WARRIORS + POETS

“television”

The most important thing we’ve learned,
So far as children are concerned,
Is never, NEVER, NEVER let
Them near your television set —
Or better still, just don’t install
The idiotic thing at all.
In almost every house we’ve been,
We’ve watched them gaping at the screen.
They loll and slop and lounge about,
And stare until their eyes pop out.
(Last week in someone’s place we saw
A dozen eyeballs on the floor.)
They sit and stare and stare and sit
Until they’re hypnotised by it,
Until they’re absolutely drunk
With all that shocking ghastly junk.
Oh yes, we know it keeps them still,
They don’t climb out the window sill,
They never fight or kick or punch,
They leave you free to cook the lunch
And wash the dishes in the sink —
But did you ever stop to think,
To wonder just exactly what
This does to your beloved tot?
IT ROTS THE SENSE IN THE HEAD!
IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD!
IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND!
IT MAKES A CHILD SO DULL AND BLIND
HE CAN NO LONGER UNDERSTAND
A FANTASY, A FAIRYLAND!
HIS BRAIN BECOMES AS SOFT AS CHEESE!
HIS POWERS OF THINKING RUST AND FREEZE!
HE CANNOT THINK — HE ONLY SEES!
‘All right!’ you’ll cry. ‘All right!’ you’ll say,
‘But if we take the set away,
What shall we do to entertain
Our darling children? Please explain!’
We’ll answer this by asking you,
‘What used the darling ones to do?
‘How used they keep themselves contented
Before this monster was invented?’
Have you forgotten? Don’t you know?
We’ll say it very loud and slow:
THEY … USED … TO … READ! They’d READ and READ,
AND READ and READ, and then proceed
To READ some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks!
One half their lives was reading books!
The nursery shelves held books galore!
Books cluttered up the nursery floor!
And in the bedroom, by the bed,
More books were waiting to be read!
Such wondrous, fine, fantastic tales
Of dragons, gypsies, queens, and whales
And treasure isles, and distant shores
Where smugglers rowed with muffled oars,
And pirates wearing purple pants,
And sailing ships and elephants,
And cannibals crouching ’round the pot,
Stirring away at something hot.
(It smells so good, what can it be?
Good gracious, it’s Penelope.)
The younger ones had Beatrix Potter
With Mr. Tod, the dirty rotter,
And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland,
And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and-
Just How The Camel Got His Hump,
And How the Monkey Lost His Rump,
And Mr. Toad, and bless my soul,
There’s Mr. Rat and Mr. Mole-
Oh, books, what books they used to know,
Those children living long ago!
So please, oh please, we beg, we pray,
Go throw your TV set away,
And in its place you can install
A lovely bookshelf on the wall.
Then fill the shelves with lots of books,
Ignoring all the dirty looks,
The screams and yells, the bites and kicks,
And children hitting you with sticks-
Fear not, because we promise you
That, in about a week or two
Of having nothing else to do,
They’ll now begin to feel the need
Of having something to read.
And once they start — oh boy, oh boy!
You watch the slowly growing joy
That fills their hearts. They’ll grow so keen
They’ll wonder what they’d ever seen
In that ridiculous machine,
That nauseating, foul, unclean,
Repulsive television screen!
And later, each and every kid
Will love you more for what you did.

–roald dahl

“We were keeping our eye on 1984. When the year came and the prophecy didn’t, thoughtful Americans sang softly in praise of themselves. The roots of liberal democracy had held. Wherever else the terror had happened, we, at least, had not been visited by Orwellian nightmares.

But we had forgotten that alongside Orwell’s dark vision, there was another – slightly older, slightly less well known, equally chilling: Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World. Contrary to common belief even among the educated, Huxley and Orwell did not prophesy the same thing. Orwell warns that we will be overcome by an externally imposed oppression. But in Huxley’s vision, no Big Brother is required to deprive people of their autonomy, maturity and history. As he saw it, people will come to love their oppression, to adore the technologies that undo their capacities to think.

