Welcome, Summer Ramadan
When you come, Ramadan
I’ve never felt ready
This year it’s summer, it’s long
Nevertheless I welcome you
For my detoxing resolution will be fulfilled
What am I to do with the kids’ holiday?
Whenever they say parks!
or sands!
I’d say naps!
“TV?Plee..ase?” says my youngest.
“I’m making a house!” My oldest brought all pillows down.
“Why don’t we have a nap?” replies a weary voice.
I guess it’s staycation after all.
………………………………..
(To be continued in my fasting titbits)
Hikayat Dua Bangsa
Lagi, dua orang pemuda tentara Inggris dan seorang perwira mati karena bom Taliban. Apa yang ada dalam benak orang tua Lance-Bombardier Matthew Hatton,23, dan Rifleman Daniel Wild, 19 melihat mobil pengabar kematian parkir di depan rumah? Bagaimana getar hati istri Letkol Rupert Thorneloe saat menerima dua perwira berseragam lengkap di ruang tamunya yang membawa sepucuk surat penyesalan mendalam dari Kementrian Pertahanan?
Putar mundur waktu, 64 tahun lalu di Surabaya, Indonesia. Total lebih dari dua puluh ribu pemuda terbunuh dalam perang 10 November. Kurang dari 50% yang nama-namanya terlacak. Tidak ada yang mengabarkan secara terhormat , tidak ada sepucuk surat pengakuan akan keberanian dan pengabdian sang pemuda, hanya doa dan harapan sunyi para Ibu dan kekasih untuk menguburkan jenasah para patriot tanpa seragam dan pangkat itu secara layak.
Para orang tua tentara yang mati di Afganistan telah menyatakan kematian mereka yang sia-sia dan berharap agar tentara Inggris ditarik mundur dalam kurun dua tahun. Pada 2006, Reg Keys, kandidat mandiri dalam Pemilu 2005 di Sedgefield, wilayah kuat Toni Blair, mendapat dukungan suara cukup besar. Ayah Tom Keys, 21, polisi militer yang terbunuh di Irak pada 2003, mencalonkan diri karena mempertanyakan legalitas pendudukan Irak pada bekas Perdana Menteri Inggris tersebut. Ia menilai Blair bertanggungjawab menyeret Inggris untuk mencari senjata penghancur masa yang tidak pernah terbukti keberadaannya bersama-sama dengan Amerika Serikat. Sebaliknya, adakah diantara para Ibu Arek Suroboyo yang protes dan menyesali kematian putra-putranya?
Seminggu menjelang “Hari Pahlawan” di Inggris – peringatan tahunan berakhirnya Perang Dunia I- seorang anak 5 tahun meminta Ibunya untuk menyematkan bunga popi kertas di dada seragam sekolahnya. “Supaya ingat pada orang-orang yang mati dalam perang, Bu,” katanya bersungguh-sungguh. Sang Ibu tersenyum tawar; tidak ingin mengecewakan maksud baik sang putra meski ia melakukannya dengan berat hati. “Tahukah kamu, Nak, Indonesia juga punya pahlawan-pahlawan hebat?” Mata putranya membundar lebar ingin tahu. “Mereka melawan dengan apa saja karena tidak ingin dijajah kembali,” lanjut sang Ibu. “Lalu? Apa menang?” Si Ibu menggangguk. “Di hari yang sama, Nak, Indonesia tidak mengingat kematian pahlawannya namun harga kebebasan yang Ibu dan Ayahmu rasakan”.
Sang putra memandangi Ibunya dengan bertanya-tanya; mustahil membayangkan lahir dan besar di negara kepulauan terbesar di dunia sementara dirinya lahir di negara kepulauan kecil yang pernah membangun imperialis selama ratusan tahun.
Esok, untuk ke lima kalinya ia akan hadir di Acara 17-an di rumah Duta Besar RI di London. Yang ada di benaknya adalah bertemu dengan teman-teman sebayanya bermain; berlari-lari di halaman asrinya dan mendengarkan Hedi Yunus. “Kenapa kita mesti hadir pada 17-an?” tanyanya. “Itu Hari Kemerdekaan, Nak. Bersyukurlah untuk merdeka karena tidak semua negara punya hari khusus itu”. Tidak juga Inggris, tambah sang Ibu dalam hati.
