, when an old woman approached them wailing, telling that her son had left for a month and she had neither money nor food. The friend kept silent while watching the old man giving her what he had.
Did the friend give that woman any money? No.
Did he ask the old man not to give her money? No.
And did the old man ask the friend to give her money? No.
On his last night at his host’s house, the friend and the old man were stopped again by a woman with a different look, telling a new story and asking for money. When she finished, the man asked simply; ‘where is your house?’ The woman with her eyes wide open looked at the man and suddenly ran away.
‘Didn’t you realise that this was the same woman you gave her money yesterday?’ The friend said, smiling and looking at the old man.
‘No, I didn’t notice that,’ said the old man
‘Last night I could tell at a glance that she was one of those impostors, known in the city of their tricks to get money.’
The contented, placid old man looked at his friend and said:
‘I gave that money for God’s sake whether the one who asked was telling a lie or the truth. May Allah accept it as a sincere deed of charity!’
This is just a story that shows two different attitudes and I believe both are right: The old man and the friend. I’m not sure if I can act like the old man but I’m more like the friend.
Wishing you all the best,
Nahla
One of the best things I have started in 2017 was blogging or in other words writing.
Writing has always been my best hobby and though I didn’t keep anything of what I wrote when I was young, I remember very well that writing was not hard, boring or odd for me; simply because I love writing and I write what I love.
At university, I mainly studied English Language and literature but we also used to study Arabic literature and grammar as a main part of the BA programme. One day our Arabic literature lecturer asked us to write a free piece, anything we like, as one of our main tasks and promised that extra marks would be added to the mark we got at our Arabic exam. This wasn’t everything, he also promised that the best five or six (can’t remember the exact number) pieces would be published in his book which we would study that year (of course as appendix). So there were no worries about being marked down or getting a fail, just a page or half, but it had to be done before our next lecture; We all were so pleased and thought that was a brilliant idea, wasn’t it?
I did not care that mine would be one of those chosen pieces; honestly I believed that our lecturer would never read all of our writings; I just wondered what to write but finally I decided to write about my father.
At the beginning of that year, my father passed away, and so I wrote about death, the final fate that we cannot change or escape. I wondered if one has a choice either to die before or after his/her beloved ones, what he/she would choose. I thought of my father and believed that he would have willingly chosen that same time because he loved us.
Before the following lecture, and as promised, the book was available and five pieces were added at the end; mine was one of them. I was totally surprised, delighted and nervous, too nervous indeed; I was surprised because I didn’t make any great effort in that piece, and delighted because my writing was one of the best, and nervous because I became popular, everybody started asking about me, including our lecturer who hadn’t known any of our names before, and I wished I could hide under the desk for the rest of that day.
I have no idea how far my writing will go, but I believe it’s a wonderful gift.
Wishing you all the best,
Nahla
Soon Muslims will celebrate the birth of Prophet Muhammad. He was born on the 12th of Rabie al-Awal (third month of the Islamic calendar). To be honest this is more cultural than religious event, as in all my studies, I have never heard that Prophet Muhammad, his friends or followers had celebrated his birthday simply because Prophet Muhammad will always be in our hearts. I think may be these celebrations started in the Fatimid period but I am not sure.
I like some of the poems and songs that have been written and repeated on this day; I feel it’s just different in meaning, tone and performance. This occasion always takes me back to childhood years when I was in primary school. Every year, before the Prophet’s birthday, we usually have lots of preparations and rehearsals to offer a good musical performance at our school for parents and visitors. I don’t remember anything more than the poem we were learning by heart as well as our kind teacher that had made a great effort to help us do our best on that day. She was a Christian but she loved singing that poem with us. She was very enthusiastic and sang with all her heart. She was always smiling, a dove flying with her accordion and leaning towards those shy little ones. I still remember those precious tears in her eyes though at that young age I did not understand why?
Was not that great?
By the way the poem was a praise song written for Prophet Muhammad ages ago. I will try to translate the simple lines we used to sing at that celebration:
All the hearts have always longed for the remembrance of the Beloved
I have my evidence and witness
When you say the name of Muhammad,
The tears flow freely from the eyes of those loving The Beloved.
I remember how we, as little boys and girls, used to wear long white shirts; the girls with white head scarf and the boys with white skull caps, standing next to each other facing the audience, and were always supported by our wonderful teacher.
May Allah’s peace and blessings be upon you Prophet Muhammad and upon all God’s prophets and messengers!
This one is one of my favorite, hope you like it
Alsamlamo Alyka
Maher Zein
Wishing you all the best,
Nahla
Today I’m delighted and I am going to ask about you
I want you to be delighted too
But you say people never do
What about me? I do!
But, alas, you would never hear me do!
And keep talking, you do
One day, you will do.
Exchanging warm greetings, we will do
But then complaining, you will do
Life becomes unbearable you told me so
Asking for a favour, you will do
I say sorry I don’t know
You say I always don’t know.
I say sorry I can’t help you;
You say I would never do.
How was my day? Would you ever want to know?
Happy, sad or worried; would you feel how I do?
Next time I want to ask about you
I pause and ask; should I really do?
