"No space for women"

What do you do if in a mosque there is "no space" for women? Faraz Rabbani advised the following. Says a lot about us as a community that we have gotten so much used to nonsense ("sorry, no women allowed; there's just no space, what can we do"), that we're close to be shocked when we hear such a simple, common sense answer (by a highly qualified, highly regarded sheikh, after all).

Love and light

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Baraka Blue: Love and light

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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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A Muslim name

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What does a Muslim look like? What is a Muslim name?

What does a German look like? What is a German name?

Dark hair, dark skin, dark eyes? ... Muhammad?

Blonde, blue eyes, rather tall? ... Hans?

But what about Hans who became a Muslim? The blonde Muhammad from next door? Ayet ... who is no less German than she is Muslim ... and Turkish ...

Of course we (well, most of us) know that issues of identity are much more complex than they can sometimes be presented by some, than how at times we see them ourselves...

But in a world in which being a Muslim and being British (German, French, Russian, US American...) are still way too often presented as mutually exclusive - both by Muslims ("what? your name is Lieselotte? but that's not a Muslim name!") and non-Muslims ("oh yes, I agree, interfaith work is so important! it can really help bring Muslims and Germans together" ...), we are in need of reminders reiterating what we tend to forget ... 

... reminders like this series of beautiful photographs by Claire Beckett portraying US American converts to Islam.

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Tracy Chapman

Tracy Chapman: Collection

Thanksgiving - the full story

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"This week, schoolchildren across the country will come home from elementary and preschool armed with cutout paper turkeys and stories excitedly recounted about the first Thanksgiving, all those years ago in Plymouth, Mass. 

At school, most will learn the traditional narrative of hungry Pilgrims aided by friendly Native Americans, who shared their bounty with their less-fortunate immigrant neighbors. 

But while this heartwarming story may be historically accurate, what happens next to these 17th century Native Americans and their descendants is usually left out of the classroom."

(This way to the full article on the LA Times' website.)

Harry Chapin

Harry Chapin: Cat's in the Cradle

Zum Lesen, Mitsingen, Nachdenken: der Text

Lost in Translation

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“Ooh, Arabic writing is so pretty, I want something deep and meaningful tattooed on me. I’m going to send an email asking for a translation, and then tattoo whatever comes back on my body. Should I check with an actual Arabic speaker before getting the tattoo? Nah, why bother.”

OMG.

Kids, don't try this at home.

(And be careful, too, when you're about to get ... a "Chinese" tattoo...).

Being a Muslim woman

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"If you have felt guilty because you had doubts, if you felt confused because you considered something in Islam (especially as related to women) oppressive, if you have chosen to distance yourself from the Muslim community because you simply could no longer take feeling intellectually, emotionally and spiritually judged, especially as a woman, I want you to remember something: 

God did not create you, as a woman, to punish you or to crush you or to make you less than men in His eyes. If anyone makes you feel so, then do not be the one who turns away from Islam or the community. We need your voices, especially, to help change the narrative many of our communities have when we especially address women in Islam.

Always remember: Islam does not aim to mute our personalities, rather, to enhance us. If we become unrecognizable to our own selves, we need to think critically on the messages we are accepting into our lives. The Prophet (peace be upon him) did not train people to warp into who they are not. Rather, he built people to become better versions of themselves. 

 

God brought you to Islam to help you progress towards a better version of your own self and to benefit humanity. Seek Him, study seriously under solid mentors, and be a means of transforming yourself and those around you for the best. "

 

Maryam Amirebrahimi: 5 Tips to Rethink Women in Islam

No violence

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"Violence as a way of achieving racial justice is both impractical and immoral. 

It is impractical because it is a descending spiral ending in destruction for all. The old law of an eye for an eye leaves everybody blind. 

It is immoral because it seeks to humiliate the opponent rather than win his understanding; it seeks to annihilate rather than to convert."

Martin Luther King: Stride Toward Freedom: The Montgomery Story

Arab is the new Black

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The more I think about it, the more I think political art is the answer. (Ok, ONE answer. But one answer we have neglected for much too long.)

God's religion is an ocean

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"God’s religion is an ocean. It is vast, deep, and beautiful. Any student who tries to navigate the ocean knows how easy it is to drown in it. Unfortunately, too many people tend to treat it like a kiddie pool. Don’t run! Don’t splash! Don’t jump in the pool! 

That’s the model that many of us grow up with: a strict set of do’s and don’ts. Yet we are expected to love it when we don’t even understand it. I pray that teachers, community leaders, and especially parents can tolerate the curiosity of our youth and, with empathy and compassion, show them the pearl that gives beauty and meaning to the shell."

Rami Koujah: Diving for Pearls

The Narcicyst feat. Shadia Mansour

The Narcicyst feat. Shadia Mansour: Hamdulillah

Zum Lesen, Mitsingen und Nachdenken: der Text

A hero

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I'm really not one to call anyone a "hero" (hey, I am German after all; we don't really use this word ... anymore) but THIS WOMAN IS A HERO!!!

Meet Keshia, the black female anti-racist teenager who put herself at physical risk ... to protect a (suspected) Ku Klux Klan supporter from a crowd of anti-racist protesters gone mad.

Wow.

Just wow.

I want to be like her!

Women in the Syrian Crisis

"September 27, 2013, 10:00am - 12:00pm EDT

Location: U.S. Institute of Peace
2301 Constitution Ave, NW Washington, DC 20037

From dismal refugee camps in Jordan and Lebanon, to the dangerous Syrian cities and countryside, Syrian women are on the frontlines daily -- some as freedom fighters and as mothers, others as civil society activists and political change agents.

Nadim Shehadi, at the London-based think tank Chatham House, suggests that the role of women in this revolution is indispensable and that the opposition cannot succeed without them. Indeed, most wars are not fought by men alone, but rarely do we give credence to women's efforts in war and peace.

In that light, 13 years ago, the U.N. Security Council passed Resolution 1325 to ensure that the world recognizes the inordinate burden of war on women as well as their critical role in peacebuilding.

On Friday, September 27th the U.S. Institute of Peace, in coordination with the International Republican Institute's Women's Democracy Network and Hivos, will host an expert discussion with Syrian women leaders who will highlight women's roles in the current political context and the challenges they face.

The panel will feature:

Sabah Alhalak, Panelist

Syrian's Women's League

Dr. Bassma Kodmani, Panelist

Arab Reform Initiative and Syrian Women's Network

Oula Ramadan, Panelist

Syrian Women's Network

Steve Heydemann, Moderator

U.S. Institute of Peace

Manal Omar, Discussant

U.S. Institute of Peace

Kathleen Kuehnast, Welcome and Introductions

U.S. Institute of Peace

Video, still photography, and audio recording are not permitted at this event.

Inquiries

Please contact Shannon Zimmerman at 202-429-3822 or szimmerman@usip.org with any general questions about this event.

Media Journalists should contact Steven Ruder at sruder@usip.org or Allison Sturma at asturma@usip.org."

Mama Jüdin, Papa Christ - Sohn Muslim

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!