Note: This Is A Guest Post By Taiyyaba
Ameir, my husband, is of Syrian descent. He also grew up with a lot of friends from India, Pakistan, and Bangladesh whose mothers fed him while he was in college. (I like to think he hung out with Desi, or South Asian people because he was preparing himself to marry me.)
Note: This is a guest post by Amer & Jasmina
These hamburger buns are so easy to make and so delicious. Once you make them, you won’t be able to buy buns at the store again!
Note: This is a guest post by WoodTurtle and was originally published on her blog, where she shares experiences in Islamic feminism and modern motherhood.
Well now that you know what’s been on my mind lately… here’s a little something on Sex in Islam and Sex with Muslims.
You don’t often hear about Muslims and sex. Maybe that’s because we always seem to be having babies — and you all know how much sex a couple with a baby (or two, or three…) is having.
But in the Media, the topic of sex in Islam is second only to niqaab and terrorism. Primarily because hetero sex, sexual expression, sexual freedom, sexual exploitation, and sexual stereotypes at times deals with female liberation VS male dominance, and the Western Media really, really wants to liberate Muslim women. How on earth can a woman who’s covered from head to toe in that black thing be having sex? Good sex? Enjoying sex? Selling sex? Kinky sex? How on earth indeed. How on a bed, in a car, on a train, in a shower, with herself, with more than one partner, with a same sex partner? Muslims? No way.
Note: The following is a guest post from Taiyyaba
I was always destined to be a foodie. My favorite short stories, or favorite parts of longer tales, were always about what food everyone was eating. So naturally, I loved the story of Stone Soup. The story of the old man who started with a rock and some water, and ended up with a mouthwatering stew was entirely enchanting to my child self. I could always taste the savory broth on my tongue and smell the strong aroma by the end of the story.
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.
“One of the things I’m grateful for is children who challenged me when I was wrong, even though they had to suffer my wrath.” – My Father
On a Monday afternoon, roughly three years ago, a group of my friends and I drove over to Walker Bros. Pancake House (Hello, Apple Pancake!). As we settled in, Azam sat across from me as our waitress handed us menus. A few minutes in to some pleasant conversation, one of our mutual friends began to tell a story. I wasn’t listening, and continued to laugh, and comment while he was speaking. To be quite honest, I was being downright obnoxious. And I knew it.
As a fairly quiet 16 year old, I didn’t act on many opportunities to travel outside my self-created computer and television screen bubble. Starting high school with a bit of a rough patch,
didn’t help much either. By the time of my junior year, however, I found some popular and friendly kids who created an open atmosphere in my physics class.