And years before that, when I was on a published authors internet board, I mentioned that when I checked my webstats for my website (back then I didn’t have a blog) one of the consistent peekers at my website included the U.S. military and I said something like, “I’m sure they’re watching me.”

Thing is, I said this with a sort of ‘shrug of the shoulders’ attitude because I have nothing to hide. But the reaction from the others on the board was curious. They all said, “No, Rukhsana. It couldn’t be. Probably it’s just some members of the military who are checking out your work.”

I said I doubted it but it wasn’t worth arguing about.

I guess it’s hard for them to realize that most Muslims feel like they’re being watched.

Same thing happened at the restaurant in Singapore with my colleagues. I told them flat out that I assume every one of my emails is being read by someone monitoring me.

They looked at me like I was paranoid.

Huh!

Who was it who said, “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you?”

Okay, just googled it and it seems as if it was Joseph Heller who wrote Catch 22, who said that.

And wow, look how all that fiction is becoming reality!

After the NSA–Edward Snowden bombshell this past week, I can’t help feeling a little smug and vindicated.

And also feeling that most North Americans are actually kind of naive. They trust their governments too much.

And yet this violates the very principles that America was founded on.

It was Ben Franklin who said, “Those who would sacrifice liberty for security, deserve neither.”

A very admirable and profound sentiment!

I remember standing at his gravesite, just across the commons where the Declaration of Independence was signed and feeling moved.

That showed a real vision for the country! I think Americans do realize how fortunate they were to have some pretty impressive minds putting their country together!

Too bad they’ve strayed so far from their vision.

And now we have Snowden’s whistle blowing to confirm it.

And yet it wasn’t that long ago when I watched Morgan Freeman in that movie Seven with Brad Pitt. Remember that scene where he says, “Look, I know a way. We’re not legally allowed to do this…” And then they check out the library records to find who’s been looking into Dante’s inferno and referencing the seven deadly sins to catch the serial killer.

Funny how tentative the Morgan Freeman character was when he confessed it. Because he knew that it’s a violation of privacy and hence the constitution.

They’re basically violating their own laws!

Now…

That doesn’t even make anyone bat their eyelashes!

We all know they’re monitoring what websites we access and what books we take out from the library.

And in the wake of all that, last night we watched ‘V for Vendetta’ and a lot of things finally started to gel inside my head.

I’d heard that it was this movie where the whole idea for the masks that Anonymous, that internet hacking group wears came from.

Watch the movie.

It’s supposed to be fiction, but it’s surprising how close it has hit to the truth. One of the characters says, “Artists use lies to tell the truth while politicians use lies to hide the truth.”

And Obama, the consumate disappointment, has completely proven that to be true.

Yeah, so I feel vindicated.

But ironically, I’d so much rather feel that I had overeacted.

What a year it’s been.

I’m exhausted!

Doesn’t help that I started a new diet this week.

I’ve been struggling along on limited rations, and it’s affected my speech patterns I swear!

But then anything can affect your speech patterns. Lack of sleep, distractions like noisy special needs kids, all kinds of things can disrupt your speech patterns.

I guess it’s like a singer knowing that their voice isn’t in perfect form, that they’re not hitting all the right notes.

I feel like that when I’m not telling the stories perfectly, and the funny thing is it’s leading to a bit of anxiety.

Even when I play the ‘what if’ game right to its logical conclusion, it doesn’t really help.

I’m anxious about getting up in the morning to get to the presentation venue on time. Even though I’ve never slept in, alhamdu lillah, in the fifteen years I’ve been presenting, I’ve never overslept, but the fear of it is enough to disrupt my sleep.

And yet there were a few times when I was late. Once was when, ironically, a TDSB van backed into me and the accident, fender bender, took time to settle. That day also the 401 was jammed and I was significantly late to the venue. About an hour late.

The world did not end.

Obviously.

The people did not curse me either.

