MorningYouth

Shoes, shoes they are my marching muse

2010-03-11T11:40:00.001+02:00

The flip-flop of shoes falling on the floor
walking, marching through future's door

click-clack-click ladies high heels
preetiness, loveliness so do we feel
(and even, if we will, pain in polka dots and teal)

in these shoes, carry us our soles
give us the hight to know our souls

workers in heavy gumboots
snobby looks from those in suits

shoes call out your competition
slip-slop, knock-knock feet walking human

trainer pound with fresh confidence
oh puma and nike we haved loved you since

The Greatest Battle is within....

2010-03-03T09:56:00.002+02:00

A believer awakes

Rising to greet the hand of mercy

Begs and pleas that edge through darkness

Searching for the key to his rusted heart

Tears whisper through the white dawn

Each one blowing cool the raging embers

Sins bleed from his scarred palms,

As he weeps his conscience pure

Then, daylight shows man’s desires

Wickedness dripping from bright lights

Temptation lures him with its clawing fingers

And his early repentance thus falls

The world dances in his dreams

Seasons of colourful allure

Entranced, he drops his honour

Believing it lasts forever

He is lost in a maze of illusion

So he tries to find his path

Oh, the world has tricked him

And left him swollen and bruised

In horror of his wrong, despair fills his whole

He thinks of the day of mourn

Of which the verses call and speak

The fires that will lick the evil soul

The winds leave cold blisters

In place of his good deeds

He tries to run and be free

But there is always the devil’s tease

In his quest for goodness,

He wraps himself with the company of the pious

A shawl, warm and true

Tales of those who have long past

Conquers of nations and hearts

The night is heavy with secrets

That blossom into stars

Alone, he prays to his merciful Creator

His soul filled with fear,

And satiated with hope

The Selflessness of Spiderman

2010-02-23T10:49:00.003+02:00

This past week, the TV has been showing the Spiderman 2 movie every afternoon. I've been quite surprised at how much the graphics have evolved, and how quickly the human mind gets use to further advancement in what ever way. Here, our hero Spiderman fights the battle between his own dreams and saving the world. He knows that killing the tyrannical father of his best friend will result in him losing his friend. He knows that after missing his beloved's first Broadway show, she will choose another man to stand next to her. When he comes to the realization that the world needs him more, he lets go of his pale red haired girlfriend on a spun spider web and accepts that this is his chosen life, and he will not be able to look back. And so, he conquers his desires, and steps into the boots of true heroism, which is just another phrase for complete selflessness.

The selflessness of heroes is often unspoken for. We need heroes, great men and women, to forget themselves and to save us with their awesome theatrics. We look for these people, for their words and their deeds, so we can write about them, look up to them and be inspired. What we often don't understand, is that it takes worlds of willpower to actually give ourselves to humanity, and there are only very few people who can do it. We think that heroes live only for glory, and thrive on the adoring attention of the cameras and the public. It might be so, but that is only a small remuneration for a lifetime of sacrifice. The only constant companion a hero has throughout his life, is loneliness.

Imagine if we had to give up our parents, beloveds, children and friends. Or, we waved goodbye to our artistic selves, and instead dedicated our lives to uplifting an impoverished society. I don't think I can even begin to comprehend the magnitude of it, let alone do it. It’s often noticed, that when a hero does something wrong, the media rips the poor person's soul to shreds. Remember; when there is no talk, there is no work either. We forget that heroes are people just like us. So, let’s try and make their job easier, and when Spiderman comes and visits you, give him a great big hug, and tell him you appreciate it. (Also get his autograph, a photograph and a quick ride on some web.)

What is selflessness?

2010-02-12T14:47:00.002+02:00

In my quest for a better world and a purer self, I decided to conquer my selfishness. I saw myself trudge through the deserts of hardship, wilt in the oppressive sun, my shadow beat a tattoo on the sands. I sacrificed the very last of my water to a weeping old grandmother. When I first saw her, my old self shimmied up to me as if a mirage, saying, 'she's going to die soon anyway, don't waste your precious your water, don't throw away your young life.' My new self, brave that I thought I was, swayed, and I was about to turn when I handed my water to her. Ah, selflessness had won round one.

Not quite. I realized that it took years of letting go of tiny trifles before one could begin to attain the selflessness of the truly pious. There are people who have degrees in selflessness, you can see their stories written in their wrinkles and the steadiness in their eyes. Even though I envisioned a dramatic scene of humanness spill forth from me, these minuscule attempts are all I have to offer:

Listening to kid sister natter on for an hour about her new wii game.

Letting kid brother relate to me a news story that I already knew about.

Giving wet and muddy brother a hug when he won his soccer game.

Telling aunt her new handbag was a good buy even though I didn't like it.

Letting go of my opinions, even though it took all my willpower.

Getting up to give dad a glass of water, when I'd just gotten into bed.

And the biggest one, by far, is letting mom use the laptop when I don't really like it.

So, there you go.

Is this really selflessness though? I'm not so sure.

6 Personality traits to admire and acquire

2010-02-11T11:42:00.002+02:00

Personality Traits to Admire

Well this morning I read the above article on Yahoo, which iterates the simple qualities that would make the world a much better place. I've decided to take on each trait at a time, and post up my successes (if I have any that is!).

The first quality, which is often to be most admired and rather difficult to acquire, is selflessness:

The author of the articles states:

Selflessness: In a world where many people don’t have the time or the interest in others, selflessness is a quality that seems to be less and less common. People can be selfless in the time they give, the ability to listen, their level of patience and the love that they give. Those who are giving and generous in nature have the power to make others feel loved, appreciated and special. While those who are self-absorbed tend to do the exact opposite.

So, here goes... Bismillah

Who couldn't wait to be independent again?

2010-02-10T07:56:00.000+02:00

I don’t want to grow up. I fear the beyond. I know it sounds all dramatic and suicidal, but it’s true. Oh yes, my face will fall, my eyebrows will grow unmercifully shaggy, my teeth will be stained cream, and worst of all, my brain, which is not very astute at the moment, will completely lose its entire memorizing ability. It makes me shudder. I want to run very, very far away. Of course, at the moment, the pressing matter is that with age comes responsibility, and the expectations of parents. There are people’s expectations that you can deny, with a tiny tear in your heart, for instance your grandma wanting you to marry your curly headed cousin, but not fulfilling the expectations of parents will rip your heart to shreds. I’m sorry, but I cannot even try to satisfy their wishes.