What Orwell feared were those who would ban books. What Huxley feared was that there would be no reason to ban a book, for there would be no one who wanted to read one. Orwell feared those who would deprive us of information. Huxley feared those who would give us so much that we would be reduced to passivity and egoism. Orwell feared that the truth would be concealed from us. Huxley feared the truth would be drowned in a sea of irrelevance. Orwell feared we would become a captive culture. Huxley feared we would become a trivial culture, preoccupied with some equivalent of the feelies, the orgy porgy, and the centrifugal bumblepuppy. As Huxley remarked in Brave New World Revisited, the civil libertarians and rationalists who are ever on the alert to oppose tyranny “failed to take into account man’s almost infinite appetite for distractions.” In 1984, Orwell added, people are controlled by inflicting pain. In Brave New World, they are controlled by inflicting pleasure. In short, Orwell feared that what we fear will ruin us. Huxley feared that what we desire will ruin us.

This book is about the possibility that Huxley, not Orwell, was right.”

AMUSING OURSELVES TO DEATH
by neil postman

what they have done to your ‘Ali

it has long been a wish of mine
a wish that my eyes may see
may see what lays beneath the sky
the sky of Madina’s pure city

Madina, of you i have dreamed
dreamed of your tranquil purity
of that soul resting in your sands
his grave, RasoolAllah, Allah’s Nabi

in the depths of night i lay awake
to my eyes comes a whispered dream
the fragrance of sun, the scent of rain
the coolness of the moonlight’s gleam

with aching hands i grasp at stars
my feet walk weightless over seas
i see a green dome rising from afar
i stand, your grave in front of me

how many words i wish to say!
how many wishes of heart to free!
but comes to mind just a single phrase
just one thought brings me to my knees

no other words are worth these words
no other discourse my tongue will speak
except: RasoolAllah, see what they’ve done…
what they have done to your Ali

did you not say Ali is to me as was Haroon,
except there will be no Prophet after me?
was it not that Allah and you and the one
who gives in prayer are our Wali?

did you not say it time and time again?
at Ghadeer his arm raised did they not see?
did they not hear: of whosoever I am Mawla,
his Mawla is none other than Ali…

did not come to you this order from Allah
was not Ali’s Wilayah God’s decree
to declare this as revealed by your Lord
or your mission would be rendered incomplete?

were not said the words of Thaqalayn?
were not two things each attached to each?
two things: Ahlulbayt and the Quran
is not then Quran only with Ali?

at every moment of your life
at each turn – in public or secrecy
was there not one shoulder next to yours?
was that shoulder not always Ali?

when they pelted you with stones
when bled your feet on Ta’if’s streets
when they plotted murder while you slept
was not your protector always Ali?

did you not call him flesh of your flesh?
blood of your blood was not said he?
when asked who’d stand by your side
was not the answer always Ali?

and at the moment of your death
when all had turned their backs to leave
who was that one remaining by your side?
whose hands gave your ghusl but Ali’s?

your soul had scarcely left this world
when were snatched the rights of your family
in the dead of night, creeping like wolves
teeth bared, snapping in animosity

the hands that you had once kissed
the arms you embraced so lovingly
come and see, RasoolAllah,
see what they have done to your Ali

the mirror of your soul, your true friend
your branch and his – from a single tree
they’ve taken to its bark a jagged axe
they’ve come for the blood of your Ali

they have cut to pieces your daughter’s heart
of whom you said, Fatima is part of me
her grief made unbearable for her this world
her soul rose, leaving lonely here Ali

come and see, how heavy is his chest
the weight of worlds his heart carries
hear his whispers, a lover to his Lord
in stormy seas – the patience steady of Ali

come and see RasoolAllah!
how your beloved wanders through the streets
his sorrow emptied in desert sands
secrets no soul alive can now set free

come and see RasoolAllah!
how they avoid him, come and see
how they spread lies and curse his name
how they take lightly the name of your Ali…

come and see RasoolAllah!
the blood that from your lover’s eye does weep
as it hears the voice of its Imam
the unanswered last call of Salooni..

come and see RasoolAllah!
come and see the great deceit
fallen over your Ummah’s eyes
sitting by ponds, leaving the sea…

come and see, HabibAllah!
the tatters of this heartstring’s grief
calling – followers of Mustafa!
why have you forgotten his Ali!?

it is heartwrenching O my Rasool!
this forsaking a hurt beyond belief!
a sorrow that grays each head of hair
for abandoned has been your Ali!

