I guess despite being as “English” as my friends consider me, I still DO see the irony of a ladies only swimming session with MALE lifeguards. 

Apparantly, wanting a ladies only session is actually sexual discrimination as it excludes members of the opposite gender.  I would argue it doesn’t under the present circumtances as the local centre allow male life guard and men to wander freely through the pool area, thus including them in the session.  They might as well get their kits off and get in the pool with the ladies.  However, legally, they can call it a ladies only session because there are ladies ONLY in the pool, nowhere else.  Thus “Ladies only in the pool and Men everywhere else” would be a better name for the session; admitedly this is not as catchy. 

Despite my best efforts to explain that the session would only truly be “ladies only” if there was NO male presence around the pool area, including the lifeguards and random cleaners wandering into the changing areas with hosepipes,  (Yes, I AM serious)  the centre don’t actually agree with me.  I am just another “Asian” lady trying to cause trouble. 

This is all despite the fact that we used to have a truly ladies only ession at the same pool,but now they claim they just don’t have the female staff to give us what we want.  My argument would be, employ another lifeguard, but obviously, that’s not an option. 

The next move may be go down the religious discrimination route?�

So to keep you updated; I went, I applied, I conquered. 

 In the same shcool I might add.  Possibly the only way I could get a teaching job in the North East of England is a strange case of nepotism.  Having taught for a year in a school rife with its own problems, I was deemed adequate for a department full of disallusioned 40-somethings, fed up with the teaching profession, fed up of pupil behaviour, fed up with everything that isn’t having a moan in the staffroom.

Don’t misunderstand, I can complain to my heart’s content, but these women complain that the sky is a certain colour.  As they sit, gazing moresely out of the classroom window, lamenting about the greyish-blue of the sky, a colour that apparently makes the students go “barmy”, I cannot help but wonder what these amazing women could do with a bit of motivation.  They’re a diverse bunch, with years of teaching experience under their very tight belts!  Some love literature, others are actually well-travelled and well-cultivated individuals with a lot to offer the classroom…all are victims of a system that fails to train and re-train its professionals; a system that does not recognise that “kids today” genuinely ARE different to those, not just 30 years ago, but different to those we had last year, last week and last lesson.

Change in inevitable in teaching; it’s how you equip your workers to deal with that change that counts.  If you refuse to re-train professionals who have taught in exactly the same way as they did 30 years ago, then you are asking for a mutiny, inviting a rebellion.  You might as well just give them the arsenal and let them play…

Hey and As salaamu Alaykum all…

I do apologise to my loyal fan following for not blogging or posting anything of any value for a while.  I do realise you sit in anticipation of my posts, wondering, waiting for the next installment…fear not dear blogger fans, I will not disappoint (inshaAllah)!  I will be back soon with an update about teaching, learning Arabic (or not!) and other random musings! 

Until then…watch this space, and do leave me your comments!  Clean ones only please! 

So you like to believe there is no such thing as institutionalised racism?  Or even a subtle form of discrimination?

So would I.  In fact, I often defended schools are wholly inclusive institutions, against charges of racism levelled by my brother-in-law - the family Maths teacher.

That was until I applied myself.  Alhamdullilah I have nearly completed my first year of teaching, but getting even this maternity cover post was hard enough.  In fact, the school were SO desperate they hired me on the spot.  But that was after about 7 rejections from different schools in the area.  The first thing I obviously thought was that I was not good enough as a teacher.  After the first 5 interviews (which last a whole working day) I decided perhaps I needed to change tactics…so I wore a suit.   (A skirt suit)

After that, after being told I was perfect for the job, but that they prefered another candidate, I was under no illusion; nothing strikes fear in the heart than a piece of cloth on a woman’s head.  Obviously many middle class schools don’t want an openly practising Muslim indoctrinating their perfectly middle class students; in the case of rough comprehensives, they don’t want the hassle that comes with an “ethnic” teacher: racist abuse in the classroom, finding a place to pray, dealing with negative attitudes from parents.

And now the time dawns on me yet again, as my contract at my present school draws to a close, I need to find another more permanent position.  Thus, I embark on the journey of application and rejection, yet again.  All we can do in such a situation, us Muslims in the North East of England, is pray.  We live in hope.

They say revenge is a dish best served cold.  Taken from a French novel, the proverb seems to warn against micro-waving one’s dish before serving; very much like heating tinned sardines, when warmed, revenge begins to stink, the sickly taste exacerbated by the guilt felt upon tasting the fishy feast.

Thus, to remove the cold nature from a healthy – and well-deserved – plate of revenge is to ruin the entire experience; the cold part of the phrase constitutes a dispassion on behalf of the vengeful individual; remove this and feelings intrude.

The question of morality should never arise when it comes to revenge, it is precisely this that heats revenge, sours the fish and allows one’s heartstrings to get in the way.  In reality, the question of morality does arise when contemplating revenge, after all, we live in a world of consequences…but just imagine what we could do “If the occasion could trammel up the consequence.”  (Shakespeare’s Macbeth)

  

In the company of “adults” I always wonder where I belong. 

