It was a cold December morning. Trees had already lost their leaves and were being hugged by a chilly breeze. A yellow coat had swept over the grass in the front and backyards. Clouds of fog had built up above the tub and under the shower. The fragrance of shampoo and soap mixed with shaving cream filled the air. I finished the Eid shower rituals and went back to the bedroom to wake up my wife. It was Eid morning.

-” C’mon, wake up, beautiful, and go wake Omar up, we better catch up with the second one”

It usually takes my wife at least fifteen minutes to fully wake up and move out of bed, so I hurried to the closet and started dressing. Suddenly, I heard a child crying noisily. I didn’t give it much attention at first; I mean how many kids cry? But then it persisted, and I just realized it was unusual hearing a child cry at 8 AM in a quiet suburb neighborhood. I listened closer. Itsounded familiar. A peculiar tone. One I was used to, maybe!

When the crying grew louder, coming from the direction of our backyard, I was certain it was Omar, our neighbor’s son. Ah Omar. Little Omar was born only two weeks after our son. I still remember when my wife and our next door Muslim neighbor both gave birth in the same month, six years ago. When they first moved next door, my wife was not too fond of that lady even though I was enjoying a good friendship with the husband, whom I knew very well from the Islamic Center. Then, the two ladies were brought closer by their pregnancies, and so were our sons, now best friends.

The crying went on. I walked to our study room at the back and peeked through the blinders. There was little Omar, sitting on the steps of the backdoor of their house, weeping, wiping his nose with his sleeve, and then resumed his monotonic crying. He got up and started banging his toy against the door and kicking it. When the door opened, I saw his mom’s hand grab his shoulder, attempting to take him inside, but he managed to run away. She went after him. I turned around and decided to just ignore it. And the crying went on.

Later on, I was downstairs pouring myself some milk when I heard Dr. Fahmy calling his son to come inside, but the kid yelled even more. Then it all stopped at once. I was glad. What an annoying sound on such a peaceful Saturday morning. I noticed my wife standing at the top of the stairway holding my son’s hand.

-”But you said I can eat candies during Eiddddd…” Salar yelled.

I wasn’t ready to listen to any more whining.

I took my son’s hand and seated him on a stool in the kitchen. He was all dressed and ready for Eid.

Salar kept looking through the kitchen window, as if he was waiting for something.

I was glad the crying was over and Omar was inside, but I now had to entertain my son’s questions. After all the pain Omar caused me, I wasn’t too thrilled to discuss anything that dealt with him. “He was crying because he was not listening to his parents. You are a good boy and will always listen to your parents, right Salar?”

-”No, his parents are still fasting today.”

-”Mom said if I behave during the prayer today, she will buy me a gift at the Eid party”

My son got down from the stool and attacked the piece of candy I had given him under the condition of finishing his cereals, which he never did. He unwrapped it eagerly and stuffed it in his mouth all at once. My wife caught him in the living room as she made her way down the stairs but surprisingly didn’t say anything. Realizing I hadn’t fed his curiosity, my son turned to his mother.

-”Mom, is Omar coming with us too?”

-”But why, isn’t Eid today?” And at that moment, my wife turned to me, blunt-faced, and shook her head. Her look told me she had no answer. And neither did I. I took out another piece of candy and gave it to Salar, and he ran to the guest room, temporarily having forgotten his questions. I, on the other side, stood still and for a while thought about the question Salar had just posed. Why couldn’t Omar and his family come to Eid today? Indeed a good question.

I walked back to the kitchen. My wife was stacking sweets and Baklava on a silver plate in preparation for the guests who would visit later. A golden bracelet glistened on her wrist. She was moving about the kitchen anxiously and then said in an annoyed tone:

-”This whole issue of our community. What is this? Every group is following their home country. Offf, I really hate it. Backward!”

-”Tell me about it.“

-”I am really disappointed with our neighbor. He is a doctor and educated. Wasn’t this issue discussed between the three mosques?”

-”Didn’t ISNA, ICNA, and other organizations supposedly form a shura committee of scholars and scientists to predetermine Eid?”

