Beyond the Hijab

Reblogged from Footprints in the Sands of Time:

Click to visit the original post

First published in I Got it Covered

http://www.igotitcovered.org/2011/04/27/beyond-the-hijab/#disqus_thread

There is a thick layer of grime that encrusts the walls of my heart. I know this isn’t a great way to start an article, but for this piece I couldn’t come up with anything that was more apt. To be sure, I’m a hijabi and I mostly offer salah with punctuality, but my inner self is an unfortunate combination of doubts, sins, ego, self-love and love of dunya.

Read more… 1,120 more words

Hi there! I came across this post a while back, and I suddenly realized this was exactly what I needed. It's easy to get lost in the flashing lights and pull of this worldly life. Sometimes, all I seem to care about is "me". Is there a greater purpose in life than just looking amazing, having fun and making loads of money, and being popular? And if all that is achieved, is there any true peace in it? What's the greater purpose?

Weird Post. Please don’t read it.

Hey there! You! :P

I told you not to read this post and you’re still here? Go, because you’ll probably not like what you read. I don’t have any pictures to share, I don’t even have good quote to share, basically I have my brain to pick. And trust me, if I were you, I’d not hang around for the umm… ‘treat’.

Ha! Still here? You don’t get it, do you? :P

Laundry. Dirty laundry, every time I look at the hampers. Washing up, piles of it. Dirty dishes, in uninviting stacks line the kitchen sink. I flare up when I see her put her socks on the floor.

Speaking of which, I’ve been flaring up all day. Tired, unable to go on.

Then the books that sit on the study table beckon but I’m already exhausted, both physically and mentally. More stress.

Then the realization that I’m probably just acting stupid.

The need to be thankful, the damn need to be positive, or eventually curl up and die.

The need to curl up and lock the world out, and just be.

The need to connect.

Connect with Him, He who really matters, he Who knows what’s in my heart.

The need to say sorry. The need to be forgiven, accepted, held. He knows why.

That special energy…

Life is governed by a strange unidentifiable spiritual energy. The kind that keeps you going. Something that’s in your heart and soul, keeps you energetic, smiling, motivated, cheerful, ALIVE.

Gives you something to wake up for everyday. Keeps you interested. Do you have that in your life? Do you consciously ensure that you are in that state of mind when you feel truly alive and grateful?

I’m usually a very cheerful person. I’m a go-getter, I’m a fast learner and an earnest trier, but what’s true is that I’ve had my share of turning into a cynic. But not any more. I admire positivity and want to be someone who sees the glass half full. Yet lately I’ve been feeling so stripped of that zing (if you like), that spiritual energy that keeps me going.

Tell me what you think. Does this force exist, even? Is it essential? Is it a part of you? Do you even care?

Help Leeban's Family Bring Him Home!

Reblogged from In the Pursuit of Writing:

Help Leeban's family bring him home


"
Give charity without delay, for it stands in the way of calamity." - Al-Tirmidhi, Hadith 589

The Tragic accident

On Sunday January 20th, Leeban’s mom received the call that every mother fears: she was told that her youngest son, just 24 years old, was in a terrible accident. His mother, residing in Virginia, took the first flight to Rochester, Minnesota to be with her son.

Read more… 877 more words

A family needs our help. Please see the post and pass the word around!

Note to self.

Hopelessness. A yearning that’s never going to end.

Enough.

 

Playing with fonts...

Playing with fonts…

It’s time to break free,

It’s time to hope again,

It’s time to remember that you will rise again,

It’s time to move on, time to forget,

It’s time to know that life’s not always a scary threat,

It’s time to rekindle friendships, it’s time to stop being cynical,

Your deep mistrust in everyone is almost comical,

Remember, each person is not alive just to tear you apart,

It’s time to perceive life with an open heart,

It would be nice if you stopped wasting time,

Use the days wisely, you are in your prime,

There’s only so much you can mope,

Wherefore is that lovely thing called hope?

Adversity? Why does it scare you so?

That’s how life is, don’t you know?

If you will, with Allah’s will, defeat it!

Don’t let it kill your very spirit,

Come on, my friend, you know it’s time to embrace life once more,

Don’t miss the opportunities knocking at your door!

What’s happened, has happened, and may well scar you forever,

But to let it stop you from everything — now that’s not exactly clever!

So you’re a fool sometimes, and you’ve messed up pretty bad,

Seriously, those are experiences everyone’s had!

So please be happy, and please remember to smile,

Learn to hope again, and not just for a little while!