Let me explain.  At a gathering to celebrate a child’s finishing the Qur’aan from start to finish, there were a number of different groups I could have joined.

There was the children’s group, or “bacha party”, as we say in Urdu; obviously this would have been a nightmare, since most of the children were under 10.  Enough said. 

There was the group of girls who did not put in an appearance throughout the day, instead preferring to stay upstairs, possibly talking about clothes and the latest issue of “GirlTalk” - or whatever else teenagers talk about these days.  Another nightmare.

Then, there was the group of “Auntie” types who hung around, chatting and laughing, not helping out in the kitchen and generaly looking great.  Mostly Urdu-speaking and smelling slightly of peppermint and face powder, theses ladies were lovely and very welcoming of an unmarried twenty-something-year-old amongst their midst, but they were not my cup of tea, as I could not relate to their talk about social events, their husbands and whether or not they ironed their bedsheets.  (It turns out some of them actually iron them after putting them on the bed, whereas others prefer to iron them, air them, then put them on the bed.)

A fringe faction of this group was the group of Aunties who flitted between the kitchen and the “table-talk” group, making themselves useful, whilst keeping an ear out for any good news, or jokes coming from the other room, not failing to join in the “iron your bedsheets” debate.  (Some of them infact, do not iron their sheets due to time constraints and more useful pursuits; this was the faction I was secretly supporting.) 

After much flitting and inner debating, I positioned myself safely in the haven of the kitchen; heating, sorting, piling and heating, a comfort after the trauma of debating my position and place within the gathering.  It was here I sought refuge amongst the pots and pans, greasy asda bags, packed full of roast chicken, empty foil cartons, with remnants of the crispy bits from spring rolls, sitting idly at the bottom.

In some ways, they reminded me of my own situation; they did not belong on the crowded dinner table with other dishes, as crumbs are never served to guests; on the other hand, they don’t belong between the dinner table and the kitchen as no self-respecting guest would be seen picking at the leftovers.  Since I like to maintan that everything and everyone has a place and position, I would conclude the crispy bits of spring rolls belong solely in the kitchen, fulfilling their use at the bottom of a foil container, ready to be munched on, by their fellow “crispy bit”, dwelling amongst the remnants of the party. 

So, in the company of the crispy bits from spring rolls, under the shade of kitchen towels, I watch the “groups” interact; a truly multi-dimensional experience, allowing me to experience the “bacha party” (children’s party/group) and the “adult party”, in all it’s glory, faction groups and fringe movements attached.  So with the crispy bits as sustenence, I watched and learned. 

One no longer mourns their lack of belonging, under the shade of kitchen towels, in the company of the crispy bits from spring rolls…

In the company of adults I always wonder where I belong. 

Let me explain.  At a gathering to celebrate a child’s finishing the Qur’aan from start to finish, there were a number of different groups I could have joined.

There was the children’s group, or “bacha party”, as we say in Urdu; obviously this would have been a nightmare since most of the children were under 10 and avidly concerned with the guinea pig and rabbit that were trying to escape into a nearby garden away from prying and inquisitive hands.  The children had formed two groups to try and trap said animals as and when they emerged from the neighbouring bush.  As I glanced idly out the window in the twilight, I saw the military precision with which the soldiers guarded their positions, illuminated by the glow of maghrib, strange halos elucidating and sharpening my intrusion onto their world. 

There was the group of girls who did not put in an appearance throughout the day, instead preferring to stay upstairs, straightening already poker-straight hair with red hot irons, possibly talking about clothes and the latest issue of “GirlTalk” – sharing secrets their mothers would never know, swapping tight jeans and sparkly earrings for the next school disco in between the murmured prayers of twilight, rising, bowing, kneeling and prostrating alongside the extraterrestrial silver implements that styled their hair, which excluded me with razor sharp precision, guarding and watching me menacingly. 

Then, there was the group of “Auntie” types who hung around, chatting and laughing, not helping out in the kitchen and generally looking great.  Mostly Urdu-speaking and smelling slightly of peppermint and face powder, theses ladies were lovely and very welcoming of an unmarried twenty-something-year-old amongst their midst; but they were not my cup of tea, as I could not relate to their talk about social events, their husbands and whether or not they ironed their bed sheets.  It turns out some of them actually iron them after putting them on the bed, whereas others prefer to iron them, air them, then put them on the bed; others have so many bed sheets that ironing the sheets, adding them to an existing pile then making use of a previously washed sheet was the preferred method of laundering and replacing. 

A fringe faction of this group was the group of Aunties who flitted between the kitchen and the “table-talk” group, making themselves useful, whilst keeping an ear out for any good news, or jokes coming from the other room – do their husbands provide them with a large enough allowance?  What are the etiquettes of feigning a headache without actually refusing to sleep with him so the angels don’t curse you until the morning?  The Islamic headache.   All the while, the muhajiroon Aunties did not fail to join in the “iron your bed sheets” debate.  Some of them in fact, do not iron their sheets due to time constraints and more useful pursuits; the faction I was secretly supporting.

