Threads Volume 21 Issue 1

threads

volume XXI | issue I uc berkeley’s muslim student publication

welcome to threads, volume XXI issue I

board

aamna abbasi editor-in-chief muzamil samimi managing editor

zahra ansari creative director javairia abbasi print editor

maryam awwal print editor

aliza siddiqui web editor ceren fitoz video editor kizal butt marketing director rabeeah ali social media director sania elahi photo editor

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table of contents

5 editor’s letter 6 a caravan of dust: islamic exceptionalism in an activist age 12 surah ad-duha 18 insha'Allah 22 pumpkin pie cheesecake bars 24 sans titre

28 sometimes you have to be your own light 32 a tale of two different cities 36 lost 42 sakura 48 flamenco in my veins 56 for my ancestors

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Readers,

This issue of Threads is my personal favorite.

The diversity of the authors’ voices and the quality of the writing will keep you captivated from start to finish. On behalf of the board and staff, I hope you enjoy reading it as much as we enjoyed putting it together.

Love, Aamna

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a caravan of dust: islamic exceptionalism in an activist age words | adnan perwez photos | maysoon suleiman

O

ne of my projects this year involved examining political poetry written during the Khilafat Movement of 1919-1924. While the Movement as a whole is fascinating — not least for the interesting questions it poses about the intricate intersections of mass pan-Islamism, regional identity, romantic constructs, and the power of the imaginary in the public mind — it is the emotionally immersed poetry that helps truly distill the essence of the times. The literature is able to capture a particular zeitgeist that dominated the era — one of imminent, almost breathless revivalism.

Though this near-millenarianism sentiment may not be as obviously relevant today, many verses from this period still hold a certain evocative power. One such verse is from Tulu-e Islam (the Rising of Islam), by the brilliant Muhammad Iqbal; it goes —

The destination of the Muslim lies beyond this azure sky You are the caravan that in its wake leaves the stars as dust.

The imagery, of course, is stirring. Iqbal first brings our attention to the heavens — crystal-blue in its vividness and endless in its immensity. It’s a canvas worthy for the aspirations of an entire community to be charted onto. The view then pans towards a caravan that, in a surprising flourish, itself turns out to be celestial: the image of stars being thrown up and softly settling after each footstep is an oddly touching, enduring one.

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But the wider narrative behind this verse (as well as the poem, and to an extent even the movement at large) is Islamic exceptionalism — trying to give the Muslim reader a certain weight and sense of their destiny. The Muslims, in other words, are painted as a chosen community; one with whom the fate of the world is particularly and inextricably intertwined.

There is a subtle sense of unease that can arise when we internalize this mindset. After all, our long immersion within the paradigms and norms of modern activism — inevitably rooted from a strongly Eurocentric, secular tradition — has passed on to us (consciously or unconsciously) a certain framework of values. Foremost among these is the concept of universality; or, in other words, that all groups are intrinsically equal. Perhaps one of the most uncomfortable, yet important, questions to grapple with is asking if this exact idea of unqualified universality is truly present in our tradition. To put it another way, do we believe that Muslims have a unique position (and thus responsibility) in the world?

I believe that we do. To clarify, this is, of course, not at all some sort of inherent, unbreakable superiority. Absolute superiority in our tradition, after all, comes from the status of someone in the eyes of God — a measurement none of us can know on any sort of individual level. The true status of a person, then, is wholly reliant upon their position with the Divine. It is this fundamental principle — the Divine as the fountain of morality — through which the seemingly opposite principles of duty and humility can be threaded together so closely in our faith.

But if we accept the general principle of exceptionalism, it then follows that we must strive to make sure that this unique sense of responsibility is similarly mirrored in our actions. And though this should be across all walks of life, we cannot simply define Islamic activism as engaging and advocating in the political realm, but engaging and advocating in the political realm with the highest level of character, as Islam understands it. In this way the understanding of adab — of Islamic etiquette aimed at modeling the Prophetic character — becomes integral to be able to internalize and live up to as a collective, communal standard.