Selama hampir sembilan tahun tinggal, sang Ibu belum pernah mendengar publik bertanya tentang hari nasional lain di Inggris lainnya disamping “Poppy Day” dan hari-hari lain yang berkaitan dengan festival keagamaan.
Dipicu dengan pengeboman London 07/07/05, skusi tentang ”makna menjadi orang Inggris” terus bergulir, ditambah lagi dengan arus imigrasi Eropa Timur. Selain itu, integrasi sosial masyarakat pendatang dengan etnik yang telah bermukim jauh lebih lama, ie. English, Welsh, Scottish, Irish memunculkan isu soal identitas Britishness. Salah satu pertanyaan yang bergaung: apa bisa jadi British dan Muslim pada saat yang sama?
Keterbukaan Inggris menerima pendatang dari negara-negara persemakmuran, khususnya semenjak 1960-an adalah kebijakan yang tak lepas dari konsep Inggris sebagai “Negara Induk” (motherland). Dalam film East is East, komplikasi imigrasi diracik jeli dan jujur dalam refleksi sebuah keluarga Pakistan yang bermukim di kota Bradford di wilayah Midlands. Kota yang sering dipelesetkan sebagai “Bradistan” ini tampaknya didominasi oleh keturunan imigran Asia -India, Pakistan, Srilanka, Bangladesh- yang menggeser beberapa tradisi turun-temurun yang disesali sebagian orang-orang keturunan Anglo-Saxon.
Setelah identitas para pengebom bunuh diri di bis dan kereta api bawah tanah London terungkap, publik pun terhenyak pada fakta bahwa keempatnya adalah keturunan imigran yang lahir dan besar di Inggris. Bukankah mereka seharusnya English? Namun kemasgulan mereka sebagai muslim pada kebijakan anti terorisme pemerintah Inggris telah membutakan fakta tadi. Empat puluh tahun lalu, Enoch Powell dianggap rasis dan menjadi ancaman bagi politik imigrasi karena peringatan beliau tentang implikasi arus imigrasi pada prioritas sumber daya Inggris. Saat ini, isi pidato beliau mulai dipertimbangkan sebagai suatu kebenaran, meski beberapa pihak memanipulasinya untuk meningkatkan sentimen lokal pada para imigran.
Betapa rumitnya menjawab identitas British ini tidak dirasakan oleh seorang WNI sampai seorang kenalan Kaukasian bertanya tentang bahasa Ibunya. “Jawa,” jawab si WNI lugas. “Bukan Bahasa?” WNI menggeleng. “How come?” Dahi sang kenalan jadi berlipat. “Etnik saya Jawa, jadi bahasa yang saya tahu pertama kali ya Jawa”. Lipatannya makin bertambah ketika si WNI bilang ada lebih dari 350 etnik dengan bahasanya masing-masing di Indonesia. “Jadi seperti London, begitu?”tukasnya menyimpulkan. “Tepat”. Si WNI itu menyeringai dengan analogi akurat itu: kurang lebih 300 bahasa terdengar di Ibukota Inggris itu namun umumnya Londoners menggunakan Inggris sebagai bahasa pergaulan. Rupanya sang kenalan ini hanya mengenal Inggris sebagai L-1 (bahasa Ibu) dan tidak multilingual, seperti umumnya ras Anglo-Saxon dan Kaukasian lainnya . “Kamu beruntung bisa lebih dari dua bahasa,” tambahnya iri.
Ada pula seorang kenalan berbangsa Jerman, Karl, yang mendalami tentang studi perang di King’s College. Dalam sebuah percakapan, ia menjelaskan perang-perang sipil di Eropa antara abad ke-13 dan ke-15. “Bagaimana dengan kajian perang di Asia?” Ia menatap kosong. “Pada abad ke-13, ada seorang patih raja Majapahit yang bersumpah….” Cerita pun bergulir tentang Gadjahmada yang menancapkan konsep NKRI lewat sumpahnya mempersatukan Nusantara.
Di akhir diskusi, Karl hanya geleng-geleng kepala. “Saya tidak tahu sama sekali tentang hal itu,” tukasnya dengan nada menyesal, mungkin tertarik dengan pengetahuan barunya. Mungkin juga “kasihan” melihat semangat lawan bicaranya yang menggunakan gelas, sendok, garpu dan tatakan gelas sebagai ilustrasi detail. Yang pasti, di saat membandingkan wilayah Nusantara versi Gadjahmada dan wilayah Indonesia yang diakui internasional, ia pun terhenyak dengan faktor yang memungkinkan Indonesia tak terpecah: perbedaan sesungguhnya menjadi penguat.