Another urgent matter is that of moving out of one’s parent’s house. This is my home, I’ve spent my childhood and youth here, eating mulberries from our old tree, but I must attain that it is not my home as much as it’s my parents. My brother who is a year younger than me is boarding and I feel that is the beginning of his independence, which I greatly envy. Girls normally do not leave the house until they have married. So, my mum, who I’ve always believed to have a fresh take on matters, told me that one day, (and I can see she means soon, by the way she talks about this marriage malarkey) I too will have to marry. It made me freak out. I realized more than ever that I have to prepare for the future. It is now that I wish I had a degree, so that I could be respected to make my own decisions, to earn my own, to live and to learn.

Adulthood does not appeal. If I look at myself I cannot imagine why my parents would want to be proud of me. I’m completely useless in terms of making my parents feel good about why they sacrificed their entire lives for me. The normal daughter’s CV would be so: ‘oh my, this is my daughter, she’s an accountant, works for a major firm, she’s going to get married to my friend’s son Ahmed, she’s involved in Islamic activities and has always listened graciously to her parents’ accompanied by pats on the back and grateful smiles. The mum and the granny would usually be pleased that the girl has flowing tresses of black hair, and knows how to apply make-up. I am usually introduced so, ‘um, yeah, she’s nineteen, no she does not want to get married, she’s just at home, hmmm’ while I’m told to stop scowling. In truth, they are being kind. I would much rather be introduced so, ‘she’s crazy, likes having politically incorrect arguments, has tantrums and enjoys hoola-hooping,’ I can just imagine some of the aunties faces at this. Their lips will form an astonished ‘oh!’ and their grey eyebrows will shoot up to high heaven, I then will get fingers wagging in my face and lectures about how young they were only 12 and three quarters when they had children, a business and were doing a correspondence course in Egyptian Hieroglyphics.

The truth is that even though I’m bringing on aging because of my continuous worries, I have to trust in Allah Almighty. It’s just that, I might be a tad bit ambitious, but I don’t know what to be ambitious with.

Lost and Confused

2010-01-19T18:21:00.000+02:00

I'm always the one not quite there
The person who gets the weird stare
Curious questions about my crazy state
With a shake of the head, oh her poor fate

It happened when I was a little 'un
They didn't like my ideas, my thoughts that spun
Then, so far, I didn't think to run
Now, with this world, and I'm all done

Oh, it is merry confusion
Me, in my pretty delusion
World, a simpering illusion
I, always an exclusion

A sorry youth, called deliberate
My 'specialness' dribbled after its sell-by-date
Hesitation thats near hate
Just cause my normality is long late

My thoughts are full and free
I live, I dream, I see
So, this is my humble plea,
Why can't you love me, for just being me?

I'm a University Grad!

2010-01-18T11:21:00.001+02:00

Yesterday, I attended my graduation ceremony for the Certificate in Islamic Law Course. I was rather reluctant to go, but I kind of enjoyed it. Especially since we got there after all the banking speeches had been done. An advocate who completed the course, said that this was the first graduation she was attending because in apartheid days black students boycotted all graduation ceremonies. That made me appreciate it.

When the Professor called my name, I was not really paying attention and there was a lull in the room, while they waited for me. My mum poked me out of my reverie. I was very glad that I did not have to go on stage. They had a lady lecturer give out certificates for the female students, and I shook her hand, blushed furiously and returned to my mom with a rather silly expression on my face.

In fact, I was saved from a certain speech. It turns out that the Professor had wanted me to address the Class of '09, but got my surname mixed up with another lady. Its a kind of a popular surname. I don't really mind speeches, but it would be way too intimidating in front of all these highly educated people. Well, I'd like to thank all the Professors, who have enlightened and educated me. Please do lengthen the course. To my fellow students, especially the wonderful top student, who graciously shared her assignments with me, may Allah Almighty bless you all, always.

One of the amazing aspects was that some female students beat the males. I mean, I'm not boasting, but I was rather surprised.

All praise belongs to the Almighty. If you'd ask me a year ago, when I returned from Haj, what I wanted most, and I would say, independence. I have to attest to the fact that knowledge and hard work gives one a certain grace. Allah Almighty increase us all in beneficial knowledge!

The Certificate in Islamic Law, is available from the University of Kwa-Zulu Natal, South Africa. Lectures take place all around the country. Even though it is centered around law, it is not only for lawyers. I'd highly recommend it to all those wishing to gain a better understanding of Shariah, especially those in professional environments. A doctor who came second in Gauteng, said that even though his life was centered around the sciences, the science of Shariah is exceptionally pure and precisely perfect.

You can find out more about the course, here: http://law.ukzn.ac.za/

Holding onto dreams

2010-01-14T18:47:00.002+02:00

Dreams are important roads to have. They lead the way for our tumultuous hearts. When we're young, and overflowing with self importance, we treasure our dreams. When we grow up, proving ourselves takes precedence over believing in ourselves. Thus, the world becomes a place that is encased in plastic. It is centered around survival and vigilance and we bury our dreams. After some years, in a moment of introspection, they are raised from the graveyard that is our mind and are resurrected. We feel them, rough and raw, uncut diamonds, willing to be shown to the world. But we suppress them under our coats over embarrassment and hesitation and forget that the world is begging for the sparkle of originality.

This last year, my bravery has won thin and I have neglected my dreams. I believed that they are the bracelets of youth, and much like the notion of falling in love, overrated. Since I would soon leave my youth, I elected to leave them behind. They took my heart and gave nothing back. Today, I realized that adulthood requires dreams way more than childhood ever did. Yes, we will lose ourselves to the race that is life, we might have to, but our dreams are a bit of our true selves, and holding onto them might just one day save us and save the world too.

Garfield helped me make my new year resolution...

2010-01-12T08:24:00.003+02:00

A light moment of prose...

2009-12-31T08:34:00.002+02:00

It is an ode to light

Brought red in my heart

Spun tales of the heavens

Trailed dreams through my fingers

The meadow of the skies

Fire braids its course

Planets strung like puppets

Rhythm of the soul’s call

Eyelashes to blink away evil

Footsteps that draw paths

Clouds gathered in perfect sorrow

Cupped in bleeding palms

My pen wrote on darkness

It blossomed into life

Shadows of a weeping sonnet

In unravelled ribbons

The wickedness of love will bid you astray

Day where no further has gone

Tears that erased my slate of deeds

And a sleepy moment of melancholic peace

Reflections on the spreading of salaam...

