At the police station II.

Second time in a month or so that I am called to the police station to report a hate crime.

The first time the officer taking my report tells me that basically Islamophobia is not that much of a big deal.

The second time (today), another officer is of the opinion that if I had not tweeted about 'controversial' topics such as extremism and racism, I would not have attracted the attention of the Islamophobic numbhead to consequently floods me with his racist filth (so in a nutshell, the crime is the victim's fault). When I ask him if his statement is not the same as asking a woman who was sexually harassed if she really had to wear that miniskirt, he gets upset and says, 'he is offended'.

Second time I am at the police station to report a racist / Islamophobic incident, second time I don't feel that those police officers are ... what they should be, professional, sensitised, on the side of the victim.

Second time in a month that I complain and that my complaint is dealt with in the most professional manner and that the duty inspector is as shocked about the comments made as I was when I realised what was being said to me.

Don't accept poor treatment. Don't give up. Keep on complaining, keep on protesting. You might think it's not a big deal or that it's not going to change anything anyway, but if we continue to swallow whatever we are being served, nothing is ever going to change. Ever.

At the police station.

Or: Explaining hate crime to those 

who are here to combat it.

When you call on the phone to report racist stickers that you have seen in the city centre, everyone is very friendly. "I will forward this to my colleagues, Ma'am, can you come to the station to give a statement, Ma'am, thank you very much for calling, Ma'am."

When you arrive at the police station at 9 o'clock, a woman takes your statement. Blond hair, fair skin, middle-aged. It's you and her, in a stuffy room with no windows.

Police officer, blond, middle-aged: "So you felt that the stickers were offensive?"

(Relatively) young white hijabi: "I didn't just find them offensive, I found them highly offensive, and to be honest, I also got a bit scared when I saw them, for myself and my family. [insert bit about particular family background and ways in which this relates to the stickers] I have always felt safe in [this city here], but it changed (a bit) when I saw these stickers."

Police officer, blond, middle-aged: "But crime and violence, this something that happens everywhere, isn't it, it's a global problem?"

(Relatively) young white hijabi: "Well, yes, but these stickers are used by right-wing extremists to mark their territory and to spread fear. This is part of their strategy, it's part of their campaign. They send a message to people like me, to Muslims, to refugees, migrants, brown people."

Police officer, blond, middle-aged: "But this could happen to anyone..."

(Relatively) young white hijabi: "Erm, no. This is a hate crime. They specifically target one group of people. And sorry, but you, as a blonde, white, British woman won't be targeted by them. I wouldn't if it weren't for my headscarf. But me, the way I look, with this [points to her scarf], I am one of their targets."

Police officer, blond, middle-aged: "But if that was true, they could just put a bomb in a mosque - they don't do that."

(Relatively) young white hijabi: "Erm, yes, of course they do. [insert short excursus about recent attacks on mosques in the UK in general and [the region we live in] in particular, with particular mention of the Muslim grandfather who has just gotten assassinated - for being Muslim - a few days ago] ... "I can't really believe I need to tell you this. They are targeting Muslims, refugees, brown people, and everyone who, to them, looks like that."

Police officer, blond, middle-aged: "But you have that everywhere ... in Paris they just attacked people who were in the street"

(Relatively) young white hijabi: [insert a sentence about how that was a case of Islamist extremism ... which is different from right-wing extremism ... which is what I am talking about at the moment] "No. No, sorry, this is not right. I'm not going to continue like this. I am not going to speak to you any more. I want to speak to someone else. And I want to complain about this. Now."

When you go to the police station to report racist stickers you have seen in the city centre, you might come across a police officer who seems to have less knowledge about hate crime, Islamophobia and violent extremism than you do. Who shows a complete lack of sensitivity while dealing with a victim of a hate crime. Who is playing down an issue she is clearly not facing herself.

But you can complain. And (relatively) young white hijabi did. To the duty inspector and, after that, to the two female police officers assigned to take her statement. Two officers it was this time, both (relatively) young, one blond + white, the other brown + Muslim. Who agreed that this was outrageous, took the statement, chatted about this and that, were friendly, laughed, made little jokes, explained what was going to happen now.

When you go to the police station to report racist stickers you have seen in the city centre, this is the sort of police officers you should have welcome you. Not people you need to explain to that the crime that you are here to report is actually a problem.

A different kind of diversity

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Of cultural diversity in Beirut.

African and Asian migrant workers. Their children. And my child. 