Sampai per 16 Agustus 2009, 199 korban tentara Inggris di Afganistan. Ketika wajah pemuda yang empat bulan lalu berusia 19 menghilang dari layar TV, terbayang sebuah pertanyaan yang mungkin suatu hari anak-anak yatim tentara itu ajukan : “Kebebasan buat siapa yang Ayahku perjuangkan?”
The wrong trousers and a headscarf
Lubna Ahmed Hossein’s landmark winning recently reminds one of a wrong trousers case nearly twenty years ago. By and large, the Sudanese journalist was not found guilty of wearing trousers that deemed to be indecent for women in her culture. By comparison, hers was second to none to one’s high school experience of having been given scornful gazes and disagreeing looks from wearing a baggy denim and …..a headscarf. Nevertheless, Lubna’s courage to defend her case in the court highlights the notion of “what not to wear” in hijab clothing when it comes to the implication of its modesty principle.
First and foremost, in the early days of hijab movement in Indonesia back to the end of 1980s, wearing a headscarf meant strictly a quite loose abaya from top to toe. And a long headscarf. It was arguable yet not preferable when one started covering but wearing her super duper cool jeans, a long sleeve shirt covering her bum or tied her headscarf to the back.
Furthermore, imagine a little woman bumping into her high school senior in an Islamic study circle community. He reminded her to abandon her jeans. Much as she was shocked with his remark, she felt fortunate not giving a go of slitting its knees. Initially, she thought it was a one off thing. Yet her perceptive eyes caught disappointment, even frowning towards her appearance by some other female “proper” hijabers. Over time, they singled her out along with the other who used to wear similar jeans attending the circle meetings. It did make her puzzled what amounted to such a complaint. In her view, hers was roomy, long enough, covered her and did not show her body’s shape. Naturally, in what ways then did her jeans offend them?
When Lubna was arrested along with 10 other women with the charge of indecent clothing under Khartoum’s Sharia Law, she chose to stand a trial instead of waving her immunity as the UN press officer. When the little woman was gradually shunned away from the circle, she kept wearing trousers and was not convinced that Sharia did not allow them at the same time. Although the little woman did not face any obvious threats, her belief of a modesty based on wearing bags rather than a certain fashion had given her a cold shoulder from the majority. As the consequence, she was accepted half-heartedly due to her breaking the dress code. At the end, she agreed to disagree with her folks. Additionally, there was a lingering question with which the answer came much later: is it totally wrong to be chic in hijab?
Above all, Lubna did not have to wait long for her freedom. In the little woman’s, however, a mentoring programme organised by the Islamic society in her first year at university about aspects of hijab had sparked an issue of a decent outfit for Muslimah. Having been divided into small groups of seven, soon there was a clear division in viewpoints between the female senior tutors and us the freshwomen. It was unprecedented that the arguments were what considered as appropriate in hijab led to two main discrepancies: an abaya and a long hijab or a casual baggy outfit. She and other hijab and non-hijab progressive acquaintances certainly opted for the latter, pinpointing the fact that modesty and fashion could go together. Nonetheless, modesty was all but an intention to avoid making one attractive to the opposite sex, said the old fashioned group. The debate was hung open, for the time was up.
A few years afterwards, in the pilgrimage to Mecca, she developed an understanding of where the opposing view came from. By the same token, it was highly possible having derived from adapting Arab women’s outfit into a different context. Most significantly, it is resulted from a mindset which follows a culture where the prophet Muhammad, the God’s messenger, was born and lived to spread the beauty of Islamic teaching.
On the whole, Lubna and the little woman draw a similar plea: the right of wearing the right trousers without negative labels.
As for the little woman, it has moved on. Nowadays much more teenagers in Indonesia wear headscarves and jeans. Unfortunately, it seems in Sudan time stands still. To my delight Lubna is vindicated. This is not to say that the little woman, who is by the way now is a woman, feels the same. The young and some fashionista hijabers mushroom; wearing tight jeans or leggings with a tunic or a little tight shirt. This time, she was the one who frowned as passed. Were they still modest and loose? Strangely enough, the remark of the old fashioned group came back to her. Baggy jeans are so yesterday. She could only sigh silently.
What’s going on with the freedom?
Can I put my lipstick on?