oh Muslims, soften your hearts
let the skies thunder as you weep
to reach the city go through the gate
renew your allegiance to Ali

come and see your lovers O Rasool
O lovers let your wails to heaven reach
make firm your pledge to your last Imam
do not forsake him as was forsaken your Ali

a game of leadership has been made
though no prophet chosen by man had been
though never was there absent a guide to God
though mankind was never left without this link

twelve leaders chosen by Allah
linked to the Quran, its living tafsir
all but the last – imprisoned, slaughtered one by one
the first murder, the murder of Ali

if Ali is second only to you
in nearness to God if it’s you, then he
then to be against him is against Islam
for where there is Islam there is Ali

if there is La saif illa dhulfiqaar!
and La fatah illah Ali!
…then why have they cut him with a sword?
why have they struck the head of your Ali?

come and see RasoolAllah!
in the early dawn of Kufa’s city
as God’s lion cries out with this roar
Fuztu bi Rabbil Kaaba! cries your Ali

come and see how spreads the blood
how it flows upon his cheeks
how a voice from heaven shrieks a call
in Kufa has been struck Ali!

come and see how the face you kissed
the child you cradled in infancy
how into his veins a poison pours
how turns pale the face of your Ali…

come and see Rasool Allah!
as if from the sky the stars unseat
as if God’s anger blackens every sky
as sets in the eve of the nineteenth…

come and see, your Zaynab wails!
come and see, your Hassnain weep!
come and see how the orphans cry,
where is our father, where is Ali?!

come and see as one who loves you
embraces your grave, her wrenching screams:

come and see O RasoolAllah,
see what they have done to your Ali…

 

 

drink water, and remember

“May my father and mother be sacrificed for you. Indeed my affliction due to what happened to you is immense. Therefore, I ask Allāh who venerated your station and honored me through you...” | Ziyarat Ashura 

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(The Sacred Effusion: Volume II (p.116) – Shaykh Muhammad M. Khalfan)

letters to our daughters

10:01 PM. New York City | Stand clear of the closing doors please. With a leap, I slip through the subway car doors just before they close, grabbing on to the nearest pole for balance. Probably not the smartest idea, but then again, as a student with exams on my mind, the unforgiving bite of the subway doors is the least of my concerns. I fumble with my bags, pulling out my flashcards to study, the endless barrage of information quickly becoming a blur before my eyes. As I go through them, I glance up and catch a man staring in my direction. At my gaze, he looks away, but as I return to my flashcards, I watch as he continues to stare in my peripheral vision.

On the subway, strange glances and occasional stares tend to be a usual occurrence. What with the horrors taking place in the world (every night, it seems, another headline), villains masquerading as ‘Muslims’ (a statement which couldn’t be further from the truth), climates of fear fueled by media furnaces churning out specifically constructed hateful rhetoric…as a Muslim woman who observes Hijaab, such moments have, unfortunately, come to be expected. Such stares are neither justified nor warranted, but they happen…and quite frankly, after years of being on the receiving end, the only thing they really are is getting old.

When I was younger, the reactions of others to my presence used to preoccupy me. I had only been wearing Hijaab for a year when 9/11 happened, and, at a young age, it was difficult for me to understand what it was that made people sneer or mumble under their breath as I walked by. As I got older and the stares become more pronounced, not having the naivety of childhood to protect me, I would be lying if I said they didn’t affect me in some way. There were moments when I stood, staring at my reflection in the mirror, wondering if it would just be easier to let go of it all – if it would be easier dress the way my friends dressed, do my hair the way they did, walk down the street or stroll around the mall without catching a double-take;

…if it would be easier to be like everyone else.

***

It was in the same years when I struggled with observing Hijaab due to the opinions of non-Muslims that I also began to struggle due to the opinions of some Muslims as well. During those teenage years when all is thrown to the wayside beyond one’s physical appearance, it was difficult to navigate the ropes of what I knew Islam taught versus what I would hear some Muslims say. Already grappling with how I was perceived by others at school, I hoped to find refuge within my own community, but unfortunately, this wasn’t always the case.