The concept of taking on a certain moral obligation obviously brings with it a host of other questions.. How do we hold ourselves and each other to have the proper adab even when we’re dealing with those who politically oppose us? How can this emphasis on character be built and sustained for the longterm? And more broadly — what is our actual positionality in the specific epistemological and moral framework that we find ourselves surrounded by?

What is the space for such faith-based activism in today’s deeply secularized activist environment? And how can we begin to deconstruct the meaning of values that we may have subconsciously absorbed as intrinsic — instead coming to define them in our own terms, in a way that is both rooted in the tradition and contextualized in the contemporary?

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None of these have easy, simple answers. They require deep introspection on the part of our communities, a fearless grappling with the streams of tradition and modernity, and in the end, at least some sort of acceptance about the inherent strangeness of our faith. The very fact that our religion views itself as drawing upon the concept of ‘authority’ and a set of normative values from an objective, eternal Divine — not men, not society, nor even ‘Reason’ — means we view the world in a fundamentally different way.

Perhaps even more difficult are the complexities that arise when we put these theories into practice. Is there a unique strand of principled, adab-centered Islamic activism that should be developing? What would that look like?

How can this style of faith-based activism coexist and work with other understandings of activism, whether they be spiritual or not? And how do we simultaneously internalize the idea of being given a heightened sense of status and obligation as part of the Muslim community, while retaining genuine humility on the individual, human level?

In an ideal world, we’d have the Prophet leading our caravan; helping us navigate, with his characteristic blend of gentleness and strength, through these thorny complexities. In his absence, of course, that responsibility falls upon us as a collective. The exact intersections of adab and activism; of faith

and the secular; of romanticism and reality; of exceptionalism and universality; we must attempt to genuinely tease these thorny concepts amongst ourselves. We must trace his footsteps through the ever-blowing sand.

In the meantime, the caravan will continue to make its way through the steep, winding path. The starry dust it leaves will end up settling softly behind it. The heavens themselves will be lying ahead.

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surah ad-duha

photos | sania elahi

by the morning brightness and by the night when it covers with darkness your Lord has not taken leave of you, (O Muhammad) nor

has He detested you and the Hereafter is better for you than the first life and your Lord is going to give you, and you will be satisfied did He not find you an orphan and give you refuge? and He found you lost and guided you, and He found you poor and made you self-sufficient so as for the orphan, do not oppress him and as for the petitioner, do not repel him but as for the favor of your Lord, report it

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words | puja prathi photos | sania elahi

April 28th, 2016

“H

i Mom. I know this is going to sound crazy, but I don’t want to go back to Illinois. I am going to drop out of Wesleyan, go to community college, and transfer to Davis.”

20 minutes earlier…

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I am sitting in a car with my head out the window scribbling away in my journal…obviously. It is too hot and it smells like cow, something that is very Davis. I can distantly hear the shuffling of UC Davis students, while I wait for Zunaira (my best friend) to finish class. The longer I sit in this volcano, the more irrational thoughts I start to have and I don’t want to think about my future right now. I have done too much thinking during my visit here, and I am still unwilling to admit that I like Davis more than my own university.

There were little parts of my personality that I lost in Illinois, like my personal style. I began to dress like a basic white girl; my uniform consisted of a t-shirt, leggings, and Uggs. And everyday, I felt like a fraud. There were swarms of bees constantly buzzing in my head, mocking me by saying, “look who is wearing clothes she doesn’t like again.” Even if I had embraced my individuality and gotten over my fear of looking different, I was unwilling to sacrifice myself to the bone-chilling cold. In Davis, everyone dresses with

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character. Even now, I see a girl wearing an interesting outfit—a pink tee with boyfriend jeans and crocs.

In order to fit in at Wesleyan, not only did I give up my style, but I also felt more distanced from my culture. Growing up in the Bay, being an Indian American has been seamlessly intertwined into my identity. I never felt different because my friends would listen to the same Indian music and we would eat the same type of food, like chaat. In Illinois, that was not the case.