In fact all they did was cram the kids into the one session instead of the two. We worked around it.

One other time was because of a miscommunication. The lady had named her school, but not given me the address. I’d sent her the invoice with the address of the school on it and she had not said anything at all. There happened to be two schools by that name. One in Toronto’s west end, the other in Newmarket (about 45 minutes north). When I’d googled the school the first one that came up was the Newmarket school. I arrived there about an hour early. Sat in the car for about fifteen minutes just to chill, went inside and the staff looked at me like, “Huh? A presentation? Here?”

But then, they were SO helpful! The secretary searched on her own computer and we found the correct school! I called from there, and rushed down the 400 to try to get there in time.

Got there after the assembly had started but still in time to do my schtick. And it was agreed all round that it was the administrator’s fault for not checking the address on the invoice I’d sent her.

And other times I’ve always phoned if traffic has tied me up and I’m just down the street. Never been more than five or ten minutes late.

People were more than understanding!

Especially since I’d call to let them know.

And yet I keep remembering the time I visited a school and the librarian complained to me about this other storyteller I know. A storyteller, in fact, who had taught me some of the skills I have.

This librarian said how she’d arrived forty minutes late at the school, the kids had assembled in the gym, then waited so long, they sent them back to their classrooms. The storyteller arrived, no explanations, no apologies, demanded to know why the kids weren’t ready for her in the gym, did her presentation–which was wonderful–but short! She cut it short! Not even the full hour! And then waltzed out of there without so much as a, “I beg your pardon.”

I think the anxiety I feel is because I never want anyone to ever speak about me like that!

And I guess I can imagine too well them saying things like, “Oh that was so not worth it!”

So I always make sure I give the schools added value.

And yes, it makes me anxious.

Watched Postcards from the Edge tonight, and I’m starting to suspect that the creative fields seem prone to drug abuse because of this very type of anxiety that I’m experiencing. We artists know that the service we’re providing is ‘ethereal’. Not of a ‘concrete’ nature.

At least it’s not like a pile of beans, that you can say, “Yup, I paid for exactly five pounds of lentils and that’s what I’m getting!”

And every performance is unique, no matter how well rehearsed they are.

I think people are wound up so tight in this culture that taking intoxicants is a way to surrender their control over themselves so that for a little while, they’re not accountable.

How else can you explain the desire of so many young people not just to drink, but to get stinking drunk!?

Yup. Anxiety.

I’m so glad that Islam forbids alcohol and intoxicants. It means it’s not even an option, and instead what I’ve had to do is to develop other coping strategies, like getting to bed really really early on nights before I have to present.

And taking deep breaths. And every time I arrive on time, when I was afraid I’d be late, giving myself a little pep talk saying, “See? That wasn’t so bad! And even if you had been a bit late, it’s NOT the end of the world!”

Well, tomorrow night is the last presentation of the school year. And after that I can work on all the story ideas I have fluttering around in my head!

Looking forward to it!

The protests really caught me by surprise.

It’s funny because last Friday, the day before we were leaving, we were at the only Chinese restaurant in the country, which is in Istanbul.

The Chinese people in the group were ecstatic. I remember one lady telling me she’d never eaten so much salad before in her life!

In Turkey, before every meal we had a little salad. And some soup. Funny how my rosacea cleared up so well while we were there!

Anyway, the lady informed me that all Chinese vegetables were served cooked, even lettuce.

I had never noticed!

But when we sat down at the Istanbul Chinese restaurant, sure enough, the lettuce arrived wilted, having been stir-fried.

We were just wrapping up lunch when the tour guide came by and said, “Don’t go outside. There’s a protest. Just sit down and relax.”

That was weird!

It was a very fast-paced tour! We basically rested on the long rides on the bus.

Fifteen minutes later we were informed that the coast was clear. The protest had marched up the street where the restaurant was at, and entered the square.