 

So how is Beirut? It's hot, it's humid, it's busy, it's crowded ... full of people who could hardly be more different. If you know anything about Lebanon's capital, if you have only read one or two poorly researched articles you'll know that there are 18 different officially recognised sects in Lebanon, that there are Muslims, Christians, Druze who call this city home, that you have more Christian sects in this country than you could probably ever name from the top of your head ... even if you identify as a Christian yourself. There are Sunni Muslims, Shia Muslims, Syrian-Orthodox Christians, Catholic ones, Maronites ... to name just a few. There are different religious sects, different socio-economic classes, people who speak French fluently and others who hardly know a handful of words of English. There are those who live in London, Paris, Washington or Dubai for most of the year and those who have perhaps never left the city they were born in. And that's just the Lebanese. Add to that Syrians, many of whom recently sought refuge in the country, and Palestinians, the majority of whom have been here for much longer.

 

But that's not the only way in which Beirut is diverse. One stroll on one of the capital's streets, and you'd have to be blind not to notice all those African and Asian faces. Beirut is Eritrean, it's Nigerian, and Filipino. It's the African housemaid, the Asian nanny. Some of them in gingham uniforms, others in their regular clothes, they often accompany families of the upper middle class when they take their kids to the park or a walk by the seaside.

 

Doing research as a European in a country like Lebanon can be challenging. You don't really speak the language, you're not used to the heat, and things are different than at home. You are different.

 

Doing research with a child is even more difficult. Or so I thought. I didn't think I could just drag along ze baby to my interviews so I started looking for childcare. On a student budget. Ha ha, she's ambitious, that woman!

 

But I found something. In a centre run by an NGO providing all sorts of support services to Asian and African migrant workers living in Lebanon. They were kind enough to agree to let ze baby stay for whenever I needed someone to look after her for a couple of hours.

 

So that's how ze baby ended up spending a few hours every week with a group of little African and Asian kids. Originally from Sri Lanka, India, the Philippines, or half Asian, half Arab, most of them have been in Lebanon for the majority of their life. They speak Arabic, some English (which is the language of communication in the centre) and sometimes also the language of their parents, be it Hindi, Tamil, Tagalog or Filipino.

 

That's how ze baby ended up spending a few hours every week with all the other children, and that's how I ended up hearing all those stories.

 

About recent changes in the law that don't allow maids, cooks, cleaners and nanies from Africa or Asia to keep their children. They don't get the residence permit they'd need to stay, so eventually the kids are being sent "back home", a country many of them don't know, where a language is spoken many of them have never learnt, or at least not properly.

 

About how much the children love that they can run around, sing and shout in the centre. Because at home, in their parents' employers' home, they are told to be quiet, not to disturb the employers with their laughter and their shouting - noise, disruption, not wanted, stop it please, can you be quiet now?!

 

About how some parents before they found the centre just locked the children alone at home until they were back from work in the afternoon.

 

Because doing research with a child is difficult, and working with a child is difficult, too. Childcare is expensive and hard to find, the European researcher from the UK knows that as much as the Sri Lankan cook in Lebanon. Or maybe not as much. But she knows, too.

 

And so ze baby plays and sings and paints with the other little kids. And while I sit there and look at them I can't help but think how much they are the same, children, funny, laughing, quite adorable most of the time and simply annoying from time to time, and how much they differ. They are five, six, seven, eight now and all play together, but Lieschen, just because of the place she was born in, the family she grew up in, the country the nationality whose nationality she holds, has the opportunity to such a different life. All the same yet still so different. That's Beirut, that's also Beirut.

Love and light

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Baraka Blue: Love and light

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Convert Conversations I

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Culturally German, religiously a Muslim. 

Or: Too much biryani.

Bismillah

In the beginning it was exciting

If I am being perfectly honest, in the beginning it was exciting. This new religion came not only with a testimony of faith, principles of belief, acts of worship and the building of a relation with God, but with a whole new, and at times exotic, culture. Cultures, I mean. There was Eritrean hospitality, Moroccon tea, Algerian music, Pakistani food, Turkish fashion, Bosnian sweets, Central Asian architecture. Learning how to be a Muslim, I also learned loads about the many cultures that Islam left its footprint on in one way or another, cultures that are hard to think of without the enormous influence the religion of Islam had on them. 