2009-12-29T09:22:00.001+02:00

Once upon a time, when I was sixteen, I used to abhor shopping. I could never fit in with the strange staring people milling around, the bright showy advertisements, the rainbow of merchandise swirling around me. The females in my family were irritated at my hatred of shopping, but being used to my objections on almost every worldly matter, they shrugged and left me to my opinions. One day, I read about a Companion of the Prophet (peace be upon him) who would go to the market solely to offer the greeting of the believers: Assalamu Alaikum wa rahmatullahi wa barakatuh- Peace be upon you and God Almighty's mercy and blessings...

In Mu’atta, Tufail ibn Abi Shayba regarding Ibn Umar radiyallahu anhuma says that one day when I came to Abdullah ibn Umar, he asked me to go to the market (with him). I asked, "What are you going to do in the market? You do not go to any salesman, or ask about any goods or its price nor do you want to sit in any market gatherings, so stay here with us, we will talk here."
Abdullah ibn Umar then said, "O Abu Battan, (he called him Abu Battan because Tufail ibn Abi had a large stomach) we are going to the market for the cause of giving salaam."

After reading this extraordinary anecdote, I became the person most eager to go shopping, much to my family's consternation. There are not many Muslims where I live, and so, I thought it would be wonderful, by the Will of the Almighty,to practice on this tradition. Once in the shopping mall, I would try and offer the salaam to almost every female Muslimah I came across. I thought, in the innocent bubble that I lived in, that every single person would be eager to reply, 'Wa'alay-kumus-salam.' However, that was not the case. As I was sixteen, rather self consciousness and not as brave as my wild opinions, it became quite a challenge. There were woman that would scrutinize me before replying. Others, especially the young, would be hesitant and would reply would a soft nod. Then, there were the ladies that seemed offended, and would reply in a loud manner. There was one elderly women, in stripped clothes, that gave me her hand 'oh, do I know you from somewhere?' I found all this rather surprising, but only the Almighty knows my intention and theirs.

After about a year, I found that I could do it no more. It was supposed to be about spreading peace and love and a united sisterhood, not regulation. But by then, I had been bitten by the shopping bug...

The Twins and me...

2009-12-21T12:26:00.001+02:00

Image: twinstuff.com

After my initial scare, I tentatively approached the small people lying in the cot. They were still, sighing softly rather than breathing, their long fingers stretching and stroking something invisible. I put my little finger in

Mustafa’s palm, and with a yawn, he closed it. He was accepting my solemn offer of peace. I wondered if he would let out a scream to seal the deal, but he smiled a little, and let go of my finger.

I sat on the bed, and my cousin placed baby two, Muhammad, in my arms. I shifted uncomfortably, and he stretched in frustration, seeming to say, stop holding me so tightly, I’m not going to jump, you know. This is my first time holding such a small tyke, I told him, and he smirked [in his sleep nonetheless], this is the first time I’ve been held by a cold frightened teenager. You don’t seem to mind, I remarked, and you’re pretty good at it, came the loud reply. I raised my head from the conversation, wondering if this baby was a miracle, and would start quoting verse in a minute. My cousin giggled, ‘Earth to the new nanny’ and I sighed in relief and a bit of disappointment. If Muhammad were to speak, he would make my new occupation so much easier and my internet credibility would have certainly skyrocketed, with YouTube videos stating ‘Miracle newborn baby narrates poetry....’ Muhammad certainly did not like this idea, because he let out an ear shattering scream. ‘Sorry,’ I told him, as I stroked his cheek, maybe you’re more into the rap scene.’

One of the things I enjoyed most about them was swaddling them. And choosing their clothes. They were like dress up dolls when they were happy. It is pretty easy to swaddle a baby, and you can carry them much more easily when they are all wrapped up like presents. Bathing them, by the way, is not a very enjoyable exercise. Their mother insisted on bathing them everyday, for hygienic reasons of course and that they slept much better once they felt the calming effect of the water. I felt it was more like a trauma, I mean, in the Middle Ages, the people would have a bath annually and they all remained perfectly happy. These poor kids were not even two weeks old, and they had to be subjugated to a scrub. I helped bath them, tickling their spotless toes, and they would scream with righteous indignation. I hope they don’t hold it against me when they grow up.

On my first night, I felt worried, but with a slight triumph, thinking that it would not be so difficult when the boys were all fast asleep and at night maybe I would be free to do something else, update my blog for instance. I had just settled down, with a blank page, a wonderful view of the sea, and a mind full of words. And then, a slow low sigh came from the nursery. I crept in quietly, and there, a swaddled baby, with the prettiest light brown eyes, looked at me. ‘Good morning’ he seemed to say, and proceeded to stay up till dawn.

Instead of sweet conversation about the state of test cricket, the babies mostly cried. And cried. And cried. Their poor mother. Their poor granny. For the rest of the month that I stayed with them, they cried with such ferociousness that sometimes when I was at the end of my sanity, I began to cry. I had learned how to carry a baby, and so I now learned how to rock one, and do a little jiggle [sort of like a folk dance] so that they stopped wailing and rather looked at me in astonishment. I would read Quran, whispering softly, encouraging them to fall asleep, and for a moment, when you held your breath and willed world peace, Muhammad and Mustafa would sigh, and slip into dreamland. For about a minute and a half. And then they would start howling all over again.

Oh yes, remember that are two babies. So, when one wakes up and goes through the entire process, which I call, 'FEDUP: Fetch me, Eat, Digest, Upchuck, Play' the other twin would wake for his turn. the poor mother would not be able to breath had she no help. The babies drank bottle milk, but when they were hungry, which was about every five and a half minutes, they ordered their dinner ravenously. It really seemed that they wanted grilled steaks instead of boring milk.

Twins buggies are pretty expensive, I guess you could buy a proper little old car for them to whiz around in rather. I could picture their cute faces and one spike hair while they sped away, to meet friends their age, or whatever. And the baby car seats are really silly for newborns, and I don't even know if you get twin car seats. The very first excursion the twins had was a visit to the doctor, where they were given a check-up. He started by quoting some weird Latin inscription and I did not quite trust him after that. Once he had finished mumbling to himself, he undressed the baby that had been wrapped in layers and layers of blanket, and laid him on a freezing grey scale. I flinched. ‘Whew’ said the doctor, ‘the babies are growing most wonderfully, and the crying is just part of the process and they need to grow up [till when?!] and I’ll see them again in the next two months.’