When the bus arrived, one of those big modern 46 seater jobbies, we were stuck in traffic for about five minutes, trying to go up hill.

Then the driver did an odd manoeuver. He did a three point turn in a narrow busy street!

A bus!

Turning right around in a narrow busy street!

There were drivers and pedestrians yelling at him and honking, but he did it!

Turned out the reason we’d been stuck there for so long was because the street ahead was blocked off by the protests. We wouldn’t have been able to move!

And thus we were able to bypass the protests.

That was it.

That was all I saw of any protests.

It’s funny about our perceptions of other countries.

I asked people who’ve been to Pakistan recently if it wasn’t scary and dangerous. From the news reports, there are suicide bombings on every corner.

Even when things were pretty dicey I heard that no, actually in most areas it’s calm. It’s just a few areas that are restless.

And I thought about what some people down in St. Catherines even said about Toronto. St. Catherines is a little city on the other side of Lake Ontario. They hear of a murder now and then in Toronto and think it’s just as dangeroud and lawless a place as Syria is right now.

Ah perceptions!

It is funny though. From the way the tour guide was speaking, Turkey was a modern day utopic society! Guess there’s turmoil under the surface.

Still trying to digest what happened in Kapadokya.

The last evening we were in Kapadokya, which is a wonderful little area where the people have carved their houses in granite chimneys formed 25 million years ago by volcanic action.

With Tai pan tours, the company we went with, they always try to include a big finale sort of cultural experience. When we went to Shanghai it was a sort of Chinese opera where the stage was a small lake. Really cool!

In Kapadokya it included folkdances and a bellydancer.

The folkdancers were charming.

The bellydancer, not so much.

It was totally ironic that she came out with silvery fabric wings attached to two long sticks. She covered herself with the wings like a sort of cape and then extending her arms she presented the image of an angel.

Yeah right.

An ‘angel’ wearing a white bra and a skirt with a slit up to there, leaving little if anything to the imagination.

A kind of campy Victoria Secret sort of vision.

I felt completely uncomfortable. And I even felt ashamed for her, and then I scolded myself. Why should I be feeling ashamed when she was feeling nothing of the sort?

There had been a belly dancer at one of the hotels we were at but it was well after dinner.

This experience was during dinner, so we had little choice in attending.

Can you imagine how awkward it is, being fully dressed, watching someone perform who is practically naked?

I never would have chosen the experience, and yet here it was presented to me and I thought I’d approach the matter in an analystical frame of mind.

Checking how I felt as the experience wore on.

Okay, she was slim. And I’m definitely not.
And I wondered how many of the women in the audience were measuring themselves against her physique.

And I wondered if they envied her the attention she was receiving.

And I asked myself honestly if I did.

Nope.

Not at all.

And that made me feel a little better.

Then I watched her perform. She used her body as her props.

At one point she even flexed her pectoral muscles so that her boobs jumped up and down to the rhythm of the music.

I didn’t find it provactive. I found it embarrassing.

Then she even went up to men in the audience who were videotaping her and shoved her breasts right into the lenses of their cameras, again all to the drum beats.

And yet the one thing we both have in common was how she worked the crowd.

At the end she brought up three women and one man and tied belly dancing scarves around their middles and gave them a belly dancing lesson.

Even manhandling them in the process. Going behind the man and lisfting up the points of what would have been his breasts and flailing them around like she did with her own.

And finally when it was over I only felt really embarrassed for her. I don’t think it’s empowering. Not at all.

I thought it was disgusting.

And to think that’s what Middle eastern culture is famous for!

And part of me faced the fact that she probably felt the same way about me, if she gave me a thought at all. Me in my fully covered head to toe garb.

And that reminded me of a scene in American Gangster when the Denzel Washington character said that the person who is the most flamboyantly dressed in any crowd, is always the weakest.

And that would be her.

And it also reminded me of the Ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs I’d seen and the guide saying that the slaves were always depicted whearing th least clothes. And I still think thatt’s somewhat true.