Turkish lentil soup, Arabic hiphop, South Asian tea

Now, more than ten, almost fifteen years later, I can make a mean Turkish lentil soup; know how to do small talk in Bosnian, Turkish and Arabic; could give a 30 minutes presentation about Arabic hiphop and a 60 minutes presentation about the role of the diaspora in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. I can tell a Moroccon hijabi from a Saudi, Pakistani, British-Pakistani, Turkish, Syrian or Malaysian one - from a 100 metres! (when I wear my glasses) - and I would happily explain to you the difference between aloo paneer, palak paneer and aloo keema ... if you asked. I can say the traditional Islamic greeting salam alaikum (may Peace be with you) the way it is pronounced in Turkey, Arabic countries and the Sub-continent. I prefer Fairouz over Umm Kulthum and Moroccon green tea with mint over South Asian red tea with milk; haggle like a pro (I am known to have made a taxi driver in Jericho complain, "she's worse than the locals!"); and it does not seem odd to me (any more) to keep on asking "how are you?", even after the person in question has already replied (twice).

Muslim habits, norms and values

With Islam, I got to know a long list of different countries, cultures, mentalities, lifestyles. Cultures which differ in many ways but which have in common that Islam is one of their main cultural reference points (not the only one, of course, after all, we don't want to fall into essentialist narratives of how all Muslims are the same, do we?). I have gotten to know many aspects of these cultures, I have gotten to love some of them, and many have become a part of me. I have not just become a Muslim but I also adopted quite a few habits, norms and values that are often regarded as essentially linked to Islam while in reality they are rooted in one of the many cultures, societies or communities which happen to be majority Muslim.

Culture and religion

Culture and religion are closely intertwined. That is not just an Islamic phenomenon but something that can be observed in all cultures and religions worldwide. Sometimes this intertwinement is pretty obvious, at times it happens more subtly and you need to look closely to spot it. Sometimes it is problematic, sometimes absolutely fine, or perhaps even of advantage - for example, when it brings out the best in a community of believers. Intertwinement can mean similarity, overlapping, contradiction; it is not positive or negative per se. In practise, the intertwinement of religion and culture means that it is often hard to tell where culture starts and religion ends.

"If you want to be a true believer..."

At first, I did not mind that too much. At first, it was exciting. And at first, I also lacked the knowledge to tell the difference between cultural practises and religious principles. Wrapped in mashaallah, alhamdulillah, bismillah, many things that were not Islamic in their own right (but, for example, Arabic or Turkish) or even not Islamic at all (as they contradicted the very basics of this religion) looked like they were the way to go - if you wanted to be a true believer. "Oh, you don't like abayahs? But that's what proper hijab looks like!" - "What do you mean, you are not happy to sit in the back? But you are a woman! We can't allow free mixing in our Islamic classes!" - "No, no, no, don't ask the speaker your question directly, let one of the brothers pass your question on!" - "Male friends? Astaghfirullah!!??" - "Western music? Filth! I only listen to Nancy Ajram..." - "No, I don't think we should start yet; yes, we are already 45 minutes behind schedule, but what if anyone is still on the way? Isn't it our duty to wait for our brothers and sisters in Islam who came here with the intention of listening to an Islamic talk and not prevent them from gaining knowledge? Gaining knowledge is so important in Islam!" - Ok, sorry, I might have gotten a bit carried away. Where was I?

Ten, almost fifteen, years later...

Ten, almost fifteen years, later, the initial excitement has slowly worn off. Not completely, I still owe a lot to all the Muslims (and their respective cultures) that I have met on this journey in the last years, I love many things I have learned from them, things that have become part of me. But I have become a bit older, a bit (tiny bit!) more knowledgeable, a bit more confident and, sorry!, less accepting of nonsense. I have realised in the last years that people have been trying to sell me something as Islamic which is not. And I'm tired of it. I don't need to wear a Saudi abayah to be a Muslim; I don't need to have the same views on gender relations as many South Asian Muslims, for example, do; my Norah Jones is not less Islamic than your Nancy Ajram; and if you serve samosas and dates to non-Muslim visitors at an event organised by the local mosque that's not "typically Muslim food". Your culture is not representative of Islam. 

Losing out of sight how diverse our Muslim community is

Alhamdulillah for biryani, but do we really need to serve it at every event organised by our Islamic Student Societies? At every single event? If all members of said society are desi (see, how I have learned my cool cultural terms), that's, of course, absolutely fine. There is nothing wrong with biryani. This is not about biryani. This is about a majority acting as if the minority did not exist. This is about losing out of sight how diverse our Muslim community is. If all members of a mosque or student society or what-not are not Arabic but they keep on serving Arabic food, in my mind, there is something wrong. And I am not saying that this is being done on purpose, that the biryani fraction of my community have bad intentions or that they are to blame. If you are in the majority it is very easy to forget how those in the minority feel. I am not blaming you for that. But please, try to be a bit open-minded and don't start rolling your eyes and saying, "but it's Eid", when I suggest to order pizza instead of kebabs. 