There were only five Indian kids in the entire school, so cultural activities didn’t happen often. And when I did do something as natural as listening to Bollywood music, it seemed peculiar to my friends; I was always swarmed with questions about who, what, and why I was listening to such different music. I began to wear a mask and gave up doing anything remotely Indian, so I would stop getting questions. But when Zunaira told me she was a part of PSA (Pakistani Student Association) and that she began to listen to Arabic music, I felt something was amiss in my life. I realized I was completely giving up my Indian identity so I could fit in at Wesleyan, but I wanted to be both Indian and American, like how I was raised.

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My perception of college culture was also a stark contrast to what I actually experienced. I thought college was going to be the best four years of my life because I would get to study abroad, take mission trips to Honduras, live in a new state, and make friends that would last a lifetime. I never realized college is supposed to be “the best four years of your life” because of partying.

And there’s no way I could have known how extreme the party scene in college is because I grew up in a sheltered home; the college lifestyle of sleeping around and having a good time at Thirsty Thursday’s was not for me. I didn’t understand the fun in getting blackout drunk...this happened a lot in Illinois.

I saw many of my closest friends rushed into the emergency room because of alcohol poisoning. Yet, no one stopped drinking. Maybe that’s another reason I like Davis so much, party culture isn’t emphasized to such an extreme extent here.

Another difficult part of living in Illinois was feeling like I didn’t belong in my own country. People would always assume I was an international student because I didn’t look like a “typical” American. My sociology professor asked me how I’m liking America. I had an English professor ask me if I knew where the closest immigration office was, or to ask her if I ever needed help with English. My friends would ask me if I worshipped a cow, or would be forced into marriage...which makes no sense because my parents let me go to college, halfway across the country. I was amused the first few times I was asked these questions, but towards the end of the year, I was beaten down.

I couldn’t handle these blatant stereotypical judgments or discrimination anymore.

Why am I going back to Wesleyan? My parents would understand if I decided to stay home and go to community college; after all, I called them everyday, sobbing. I’ve already lost a big part of my personality this past year, and I am afraid that if I stay any longer, I will become a shell of the person I used to be. And I like who I used to be. Just the thought of having to board a plane back to Illinois depresses me; I want to stay in Davis. I felt more at home in Davis these past four days than I had in Illinois this past year.

Doesn’t that say something? I need to take a risk and drop out of Wesleyan; I am terrified of diving into an uncertain future, but I am more petrified to go back to Illinois. I don’t know how my future will turn out, but if just the idea of moving back to California is making me so happy, I need to pursue it.

I need to go. I have to call my mom.

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pumpkin pie cheesecake bars

a recipe by Hajar Larbah

It’s a combination of all your favorite desserts, cheesecake and pie, all wrapped into one thick bar.

Personally, I am very picky with pumpkin pie as I am not a huge fan of pumpkin spice (don’t hate me). It can be overwhelming for me so I like to make my own, just using cinnamon. If you are a fan of the spice, feel free to customize this recipe and add ginger or nutmeg to give it that kick.

ingredients •

5 oz graham crackers

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3 tablespoons melted unsalted butter

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8 oz cream cheese, softened

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3/4 cup powdered sugar

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1 egg

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1/4 cup sour cream

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1 teaspoon vanilla extract

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1 can pumpkin puree

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1 can sweetened condensed milk

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1 whole egg and 3 egg yolks

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1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

instructions 1) Preheat oven to 350F. 2) Combine graham crackers and metled butter in a blender. Press the crust down into a lined 8 by 8 inch pan. Set aside.

3) In one bowl, whisk pumpkin puree, condensed milk, eggs, and cinnamon together until fully mixed. In another bowl or using a stand mixer with a paddle attachment, mix the cream cheese, powdered sugar, sour cream, egg, and vanilla extract.

4) Layer the cheesecake mix on top of the graham cracker crust and spread evenly. Then add the pumpkin pie mix on top of the cheesecake layer. Place it in the oven for around 35-45 minutes or until the pumpkin pie is completely set. Remove from the oven and allow to cool. Slice into squares and place in the fridge.