Instead of watching many elders teach us girls to do and be better than what society expected of us, I watched as they, too, minimized us into the smallness of our physical appearances. At everywhere from weddings to community events, by explicit word or implicit action, we would hear – I’m looking for a girl for my son, but he wants someone who is fairer; Haven’t seen you in a while! Have you put on weight?; You know, you should wear a bit more makeup if you want boys to notice you; Don’t you think you’re taking the whole Hijaab thing a bit to the extreme?

I distinctly remember the first time I was faced with such statements – and it was like a blow to the stomach.

Comments from people unfamiliar with Islam I could handle. Their statements either stemmed from ignorance or pre-planned agendas, and either could be easily dismantled by the proper use of knowledge and intellect. But comments from Muslims themselves? People I had grown up with? Who sat next to me in the Masjid? How could I answer them? How could I dismantle this?

I did not know then, and I pray that Allah guides us all to learn how to address this exceptionally important issue now. But as a young girl, I remember biting my tongue, fighting waves of frustration, tears choking at my throat – thinking one thing: I feel so lost. Sayyida Fatima, I wish you were here.

***

Many years later, I would like to hope that Sayyida Fatima heard my cry, because now, all praise belongs to Allah, my Hijaab is still with me. And not just as a cloth or an obligation to be upheld, but as the dearest piece of my identity; the very life force that breathes within me. Getting here has, by no means, been an easy road, and I am still far from my destination; I am still far from understanding its true worth and perfecting it in the manner of Sayyida Fatima and her daughters.

But now, learning how to carry this flag is no longer a struggle; it is the greatest honor.

Despite this fact, I still wish that when I had been struggling, when I had been looking into bloodshot eyes reflected back at me in the still hours of night questioning this integral aspect of my identity…I wish someone had told me what I wish to share with my sisters now.

I wish someone had said: my daughter, there is a great secret to your inner dimension. Seek it. Do not fall prey to ideas of what this world wants you to become. Look to your role models – to women like Sayyida Fatima – to know who you were created to be.

My daughter, do not define yourself by your level of external desirability. Do not consent to this public consumption of your soul. The journey of being a woman in this society – Muslim or otherwise – is one that requires extreme perseverance. And the obstacles designed against you have been structured specifically so that you are kept from discovering the divine destiny you have been created for. Do not let them keep you from discovering yourself.

My daughter, do not abandon the revolution that is stirring in your soul – the one that this society will attempt to quiet by degrading you into nothing more than an object to be whistled at by passersby. By taking you, beautiful from the moment you are born, and spending every moment afterward trying to strip you of your beauty. Telling you: your words are not enough, your mind is not enough; that to be given an ounce of respect, to be allowed to carry the mantle of “liberation,” you must consent to being dissected by the scalpel of corporate desire. Forcing you to seek their approval on how to dress or talk or laugh; trying to meet their impossible demands to be all at once the nerdy girl sporty girl curvy girl skinny girl funny girl cool girl beauty-queen-girl-next-door girl – the everything girl as long as its anything but your true self. Do not accept this grave injustice to your soul.

My daughter, after bearing so many years of misogyny, do not do what the system would wish you to do and internalize the inferiority that has been forced upon you. Do not let it be that now, instead of others oppressing you, you learn to do it yourself – cutting other women down, so that even you – as a woman – take doing things ‘like a girl’ as an insult.

My daughter, do not accept the oppression of culture and tradition that says women are inferior to men – but at the same time, do not run into the arms of a more modern oppression that wants you to compete with men either. Your standard has never been men, but always your own soul – because Allah (swt) has never defined your value in relation to a man, but only in relation to Himself.

My daughter, the greatest woman that ever lived showed us that we must resist when our societies try to bury us alive. She showed us that a daughter is not a burden, but the greatest honor. A wife is not a servant, but a partner to spiritual ascension. A mother is not separate from society, but the very shaper of society. And this womb, this vehicle of creation, is not a hindrance to a woman’s potential, but the very source of her power – so that when a woman’s hand reaches out to rock the cradle of her child, she is in essence rocking the very cradle of humanity.