An Islamic community in Germany

Last year, I spent Ramadan in Germany. My mosque there is very multicultural. The majority of the visitors are German-Moroccons, but  the mosque is also attended by German Muslims with a German background (like me) and by those whose families once came from Turkey, Syria, Eritrea, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Bosnia, Tunisia, Algeria, Egypt, Southeast Asia, Poland, Slovakia, the US (many of whom have also become pretty German in the meantime). The only language we have in common is German so pretty much all activities are in German. In fact, a comparatively high number of young Muslims attend this mosque as they feel more at ease in a German-speaking (as opposed to Turkish- or Arabic-speaking etc.) environment. Here, they understand the language. And know how things are being done. 

German pasta salad for iftar

During Ramadan, free food is provided in the mosque every evening. Most of the time, it was Moroccon food. But that was fine. If 70% of your visitors are Moroccon, there is nothing wrong with serving Moroccon food 70% of the time. If, however, you serve Moroccon food only, I would say, there is a problem. At my mosque, they didn't do that. It was Moroccon food most of the time, with the odd Afghani or Pakistani meal inbetween. One day they made German pasta salad. German pasta salad. With mayonaise, cornichons, sweetcorn - exactly as we would do it at home. I was in food heaven, but I also realised this was the first time in over ten years of being a Muslim that I was eating European food in a European mosque.

It is easy to forget to look outside the box

As I explained above, in many cases, the majority of culturally (pretty) Turkish, Arabic or South Asian Muslims in Europe don't even realise how it can be for a German Muslim, for example, if Islam is made look, taste and feel foreign most of the time. They feel at ease, they know things to be that way, they expect things to be that way, so for most of them the thought that this might not be the same for those with a different cultural background does not even cross their minds. Again, I don't really want to blame them for it. I know myself how easy it is to see yourself only, to assume your preferences to be the norm, to forget to look outside of the box. I do it. You do it. We all do it. And as long as it happens unconsciously, unintendedly, I don't really want to blame anyone.

Muslims full of hared of "the West"

But there is something else, too. There are those who just don't question the predominance of Arabic / Turkish / South Asian / you name it! cultural practises in Islamic organisations and mosques in Europe - but who would, if you told them, agree that, yes, perhaps, one day we can have spaghetti napoli in the mosque for iftar and hmmm, why not get some potato salad, too?! And then there are those who are full of hatred of "the West" which they see as an antidote to "Islam". "Look at the West and how they treat their old people, sending them to care homes instead of looking after them, what a shame!" - "Look at how morally corrupted the West is!" - "You want to wear Western clothes?! Astaghfirullah, that would be imitating the kuffar!" 

I am not imitating "the kuffar" or "the West". I am of one them

I am sorry, I am not imitating "the kuffar" or "the West". I am of one them. Culturally, I am one of them; religiously, I am a Muslim. And before you start screaming now, "Oh my God, she declared herself an unbeliever" - I haven't. Not everything in Europe contradicts Islam. There are loads of cultural aspects that you can perfectly reconcile with Islam. In fact, some aspects of European cultures are even more Islamic than much that is found in many "Eastern" societies (talk about punctuality, bindingness of appointments or lower levels of corruption ... that is if you stay North of the Alps... :P ). 

Like the first Muslims back in the Prophet's time

By holding on to my German identity, I am really not doing anything different than the first Muslims back in the Prophet's time did. They were converts. And carried their (polytheistic) ancestors names, continued to eat their (type of) food and wearing their traditional clothes. They remained a part of society. What we consider essentially Islamic now (names such as Fatima, for example) used to be part of the culture of a polytheistic society. What did the Prophet (Peace be upon him) and his followers do? Did they start to scream, "don't imitate the unbelievers" and change their own ways completely? They didn't. They changed what needed changing and held on to what was acceptable to keep. Fatima stayed Fatima. She was not made change her name into a more "Islamically sounding" name when she converted. 

Islam is bigger than this, it is for everyone

And lastly, don't misunderstand me. I am not asking for big changes. I am not asking for German pasta salad everyday. Have your biryani. I'll share it with you. But don't pretend this was Islam. Don't make us, Muslims and non-Muslims, believe your Pakistani naans or Turkish pides were more appropriate to have in the mosque than my German rye bread. Islam is bigger than that. It is more than just biryani. Let's not belittle this grand religion, let's not veil the universal character it has. Islam is for everyone. Look outside your box, have some compassion and try to walk a bit in my shoes. Leave me some room and let me be who I am. That's all I'm asking for.