Serve cold with whipped cream and cinnamon on top!

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sans titre

words | alana arman

T

he first time I fell in love was six years old.

Fierce red locks tangled in the complications of my newish Muslim life.

Speckled skin, a baby bird, wandering into a world that she’d never been exposed to.

I hit the ground running.

He asked me to race and my heartbeat ran the 5k, no training required.

I was on fire; gold shining right out of the tips of my fingers; teardrops of pure naïve joy clinging to the corners of my scrunchedup eyes.

This must have been what happiness felt like.

The second time, a deeper rendition than the first.

Our mothers were best friends and like toy soldiers we followed suit.

Onto a battleground that we didn’t quite understand yet; an ideology here, a madhab there, and a culture right around the corner.

And in our mothers’ cars going from my house to yours, I learned what sweaty hands felt like for the first time when I held yours.

When we arrived, there was always food and video games; you, the protector and I, the princess.

And you laid waste to the monsters in between the TV and computer screens.

And in between the microfiber arms of fantasy, I never realized what lie in wait in the battlefield that was called reality.

I didn’t know that little girls and little boys were put into boxes so early, and my wildness resisted all attempts to be put into straitjackets of words or on the other side of mountains of separation.

And I would dig my way over the mountains and one day I found myself behind enemy lines in your arms.

Eight years old had its own scars, and I’d realize this much later, but that’s to come…

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The third time I fell in love it was with the blood that ran from my body; Both natural and unnatural causes had me mesmerized because my feelings hadn’t changed.

Eighth grade was made up of phone calls and notes passed in class, Lord knows there were only hours of us.

They’d already decided I was fit for counseling, barely thirteen years old.

I’d whisper out my soul, head ducked in shame about my love.

And home again, borrowing my mother’s SideKick just to see what you’d say at the other end of the line.

I’d find you behind computer screens and we’d keep our distance in school.

I think we’ll get married one day, even as I try my damnedest to get over you.

At this age I’m still all red, but I’m beginning to have trouble remembering my song, Dotted skin, freckles, and razor blades, it’s all the same to me.

My wings can still take me places with just a little more pain, but I can grin and bear it.

The first time I felt heartbreak was fourteen years old.

I was so sure that things would always be the same whether I wore a scarf or was shipped off to a foreign land; high school, a whole different terrain than I was trained for.

Too many ‘What are yous?’ and no familiarity.

My love, my best friend, ripped away.

My red, encased in a heavy white; a cloth that weighed as much as I did.

Eighty-five tremendous pounds of fight, strength, steady decline, and resentment.

At this point I used to think that white cloth would grow a couple of yards and cover me for good.

I was a constant ball of bright energy radiating for all to see, but I could never rest my soul.

My thoughts — too ugly, not good enough, fat fat fat fat fat, I wonder what he’s doing? — were too loud.

And I’m certain that this is when my head started to tear itself to pieces.

The fourth time I fell in love, I was eighteen.

And my oh my, I adored my bed.

I could slip between the sheets and sleep away reality.

With wings made of bones, too fragile to bring food to my lips, I could not fly anymore.

And here I nested in loss of appetite and sleep and words for the

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people and places that I was a part of.

A shadow in March, the flame that burned so red almost snuffed out by the long winter of my misunderstandings and discontent.

The fifth time I fell in love I was on the underground.

Maybe six-hour flights do wonders for the soul.

There was something about the way the city moved above it that called me to stay on earth.

I was just a small sea in an ocean of faces, and far away from everything that I knew, I found out that home really is where the heart is.

I looked around myself in the bottoms of bottles and in clouds of smoke.

One of the “cool kids.” I spent the summer with flowers in my hair, one of the breakfast club.

And an ode to liver street was always lined up and ready to rumble out of my soul.

I stood on the edges of cliffs and slipped in and out of Shakespeare’s best.

I never found myself, but I sure found a numbing will to live.