Still alive. Been away…

I'm Back!

Image source: here

So after an unannounced hiatus, I’m back at the blog! Been off for an Eid break, really missed you guys. Will catch up on all your blogs soon, Insha Allah.

Suitcases adorn the apartment and exhaustion tugs at my eyelids, begging them to shut. But hungry children make me do otherwise. You kinda get the idea right? Once things calm down a bit, I will begin blogging in earnest.

All the best,

Mehmudah

And the award goes to…

Awards are fun. They’re also proof that someone’s listening when you’re talking, and that your voice is not getting lost in the wind, and holds its own in the innumerable other voices on the world wide web.

I’m truly grateful to

Silving – Bits of Living, who nominated me for the Versatile Blogger Award

Letizia of Dutch goes Italian, for the Kreativ Blogger Award

Anteneh Seifu of Through the Lens for the Very Inspiring Blogger Award.

 

For the Versatile Blogger Award my nominations are as follows:

http://diffrntstrokes.wordpress.com/

http://robertsantafede.com/

http://davidoakesimages.wordpress.com/

http://sippingchai.wordpress.com/

http://bernardvanvelsen.wordpress.com/

http://sapphirical.wordpress.com/

 

Kreativ Blogger Award:

http://maenamor.wordpress.com/

http://diaryofapinhead.wordpress.com/

http://davidrwetzelphotography.wordpress.com/

http://monahoward.com/

http://dunyatodeen.wordpress.com/

http://imagesbyregina.wordpress.com/

 

Very Inspiring Blogger Award:

http://fourwindshaiga.wordpress.com/

http://mozuqunoire.wordpress.com/

http://2riversphotos.wordpress.com/

http://lightswimming.com/

http://martynthompsonphotography.wordpress.com/

http://asqfish.wordpress.com/

 

Now that we’re done with the difficult bit – the nominations (I’m sure there are some other simply wonderful blogs I follow that have slipped my mind) but now the seven things I have to tell you about me.

1. I would have loved to be a doctor, but I’m not. I can’t stand to see suffering. More often than not, I collapse into tears myself when I see people in pain. Imagine, a weeping doctor, saying “Sob, sob I’m so sorry this happened..”

2. I love savoury stuff more than sweet. Although dark chocolate is amazing.

3. I’ve been into photography since the film camera days. I only recently took it up again as a hobby.

4. Someday I want to upgrade to a DSLR with a yummy lens.

5. I love to sing. Thankfully the family does not mind.

6. My one dear wish is to be able to fly and soar high and free into the skies like a bird.

7. I’m hopelessly addicted to tea.

That wraps it up guys! Lovely weekend to all!

The imperfect lives of Dubai’s ‘blue men’

Originally written for: http://www.dawn.com/2012/03/12/the-imperfect-lives-of-dubais-blue-men.html

(This, below, is the unedited version)

Right on top of this crane... All in day's work!

 

“Excuse me lady, but do you have a written permit to talk to these workers?” he asked, curtly. The man looked about 40, with untidy stubble on his chin and spoke with a thick Arabic accent.

“Oh I was just asking them if they could summon the contractor or site engineer for me,” I replied.

Here I was, parked next to a construction site in Dubai, trying to find out if blue-collar workers in Dubai were really as exploited and mistreated as some stories in the media would have you believe.

To initiate conversation, I asked the workers when the building they are working on will be done and enquired if their manager would let me have short interviews with them. The man’s immediate concern at my conversation with the construction workers made me think: “this should be interesting.”

I introduced myself as a writer who wanted to do a story about construction workers in Dubai and the man introduced himself as the contractor. I politely requested a few minutes of the workers’ time and the contractor began to panic.

“B-b-but what if the workers talk too much? What if you quote our company and our names?” he faltered, despite my assurances that I would not include any real names. He suddenly seemed to think he had spoken too much and said almost aggressively, “But the workers are fine! They get their salaries! They are okay!”

“Of course, but maybe I could talk to them for a few minutes?” I asked.

The contractor was now pacing around the site. He suddenly walked towards my car and said, “Okay, but only for a few moments, and only if the site engineer listens to every word they say, because like I said, the workers might talk too much and they wouldn’t even know what they’re saying,” he conceded.

Three men in messy green overalls walked meekly towards my car. A site engineer with a long moustache followed them closely and hung on to their every word. I posed some questions about living conditions, salaries and safety measures on site. The workers responded in monosyllables, nodding their heads under the watchful eye of the site engineer.

“Yes, it is all perfect for us in Dubai,” said one Nepali man tonelessly, looking towards the ground.