Women are the ones who admire the belly dancer, the men treat her as a sex object.

It’s not powerful.

And then it made me realize that’s true of any performer. They are working for th audience. The audience is the one with the power.

I’m writing this from Turkey.

It certainly isn’t what I expected!

Our guide is a petite lady with pretty good English, very secular, and a real proponent of Mustafa Kemal Ataturk who had a big hand in getting rid of the Islamic influences in Turkey and making it secular.

I’m certain I read somewhere that he banned Islamic dress, he definitely changed the language from an Arabic derivative to English, over night turning the whole country illiterate, but then again he overthrew a pretty corrupt sultan system.

She calls Ataturk a national hero and today we went to visit (pay homage) to the man himself.

I felt much like I did in Nanjing when we were dragged up the mountainside to visit the tomb of the guy who fathered modern China.

Modern politics doesn’t really appeal to me. So when my Mom was having trouble navigating the stairs I took it as the perfect excuse to stay behind and not visit the mausoleum and museum displaying his artifacts.

Funny thing is though both my father and mother both admire the guy too, in fact my mom had every intention of reciting surah Fatiha over his grave on behalf of her father who was a real Ataturk fan, (so much so that he even took to wearing his distinctive red fez).

My husband told me I really missed out on an experience. He said the museum was excellent and he argued that Ataturk had to do something drastic to get the yoke of Islamic rigidity off the people’s backs.

Basically he said everyone was free to be religious or not. But if that were really true why would it be so hard today, for a member of Turkish parliament to wear hijab.

I think secularists just assume that if you give people a choice they won’t bother sticking to ‘ancient’ principles that seem very inconvenient.

But Turkey has been fascinating.

It is a BEAUTIFUL country! With rolling fields of farmland and mountains and plants I can recognize from Canada, and we’ve been seeing a LOT of it! We’ve basically done a circuit through Istanbul and Troy and down to Ankara and now, I’m writing this from a small Unesco heritage town called Safronbolu, which means city of saffron because they grew saffron here and were famous for it.

It’s from the Ottomon period, the sixteen hundreds to eighteen hundreds and many of the buildings are restored and turned into shops and hotels.

The cities here are impeccably clean, and when we went out for a walk just before sunset I realized why. They have street cleaners who dligently pick up all the garbage.

So it’s not like other Muslim countries in that regard.

And there are no beggars. My husband only saw one little boy who stretched out his hand. Some people are definitely poor, but they don’t beg. And even the annoying hawkers that hounded us at The Blue Mosque refused to take my father’s twenty lira note without him buying something for it.

I guess it’s understandable that we’ve run into a lot of tourists. They have rest stops on the highways just like back in North America, and everyone gets off the buses to be empty their bladders or bowels.

Sometimes you have to pay a lira for the privilege. A funny thing happened. At one of the rest areas the line for the ladies w.c. was so long that we probably wouldn’t have been able to make it back to the bus in time so the Chinese guide told us to go ahead and use the men’s w.c. where there was no line.

So a bunch of us ventured into forbidden territory.

Men’s washrooms just feel dirtier than women’s somehow!

Guess I took longer than I should. I always squeamishly wipe down the toilet seats and I was the last woman coming out of the stalls. There was a guy unzipping at the urinal and I thought, “Yikes!” and averted my eyes, trying to hurry the heck out of there, when a Muslim gent came in and raised both of his hands in an alarmed gesture saying, “Ya Muslim! What are you doing in here?”

I tripped over the words, trying to explain that we’d had permission from our guide, and then he just laughed and said, “Don’t worry sister, I’m only joking!”

Phew!

Got to see the birthplace of an unexpected celebrity!

Mullah Nasruddin aka Nasruddin Hoja, Hoca, Goha, a folktale figure who is absolutely famous across Muslim lands, was born in Turkey.