Central Mosque, London. One fair afternoon after Ashr prayer. Ramadhan 1429 H ( October 2007). I came out of the bookshop to call my husband. Having forgotten to bring my credit card, I needed him to pay the books my son and me had chosen. As he went in, I was left with a boy who couldn’t wait to go to the playground in nearby Regent’s Park while my toddler daughter was eager to explore every corner of the mosque’s hall.
A Semit-look man in his late forties with a long greyish beard approached me. “Assalaamualaikum, Sister”. I looked up and soon I recognised his booming loud voice. In the shop I’d heard him asking a Caucasian man if he was a Muslim. Without further ado, he was looking into my eyes and said, ”Sister, you shouldn’t wear the lipstick”. He pointed on his lower lip, tracing his finger on it.
Suddenly I was dumbfounded. Out of the blue he raised an issue with my appearance. Does it disturb him? But who is he? Why does he say such thing to me?
My head was figuring out what to answer. “Well, I’m not fasting,” I mustered. Oh, crap! I don’t need him to tell me what to do. “Well, Sister, even though you’re not fasting,” he replied with such confidence. The commanding tone was annoying.
Did he, I asked to myself, ask me firstly before giving an advice? Wouldn’t Rasulullah, the prophet (peace be upon him) be seeking permission in teaching tauhid to people? On these grounds alone, I raised my eyebrows and was staring back at him. “You put that maybe in the evening for your husband,” he added before I could say another word.
Jeezz. Did he have a problem that my pink lipstick was matched with my pink flowery tunic?
Clenching my teeth, I said no more. I was not interested at all to challenge his statement further. My eyes were wandering to my children’s whereabouts. “Yeah, alright,” I answered him looking sideway, fuming.
For a moment, his words triggered the embarrassed feeling to my countenance. Was I not covered enough? Was I too colourful for him?
As he withdrew from my sight, I was relieved to see my husband stepping out out the shop clutching a carrier bag laden with books.
My voice was a bit trembling when I told him all afterwards. “You should’ve asked why or further the basis of his opinion,” he responded to my story lightly.
Hmm. Exactly. I would’ve done it had it not been in Ramadhan, the fact we were at the mosque and my children . Or if I was the old me who preferred to be up front with people. “Can’t be bothered, though” I answered grumpily.
But I can’t forget my peculiar encounter. I scour in hadeeth and some related references with regard to Islamic manners in my effort to find whether a muslimah wouldn’t be able to put on her make-up when she goes out with her husband. Or whether she can’t dress up and make herself beautiful for him. I can’t find yet the answer.
What do you think? Was he true? Was he wrong? Was I wrong?
Inspired by silaturahim
A makeover shawl with a black woven leather belt, a brown turtle neck top and brown trousers with matching ethnic themed long earrings and a necklace. And a black headscarf.
It was a farewell dinner that I nearly missed. My backache was coming, my head was spinning; mother’s nature knows best when to come. My eyes were fixed on my bed yet a starving stomach ought to be attended. Luckily, I did not feel bloated so the thought of gourmets in waiting was the one I was looking forward to. Little did I realise what I would get afterwards.
In The Forge I was sat between two very attractive ladies with their respective beauty. Both are yummy mummies and well-educated ones; indulging me with intriguing stories that struck the right balance between identity, motherhood and hormonal-induced issues.
As we finished with the starters, the one on my right picked her main course and went to the loo. “How long have you been here?” I changed the subject, asking to the other lady, while awaiting our acquantaince to finish her teenage angst recollections.
A garment brushed me gently from behind. She came back to her chair with such a grace that even the restaurant’s dimmed lights could not conceal a stunning silky tunic which wrapped her slim silhouette. What a top, I was thinking, enchanted by its colours and simplicity. It instantly reminded me to some untouched wraps at the bottom of my closet; gifts from friends that had never been used before. Not until did we end with our sea bass that I dared ask her further. “I bought this in X”, she replied, mentioning a reputable shop beyond Hyde Park Corner. “You could make one from joining two big scarves,” she adds “And it might be an idea for your muslim outfit”. Spot on. Nevertheless, I was considering it as a grand solution in order to cover my rear instead being fashionable. When we parted, her wearing it with denim and a bottle green waist-length leather jacket was lingered at the back of my mind.