The next excursion was to the photographer, where the twins needed passport photos because they were going to go to Swaziland in a week. No matter how much I jumped and pulled funny faces and said, say ‘babies’ they snored obliviously. I guess the twins were used to being stalked by the paparazzi and had learnt to sleep through it. Eager relatives would lean over the side of the cot with fancy flashing cameras, cooing, ‘baby smile for me, I’m your cousin, you’re going to be staying next to me, and the famous one, you look just like your mother did when she was young’ and the twins would yawn, and be like, ‘please dude, can’t you see I’m trying to sleep, educate me on the family tree next year you come round’ or so I imagined. Perhaps they enjoyed the attention, because real stars love it but always try and pretend they don’t.

Oh yes, what is this thing about mothers feeling that their babies, though very beautiful Mashallah, are been given the evil eye? Subhanallah, I mean seriously, there is nothing to believe in these ignorant pagan customs. Man, maybe my family might think I'm a rebel with no respect for some ancient tradition, but you must read the last three Surah of the Glorious Quran and by the Will of the Almighty the babies will be protected. Some lady would come in, and have half a glass of water and add another half of sunflower oil, and mix it, while intoning some prayers and say 'oh my, look how thick it is and its not supposed to mix, lots of people have been given your babies the evil eye and its all removed now.'Man, I seriously rolled my eyes at that, its a chemical reaction dude! To prove this, I mixed the concoction myself without the baby and without reading anything, and the exact same thing happened. Please.

At the end of my stay, on the morning of Eid-ulFitr, where eager relatives were waiting to have a look at the gorgeous twins, I felt kind of chuffed that these babies knew me and knew my voice and I loved them very much. I was going to miss them. I told my cousin, that whenever she needed to go on a cruise maybe [she needs the break] maybe when they were, um, three years old, she could gladly leave all the boys with me. I learnt a lot about life during my stay, but one matter I most appreciate is that I seriously admire people who have children. It takes more than life. May Allah Almighty bless all the past and future parents! Oh yeah, one more thing, I think I might consider adopting children when their about twenty-two and then marrying them off in a week....

The Twins and their big brothers

2009-12-17T16:07:00.000+02:00

When there are rather large families gatherings, aunties like to give teenage girls their babies to hold while they sit and chat and discuss why Mrs M. is wearing a neon green outfit. They consider these teenagers as the ones with free time and think that they should look after their bundles of joy while they take some much needed time off. I am, on the other hand, adverse to such policy. I do not profess that I do not like or care for children, but I truly believe that when a person decides to have children [of course Allah Almighty blesses you with children, but when you’ve gotten married, you’ve decided] they should and must look after them. Thus, I have become a sort of rebel. When I go out, and ladies have their cooing babies in their laps, I am more liable to say, ‘ooh cute baby’ from a safe distance. When the mothers launch their babies at me, I hide behind my mother. Cowardly, I know.

And then, as they say in fairy tales, the twins arrived. My cousin is twenty-fours old; she has two boys, of the advanced ages of four and three and decided that they did not keep her busy enough. So, she prayed for twin girls and was blessed by the Almighty. ‘You’d have to come and look after them’ she’d told me and I wanted to laugh and say, I’m so very busy with my course work, it will be Ramadhan, I have to read taraweeh, when I fast I feel like a lizard and of course, that I cannot handle babies. However, when she was told that she was having boys rather than angelic girls in skinny jeans with ruffled shirts [trust me, that is how babies dress nowadays], my dear grandma gave me a look, that said: “You’d just better be there.’ I felt kind of miffed for a while, but as Ramadhan approached, I thought, Ramadhan is sacrificing what we love so that we may get closer to the Almighty. Here was an opportunity where I would be sacrificing my time and my leisure, to help those in need, and that was the essence of Ramadhan.

So, I worked through the night, finishing my work before I boarded my flight, and praying, please Almighty, give me good marks and let the kids be as good as I was when I was young [I’m sure I was rather perfectly behaved.] I left when the twins were mere three days old, when I arrived at the airport, I was greeted by my gorgeous nephews, who’d come loads of kiddie luggage: Ben Ten, Winnie the Pooh and Spider man. ‘She’s come to play with us’ they called excitedly to their dad, and I heaved a sigh of relief, playing with kids was certainly better than burping babies.

When I got to their apartment, grandma told the boys ‘she’s not here to play with you, she’s here to look after the twins. ’ Man, throwing me in to the deep end and I had not even been there for an hour. Taking a deep breath, I bent down and untied the laces of Mujahid, the four year old (by eid, when I’d tied and untied those laces approximately 5 thousand times, I was very intent on banning laces when I became president), while the three year old, Muwahhid, pulled my hand. “Come and see our brothers”, and I walked into the nursery, where two small creatures lay in their cot. They were absolutely tiny, with the longest fingers and scrunched up red faces. Suddenly, one of them let out a fierce shriek. Woah, I jumped back in surprise. I didn’t know what to do, I’m very scared of holding newborn babies and I’m always afraid I’ll drop them, especially with them having that fontanel in their heads and all. ‘Um, Muwahhid’s calling me’ I said timidly, and walked, ran rather, right out of there. I hyperventilated, what had I gotten myself into, I should have sat at home sacrificing something else rather, if I could not get past the picking up, how was I going to do something much more important, like put its clothes on?! My phone beeped, and an sms from my mom appeared on the screen: Remember, everything you do for the Pleasure of Allah is an ibadah. I was sold.

The Big Boys:

For the first week, my cousin had decided to stay in my aunt’s apartment which is a lavish place, with lustrous carpets, cream walls, posh paintings and ornate ornaments. It reminds of an Italian renaissance. As my aunt would often intone sadly, it was meant for my retirement. I would agree with that. Since there was no where to go, Mujahid and Muwahhid would have running competitions on the porcelain tiles, and the elderly people downstairs would come complaining about thunderstorms on the top of their heads. They also had a plastic cricket set, which, emulating the 20/20 games on tv, Mujahid would invariably end up hitting the ball for six, right onto my aunt’s precious vases. Oops. Some thoughtless person brought them an inflatable rugby set, which they blew up right in the lounge, and tried wrestling each other to death. Being small, they would stand on the coach, jumping up and down, and try to throw the ball through the posts, and yes, you guessed, oops again.