This love lasted a long time, I could take bullets better than all my friends combined.

And oh boy, did I ever take them, over and over till they came right out of my body.

And I would dance like my life depended on it, truth is, back then it definitely did.

The stage became a solace, a place where I could play at the wings that I hadn’t been able to quite grow back yet.

But I couldn’t breathe without drowning in things that I shouldn’t have and couldn’t inhale or exhale anything but haze; the cold winter weather could only mask the difference between breath and smoke for so long.

So I left.

And I have been searching for crimson feathers ever since.

Freckled skin finally feeling more like skin and less like elastic stretched tight over bones.

Falling in and out of love with my bed and letting myself disappear from the world every once in a while (and yet more often than you think).

Forgive me for a very weak love song.

A semi-autobiography.

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sometimes you have to be your own light

sometimes you have to be your own light no ban, no wall no ban, no wall

no wall, no ban no wall, no ban

i chanted in the streets carrying a poster board and the (sudden) burden of my existence where there is no home no family, no love, support understanding (nothing)

(nothing — just like me) i looked around at the faces and raised fists and laughed because if i didn’t laugh i would - surely - cry the words and the irony the pain that the hypocrisy created chanting about inclusion while my own voice is drowned out by a community who passes judgment without seeking justice by a community who speaks of justice

but stands for nothing

because i am irrelevant

within the community where i have no (real) roots no ancestral claim

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words | kaylee hunt

merely a conversion to what i thought was right but what is right what is - my - right am i right? … this is not… right ... how our bodies only move and our voices only rise when we feel the pressure of ignorance upon ourselves i laughed and laughed and despite the effort i cried the pain of “progressives” because members of the community ignore pronouns and black representation and queer existence and trans bodies and womyn’s rights and voices long forgotten or rejected because… … … despite my humxn existence… i am not accepted (i am only misunderstood)

(i will never be good) i am only sin i laughed and cried on the walk home contemplating what it means to be a part of this community which refuses to apologize for its own sin of judgement of exclusion of forgetting what it means to be ummah, to be a community

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of forgetting what it means to be humxn that night i decided not to be a part of the fight there was no hope trying to fix a system that was so blissfully ignorant i guess it’s a metaphor me leaving the community - or being left by the community (i cannot tell who abandoned whom) for the numbing experience of these times it was my way of telling the denialists the discrimination-enablers that i would not have any community, connection, sympathy for their system of oppression if i lost friends, family, and the feeling of belonging so be it - i would welcome the solitude because choosing what is right is never easy

choosing

what is right

is never easy but Allah knows my heart my intentions and only gives me what i can endure

(Allah has seen the proof of my strength before) i refuse to feign religion for appearance sake and i refuse to pretend perfection when i know that Allah has made me (beautifully flawed) because if i had no demons to overcome, no struggles, no conflicts i could never prove my faith through the trials - only tribulation and what is darkness without the light? i guess it’s a metaphor

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me marching in the streets screaming and crying

crying

and

screaming

a metaphor for something more

what is darkness without the light?

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a tale of two different cities words | fatima siddiqui photos | maysoon suleiman

D

avis and Los Angeles could not be more different. LA is huge. When you’re talking to someone and say “I’m from LA”, it really doesn’t mean anything. There are 88 possible cities you could be from in that one sentence. But if you mention Davis in a conversation, there’s no confusion there. Davis is small. It’s like something from a t.v. show — it’s your very own Stars Hollow, from Gilmore Girls. The problem is, I hated Gilmore Girls. Stars Hollow was a fictional place I saw on tv, not somewhere I wanted to live.

In LA, I’m from Rancho Palos Verdes, a city that sits on top of a peninsula. Its beautiful views and blissful landscape are something I’ve always taken for granted. I grew up being able to see the ocean from my living room window. I graduated from high

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school with the same kids I started kindergarten with. It is the type of town where we all know of each other, in which we witnessed each others’ awkward childhood phases transition into who we are today. What makes Palos Verdes even more of a home to me is the fact that all of my mom's side of the family has been living here for generations. With my uncles and aunts living just minutes from each other, I had family all over town. I grew up going to the local masjid with my best friends and actively participating in classes, youth groups and events since I was a little kid. It was the only home I’d ever known.