“Thanks,” I muttered, frustrated.

I had set out to discover if life for the labour class in Dubai, the very people responsible for constructing the glorious edifices dotting the city, was really all that it is made out to be, and if their plight was as sad as some stories in the international media have shown. Getting them to talk without inhibitions was a challenge, but I thought I would have to find a way.

These guys appear comfortable as they have a chat, on the edge!

 

It was a new day. The evening shadows were getting longer, and workers dressed in blue uniforms were filing out of the construction site as they walked by my car. Some were carrying spades on their shoulders, whilst some were empty-handed. I could hear a popular Bollywood song playing on one of their cell-phones whilst some indulged in light-hearted banter. It seemed tempting to strike up a conversation with them, especially since I couldn’t spot anyone else around.

“Hard work, this,” I said casually, gesturing towards the building behind us. One worker almost jumped in surprise, as though a woman had never spoken to him before.

“Madam, aap ham ko bola? (Did you speak to me?),” he said, taken aback.

I assured him he wasn’t mistaken and soon a throng of workers (made up mostly of Indian, Pakistani and Bangladeshi labourers) in blue overalls gathered around my car.

Meaningful conversation finally ensued. The workers told me they always got paid on time since the government finally has some rules in place to protect the labour force. They wake up early in the morning in their labour camps, six men to one room and start work promptly at 6:30 am. At about 9:00 am they are given a short tea break, and then they are given a break at 12:00 noon for an hour, after which work begins again. Then they work until about 5:30, after which the bus takes them to Sonapur, where their quarters are located.

I then enquired about safety measures.

“Doesn’t anyone ever fall from these lofty structures? Are you aware of what you must do to be safe?”

They informed me that they are given a full safety briefing every few days and are not allowed on site without a safety belt and a safety helmet. One worker chuckled as he said, “Madam, we are big, strong men. We can handle ourselves, really.”

When they fall sick, they are sometimes given a day off, if they have the doctor’s approval, that is. Usually the doctor’s visits are paid for by the company but sometimes the workers must shell out their own dough for paying medical bills.

When I asked how often they go back home, the workers sighed in gloom. One man hadn’t been home in five years, another six, whilst some had been working continuously for three years, with Friday being their only weekly holiday. The contracting companies held their passports but the workers must buy their own tickets. Since almost every penny is religiously wired back home, it is only after a long time that they are able to save enough to fly home.

My last question sparked quite a reaction. It seems as though I had touched a nerve when I asked “Respect is the main issue, isn’t it? No one gives you due respect here. You build all these wonderful towers and they treat you like ….”

All at once, the workers began to talk. “We work hard all day, but these people, they treat us like dirt,” said Baksh, who hadn’t visited India for six years. It was only after a few minutes that I watched them being ushered into their bus as though they were cattle. Despite probing questions, I heard no reports of salaries being withheld, or passports not being given to the workers if and when they asked for them. Despite a few problems, these workers prefer to stay in the UAE and earn whatever they can, because it is usually significantly better than what they might get back home.

Good to see the use of safety nets.

 

As I headed home, I realised I needed more research.

I kept posing my questions to different workers serving different companies, and most of the information coincided with what I had already learnt. My next meeting was with someone who worked closely with these men as the contractor, and had visited their quarters: Abdullah.

Abdullah was frank, as he talked about the labour camps. “They are really dirty. Not enough bathrooms,” he said. He, too, reaffirmed that salaries are on time, or else the government could revoke the contracting company’s licence. As for safety measures, he said that in Dubai, work cannot be started without having proper safety measures in place and that the site engineer must submit a detailed safety report every two weeks.

“I’m glad I work in Dubai, really. When compared to other states like Sharjah and Abu Dhabi we are better off. The situation is much worse in the rest of the Gulf. The condition has actually improved in recent times.”

The most revealing account of the conditions came from Benjamin. Ben works with a prominent international contracting company in Dubai, and has been working closely with the labour for several years. He confirmed the report on timely salaries but also backed the stories about several workers being deep in debt, which is largely due to their labour agents back home, (who must be monitored, he said) and has little to do with the contracting company.

The workers are entitled, by law, to a compulsory three-hour break everyday and that most international companies keep in line with all such obligations. However, during the interviews with various workers, they said the breaks were only an hour-and-a-half long. The heat, in this part of the world, can be very harsh during the afternoons.

What Ben revealed next was also disturbing. According the law, the workers are given two months off every two years and international contracting companies uphold this law, and grievances are addressed. He, in fact, felt that this vacation was too little and that companies must seek to provide more time off.