My heart would say please do
My brain would say please no.
Listen to my heart, I have to do
Because this is the best I can do.
Wishing you all the best,
Nahla
She is my mother, when she was young, beautiful and strong.
She is my mother, when she was old, disable and weak.
She is my mother, when she was alive.
She is my mother , when she is dead.
My eyes see her eyes, my ears hear her voice and my soul knows hers.
May God forgive you my mother!
May God replace every bit of your sufferings and pains in this human life with endless pleasure in heaven!
You’ll always be in my heart.
Have you ever noticed that most of the wise tales and sayings are narrated by Old people? Even in movies, it’s usually old people who advise, guide, support and make sacrifices? In other words, they are people of wisdom.
Do you think old people, sixty or seventy years ago, had ever suffered from depression or anxiety?
I don’t think they know about depression or neurosis and I don’t think they were 100 % mentally stable either.
However, in old days, old age was respected and reverted . It was an honor to help an old man or woman; their respect was a must, being surrounded by family and relatives was a popular custom and being important not useless was how they felt. It was not wrong to be old, it was not a defect, and it was not an illness. It was a bless to have old people in your place, exactly as it is a bless to have young children. Babies make our life happier and old people makes it wiser. In return, young people around them and the whole society share those sentiments of importance and goodness, appreciate the life of old people among them, and learn from their experience and pass it on to following generations.
As far as I can remember, my grandparents looked always old though I don’t think they were that old as in their days people used to get married at an early age. They always had a walking stick, were sleeping too much, talking a little, telling weird tales, hearing everything, yelling at any noise, keeping all their old stuff, and knowing everyone. They were too cautious, too secretive, and too powerful too as their words and demands were always obeyed. Honestly, I used to think about them as scary and in most cases I would avoid them.
But, on the other side, they were gathering the whole family with its different generations. They were happy and proud to have us and we were happy and proud to have them. When they died, their whole extended family never gathered together; they did see each other on social occasions and they did call to ask and say hello but there wasn’t such an abundance of everything even in feelings.
This is why I don’t think old people, long time ago, had ever suffered from any depression because it mainly resulted from our inability to face realities, to accept our age limits and overcome our fears and worries (this is my simple understanding). In this case, why would they be depressed? They already had accepted the idea of being old, their society honored this stage in life, and more important they did not fear it.
Do you remember that once upon a time a wise man told the king that…
And do you also remember that one day your grandmother wisely said…
Wishing you all the best,
Nahla
It’s Thursday and she knew there was enough time for a long walk as the library would open at 10 O’clock am. She was a librarian and loved reading books. As soon as she opened her apartment windows, sunlight and fresh cold morning breeze filled the place which made her remarkably happy.” What a wonderful weather! This is the perfect morning for walking to work”, she thought.
She made her way through the park where the library was just at the end on the opposite side of the road. She went on walking along that long footpath enjoying the natural scene. It was mid autumn; beautiful colored leaves were everywhere, some were dancing gently with the wind on trees and others had fallen down drawing a magnificent carpet spreading all over the place. It was quiet enough to clearly hear the singing and whistling of those birds swinging up there on their branches. There were almost no children around as schools had just started and most people were already at their work place; just few persons were there walking their dogs.
She peacefully walked half way when she decided to have some rest enjoying the warmth of the sun and have some reading in such a bright day. She was reading a story about racism and how it is so much based on wrong assumptions and evil suspicions. After a while, she looked at her watch; “It’s time to go to work”, she said.
When she started walking again, she was no longer watching the beauty around the park as she was totally overwhelmed with what she had just been reading. Suddenly, she felt that someone was following her but she was unsure if she was right so she slightly looked over her shoulder to have a glimpse and get rid of any doubt. There was a man; well-built, bald and white.”He is just walking behind; may be he is going to his work too and not following me”, she said trying to assure herself. Still in doubt, she decided to quicken her steps but as expected he quickened his too. she became so frightened that she thought about her hijab, about being Muslim, and about being different. She could hear nothing but her panicky heart beating so fast; she could see danger written everywhere before her eyes; her hands were shaking and her head was down searching inside her bag for her phone. The moment she thought her heart was going to stop, a strong hand grabbed her arm to stop her going any further. “Watch out”, the man shouted!
Now all her senses were back in working; she could hear the noise of the road and could see that she was no longer in the park but one step away from crossing the high speed road. She cried, deeply cried, looking at the man, looking at the road and looking at the sky. The man saved her life just on time before being hit by a bus at the crossroad.
“Don’t you know that there is a high speed crossroad at the end of that path? The man shockingly exclaimed! Then kindly asked her: “Are you alright?”
What would she tell him? Would she say that she suspected him being a racist and a criminal? She couldn’t say anything more than; “Please forgive me and thank you for saving my life.”
Be careful! The man said leaving her then crossed the road.
She was safe!
Is it not true that “What you don’t know doesn’t hurt you; it’s what you suspect that causes all the trouble. “~ Evan Esar
All the best,
Nahla
ps, I wrote this story after watching a short silent movie on the internet referring to the same meaning.
Pure and Simple 