I came to UC Davis fresh out of high school. As a 17 year old who had never left home before, I absolutely hated it. It was farmland. That’s it. Cows and farmland.

That first week of freshman year, I went to as many “ice cream socials” and “dorm hangouts” as I could. I didn’t know anyone at this school and I was desperate. The conversations at freshman socials are pretty much always the same. They’re awkward — people are trying to find their future best friends, but it doesn't just happen so easily. After the standard “where are you from” and “what’s your major” always came the question, “Why Davis? What made you pick Davis?”. And for that first week, my answer was always the same — “To be honest, I really don’t know.” Actually, I still don’t know. But, I’m so grateful for it.

My first year of college, I hated Davis. It’s strange to go from always being surrounded by people you know and love, to knowing no one. I missed my home. I missed the whale-watching spot that sat on top of the cliffs that my mom and I would go to.

I missed going to class and actually knowing the kids that would be in it. I missed going to my favorite Persian restaurant and having the owner pretend to be shocked when my family and I would show up, as if we didn’t just eat there two days ago. I missed grabbing acai with my friends from our usual spot and then going over to chill at Redondo beach. I missed the masjid I grew up in and I missed seeing all my masjid homies every Friday. I missed constantly cracking jokes and laughing with my cousins — I missed being able to get up from my house and be at theirs within five minutes.

I missed my brothers — seeing them everyday and constantly messing around with them. I really missed my parents, just everything about them. It hadn’t hit me yet.

My first year I didn’t realize that Davis could offer me something too. I was too busy hating it to notice the similarities.

In my three years at Davis, I’ve got the flying back home routine pretty much down.

If I’m flying Davis to LA, it’s the same every time. One of my kind friends drops me off at the airport. I text them once I get through security and have boarded. I call my parents as I’m boarding too, letting them know if I’ve checked in a bag and updating them on the landing time.For the hour that I’m in the air, I get excited just thinking about seeing my family picking me up. I think about everything we’re going to do once they pick me up, the people I’m going to see again, the places I’m dying to go back to. I plan out the next couple of days in my head. Even as a junior, the excitement of going home is still too real, too fresh.

Only now, in my third year, have I nailed the flying back to Davis routine as well.

Every time, one of my kind parents drops me off at the airport. I text them once I get

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through security and have boarded. I text my friends as I’m boarding too, letting them know if I’ve checked in a bag and updating them on the landing time. For the hour that I’m in the air, I get excited just thinking about seeing my friends picking me up. I think about everything we’re going to do once they pick me up, the people I’m going to see again, the places I’m going to go to. I plan out the next couple of days in my head. Finally, in my third year, the routines have become the same. Davis has become a home for me, too.

I still miss my home. I still deeply miss the beach, my classes, my friends, the masjid, my favorite restaurants and my family. But now, when I go to LA, I find myself missing “once a week”. It’s that time of the week where my friends and I visit the small frozen yogurt shop in Davis that has a crazy amount of toppings. We go every week, without fail, and it’s become our own little tradition. I find myself missing my roommates — seeing them everyday and sharing a house with them. I miss the nights where we stay up till odd hours of the night, talking to each other about nothing, even though we have 8 ams the next day. I miss my favorite bagel shop that I study in on the weekends and the overwhelming smell that hits me as soon as I walk in. I miss the beautiful, blue Davis masjid and its ability to make me feel at ease whenever I’m in it. I miss buying Dutch Bros coffee with my best friend and regretting it every single time, as I wait for my jittery hands to stop shaking, but still going back for more.

I miss cracking jokes and laughing with my friends, and being able to get up from my apartment and be at theirs within five minutes.