If there is one condiment I hate with a deep vehemence, its ketchup. I cannot even bring it to the table. The boys, of course, absolutely adore it. They have it on their eggs and would even have it in their cereal. Telling myself that jihad took a lot of courage, I first picked the bottle up with a pair of tongs and proceeded to put it on the table. Yes, I congratulated myself, I would never touch it. And then, feed me, Muwahhid pleaded. He would not eat without ketchup, I knew, and as if plunging my hand into the lion’s mouth, I proceeded to dip his rice into the funny red stuff and put it into his smiling mouth. Whew. By the end, I was a ketchup pro, I could probably paint a Picasso with the squeezy bottle.

Feeding the boys took a lot of effort. They generally eat everything, but it takes a lot of imagination to get it into their mouths. The food became lions and clowns and soaring dinosaur birds. I would be on my hands and knees, crawling after them while they pretended to be cars, with a bowl of biryani in my hand, calling; fill up, fill up. That worked almost best. Once, when they didn’t want to eat an orange, I got a marker, and drew a face on its waxy skin, complete with boots and a snazzy cap. They called this ‘Dude Orange’ and proceeded with out inhibition to eat the poor dude’s head. Oh yes, lying to kids, telling them there absolutely is no potato when you’ve hidden it, works wonders. All the veggies go down a treat.

There were new babies, and so there were lots of presents, which invariably included sweets. Since the newborns could not yet feast themselves on caramel and candy, the boys took great advantage of it. The minute they opened their eyes, they had a lollypop in each sticky hand. When they were really high on sugar, they were like Hammy from Over the Hedge, fizzing round and round, driving me rather barmy. Ah, my illusion of thinking that it was going to be easy to play with kids. It takes up more time and energy to look after kids, than running a marathon [not that I’ve ever run a marathon, but you get my drift.} Once, when I was about to snap, I let them jump on the bed until they fell down with exhaustion. After that, I became their heroine, as the only adult who’d ever allowed them to jump on a bed until it squeaked scarily. They never stopped wanting to play, you could be passed out waiting for futoor, and the boys would be jumping up and down, ‘play cars, play cars, play cars!’ All I could do was smile and comply. And, on top of that, I could never get to race the BMW or the Ferrari, it was always the Golf for me. Talk about sacrificing.

Muwahhid is quite scared of numerous things, ranging from the pool, to insects, while his brother thinks he is a teenager. He wants to drive a car, go with his granddad to work and sleep at midnight. His logic, if I can do it, so can he. He cannot wait to be five, I’ve seen teenagers less excited to be sixteen. Of course, he can argue, like I’ve never seen a kid argue before, probably due to the fact that he is a firstborn. Poor kid, [poor firstborns: me] its’ not their fault their bossy, its’ a trait they pick to survive, otherwise they would probably end up retiring before their twenties. And so, being a normal kid, as you can quite imagine, he can be rather naughty. However, I made it quite clear that I was not there to teach the kids, but to have fun with them. They were my friends. I think, being quite a tomboy and having two younger brothers, the best thing to do with boys is to let them go wild, and I was quite surprised that my aunt had never done that. So, for the first week, I let them choose their own clothes and eat what they wanted for breakfast and say whatever they wanted. By the second week, I was so fed up, I enforced strict military duty. I think they enjoyed it even more.

If there was one thing I knew about children, was that they absolutely adored stories. I brought a bag full of children’s books, filled with delightfully bright pictures. They loved it. The most amazing aspect of the stories was that no matter how simple and silly, they never tired of them. I could read the same book, over and over, and each time I would find, had I put their own name ‘well, this is Mujahid and he went to the moon’ they revelled in the innocence of it all. One night, I decided to tell them the story of the Prophet Ýusuf (peace be upon him), Mujahid understood it quite well, Mashallah, and so, I told him the story every single night for 28 days. He asked his mom, quite crossly, just why they had not named the twins Yusuf and Binyamin. My cousin told me that stories were supposed to put kids to sleep, but my stories on the other hand, kept them awake.

When I think back, I remember members of family thought I was going on a holiday ‘ooh, what a lovely break you will have' and I when I returned, I'm like, please if thats a holiday, I'm not going to be taking one again. And they all smirked, and said, when you have your own kids you wont be able to run away from them. Believe me, I'm seriously considering that.

My synopsis of the big boys... and soon, of their Royal Highnesses, the Twins...

The Imaginitive Sparrow

2009-12-14T20:57:00.001+02:00

google images

The swallow swam through the dry still sea. It dived from its tree perch. It fell, and then swam against the currents and the surging dry waves, intending to go to Illusion and Oblivion. There are paths and directions, there are bridges and tunnels, there are destinations and endings, but all are clear and faultless and forever. When the sparrow had reached its purpose, it felt a sweet joy at having accomplished the first step of the journey. After some time of exploring the vogue of these obscure places, it thought of the daring decision it had made, to turn the ‘Great Expectations’ into a real world, one of touch and smell and sight to all.

‘Great Expectations’ was a place in the sparrow’s mind. It was a busy place, full of roads and markets and sparrows swimming. The distinct importance of this place was that it was perfect. Everything ran accordingly, in extraordinary filigreed detail and fantastical colour, and all allowed and approved only by the sparrow. All it took was a simple thought, so wild and obscure, but there appeared the object and the purpose. There were seas that changed colour and swallowed tyrants, creatures that could grow taller and taller, fingers that could write words on the air, stories that would encompass life. The sparrow did not want to leave this place, its home, and its ultimate power. It felt that if everyone could benefit from this perfect place, the world would become altogether much better.

The sparrow had first heard of Illusion and Oblivion from a young sparrow, just born. It seemed to have been where all other sparrows had gone before birth, but unlike the others, had actually remembered the journey. The young sparrow, chirping rather excitedly, had told them that just before his birthday he was taken to a place where thoughts were real and firm. You could feel them, and taste them and see them materialize right in front of you. The young sparrow had been entranced by the magic of it all, but did not pay attention to the meanings behind the words. Unfortunately so.

In Illusion and Oblivion, there was a beautiful world, a scary world, a green world, a rich world, a whatever you want it to be world. The sparrow flew through it all, its wings fluttering in amazement, its beak quivering in anticipation. It almost forgot what it had set out to do, in this place where everything was more perfect, better than the next. The sparrow, with a curious mind, intended to find out just how thoughts were transmitted into reality. It flew and flew, through miserly deserts and generous forests, sad cities and happy villages, dying ice and living heat. It thought it might find an elixir, a bubbling potion, a mathematical formula or an old quivering sparrow with more secrets than a poor dreamy sparrow could bear. It flew on.