Can’t remember the name of the city right now but I took a picture of the statue they’d erected of him, riding a donkey backwards.

As soon as our Turkish guide said his name and that we were passing through his birthplace I perked right up.

(We also went through the city where Rumi is buried but I don’t know nearly as much about Rumi as I do about Mullah Nasruddin so it didn’t hit me that hard!)

We were having lunch at the restaurant right where the statue was and I said to my Chinese co-travellers that they really didn’t get how significant a place this was and how famous Mullah Nasruddin really is!

When I ventured into storytelling was when I first learned about the Hoja and I’ve loved his stories ever since. I said to my husband, they need to know! They need to hear some of his stories and I thought of telling the guide that I’d be willing to do a bit of an impromptu storytelling session while on the bus, he said let him talk to the guide.

The guide looked doubtful but agreed. Later while we were boarding the bus she said something along the lines that she wasn’t sure they’d enjoy the stories. She didn’t find them funny.

I couldn’t believe it! She didn’t like the Hoja stories???

But then given her secular west-leaning nature, maybe I shouldn’t have been that surprised that she wouldn’t find value in traditional Islamic stories.

I told about six stories, and the weirdest thing was they actually knew of one of them: the one where Hoja and his son are walking with his donkey.

But they laughed, and they loved the stories, and the guide said that she’d even ‘smiled’.

Wow. Only smiled.

It’s sad when a people can’t find enough value in their own culture.

At the time I was feeling relaxed and mellow. That feeling has since vanished

Slow down, you move too fast
Got to make the morning last, just
Skipping down the cobblestones,
Looking for fun and feeling groovy!

You can’t believe when I was softly singing this little Simon & Garfunkel ditty.

It was in a hot tub/jacuzzi, jets pulsing, bubbles threatenning to overflow onto the travertine floor, looking up at the chisel marks on the granite ceiling of the room of the cave hotel we’re staying in.

After the turbulence of some very emotional days, I was thinking, “This is the life!”

Couldn’t get onto the internet to post this at the time, and now, a day later, I’m feeling all riled up again.

Let’s just say that traveling with my parents isn’t like it was five years ago. They’ve aged five years and so have I. They’re not as spry as they were back then, and in fact they weren’t spry back then!

The scariest thing was coming back from viewing the ruins of Troy and seeing my mom, basically passed out in a super hot and stuffy bus. My dad sitting beside her.

It was the day of Arafat all over again and I used my firmest ‘mother’ voice on my own mother, practically scolding her, telling her in no uncertain terms, “Wake up and dring some water!”

It was pitiful the way she obeyed me. I got about 750 mls into her and she became alert.

And at the time she said she wasn’t even hot!

That scared me because the bus was stifling!

Let’s just say it was one very scary experience. Reminded me of the day of Arafat when that lady handed me a bag of vomit and asked me what to do.

One sign of dehydration is actually vomiting.

Weird, I know, but there it is.

But oh the sights we’ve seen and my parents missed!

After Troy we went to a place called Pergamon that was looted by German workers in the 1800′s.

It was oh so windy at the top of that mountain and knowing that I was standing on the foundations of the second largest library in the ancient world (the first being in Alexandria that was actually destroyed by fire) was so cool!

My parents rode up in the cable car but didn’t venture into the treacherous footing of the ruins.

It was weird. In my mind’s eye I kept pictureing a child, a little girl, scampering up the uneven steps.

Then we went to Ephesus. The ruins of which rival Petra in my estimation.

It’s werid too because there is a building in Ephesus that even looks like the famous treasury building in Petra, and like Petra, only a small portion of Ephesus has been excavated.

The library in Ephesus was called the Celsius library.

I wrote all that in the cave hotel in Kappadokya, Turkey.

It was so cool to be spending th enight in a cave that was hewn out of solid granite by ancient hands.

At least my parents are back to their chipper selves. And now I can actually enjoy the scenery.