His opinion of the working quarters differed vastly from Abdullah’s. “Hygiene standards are high,” he said. A legislation has been put in place to upgrade living conditions, and even in the food provided to workers, ethnic preferences are taken into account. This, he insisted may differ with smaller companies that are not as careful.

When I mentioned reports in the international media that lament the treatment meted out to Dubai’s labourers, he said, “the stories must be old.”

My sources for this article have been quoted almost verbatim, which accounts largely for the subject matter of this piece. I find it distressing that despite a substantial shift towards the welfare of these workers, many more measures must be implemented in order to safeguard their rights. Whilst larger international companies are more careful about treating these low salaried workers well, we learn that exploitation is still going on, and within the construction of the dazzling towers of Dubai, are many sad, unspoken stories. As we cruise along the perfect tarmac in our air-conditioned cars, and walk into the impossibly posh malls, it is heartbreaking to learn that perhaps on the construction site right next to a beautiful mall some people slog away silently in the blazing sun to earn a modest amount of money, far away from their families, wondering when they will meet them again.

*Names have been changed to protect privacy

Pics by me for illustrative purposes only.

Stalking the golden ball (Part 2)

Basking in your glow...

 

Sometimes you just tear me apart. Rip me in half.

 

But it's really you holding me up through thick and thin, and for that, thanks.

 

Yes, the captions tell a story. I can imagine a certain follower smiling wryly…

Ben’s Story

Note to readers: This is the beginning of a short story that I’m writing. I would appreciate feedback!

Tadpole. That’s what they called him. Little Benjamin was almost thirteen years old, but you couldn’t have guessed. He was short and waif-like and a sparse brown fringe covered his forehead. He had beautiful brown eyes – not that anyone could ever see them, for they were always covered with thick tortoise-shell glasses.

Ben liked being alone, particularly at school, because the boys never passed up an opportunity to jeer at him. Many in his class wondered if Ben could even utter proper sentences – all they had ever heard from him were monosyllables. Ben had big ideas, and he had big dreams, but he was just afraid to bring out his thoughts. What if he stammered? What if everyone laughed? What if Ben just looked silly? He spoke with an embarrassing stutter and to rub salt in his wounds, the boys at school would sometimes call him ‘t-t-t-tadpole’. Then, even Melanie, the gorgeous blue-eyed Melanie would laugh. On those days, Ben would retreat in his shell and pretend he didn’t exist.

During lunch Ben would disinterestedly pick at his lunch, which was always, always a carelessly prepared corn beef sandwich which gooey veggies on the side. Then at PE Ben would sometimes pretend to be sick, just so he could slink towards the bench and sit himself down and read that wonderful book about stars and planets and milky ways. The walk back to the classroom was tedious too; he would walk with his head down, lost in thought, startled whenever someone called out his name.

In the classroom Ben sat alone in the chair by the large window and he usually liked being in that secluded spot, where he could think calmly and work. He watched half-interested as the teacher droned on about a math problem. Math was one subject Ben actually enjoyed – it was something he could do without being taught. In fact, no one except his mother knew he could spend long afternoons doing nothing except solving new problems, the thrill of conquering each problem urging him on to the next one. “Who knows the answer to question number 6 on the board?” the teacher said.

Never had Ben ever ventured to speak in class, but as he saw the math problem on the board, he was sure of the answer. He had come across the problem only two days back in the comfort of his bedroom. Slowly but surely Ben raised his hand. The teacher looked toward him incredulously. “Ben? Well, what a pleasant surprise. Do you know the answer?” Suddenly the class was quiet; you could have heard a pin drop as with bated breath the class waited for Ben to answer.

Ben stood up awkwardly, a deep flush creeping up his neck. He took a deep breath. “Well, the answer is, 2a-a-a-a minus b, is equal to s-s-s-even a plus 6b-b-b.” There, he’d said it. And he was sure he’d gotten it right too. Except that as he was halfway through his answer, Josh, a tall back-bencher with a hint of a moustache on his upper lip said: “But wouldn’t that be 6a-2b? He scanned the writing on the board again. Of course. He saw it now — he’d been so silly. His answer was incorrect and as he sat back into his chair blushing furiously, dejected and mortified, a voice from the back said, “Th-th-th-think before you answer tadpole.” Someone giggled. Ben was sure it was Melanie.

To be continued….

So would you like to know what happens next? Would you read if Part 2 was posted on this blog? Do let me know. Thanks.