One noon, the sparrow came across a room, a void, white and long and empty. Yet it felt, yes, most entirely full and ultimate. It was expectation. The sparrow brought ‘Great Expectations’ to mind, a bit fuzzier through the intrepid journey, and set out implementing its imagination. Everything turned out well and a bit better sometimes. The sparrow was ready to change the world. It began inviting other sparrows, some wanted holidaying, some wanted adventure, some wanted a fresh scene and some wanted perfection. They all came, rather hesitantly, but there; anxious and excited.

Slowly, the sparrows settled in. They made themselves at home. To our sparrow’s surprise, they never found everything ‘perfect’ there was always a problem or an opinion or angry destruction. And then, inevitably, they always left. The sparrow got wrapped up in all of this; he lost his confidence and slowly began to lose his imagination. One day, tired and sad, he went beyond his world, once an empty void, and discovered, to his utter amazement, an exotic world in tiger colour, he went on and on, and found each one more different than the other. Each inventor of each room, thinking his world was entirely perfect. The sparrow swam on, until he reached a dark place, with neither ending, nor beginning. The Illusion, it realized, was just that, an illusion and a trick.

The Dawn of the Memoriser

2009-08-21T14:46:00.008+02:00

All the Hufaadh on this Earth know dawn to be special. While the world awakes sleepily, their day begins most momentously, the calling of the Book of Allah, the responsibility to carry, to grasp, to believe in the most precious words of the Almighty. Their strive to climb the tallest mountain, to swim the fiercest seas, to brave the bloodiest of fights, they have taken a sacred pledge to protect the words of the Almighty. And to embrace them at every awakening, is the dawn. It is the dawn, with its rays of sweet orange, who ushers the Hafidh to the greatest companion, the Book of the Almighty. He is anxious to remember yesterday's conversation and eager to begin the new one. He's hopes, aspirations and faith will rise, just how the dawn does every morning. With the Mercy of Allah, he will memorise, verse by verse, letter by letter.

He will see with the first dawn, through the flames of spitting red and dark shadows of the falling night, in the saltiness of his fearful tears, the evil of hellfire, the arrogance of the devil and the human quality of disobedience. When the colours turn to seizing, searing orange and wisps of the tails of paradise birds, he will see a rainbow of paths; those of the Prophets (peace be upon them all), their wisdom and their sacrifice, the paths of those who went astray and the Straightest Path that leads to the beauty of the heavens. When the sun lets fall its cloak, and appears in honey yellow, the mellifluous words of the Quran will appear majestically behind his closed eyes, breathing beautifully. Then the ceremony has been done with and the swords are shrouded in blood, only left are the drapes of the mercy of the Almighty, candyfloss pink and dewy blue, and the grey of a believer's hope. So Subhanallah, is the fresh day, the deliciousness of the new words on your tongue, the world and the universe, light upon light.

When the words get tangled in each other, he will remember dawn in its struggle to be free of the shackles of night, and try again. If he forgets a verse, he will remember that the sun has to ask Allah's permission before it rises each day, and pray. While he reads, each letter a growing flower, the rays will dance with his tongue. Thus, is the dawn of the memoriser.

Ramadhan is the month of the blessed Quran. It is the month of the Hufaadh, it is every heartbeat sonorous with Quran. The Quran makes Ramadhan what it is, fulfilling the moments of hunger and curbing those of error. The Quran enlightens lives in tarawih. It is every soul wishing to be in the Holy Mosques, in the accompaniment of angels and beautiful recitation. Verily, what would be life without Quran? Subhanallah. In this Ramadhan, let us strive to recite with love, with understanding and with absolute submission Inshallah!

Beautiful Perspective

2009-08-14T15:17:00.003+02:00

Today, I was doing Quran tarjuma (sort of like interepreting Quranic verses to understand the meaning, not tafsir) with my teacher, of the following verses in the Chapter of Imran:

زُيِّنَ لِلنَّاسِ حُبُّ الشَّهَوَاتِ مِنَ النِّسَاءِ وَالْبَنِينَ وَالْقَنَاطِيرِ الْمُقَنْطَرَةِ مِنَ الذَّهَبِ وَالْفِضَّةِ وَالْخَيْلِ الْمُسَوَّمَةِ وَالْأَنْعَامِ وَالْحَرْثِ ذَٰلِكَ مَتَاعُ الْحَيَاةِ الدُّنْيَا وَاللَّهُ عِنْدَهُ حُسْنُ الْمَآبِ

Fair in the eyes of men is the love of things they covet: Women and sons; Heaped-up hoards of gold and silver; horses branded (for blood and excellence); and (wealth of) cattle and well-tilled land. Such are the possessions of this world's life; but in nearness to Allah is the best of the goals (To return to).3:15

قُلْ أَؤُنَبِّئُكُمْ بِخَيْرٍ مِنْ ذَٰلِكُمْ لِلَّذِينَ اتَّقَوْا عِنْدَ رَبِّهِمْ جَنَّاتٌ تَجْرِي مِنْ تَحْتِهَا الْأَنْهَارُ خَالِدِينَ فِيهَا وَأَزْوَاجٌ مُطَهَّرَةٌ وَرِضْوَانٌ مِنَ اللَّهِ وَاللَّهُ بَصِيرٌ بِالْعِبَادِ

Say: Shall I give you glad tidings of things Far better than those? For the righteous are Gardens in nearness to their Lord, with rivers flowing beneath; therein is their eternal home; with companions pure (and holy); and the good pleasure of Allah. For in Allah's sight are (all) His servants,-3:16

لَّذِينَ يَقُولُونَ رَبَّنَا إِنَّنَا آمَنَّا فَاغْفِرْ لَنَا ذُنُوبَنَا وَقِنَا عَذَابَ النَّارِ

(Namely), those who say: "Our Lord! we have indeed believed: forgive us, then, our sins, and save us from the agony of the Fire;"-

After I read these verses, I thought about how, like in my previous post, I complained about my dreams being caught in the treacle of this world, about money, about falling into a world so shallow it does not exist. Subhanallah, these verses put it into beautiful perspective. What is there to be confused about? The evil devil beautifies our desires and makes us run after them, forgetting the true essence of why we're here and what is most valued in the sight of Almighty Allah. It is indeed the quality of man. We grow up being happy and striving to do good, to make the world a better, kinder, purer place, when we're suddenly struck by these temptations which we end up pursuing for the rest of our young lives. When we're dying, are we going to be like those who think, 'what did I do with my life?' This is because we have forgotten the Almighty, and the years and their deeds have passed in dark shadows, without cause and without reward. Subhanallah! May the Almighty save us and guide us to the Straightest Path...