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Ramadankalender für Faule || Ramadan calendar for lazy people

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Das Lieschen ist im Ramadan geboren. Als sie ein bisschen älter war, alt genug, um zu verstehen, was Ramadan ist, begann ich zu überlegen, wie ich ihr vermitteln konnte, was für eine besondere Zeit Ramadan für Muslime ist; wie ich sie dazu bringen könnte, Ramadan zu lieben und es zu etwas zu machen, auf das sie sich schon lange im Voraus freut. Als Kind habe ich Weihnachtskalender geliebt. Als ich durch Zufall irgendwo gelesen habe, dass es Ramadankalender gibt, hat mir die Idee gleich zugesagt. Zum ersten Mal habe ich einen Ramadankalender für das Lieschen vor zwei Jahren gemacht, aber sie war noch zu klein, um die Idee zu begreifen. Nach der Hälfte des Monatshaben wir den Kalender nicht wirklich mehr benutzt.

Lieschen was born in Ramadan. When she got a bit older, old enough to be able to understand what Ramadan is, I started to wonder how I could make her grasp what a special time it is for Muslims, how I could make her love it and be excited about it. As a child I loved my Christmas calendars, so when I read about Ramadan calendars somewhere, I immediately liked the idea. I made a Ramadan calendar for the first time two years ago but Lieschen was still too young to really understand the concept so we only used it half way through the month. 

Letztes Jahr habe ich einen richtigen Ramadankalender gemacht und sie hat eigentlich fast jeden Tag eines der kleinen Briefchen geöffnet. Ich wollte nicht, dass sie denkt, im Ramadan geht es nur um Schokolade und Süßigkeiten, deswegen habe ich jeden Tag einen kleinen Zettel mit einem Islam-bezogenen Begriff vorbereitet ("Qur'an", zum Beispiel, oder "Kaabah", "Hadith", "Mekka", "Geduld" usw.), den ich mit ihr lesen und besprechen habe (so weit das mit einem Kind dieses Alters geht). Die Bastelanleitung für solch einen Ramadankalender habe ich letztes Jahr hier gepostet. 

Last year, I made a proper Ramadan calendar and she did indeed open one of the little sachets almost every day. I didn't want her to think that Ramadan is about chocolate and sweets only, so everyday I put a little note with an Islam-related term on it (such as "Qur'an", "Kaabah", "Hadith", "Mekka", "patience" etc.) which I would read and discuss with her (as much as you can discuss with a child of that age). You'll find the description of how to make such a Ramadan calendar here. 

Wie man anhand der Bilder und Bastelanleitung sehen kann, braucht es einige Zeit, solch einen Kalender zu basteln. Letztes Jahr hatte ich im Ramadan frei und hatte mehr als genug Zeit, einen Ramadankalender zu machen. Dieses Jahr bin ich mit der Promotion und einer Millionen anderer Dinge beschäftigt und wusste, dass es nicht drin sein würde, einen Kalender wie den vom letzten Jahr zusammenzubasteln. So kam mir die Idee für einen Ramadankalender für Faule Schwerbeschäftigte.

As you can probably tell from the pictures and description, making such a calendar takes quite a lot of time. Last year, I was free in Ramadan so I had the time, but this year I'm busy with my PhD and a million other things so I knew I wouldn't be able to spend that much time again. So I came up with the idea for a Ramadan calendar for lazy busy people.

1) Benutze ein Stück Papier als Hintergrund. Schreibe zum Beispiel "Ramadan karim" darauf, male eine Moschee, Sterne, einen Mond...

1) Decorate a piece of colourful paper, e.g. write "Ramadan karim" on it, draw a mosque, stars, a moon, or whatever else you like.

2) Klebe jeden Tag ein kleines Post-it-Zettelchen auf das Papier. Auf die eine Seite des Zettelchens (die Seite, die man sieht), schreibt man, was das Kind tun soll, z.B. eine Sure rezitieren, ein islamisches Kinderbuch lesen, eine Ramadankarte für jemanden basteln, Fragen zum Islam beantworten (je nach Alter, z.B. wer ist dein Gott? wer ist dein Prophet? welches ist dein heiliges Buch? was ist deine Religion?).