She was now washing the cereal bowl aggressively. I didn’t want to see her upset, but then I liked her passion on this issue. Back to her ISNA committee comment. I observed her anger and said:

-”That committee has existed for years, but who listens? We are just lucky we have a committee in the city, which promoted the ISNA approach”

-”And yet people like our neighbor decided to follow the ruling of their home countries, thousands of miles away from here”

-”Unfortunately true. But what do you want him to do? The entire ‘home country’ community is fasting today. Do you want him to be the exception and celebrate it all alone?”

-”He is not alone; half the Muslim community here is celebrating Eid today.“

I picked up the car keys, opened the front door, and there he was: Little Omar, standing in front of the door, looking straight, not at me, not at anything in particular, just straight, through space. He was messily wearing what appeared to be his Eid attire: a set of black pants, a white shirt, and in his left hand held his small tie, while his black jacket hung from under his right arm. I couldn’t help but smile. He stood there motionless with a straight and expressionless face. Before I say anything, I heard his mother calling him, which didn’t seem to catch his attention at all. Seconds later I saw her walking to our house.

Mrs. Fahmy had on a scarf and her face looked pale underneath, the typical look of a faster that is sleepy and tired, especially if they had woken up before dawn to eat and prepare for a long day of fasting.
-”I am so sorry, brother Haseeb” she said, still a few feet away from the door. Little Omar jumped at the sight of her and barged into the house, standing behind me. His mother, standing with an embarrassed look, then resumed:
-”We are so sorry; Omar has been acting up since the morning. Come here, Omar, let’s go, your dad will really get upset with you”
-”Its OK, he is not bothering us, he is a sweet kid” I said, when in reality I had had enough of Omar‘s music. -”Come, Omar, come to your mommy, we have candies at home. Oh by the way Eid Mubarak, I am sorry, this child is making us lose our minds”
-”Oh, thank……” and I really didn’t know what to say. What was I supposed to answer back! “Eid Mubarak too”?? That would seem absurd, and just irrelevant to her, maybe even inappropriate. My wife then came to the rescue. Mrs. Fahmy repeated her apologies and by then Omar had already gone inside with my son enjoying Eid candies.
-”He has been crying since yesterday. He kept talking about Salar and the Eid party” she said as she stepped inside. “When his dad told him we are not going with your family, he went crazy.”

She called Omar once again, but no answer.
-”I don’t know what devil got into him, but he got up at seven and asked me to take him to the Eid party with Salar. His dad was this close to grounding him, oh my God, I can’t imagine how annoying he must’ve been to you guys this morning with all his crying and screaming”
-”Let him come with us, he will have fun with Salar and the kids” Sharmeen said.
-”No, sister, you don’t know him, it takes ten eyes to watch him”

Mrs. Fahmy was soon in the house, calling Omar over and over. When she finally grabbed his hand to stop him from running away, he began crying and pulling away. Not again, I thought to myself. Salar looked anxious and confused. He pulled Sharmeen’s hand in what seemed to be a plea to have Omar go with us.

-”I am serious, let him come with us” I said. My wife echoed my request. It was apparent that Omarwouldn’t back down from his crying and insistence. His mother bent down to pick him off the floor and he kicked her. I am not sure I would blame a six year old kid for acting up like that when you steal away his excitement and joy. I doubt a child that age would comprehend any explanation offered to him.

-”Thank you guys so much, it will be just five minutes, I will get him dressed and bring him back so you don’t run late.” We were already late. I was agitated, not at Omar, and not at anything in particular. Maybe I just despised the fact that our Muslim community was divided over ridiculous issues.

I started the car, my brain still embroiled in thinking about Eid and our divided community. My wife locked our main door, and walked up to the car holding Salar’s hand. At the same time, the door to Dr. Famhy’s house opened and Omar ran out, this time well-dressed and with his hair brushed neatly. Salar got in first, and then Omar. Little Omar stepped one foot in and looked back in the direction of their house. I watched him carefully and with amusement. He looked at his mother for one second and then turned again and got into the car. At that moment, I was curious what little Omar was thinking to himself: I won! I stepped on every rule and proclaimed myself King of Eid!! I am going to the Eid Party and whoever doesn’t want to come, it’s their problem!!

-”Yes, we are going to the Eid Party” he chuckled and my car raced down the road to the mosque. To the Eid Party.