That’s’ what the Britis and Germans and who knows who else has done. The Germans even have a museum in Berlin named the Pergamon after all the loot they stole from Pergamon!

It’s been a whirlwind! Can’t believe we’re on the fifth day of the journey all ready.

The Blue Mosque is a wonder! Went there on Saturday and prayed in a corner with my parents. They had tears in their eyes. I just kept remembering that image of Malcolm X praying beneath its incredible domes.

The Topkapi palace was beautiful. Sprawling complex with three main exhibit halls. One for the Sultan’s clothing, one for the jewelry and one for Islamic relics.

I was surprised to find a huge lineup outside the Islamic relics. Mostly non Muslims too! And how keenly they read the notices explaining Islam.

Many of the tourists here are from countries all over the world.

But I did see a lot of Muslims. Especially from Malaysia.

Some of the relics I couldn’t help wonder how the heck they could know they were what they claimed to be. Like Prophet David’s sword (peace be upon him) and a lot of stuff like ‘beard hair from the Prophet’ (peace be upon him).

I think gawking over anyone’s beard hair, let alone the Prophet’s (peace be upon him) is actually sacreligious. I mean is that really what he would want us to be focusing on?

His message is what endures!

And yet other relics were definitely real. There was an incident where a famous poet, one of the seven poets of the Mu’allaqat, Labid, composed a poem about the Prophet (peace be upon him) and the Prophet (peace be upon him) rose and put his own mantle on Labid’s shoulders in appreciation. That was in the museum and I was really looking forward to seeing it. Unfortunately though they had it hidden away in a gilded case.

Yesterday was Troy and Pergamon, I had no idea that Turkey was that historical! And linked so intimately to Roman history.

Of course it was Asia Minor and part of the Byzantine empire, but still, the quality of the ruins here is spectacular.

More later insha Allah

It really is a gem of a little movie!

I love that it takes its time to storytell, for us to get to know the characters.

Clint is fabulous as this racist old curmudgeon.

In fact I really learned something about male bonding from it.

There’s a fantastic little scene with Clint and this old Italian barber and the young Hmung boy that Clint has taken under his wing, and it reminded me of an online interaction I had with an old curmudgeon.

Never knew his real name, but he often called me ‘towelhead’ or ‘raghead’, and yet it’s weird to say that when he did that it didn’t actually feel racist.

Quite the opposite.

I’m afraid I was the one who broke off the interaction. He was a seasoned author, I could tell by the way he wrote, and I must say I learned a lot from him, but somehow I convinced myself that it was demeaning to be treated that way.

Now, after seeing that scene in Gran Torino, I realized on the contrary, it was a form of respect on his part. Weird.

I just recommend you see it!

Analyse it even!

It’s quite deep!

In about an hour I’m on the way to the airport only this time it’s for pleasure, and only partly business. (Business in that I’ll be researching and stuff–always researching!)

Off to Turkey!

A ten day tour.

I might be able to blog while I’m there. It should be fascinating.

Found out that the ancient city of Troy was in Turkey! Hope the tour includes that on its itinerary!

But if not I’ll be at least seeing Istanbul, Ephesus (where some of the best Roman ruins are) and Ankara!

Over and out!

So I dragged myself down to Mississauga.

Before my gig in the children’s program I took a breath and went through the bazaar and the weirdest thing! I met Farkhanda!

I’d been thinking of her for ages!

When I was in my teens or late twenties, can’t remember, one of the ladies in the community had a little daughter named Farkhanda. I was drawn to the name because it was difficult and many syllabled, like mine.

So when I wrote a story about a boy and his sister coming to Canada I called the little girl Farkhanda, after that little girl.

Um, she’s not so little any more! She had a twenty year old daughter who was helping her man her booth in the bazaar-selling everything from gumballs to hand-made soap!

After a bit of lunch I was just about ready to tackle a bunch of hyperactive kids from about one year of age to about ten.