2) Everyday, put a little post-it note on it. On one side of the note (the side, that can be seen), write something your child should do, e.g. recite a surah the know, read an Islamic kids book, make a Ramadan card for someone, answer questions about Islam (depending on the kids's age, e.g. who is your God? who is your Prophet? what is your book? what is your religion?). 

3) Auf die andere Seite des Post-its (die, die verdeckt ist), schreibt man, wo das Kind das Geschenk suchen soll, z.B. "da ist was in einem deiner Schuhe", "schau mal ins Buchregal", "vielleicht liegt was für dich auf der Kommode".

3) On the other side of the note (the one that is hidden), write where they can look for their little gift, e.g. "there is something in one of your shoes", "look in your book shelf", "you might find something on the chest of drawers".

4) Das Kind muss die Frage beantworten / die Sache machen, bevor es nach dem Geschenk suchen darf.

4) They need to answer the question / do the activity before they are allowed to look for the gift.

5) Das Geschenk könnte zum Beispiel ein Schokoriegel sein, ein Lolly, ein paar Gummibärchen, ein kleines Spielzeug, ein Haarband...

5) The gift could be a bar of chocolate, a lollipop, some gummibears, a little toy, a hair band etc...

LA is...

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Californian diary, part 4 (part 1, part 2, part 3)

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LA is the grandparents' house. House, garden, garage, four to five cars in the driveway. LA is four bedrooms, three bathrooms, two living rooms. LA is eating out, gifts for Lieschen, flying in the granddaughter from England.

LA is a huge suburb. House, garden, garage. House, garden, garage. House, garden... LA is hills, palm trees, multi-lane highways, traffic jams, green valleys to your left, I wish we could stop and take a walk in the fields...

LA is spending hours in the car. LA is taking the car to go to uni, taking the car to go to work, taking the car to visit a friend, taking the car to see your son, taking the car to get the groceries, taking the car to go to the mall, taking the car to get an icecream from the cornershop.

LA is leaving an airconditioned house, getting into an airconditioned car, going to an airconditioned mall before arriving in an airconditioned office.

LA is a tiny city centre, square kilometres of suburbs, endless highways.

LA is the Grandparents' neighbourhood. Doctors, lawyers, teachers. LA is La Puente or Santa Ana. Where per capita income is a third of the one in the Grandparents' city. Where you realise that just because you haven't seen any of the fat Americans everyone talks about in Europe in the city the Grandparents live in, doesn't exist mean they don't exist. They do. Perhaps not in the Grandparents' part of town, but there where it's not four bedrooms, three bathrooms, two living rooms, but a one-storey small house with a flat roof and loads of junk in the front yard and a fence that could really do with some mending.

LA is the mechanic who comes to your house to fix the car. Who is hardly older than you are, works seven hours in the burning afternoon sun and when you get him an icecold coke gives you a big smile revealing the huge gap in his front teeth. LA is the old woman with greyish-blonde hair, a face aged by the sun and rotten teeth who sells you an icecream in Disneyland. 

LA is the villa of a US South Asian family in one of the better parts of town you visit, six bedrooms, five bathrooms, three living rooms, where you sit in the midst of golden picture frames of the son who graduated with an-MBA-mashaallah, the parents years ago on their wedding day, the whole family posing and smiling to the camera, thick, fluffy carpets under your feet, where you are being served chilled apple juice, shami kebabs and green apple slices with red chilli sprinkled over them, while the daughter who is mentally handicapped and writes poetry makes chocolate-chip cookies for you.

LA is driving in the car with two young Desi Americans, who have only ever been to South Asia once or twice and discussing with them the differences between here and there, how we see them, how they see us, how others see us and them and everyone, talking about politics and culture and history and food.

LA is the Grandparents' house. Grandma, Grandpa and the uncles you love Lieschen and will miss her when she is going to leave again.

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America is...

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Californian diary, part 3 (part 1, part 2)

America is very big.

"Everyzing is verry big in zis countrry", said my father jokingly, mocking a typical German accent, after I told him about my first visit to the US two years ago. Yes, everything is very big in this country.

Big cities, vast landscapes, a country that covers half a continent. Six different timezones. Six-lane highways. In each direction. 

Icecream scoops big enough to feed two. When in doubt, always ask for the kids portion. Never order anything large. The American small is the European big-enough.

Two kilogram yoghurt pots, four litre milk bottles. Microwaves, ovens, dustbins three times the size of their European equivalents. A fridge as big as my bathroom.

A bag of chocolates weighing as much as five German chocolate bars for Lieschen.