After much flitting and inner debating, I positioned myself safely in the haven of the kitchen; heating, sorting, piling and heating, a comfort after the trauma of debating my position and place within the gathering.  It was here I sought refuge amongst the pots and pans, greasy Asda bags, packed full of roast chicken, empty foil cartons, with remnants of the crispy bits from spring rolls, sitting idly at the bottom.

In some ways, they reminded me of my own situation; not belonging on the crowded dinner table with other dishes, as crumbs are never served to guests; on the other hand, they don’t belong between the dinner table and the kitchen as no self-respecting guest would be seen picking at the leftovers.  Since I like to maintain that everything and everyone has a place and position, I would conclude the crispy bits of spring rolls belong solely in the kitchen, fulfilling their use at the bottom of a foil container, ready to be munched on, by their fellow “crispy bit”, dwelling amongst the remnants of the party. 

So, in the company of the crispy bits from spring rolls, under the shade of kitchen towels, in the hearts of green lettuce,* I watched the groups interact; a truly multi-dimensional experience, allowing me to experience the “bacha party” (children’s party/group) and the “adult party”, in all it’s glory, faction groups and fringe movements attached.  So with the crispy bits as sustenance, I watched and learned. 

One no longer mourns their lack of belonging, under the shade of kitchen towels, in the company of the crispy bits from spring rolls… 

___________________________________________________________________

* The title of the blog post and these references are a changed version of a very famous hadith about martyrs and paradise.  See the Book of Jihad, Bukhaari for reference.  The actual post is taken from a blog book which is currently a work in progress.    

Glossary

Bacha: child

Maghrib:  sunset; a prayer prayed at sunset

Mujahiroon: plural of Muhajir which means traveller/Emigrant

The love of the Beloved
must be unconditionally returned.

If you claim love
yet oppose the Beloved,
then your love is but a pretence.
You love the enemies of your Beloved
and still seek love in return.

You fight the beloved of your Beloved.

Is this Love or the following of shaytaan?

True devotion is nothing
but total submission
of body and soul
to One Love.

We have seen humans claim to submit,
yet their loyalties are many.

They put their trust here, and their hope there,
and their love is without consequence.

Excerpted from An-Nooniyyah
Quoted in “Al-Walaa wal-Baraa” of Muhammad Saeed al-Qahtani
© 1993 Al-Firdous

The final book in the Tales of the Otori Trilogy (or not, as we shall see later!) 

The final book is full of tales of the battles fought by Takeo with his new Army.  I admit, it get tedious at times, especially sicne it lacks the flashes of brilliance from the first book in the trilogy.  Rather than being packed with wisdom and timeless quotes, the final book moves more towards trying to wrap up the story…or not.

 This is not the final book, there is an open-ended conclusion, leaving room for thr recently published The Harsh Cry of The Heron!  I must admit though, it was not the ending I was expecting, and it’s not a “live-happily-ever-after” kind of conclusion.

I must admit, it was quite a riveting trilogy; it leaves the reader wanting more, wanting desperately to know what happens next.  This anticipation is what keeps you reading late into the night, despite the fact that you have work the next day. 

Yes, it’s not perfect, at times, it’s quite annoying, but one cannot deny this trilogy was well-written, well-researched and a good read! 

Yes, it loses it’s charm when you realise the writer is from Australia, whose last name is Rubenstein! (I am yet to discover her “real name!)

In conclusion, read the trilogy, even if it is because you have an interest in reading, or in Japan or you like Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon.

Ok, so I HAD to read the second book straight away.  It would have been wrong not to; I couldn’t leave it on the shelf for the story to fester (although the trilogy has been on my shelf for over a year now)

This is the second book in the tales of the Otori Trilogy, and like most sequels it tried it’s best to live up to its older brother.  Written in exactly the same style, continuing the storyline EXACLTY where the first book left off, this book did not disappoint.

I must admit the title didn’t suit the book as much as the first title; it seemed a bit misplaced after the brilliance of “Across the Nightingale Floor.”  However, despite this, the story was continued using crystalline prose, which left the reader wanting more at the end of each page. 

Unlike many writers, Lian Hearn (not her real name unfortunately) manages to maintain the reader’s interest through extremely long chapters.  This is a skill in itself so the reader can forgive the author somewhat for glossing over aspects of the story.  This is one failing with the novels, the reader wants background information; we are gagging to know about the sub-plots and the fringe characters, their lives, loves and adventures rather than have them paraphrased into a few paragraphs.  Although this would make the trilogy unnecessarily long, the reader cannot help but wonder about the history of the fringe characters.

The second book followed the same sequence as the first: Takeo, as a man has his own voice, telling his own story, demonstrating to the reader how he has developed and matured since the events of Across The Nightingale Floor; again Kaede’s story is told in the third person, as a woman in a patriarchal/feudal society she has no voice of her own, she is defined by an omnipresent narrator, who the reader begins to feel has a more “feminine” voice as we turn the pages, desperate to know if the two are ever reunited.  

 I do not want to reveal the story to everyone, but just to say, again, the reader is left wanting more, and ready to start the third book on the same night!  Well-written and exciting!  I am currently reading the third book…watch this space!