Yeah, try telling stories to such a disparate group and keeping their attention!

One of the kids kept asking if they were allowed to go to the bouncy castle yet.

I did NOT have high expectations, and yet the kids hung in there with me. There were definitely some of them still listening by the end of Big Red Lollipop, even with the interruption of parents coming to pick up the kids.

Babysitting/child programs at Islamic conferences are usually a disaster. I can’t imagine a more horrible task then taking care of Muslim kids–trying to keep them entertained and out of their parents hair!

Afterwards I was hungry! And after showing me where the green room was one of the volunteers guided me up to the area where the speakers could get some chow.

And on the way I noticed how the crowd had swelled! The halls were packed, and the young lady who was escorting me named Falak, who was acting like a personal assistant, told me it was because they’d come to see Nouman Ali Khan.

The dining area consisted of three round tables in a largish kitchen. Around one of the tables sat about five different men. There were no women seated at the tables. I think I remember hearing Falak whisper again something about Nouman Ali Khan.

At first I grabbed my food and was ready to sit down at the other table, then I don’t know what possessed me but I went over to the mens’ table and asked, “Is it okay if I join you?”

Of course they said yes, what else could they say?

And Falak sat down beside me too.

Like a used car salesman, I handed out my business cards, and right in front of Nouman Ali Khan (who was sitting across from me) I asked Falak, “So where’s Nouman Ali Khan?”

Falak nodded at the gentleman, but he pointed at another guy and they all laughed.

I should be used to committing faux pas by now!

But alas I’m not.

And I attempted to make conversation, but every topic I introduced fell flat. So after a while I did the smart thing and shut my big mouth.

And somehow Falak started talking. At least she had something in common with these gentlemen. She’d spent time in Texas too and she started talking about Lubbock where she’d grown up, and for a bit we discussed the topography of Texas.

From her own admission later, Falak sounded so much like a ‘fan girl’. I’m assuming that’s young people talk for a gushing fan.

I was not a gushing fan at all.

In fact I kept trying to find out what Nouman did. Why he was such a big deal at the conference, kind of thing.

I asked a stupid question like, “So, do you work at a university or something?”

And he mumbled something about the Bayyinah institute, apparently it’s a big deal, but ignorance is bliss, and I really had no idea who I was talking to!

It wasn’t until I mentioned an idea I have to write a story about the after effects of the Boston bombing on Muslim kids that Brother Nouman finally showed some interest. He liked my idea and then I got to tell him about how frustrating it has been that the Muslim community in North America knows virtually nothing about my work as an author.

And the discussion started.

I swear I did NOT talk with my mouth full, but still, when you’re eating and talking untoward events are liable to happen.

To my absolute horror, a little speck of rice flew out of my mouth during one of my more emphatic statements to lie upon the shiny burgundy table cloth in between us. Both our gazes had followed and then fixated on the trajectory. Omigosh! I felt my face get hot and I said, “Oh dear! Excuse me! I shouldn’t be talking while I’m eating.” And I quickly scooped up the speck of rice and got rid of it.

It figures something like that would happen to me!

If there’s any possibility of my embarrassing myself, it will happen!

And yet part of me thought, ‘Geez it’s not the end of the world! It’s not like no other person has ever had specks fly out of their mouths! Could happen to anyone!”

He didn’t even seem grossed out at all but that might have just  been an expression of his impeccable manners. But anyway, it really seemed as if he was interested in my work.

I asked him he wanted to see some, I had books in the trunk of my car. And he said yes so I left him a copy of Wanting Mor, Big Red Lollipop and The Roses in My Carpets.

I didn’t actually feel that embarrassed until afterwards, when Falak told me in urgent whispers how weird sitting down with those men had been! Apparently the other volunteers kept giving her the eye! (I didn’t notice) And Falak kept talking about famous this guy really is! And how BOLD I’d been!

She said that if he liked my books, he could spread the word all across the Muslim community in North America–he’s THAT influential!