Large, not to say fat, people. A huge American flag flapping in the wind. America is big.

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Palestine in California

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Californian diary, part 2 (part 1)

As soon as we enter the shop, it smells like Palestine. It must be some of the spices, zaatar perhaps? it's been some time, crazy how odours can take you back to a place thousands of miles away. It smells like zaatar, the butcher behind the meat corner in the back of the shop speaks with an Arab accent and in the background some young Arab woman sings a catchy pop tune on the radio. A little bit of Palestine in California. It's hot outside on the street, April in LA is like August in London, but cool inside the shop, thank God for ACs.

Fresh oranges (60 cent the kilogram ... this is California, baby!), bananas, apples, eggplants, tomatoes, cucumbers, bundles of cilandro, basil and dill are piled up to your right. Deep-frozen meat and sausages, all halal, in the huge freezers to your left. Colourful hijabs and abayahs in one corner; the exact same kind of biscuits my friend from Gaza would have for breakfast in Ramallah in another. Two oversized Easter bunnies look down on us customers from the top of one of the huge shelves. There is one aisle with South Asian spices and specialities and one with Turkish delicatessen, to cater to all those who are kind of from that same corner of the world.

Living in the Southwest of the US of A, in an air-conditioned beige house with a car and a garage in the front and the small garden in the back that no-one ever uses anyway. Living in the Southwest of the US of A, buying a little bit of home. Or what used to be home. Or what used to be my parents' home. Because I have only ever been to Palestine once and when I walked over al-Manara in my baggy jeans they called me al-Amreeki.

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The journey

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Californian diary, part 1

When my 100-year-old grandmother's uncle left for the US some time in the late 19th or early 20th century, it was the last time he saw his parents. Letters took weeks, if not months, visits were not really an option.

Today we hop on a plane (ok, one bus, one coach, two planes, and a car) ... and 24 hours later, instead of rainy England we're in sunny California.

Waiting to board the plane in London-Heathrow. A group of loud, bored, fat, white, inconsiderate teenagers walk by. Everything I hate about America. Oh no, we're going to the US... Boarding the plane. Blonde stewardess with red lipstick and a huge smile. Friendly welcome, a wink to Lieschen. She has the same accent as my American friend Mary. Who studied in four universities and speaks five languages. Everything I love about America. Yay, we're going to the US...!

On the plane. Indians to my left, Indians to my right. Germans in the row in front of us. French in the aisle. God-another-seven-hours-on-this-plane conversations with a drunk Scot who hates extremists but doesn't mind Muslims and an Englishman who lives in the States. Discussions about Scottish independence (yes or no), Germans in the UK (us) and Brits in the US (them), South Asian (me) and American (him) spouses. About kids. That grow up somewhere in between.

Landing. Queues. Security. Border agency guys who all have the same strange humour. PhD student from England, originally from Germany, exams coming up in May, right answers, passport stamped, you're in.

Relief. Not that there was any reason, but I'm worried every time. And think of those who didn't make it.

Nina was sent back. Housewife from Romania, going to join husband from Nigeria, no good enough reasons to go back, wrong answers, out.

And that's just us, who can afford a plane ticket, not one of the thousands who try to climb fences, outsmart guards, brave the desert sun...

Dallas. Texas. Yeehaw!

Tired. Late night here, early morning there. Yet another plane. Couple of more hours.

LA. Hello Golden State. Hello US.

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Event: Tackling exclusion in Muslim communities

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"Friday 21 Mar 2014, 18:45 - 20:30 

Abrar House, 45 Crawford Place, W1H 4LP 

Event Details:

It is common to observe that exclusion and discrimination occurs at every level of society, on grounds of race, gender, ethnicity, sexuality, class, politics, age, and more. 

But how far are  British Muslims prepared to address exclusion within our communities and our institutions? Who is being excluded directly or indirectly, ignored and rendered invisible, their concerns unrecognised let alone addressed?

Are we prepared to go beyond our comfort zones to make our institutions more inclusive, welcoming, and reflective of how our communities are today? Join us for a frank discussion of these issues and how we as a faith community might go about tackling them."

Event details: here.

Urgently looking for a babysitter? Do's and don't's.

 Or: Love my ISoc

If you are urgently looking for a babysitter but have just recently moved to a new city, don't ask the few friends you have made there in the last weeks. 

They would love to help but are too busy.

If you are urgently looking for a babysitter because without one you won't be able to attend your lecture but have just recently moved to a new city, don't register with a babysitter agency. 

