Note: Re-posted because of a recent article on SuhaibWebb.Com, mentioned below.
While reading through Rawiya’s last post, I was reminded of a conversation I had with my own mother about when I was 16. I was sitting at a computer in my parents’ family room. She was in her usual spot, ironing, and watching television.
“Mom, what do you think about Muslim dating?”
“Beta, you mean having female friends? That’s fine”
My mom is precious ain’t she? That was obviously not the answer I was looking for, so I pried further.
“Yeah, that’s fine and everything mom, but what about, you know, physical affection and stuff?”
“Beta, you mean kissing and petting ?”
Note: This Is The 2nd In A Series About How I Met My Wife (And Daughter). Just joining us? Here’s Part 1, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5
We left off just as I boarded a plane back to the U.S. in April of 2009. I had just stayed with EyeDot and her daughter WarriorPrincess for 3 days at the end of my Malaysian adventure. While there, EyeDot and I developed an interest in each other.
Just seven days after I left, EyeDot launched a scheme to get me back in Southeast Asia. She suggested that she ask (read: she ordered) her younger brother to hire me to photograph his wedding in Penang two months later.
You read that correctly. She, the eldest in the family, tried to get her family to fly me (the youngest in my family) across the world so we could have an excuse to get to know each other. Talk about ovarian fortitude!
Note: This is a reflection by Mrs. HijabMan on part 1 of “How I Met My Wife (And Daughter)”
Ask me a couple of years ago for a hug and if you were a guy I’d have said sorry, I don’t hug guys. I’m Muslim. I don’t touch persons of the opposite gender (heck, I really shouldn’t even be looking at you). It breaks your wudu (ablutions). And hugging… HUGGING?!! That would be one step down the slippery slidey slope to zina (fornication). I mean, how can I hug a guy without feelings of lust arising in me (and him), driving us to distraction (and more). (!!!!!)
Oh, the awkward situations that have played out when I tried to get out of a hug-in-progress… There was the time when my big professor heard I was getting married (the 1st time) and promptly came at me with arms wide open. I didn’t want to offend him so stayed rigid as a tree while he gave me a congratulatory squeeze. I have no idea if he realized how uncomfortable I was about that hug. Once I came out of the elevator in my graduate dorm and was greeted by a good friend who I hadn’t seen in a loooong time. As his arms opened wide and he came towards me, I did a kind of un-graceful pirouette under and around his outstretched arms, stumbling over myself to get out of his way. It was so awkward – he didn’t know what was going on, and I apologized profusely, explaining that while I was very happy, really very happy, really I was, to see him, it’s inappropriate for me to hug guys. Then there was my long-time labmate who helped me through Matlab coding issues and presentations and experiments; marriage and baby and divorce and graduation. When I graduated, we just gave each other shrugs and shook hands, though I’d just gone round hugging everyone else in the lab (it just so happened that only the girls were there that day).
Then one day, Hijabman offered me a hug just before he left Singapore for a 24hr trip back to Philly.
Note: This is a guest post by WoodTurtle, it originally appeared on her blog where she shares experiences in Islamic feminism and modern motherhood.
On Friday my mom took care of Eryn while I took some sorely needed “me” time to run some errands.
When she gets fussy, one of my mom’s tried and tested ways of getting Eryn to calm down is to take rides in the elevator. Up and down they go, pushing buttons, making faces in the mirrored walls, and more importantly, giving smiles and waves to the strangers they meet.
Recently my mom has been trying to befriend Muslims in her neighbourhood as well as mine, specifically so that Eryn can have some Muslim playmates on the days my mom will care for her once I return to work (and generally, because my mom is just friendly). So when a Muslim woman with her 15 month old took a long ride down from the penthouse to ground, my mom naturally stuck up a conversation.
After chatting about ages and the cuteness of babies, the woman asked, “So what’s her name?”
“That’s an Arabic name. Are you the babysitter?”
Note: This is the 1st part in a series about how I met my wife (and daughter). Check out Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5.
It seems like a romantic comedy plot [as long as I get played by Hugh Grant, okay?] or even a Bollywood movie [without all the drama and dance numbers…] but it happened. I met and married a woman exactly halfway around the world, adopted her daughter as my own, and moved to Southeast Asia to be with them.
Note: This is a guest post by WoodTurtle. This post originally appeared at her blog, where she shares experiences in Islamic feminism and modern motherhood.
So what happens when God leaves a woman’s manner of worship up to her own interpretation? Someone else invariably interprets it for her.
Two very interesting articles recently made their way to me.