That was about when the magnitude of what I had done really hit me.

I must have come across like I was packed with chutzpah or something. And yet what’s the big deal? I really did want to know more about him and the other speakers sitting there. I was networking! There was no physical contact. It was all straight forward, no flirtatiousness at all! I’m just not like that!

And yet, when I told one of the other volunteers about it she was a lot more sanguine about it. She said to me that he had probably found it humbling and even refreshing. That he was probably used to people being intimidated in his presence and practically genuflecting, and here I was completely oblivious.

And I thought back to the times when people had treated me with awe–it’s happened a few times–and how weirded out it made me feel. And I thought yeah, I preferred people to just treat me normal too.

And coming to this realization made me feel a lot better.

Oh, I ended up telling The Clever Wife during the entertainment portion of the program, and I think it went over well!

p.s. You might want to read this khutba (sermon) of his http://muslimmatters.org/2013/04/20/nouman-ali-khan-quranic-perspective-on-recent-tragedies/

I did and it was quite impressive!

(Gak! It makes me feel even more silly now!)

p.p.s. One young guy came up to me and said I reminded me of his mom. Really? I asked. “Yeah,” he said. “She’s such a tank!”

“A tank???” I asked.

“Oh yeah! You remind me so much of her!” And then he went on to say how parents weren’t really being respected and all that, but I didn’t really hear that much. I kept picturing me with caterpillar tracks and decked out in camouflage! Yikes!

And I wondered vaguely if he was referring to my and his mother’s size, but no, from the way he was talking I could tell it was nothing about that.

Not sure if I really want to know. But I did think it was hilarious!

Women and children who are innocent victims just trying to run from slaughter.

I’ve been reticent to donate up till now because I wasn’t sure of the people working on the projects over there, but with my brother, a family physician going there with medicine and humanitarian relief supplies, I am certain that 100% of the money will reach the needy (and not make its way into any sort of terrorists’ hands!)

I’ve asked him to set up a literacy program for me and will be giving him some funds to do so.

I urge all my readers to do what you can!

My brother is very reliable!

This is my brother’s press release:

www.help4syria.ca

150

Brant

Avenue

Brantford,

Ontario.

N3T3H7

Tel:

1–‐877–‐336–‐6537

www.help4syria.ca

info@help4syria.ca

PRESS RELEASE

Canadians Helping Syrian Refugees in Jordan

Subject: Humanitarian Mission to Jordan – Syrian Refugee assistance

Dear all -

I wanted to let you know about our next exciting project – a group of five Canadians from Hamilton and Brantford areas to travel to Jordan on June 15 for a one week project to purchase and distribute humanitarian assistance to Syrian Refugees in the Zaatari refugee camp in northern Jordan close to the Syrian border. The team includes my two kids – Saba Khan (age 17) and Hamza Khan (age 15).

This camp was designed for 50,000 persons but is home to more than 120,000. Conditions are overcrowded and deplorable.

We have a fundraising goal of $100,000 and will purchase non-food items (camp stoves, blankets, shoes, hygiene items such as soap, shampoo, feminine napkins, etc.) and participate in distribution to our target population – children, women and the elderly. We will also participate in clinical education to mothers with infants in the prevention, and treatment of malnutrition and infectious diarrhea, and basic first aid.

Our project is NON-DENOMINATIONAL but will be conducted through the CCRA registered Canadian Charity – Islamic Relief Canada (CCRA# 821896875RR0001) a professional and reputable NGO.

Please support our project either financially ( www.help4syria.ca ) or by spreading the word.

Let’s show these people we care about them and pray for peace and for their quick return to their homes. With no end to the fighting in sight, they could be stuck there for years. We are hopeful that this mission will help make things a little more bearable for them in their suffering.

Please visit www.help4syria.ca for information or how you can support us.

Thank you for your support.

Dr. Raza Khan, MD, CCFP, FCFP