Signing up will be free but to actually contact potential babysitters and childminders, you'll have to pay dozens of pounds (which you don't really have).

If you are urgently looking for a babysitter because there is only one week left before the term starts, don't contact the Family Information Service at your local council.

They will provide you with a list of childminders but the only one who could pick up your daughter from her school hardly speaks any English and when you ask her on the phone if she is currently looking after any other children, she shouts at you, "What do you need this information for?!".

If you are urgently looking for a babysitter and you really have know idea what else to do, don't ask the friendly woman you know from the playground and who works as a childminder. She is already looking after two other children and will start to look after two-year old twins from next week.

Don't send an e-mail to the priest you have recently met, he will be so busy he won't get a chance to reply (and feel terrible about it when you meet him next time, bless him). 

...

...

...

If you are urgently looking for a babysitter but have just recently moved to a new city where you hardly know anyone, do go the induction meeting of your university's ISoc. After the presentation introducing the society and the activities planned for this term, wait until they ask if anyone has any questions. Raise your hand and say, "salam alaikum, I don't have any questions regarding the presentation but ...".

You'll leave the event with a list of six potential babysitters and won't have to worry again about who will look after your baby.

#alhamdulillah #lovemyISoc #impossibleisnothing

Ha ha househounting

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Househunting in England is a nightmare. I still cannot fathom what kind of places are actually offered for rent in this country. London was particularly bad but even where we live now I have not seen a single house yet that meets German standards. (Ok, one that comes closes to it. Which is, yes, where we live now.) So if you are currently househunting in England ... here is something to cheer you up. (I have not laughed that hard in quite some time.)

The Narcicyst feat. Shadia Mansour

The Narcicyst feat. Shadia Mansour: Hamdulillah

Zum Lesen, Mitsingen und Nachdenken: der Text

Tales of a Confused First Year PhD Student ... Part 1

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You are rushing through the labyrinth-like corridors of your department, trying to figure out where on earth that communal printer (you were told about during one of the numerous induction meetings organised by your department, the graduate school, the doctoral training centre, the university) is. Your class mates don't know. The staff members you run into on the corridors don't know. The friendly administrator in the Departmental Office doesn't know for sure - but believes to remember it was in room XYZ.

 

You somehow make it to room XYZ - after another 10, 15 minutes-it-must-have-been-at-least-half-an-hour looking for it (ban the architect who came up with the construction plans for this building from the profession and make him live in this mess of a building!!). No printer but two friendly PhD students who send you to the room next door.

No printer in the room next door either but yet another friendly PhD student who says there is no communal printer in the department anymore but suggests you just use the computer of his class mate who has not come to campus today. Of course, the computer does not let you log on and just when you're about to FORGET ABOUT THESE STUPID PRINTINGS, WHO NEEDS TO READ ABOUT SOCIAL SCIENCES PHILOSOPHY ANY WAY ... the friendly PhD student lets you use his computer.

 

Uff. Documents printed.

 

You leave clutching the documents to your chest and are so happy to have succeed you don't even (really) mind that the door you leave the building through leads to a backyard with the car park on the left and trees on the right but no exit to the street in sight...

Ta ta London, hello Awesome

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London und die USA durch die Augen einer in England lebenden Amerikanerin. Nach so-und-so-viel Jahren Ehe mit einem Nordamerikaner, ungefähr drei davon in London verbracht: I can so relate!

London and the US through the eyes of an American expat. After x years of marriage to a North American, of which we lived in London for around three years: I can so relate!

Where are you from?

No, I mean WHERE are you FROM??

Yoriyos

Yoriyos: Birds of Paradise

Zum Lesen, Mitsingen, Nachdenken: der Text

Afghan and Palestinian rap: Soosan Firooz and Shadia Mansour

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It's by coincidence that I came across a music video by Afghani female rapper Soosan Firooz (for some reason I'm having difficulties embedding the video into the blog post, but you'll find it - with English subtitles - under the link above).

Somehow, Soosan Firooz reminds me of Palestinian rapper Shadia Mansour:

Hand in Hand

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 - 7. Ramadan - 
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Muslims rallying to save a historic synagogue, a Jewish neighbourhood watch group guarding a Muslim site of worship - that's the UK I love!

"To each among you, We have prescribed a law and a clear way. If Allah willed, He would have made you one nation, but that (He) may test you in what He has given you; so strive as in a race in good deeds. The return of you (all) is to Allah; then He will inform you about that in which you used to differ" (Qur'an 5: 48)