My daughter, there is so much to being a woman. This journey requires an immense amount of struggle, but if you allow it to, it can become a thing of beauty. Whatever stage you are on, keep with it; no one is perfect at first. Begin where you are comfortable and work your way from there. If you stumble or fall or get lost on the way, know that God’s forgiveness is greater than we can imagine – He forgives, so do not bind yourself to your mistakes. Learn to forgive yourself. Keep moving forward. It does not matter whether you run, walk, or crawl – all that matters is that you keep moving.

My daughter, allow your strength to stem from your modesty, both in dress and demeanor. But remember, this strength will not be strength if you use it to push others to the ground. The worst thing you can do for your soul is use your modesty as a means of looking down upon others. If you have embraced the physical covering, do not push away those who are not there yet. Do not walk the earth with an arrogant heart. Do not judge the modesty that you can see on another woman, because the modesty that is less visible – the one of her words, actions, thoughts – may far exceed yours. The woman who today does not observe Hijaab completely may one day observe it more deeply than you. But even if she never does, that does not give you the right to consider yourself better than her. Each woman is on her own spiritual journey – and your place is not to judge or outcast, but to uplift and help your fellow sister.

My daughter, this cloth is more than a covering – it is, in its essence, a stronghold. Protect yourself and others through its understanding. When the stares of strangers and the comments of friends become too much to bear, call on your Leader, Sayyida Fatima, and take strength from her name. Do not let them make you believe that if you walk in her light, you will be less beautiful. Do not let them prevent you from entering – or scare you into abandoning – this fortress.

Raise your voice with her strength and declare:

“The demand of society from a woman, the demand of a woman from herself, and the demand of a man from a woman all revolve around physical beauty. But the real beauty lies in the moment the society, man, and woman herself should demand from woman the beauty of the soul and the spirit and human qualities and talents…Islam does not demand beauty from a woman. It does not ask for an illusive appearance. In society, it does not demand physical, sensual, feminine features. No! No! Rather…Islam demands from you your existential value, and not sensual value…”

Because in the early days of your wearing this Hijaab –

“You may have accepted it without being aware of the responsibility of wearing this vitalizing dress, without having endeavored to realize the aims and message of this dress, without ever having tried to refine and reform yourself in order to deserve this dress, this attire. In all such circumstances, your Hijaab can never be Islam personified…It shall never be a revolutionary stronghold…except when you should have learnt Islam as a deen (a system of life), a comprehensive ideology, recognized it as such, and linked it truly and boldly with all your existence, your being, your life, your traits of character, your aims and objects, as well as your ambitions.”

But now that you are beginning to understand:

“Rise and revolt…with the help of your Hijaab, the depth of which you have now fully realized, which has bestowed upon you the infinite capacity of being human.”

Rise and declare:

“…I am free. I am released…With my Hijaab, with the heavy social responsibility of the commands to do what is good and forbid what is wrong…I enter the stage of society and conquer all its planes…The type of woman who you had yourself forged, had yourself trained, had yourself taught ideals – the way of talking, laughing, wishing, longing…you have now lost such a woman, such a stronghold…this stronghold shall never fall into your hands.”

Beauty of Concealment and Concealment of Beauty

***

To my dear sisters who are struggling. To those constantly being made to feel like they don’t belong. To those living under the constant threat of harm because of the religion they most publicly represent. To those standing, like the young girl I once knew many years ago, looking into the mirror, wondering if it would be easier to let it all go and be like everyone else…

Yes. It would be easier – to look like, speak like, talk like, everyone else.

For a while.

But believe me when I say that though it might seem easy at first, the most difficult thing in the world is spending the years to come watching your identity be chipped into pieces; standing there as you are sculpted and moulded by the hands of others, losing the very core of your self – and looking the other way.

It might seem difficult now. In fact, it most definitely is. But you are not alone. Your fellow travelers on this journey stand behind you; Allah (swt) is close by your side.

And if you want to know if it gets better? If it gets easier learning how to live life as your authentic and truest self?

It does. And it will.

“Verily, with every hardship, there is relief.” (94:6)

Relief will come. But in the meantime, we must master this hardship, reminding ourselves and the generations of our daughters –

You are beautiful because you were made beautiful. Not because another person says, ‘You are beautiful.’ You have the universe inside you, so a) do not wait for another to look into your eyes and tell you they see cosmos dancing there for you to believe it, or b) allow another to say that they see nothing there so much that you stop believing as well.