Stop trying to be so difficult...

2009-08-13T14:27:00.004+02:00

I understand, perhaps, to some extent, the need for companionship. Where you become the limbs, the beat in the heart, where you live within. Knowledge is far greater than this, but perhaps not as much fun and way more work. You’ll be curled up in front of your page, your screen, your sky, forever trying to make sense of things, trying to create, while everyone else is actually living life. Freedom is something else all together, and do you know the greatest freedom? Well, that is death. To be finally, finally, cut of from this horribly terrible world.

Another thing, yes, even though I have ignored it, trying to be a pseudo artist and deliberating Rastafarian at peace with nothing and everything at the same time, is money. I never use to care for it. I used to believe in my dreams, that yes, one day, if Almighty Allah wills, I shall be in Jihad and one day, I will sit in a university somewhere very clever and learn English, Arabic, philosophy and one day I will have my book win the Booker Prize and one day, I’ll sit in a tent in the Somalia reciting poetry all night long and one day, I’ll ride an Arabian horse through the dunes, and one day, I’ll write a gorgeous punk song, both soul and hatred and have it sung by a boy band with lashings of eyeliner, and one day I’ll fly a plane, and learn how to read the stars and sail on the forever seas. I never thought, yeah, in 1o years, I’m going to have a career, I’m going to have money, I’m going to have kids, I’m going to write proper permissible columns for conventional people. All I ever wanted to do was run away from life, and now, I am forced to survive. I have realized that you need to struggle to live. May Allah assist me! Verily, sustenance only comes from Him. I am slowly, but truly, losing myself. That is but the solemn truth.

For instance, now, I have to finish the assignment on Islamic banking. Rather, I have to start it. There is nothing in me that tells me this is what I want to do. It is but what was written in my destiny. Subhanallah man, I am either conquering the world in my high-tops or doing banking. We plan and Allah plans and Allah is the best of Planners. I mean, law?! You know, the only interest I have in law, is freeing the Muslim prisoners. Otherwise, I really am a rather corrupt individual who feels sorry for all the people who do terrible things, because I think they have issues. Oh yes, I so would love for all the Muslim prisoners to be free, and me defending them against tyrannical judges, but I much rather watch someone else do it, and write poetry for them. The dusty lashings on their stitched together hearts, their bleeding tears that sting the world... Soppy, I know, but I do enjoy it.

Perhaps I am just lazy and bad. May Allah forgive me! I feel so sorry about it; seriously, I just cannot stop doing wrong. On of the qualities most wrong about me, are my extremes. I am either waxing lyrical about love&peace or I am being absolutely cynical in my judgement towards it. For instance, I don’t believe in love, I don’t trust anybody, which is the underlying value of love, and therefore, I am sarcastic towards the world, which sort of thrives on it. On the other hand, I sometimes think, ‘Love is the perfect science, I have just misunderstood it.’ (In case you’re thinking I’m bearing my soul with silly details about how, when he smiled at me, my stone of a heart become a river of milk, you’re wrong. I am merely entertaining the idea.) What indeed, do you call this? Why can I never be rational?

The other day, I was thinking about how very much I hate the enemies in Afghanistan, Palestine, Iraq and so forth. Then, I started feeling sorry for everybody and making excuses about how inherently human beings are good inside and why the world couldn't’t just be a better place. Subhanallah, I have become caught up in my own ideologies. Perhaps I have very weak faith and that is why I am either on Ying’s side or justifying my attempt to be on Yang’s. Most people are resigned to the fact that bad people don't need an excuse to be terrible, that love exists and are contentedly striving towards a better future, a clearer ozone layer or just a cupcake with a cherry on the top. I, on the other hand, remain forever yours, Sincerely Confused.

Faithful Taunt

2009-08-03T18:40:00.003+02:00

"Enough" in the Arabic Language

The many tears you made us cry
When my sister screamed
My brother spent his final glance
Mother breathed valiantly
And father, he carried all those bodies away…

Soon, you’ll hear the heartbeat of our soldiers
Our armies with weapons of lightning and thunder
Our rain will wash away your darkness
Your lives will run like water in the streets…

We told you to leave our bountiful lands
You destroyed the olives and pulled the sown seeds
You slaughtered the innocent, as the manner of your creed
Wait, now, for the payment of your deeds…

You mock at ever-present death
You laugh at the desperate shouts for help
Our call will cause fear in your bellies
Our radiant smiles will make you fall in cowardliness…

Your bullets tore our skin
Your missiles fraught us deaf
Your gas swathed us blind
One day, watch, how empty you will breath…

You break us with torture
You confine us in captivity
You strangle us with shackle
We trustfully believe, I know that makes your soul quiver …

You lust for our blood
You think it’s cheap
You suck all the meat and chew all the bone
One day, your insatiability for our blood, will be fulfilled by your own…

Our hearts are swollen with grief
Our sadness belongs only to the Almighty
The Giver of all, He is our only Deity
Oh Thee, envelope us in piety…

I lost my mother in your hate
I lost my home in your oppressive state
I lost my legs on that fateful date
O’ Allah, forever, keep my faith…

Korean woman failed written driver’s license test 772 times

2009-07-28T19:23:00.004+02:00

I sure hope I don't end up like this poor lady!

FROM THE DAILY NEWS,
SEOUL, South Korea -

A woman in South Korea who has taken the written exam required for a driver’s license nearly every day since 2005 has failed again — but is hoping attempt No. 772 will be the charm.
The aspiring driver took her first test in April 2005, according to Choi Young-chul, an official at the North Jeolla Province driver’s license agency in Jeonju, 150 miles (240 kilometers) south of Seoul.

She has taken the test a record 771 times, most recently on Monday, but has yet to pass. She said she plans to take the test again but did not say when, he said Thursday.

The 68-year-old has spent 4 million won ($3,000) on fees for the test, he said. Applicants must score at least 60 on the written exam before they can get behind the wheel for a driving test. Choi says she’s scored as high as 50.

“I feel sorry every time I see Cha fail. When she passes, I’ll make a memorial tablet myself and give it to her,” Park Jung-seok, a traffic police officer at the agency, told the Korea Times newspaper.

No other details about her identity were released other than her family name, Cha.

Global Cooling

2009-07-27T19:36:00.003+02:00

It is absolutely unfair that the media goes on about global warming as if it is the basis of all our problems. At the moment, I would not mind if global warming swamps me. As the energy years have progressed and the World has gone into its save me phase, crying about how we are all going to drown in our own sweat, the weather down here seems to openly oppose all such thoughts.