So the next day I pestered the best seamstress I’ve ever known-aka mother- to cut an orange wrap that I fished out. aiming to make way for a head to get in and sewed the sides of it. Mission accomplished in thirty minutes (see the pic? Like it?). Furthermore, later in the afternoon we came to a fun day with which some ladies in the arts stall gave some compliments to the combination. What do you think?
Consequently it was not quite the food that made it worthwhile going. It was the conversation and the thrill of getting something out of the blue.
Best of all, I keep thinking what she said, “My mother in-law also had one. She wants to produce it back home”. Why not?
Saved by the angels
Inspiring young minds that got me through my flu
Saved by the angels, I was
Tiny and generous
Dainty but Strong
Caring and Courageous
With wobbly legs did she move
Caressing my stiffened body,
Awakening a spiritless soul,
Lavished one with the sweetest scent
Exhausted, he yanked me
Told one to play and pray;
to rejuvenate and rejoice,
even if in tears
For those I was truly saved
It’s rainy day
I stamped,
I splashed.
Paddling water under my feet
I dabbled,
I whooshed.
Sparking the rain to dance
Tik tik tik
Bunyi hujan diatas genting
Airnya turun
Tidak terkira
Cobalah tengok
Dahan dan ranting
Pohon dan kebun
Basah semua*
I sang,
I cheered.
Calling the bored clouds to play
Sprinkled some showers!
Sprayed them!
More, more, more
Twisted the winds
Tickled the storm
Twitched the thunder
Like a lullaby to my ears,
in the absence of moonlight.
*An Indonesian nursery rhyme – a loose translation) tik tik tik, the sound of (monsoon) rain is etched on the roof, the water falls undantly. Come and watch the boughs and the branches get wet. So do the trees and the garden.
A Kind Reminder
I was browsing the internet when the Maghrib adzan (BST) called. Suddenly, my three-year-old daughter stood by the door, pushing it open. “I need to wee, Mum”. Her eyes were not looking at me but the screen. Over an hour ago, I had tucked her in so I thought she would have had been fast asleep. She was not. So I stopped and took her to the loo.
On sitting on her toilet seat, she said, “Can I go sholat[1] with you?” Her eyes begging, her voice sounded gentle yet firm. Rinsing her private with the handheld douche, my left hand was shaking, gripping on the handle hard next to her skin while the water spraying from the hose. On releasing it, the tiny gap between the handle and the push button caught her thigh skin. Consequently she was yelping and her eyes were brimming with tears. Quickly I sat her on my lap and rubbed a pinched-like mark on her left thigh in a guilt-ridden shock. I was sitting on the loo floor comforting her for a while.
With droplets around her cheeks she repeated the sentence. Afterwards she was asking me to put her prayer outfit on. I took my ablution with such mixed feelings that got me thinking of her request. At first, I honestly did not take her intending to perform a jama’ah prayer after sunset seriously. Owing to the summer timetable, it is way past her bedtime. Furthermore, much as she might have heard the praying call, she could’ve weed and slept again just like when it goes off at another time during the day. Nonetheless, she wanted to pray with me at the time.
As we were performing our prayer, every movement was followed throughout. Neither did she run around nor take off her mukena[2]. Instead, she was quiet and solemn. As for me, I could not recall the last time I was punctual during nine summers I have been in London thus far.
When I tucked her in, she patted the pillow next to her signalling me to lay my head on it. Her eyes dimmed while looking at me then turned over. She went to sleep much faster than I thought.
[1]Sholat: praying (Arabic)
[2]a mukena: a tradition of wearing two pieces loose garments showing only one’s face while praying among Indonesian muslim women.
Edgwarebury Park
The rose garden at Edgwarebury park
Come, take a sip of a scent
In the rose garden, beneath the little rambler
Let’s sit, it’s free and empty
Best of all, it ain’t anyone’s
Inhale inhale inhale
Let its sweetness unbind your mind
In colours they’re talking
Showing off its blossoms
While some dance onto the ground,
Running out of their time
No sound, no sorrow
You see some spots on the leaves?
Soon it’ll be spreading fast
Take them off! Say you
(Do you reckon they’re taking them off?)
Nonetheless escalating
Rotting
Diminishing
Summer, autumn, winter, spring, summer
You’ll just have to wait
If they come back for another year
Leave not anything you wish you had
Neither the unspoken nor the seen ones
And take another sip,
and another one
I n h a l e i n h a l e i n h a l e
Ain’t healing any yet lingering
Enough to carry you through