Do not insult your existence by seeking its validation from others. Your worth is not scribbled in pencil, a second-hand appraisal of an outer form. It is written in gold by the First Hand who sang the love song of your inner existence.

Your life is one—count it: one. Do not allow another to live two lives by means of subjugating yours. Your mind is your homeland. Do not allow it to be colonized into thinking that beautiful is ‘everyone else’s beautiful’ and not your own beautiful.

You—your journey—has never been about them: what they think of how you dress/talk/sit/stand/walk/laugh. Your journey has always been, and will forever be, only about you.

You are a bird that was created to sing in the freedom of the skies; not to trill in the cage of the opinions of others. The majority of birds sit with wings clipped—and, missing the taste of flight, would do anything to keep you, too, on the ground.

But you have wings, my daughter.

You have wings . . . fly.

words, that changed everything

“when you stand in front of Imam Hussain (ع), remember:
you are standing in front of the personality who changed Hurr.

that same personality is changing you.”

—ayatullah basheer al-najafi
najaf, iraq.   july 7 2015.

the blood of Muhammad’s sons

“Whoever could recognize me—has recognized me, and for those who have not recognized me, by introducing my ancestors and my family, let me introduce myself to them:

O people! I am the son of Makkah and Mina; I am the son of Zamzam and Safa; I am the son of he who, after lifting the Hajr al-Aswad in his own cloak, erected it upon its original position; I am the son of the most distinguished pilgrims of the Holy Ka’baa; […] I am the son of that Holy Prophet upon whom the Lord Almighty sent revelations; I am the son of Muhammad al-Mustafa and Ali al-Murtadha; […] I am the son of the one who beside the Holy Prophet fought with two swords and two spears; migrated twice and took the oath of allegiance twice; […] like a lion when the spears entangled with each other in war […] made them softened, crushed, and powdered, scattering them away like the wind.

He is the Lion of Hijaz, the Exalted Chief in Iraq, the Makki, the Madani, the Khifi, the Uqabi, the Badri, the Uhadi, the Shajari, and the Muhajari […] He is the Chief of the Arabs, the Lion of the Battlefield, the successor of the two Mashhar, and the father of two sons—al-Hassan and al-Hussain. Yes, he is (to whom belong all these virtues and precious distinctions) my grandfather—Ali ibn Abi Talib. I am the son of Fatima al-Zahra…”

[…] Imam Sajjad (a) continued this epic glorification until the loud cry of the people was raised. Yazeed became scared and, fearing that lest a revolution would occur ordered the Mo’adhin [announcer of the Adhaan, the call for prayer] to announce the Adhaan in order to silence Imam Sajjad with this trick.

The Mo’adhin arose and began the call for prayer: “Allahu Akbar (God is Greater)…”

Imam Sajjad: “Anything greater than Allah does not exist.”

“…Ashhadun la ilaha illallah (There is no God except Allah)…”

“My hairs, skin, flesh, and blood witness the unity of Allah.”

“…Ashhadu anna Muhammad ur RasoolAllah (I bear witness that Muhammad is the Messenger of Allah)…”

Looking toward Yazeed:

“This Muhammad, whose name was just now announced, is he my grandfather or yours? If you claim that he is your grandfather, that would be a lie and a denial of the truth – and if he is my grandfather, then why did you kill his family and put them through the sword?”

—excerpts, the sermon of Imam Sajjad (a) in damascus
the story of karbala, ayatullah ali nazari munfarid

ya mawla,
Imam Sajjad,
ya Zayn-ul-Abideen.

may i be sacrificed for you,
for the grieving of your heart,
the heaviness of your chains,
the redness of your tears…

how mercilessly the world has shed,

the blood of Muhammad’s sons.

beloved of Ali

when i stood near the grave of Imam ‘Ali,
i felt something in the atmosphere change—
not when i cried, “Haydar,”
but when i whispered:

“Zahra…”

هُمْ فَاطِمَةُ وَ أَبُوهَا وَ بَعْلُهَا وَ بَنُوهَا
“they [those who are under the cloak during the revelation of 33:33]
are Fatima
her father, her husband, and her sons.”