Abo Jenna

Nashville, TN

This story is a hopeful call for unity of heart and thought in our communities. It is not intended to attack any group, idea, or school of thought, nor is it meant to promote one. It is, rather, meant to provoke our minds to think as one united Umma, just the way our beloved prophet hoped for us to be. In doing so, we may have to collectively compromise on some minor details of daily practice, but the ultimate reward is worth the while.

]]> http://al-talib.org/2009/11/01/little-omar-and-the-eid-party/feed/ 11 http://al-talib.org/2009/02/09/message-in-the-music/ http://al-talib.org/2009/02/09/message-in-the-music/#comments Mon, 09 Feb 2009 22:27:47 +0000 altalib http://test/?p=100

by: Amin Eddebbarh

checktherhime.com

“I could sell a mil’ sayin’ nothing on the track¦” These words are from the 2007 hit song “This is why I’m hot” by M.I.M.S (ironically an acronym for Music Is My Savior).  Sadly in today’s era of commercial hip hop, the records getting the most plays are almost completely void of substance.  Rather than shedding light on the struggles of the oppressed or sparking thought on societal institutions, most artists fill their repetitive lyrics with elementary rhymes about their lifestyles.  Despite this overall trend, the roots of hip hop as a counter hegemonic tool still survive, mainly thriving in the underground scene, occasionally sprouting up through cracks in the concrete of mainstream rap.

One such instance of this is Brother Ali, a Muslim hip-hop artist from the Twin Cities known for his crisp cadence and narratives of the struggles of the downtrodden that permeate from his songs.  Ali clearly states his position on lyrical substance in his song When the beat comes in,? off his 2001 CD titled Shadows on the Sun. Lamenting popular trends in hip-hop, Ali says, “Instead of concentratin’ on strippin” the youth naked I give them the truth naked, living proof of the sacred.”

Brother Ali is part of a growing movement of independent artists and labels beginning to sway momentum away from major record labels controlling the hip-hop industry.  While the “commercial” hip hop icons focus on image and sales, the Indie movement slowly gives the decision-making power back to the artists, who are less concerned about catchy hooks that might boost their sales, and instead focus on creating the music they want to make rather than tailoring it for the masses.  The result of this has been a diverse array of styles and sounds grounded in the philosophy that putting words through a microphone is not a job or a hustle but a means of expressing a struggle, and that their rhymes can be a voice for the voiceless.  As Brother Ali says in Shadows on the Sun, “So if y’all tryin” to talk about the horrors you see, feel free to tell your stories through me.”

Though he is signed to the Indie label Rhyme Sayers Entertainment, Brother Ali has begun to garner widespread acknowledgement behind the video from his single Uncle Sam Goddamn for its bold stances on the American government, and a level of talent that can only go unnoticed for so long.  Ali is entering a very crucial part of his career as an artist, a point at which many artists let the success get to their heads and start affecting their music.

I had a chance to see Brother Ali when he came to UCLA as part of the Cultural Affairs Commission’s Hip Hop Awareness Week.  While the show was everything that I expected, what surprised me is what I saw when I was walking out during Heiroglyphics’ follow up of Ali’s spot.  As I left the venue, who did I see sitting at the backdoor other than Brother Ali himself, personally selling his album to fans as they left.  I approached him, gave him salaams, and asked him where I could find a copy of his debut tape, Rites of Passage.  He responded that they only made 1000 copies originally, and that they were selling them online for $100, after which he admitted, “but if I were you, I would just download that stuff.  Look it up on Limewire or something.”

My friends laughed at the irony of his statement, but for me, the line confirmed that my favorite rapper would not put money before his message. I thanked him, grabbed a copy of his latest mixtape at the time, and as I was leaving, asked him, “So when are you gonna speak on Falasteen (Palestine)?”

Now I don’t want to be so arrogant as to claim that I motivated Ali to write a song on it, but I will say that I was proud to see the title “Philistine David” amongst the tracks listed on his mixtape The Rope A Dope, which surfaced earlier this month.  Using his usual gripping narrative style, Ali relates his own inner emotions through the story of a Palestinian youth growing up in violence: “And our enemies will never be satisfied, until not even our memory survives, it feels like they got the whole planet on their side, the story of my people will never reach your eyes.”

In a time when hip hop is being used by major labels to brainwash youth and disempower people of color, at least one real hip hop artist survives, lending his voice to tell stories of the indigent, too often skipped over by a media dictated by dominant groups.