While the Europeans have been prancing around with their additional summer months of sun speckled frivolity, Johannesburg has just gotten colder. I am beginning to think it might be a conspiracy theory against us, down here, in Africa. I do not know why our plight has never been highlighted, for shortly we shall all die of the terrifying chill, without having being made to look like snow heroes. It’s Africa, for crying out loud. We wore shorts in the winter. Our houses are built to remain cool during the long summer months, and not to retain heat. People survive in shacks, in shanty towns, because it does not snow. It seems that when all the ice bergs melted, they washed right up on our shores.

Before this winter, I had never taken boots that seriously. I viewed them as something you wore to look fashionable and keep up with European trends. I never owned a coat, or wore gloves while I typed. As of this year, I wear boots because they keep me warm, sit on the heater and breathe frozen air in the bathroom while the water takes a million years to heat up. So please, bring on global warming. We would get back to normal, and the West would become like us.

The change in weather highlights the emergence of a new concern. In the coming winter, the 2010 FIFA Soccer World Cup is to be held in South Africa. I sincerely hope that the organisers have taken the climate into consideration; otherwise we shall have to ski instead of play soccer. I feel rather disheartened for the African teams who are use to considerably steamier environments and hopeful of home advantage, for they shall freeze in a blitz of arctic winds.

This past summer, due to the decrease in temperature, I hardly swam, but I could go ice-skating on my swimming pool right now.

Trial & Error

2009-07-24T20:28:00.005+02:00

Well, here goes. My mighty confession.

I failed my driver's license test.

I had it booked on the day of my birthday and it was supposed to be the perfect present for my 19th. I was going to step gracefully into adulthood. I imagined myself cruising through Sandton, not giving way to the incorrigible taxis and finally, finally, going faster than the torturous speed of 40 kilometres per hour. I had taken enough lessons, more than the norm, actually. I had done so much parallel parking, alley docking and three point turns, I was doing it in my dreams. I had driven on the freeway. My car, a blue corolla, responded to my wishes and handled comfortably. I balanced the clutch with my Levi high-tops, did the five-point observations until my neck felt like it would crack, and accelerated with the utmost gentleness (Ok, that bit is not really true, I always rev with a bit more enthusiasm than needed). Subhanallah, I felt so confident.

So, on the day of my test, I have an hour of practice booked with the boss of my driving school, who says that he is convinced of my driving. He says that my Mom will send me off to buy milk and bread, as soon as I get home. Even though I was feeling racked with nervousness just a moment before, with the claws of doom and failure wrapped around my neck, this statement manages to make me feel a tad bit more relaxed. We arrive at Langlaagte Testing Station, in the South of Johannesburg, where rows of testing cars with their scary stripes of orange and blue, smirk at me, taunting and teasing. The weather is bitingly cold, but the icy winds help to keep me focused and steady. Or so I thought.

After doing my eye test with the dancing E's, I sign not on the dotted line, but the examiner’s laptop screen. We then go to the car, where I start doing the embarrassingly silly car inspection. "There is no obstruction under my car..." Bend down and check. "My door opens and closes..." Open and close the door. "My tyre pressure is fine..." Kick the tyre with my sneakers. "My headlights are not cracked..." The examiner seems bored, and ushers me into the car. Here, I put my pillow on the seat (this is because I am rather short, so, in order to see where to stop the car, I have to sit on a pillow), and on the windscreen wipers and switch on the indicator. So far, so good. Alhamdulilah.

Here I falter. I suppose, here I fail. When I switch on the car, it doesn’t feel like a car, it feels like a sort of fake. Its very light, and the clutch that I have finally gotten the hang of on the other car, is totally different here. I drive to the steep hill, which I conquer without much fuss. I do the three point turn rather sweetly. Then I go to my first parallel parking, reversing to the right, and as I reverse and begin to lock the steering wheel, the examiner informs me that I have rolled forward. I look at him in utter shock. "You've failed" he says, and I am not even fifteen minutes into the test. "I rolled where?! I so did not" I say, I might as well, if I have gone and blown the entire thing. I want to cry, but I beg and plead. "Please sir, please, give me another chance." He yawns; as if he's had many a hundred other teenagers do the same thing and now informs me that the car and the training grounds are full of cameras, with police officials scrutinising my every movement. I envision myself on YouTube in an hour, promoting corruption with crocodile tears. I trail back, and kick the fine pressure tyre once more for good measure.

Even if you have to wait another few months, I’d say, try to go to a testing station where you can take the car you feel comfortable with. These cars are filled with motion sensors, waiting to bite you if you make the slightest mistake. I am rather scared of going again now, fearing it will end as horribly as the first test did. That, however, is all in Almighty Allah’s power.

MorningYouth-Say no to mourn

2009-07-24T11:24:00.000+02:00

So there. This morning, in my glorious state of delirious mourning , I decided to write my morbid thoughts and share them. I agree it's rather ridiculous. I mean, why exactly would you want to read about how I brushed my teeth, and then proceeded to cry all over my organic whole wheat toast? Especially if the toast was buttered with creamy white Ayishire no salt butter. In today's time of all out savageness, when manners are considered preppy and not tying your shoelaces is thought of as proper fashion, butter has stayed sensible. And therefore, crying it off your toast is not really the right way to start your day.

Yesterday, I turned 19. Perhaps because I was born in the Winter I happen to have such a frigid view of the supposed wonderful world. The cold does strange things to people, they morph into shadows of the humans they are supposed to be. It is freezing here, in Johannesburg, South Africa. Whenever I mention that my fingers might fall off because of the one degree weather, Maharani tells me that when she was in England, it was minus 20 degrees. This dude asked me if I was born here, in Jozi, because I told him that we needed to start building insulated houses. People are deceived by the cheery sun, and the stunning sky, but seriously, I cannot even type properly, because it is so cold. One day, when I become president, hibernation will have to be added to the Constitution.

I do not know why, but I have this feeling that 19 is going to be cooler than 18. This is despite the fact that my 19th didn’t start very well, but I'll tell you all about that later. I know people say that age is just a number, but I am in mourning for my lost youth. I decided to name this blog, MorningYouth, because whatever age we may be in, whether it be the blossom of childhood or the cradle of ancientness, we will always celebrate the morning of our youths. The days fringed with excitement, tinged with opinionated anger and livened with delicious expectation. Here's to short lives that are full of love!

Ma'asalama and have a beautiful Jumáh
Zee Jay