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It’s weird being so attached to two different places. Most of the time, it feels like two separate lives. Sometimes, I feel like I am the only link between two completely different worlds. It’s weird to think that some of the people that I spend everyday with in school haven’t even met my mom. It’s weird to mention one of your best friends from college back home and have your brother go “Wait, which one is that again?”

It’s easy to forget that no one from home knows everything about my Davis life and no one from Davis knows everything about my home life. When I first experienced this divide, I was so uncomfortable with the fact that I now had a life that was so new and different from anything I was used to, that I failed to appreciate it. Now, I realize I’m blessed to be able to say I have such good memories and feelings towards two places. They couldn’t be more different, which is why I’m so grateful that I’ve come to feel this way about both of them. One of them is my home and has always been my home and nothing can replace the love I have for the people and places there. The other one, however, welcomed me in, gave me new friends that I’m blessed to have, and taught me so much in just three years about myself and my life. It too has slowly become a home for me. I’ve come to appreciate having two separate lives and being able to experience the best from both of them.

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a pinch a burning ting, what was happening? the unexplainable, a pain I had never felt before internally I knew life would never be the same “don’t worry,” she said “I’m sure you’ll be fine.” desolate frown across her face she hid the truth her empty reassurance gave no hope

lost

heart racing hands trembling head pounding

words | nawal seedat

sent home with a sling across my arm this was the worst, right? a broken bone but she never said it was broken so what happened? what was wrong with me? she was the doctor, I was the eight-year-old patient she was supposed to know what was wrong! but she didn’t no one knew confusion flat expressions across each doctors’ face analyzing the x-ray lift your arm “I can’t” stir your fingers “I can’t” flex your muscles “I can’t” move your arm to the side “I can’t…I just can’t” an unsettling pain occupied each part of my being radiating from my arm into each crevice of my joints this pain was not real it was a projection of my thoughts

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drifting away towards a fear of the worst why can’t I go home? endless questions at the tip of my tongue hospital bed blood transfusions needles poking, prying, whispered conversations mama crying softly trying not to wake me up not knowing that I couldn’t sleep with her sniffles penetrating my ears why was she crying? there must be something wrong isolated from the reality of my body truth confined they said it was for my safety yet life felt more dangerous each day one night, I awoke to the darkness of my room thin ray of light seeping in through the window 5 a.m. fajr time, mama’s head on the ground in sujud I had wet myself vulnerable, dependent, disgusted I frantically pressed the nurse button involuntary tears rolling down my face sitting in a pool of urine, eyes pleading for a hiding place embarrassment wanting to sink down below the bed sheets away from this life of defeat no control lost the nurses came in with gowns fully geared protected was I the threat? chemo, the deadly poison injected into my veins a curse a cure how could it be both?

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awake, 3 a.m. heartburn “take deep breaths”, she said gasping for air, my lungs grew tight no oxygen can’t breathe allergy diagnosed: Zofran sister sitting by my side as I awake from a nap light-headed something’s wrong, tufts of hair on the pillow case my hair? zzzzz, the buzzing noise of the razor as it makes its way over my head bald scalp no strands of hair all gone my locks lost sixteen pills a day neurontin, gabapentin, doxorubicin, senna generics flashing through my head this one at night this one with food two times a day may cause weight loss a child, shielded from the truth yet living the reality each day the word cancer was never used around me silver lining placed on my disease “you’re sick” an indefinite response to my questions an apparent rejection of the scans and diagnoses mid-day lunch back out my mouth puke green and brown slobbery mess greased the bucket in front of me

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awake, 12 a.m. hallucinating double eyesight everything in twos mind boggled limbo allergy diagnosed: Ativan questioning my existence as the day of doom approached always in my thoughts, too afraid to express can’t formulate my doubts into words the question: “why me?” “why not anyone else?” was it selfish, maybe did I wish for someone else to suffer, no but why should I? God, if He was listening ‘if ’ had taken root in my faith questions, unanswered blame guilt faith shaking iman slipping away “hold on,” I thought but how could I when there was no rope to pull me in? drowning in despair how could He do this to me? fresh stitches seared the soft skin of my arm scars a lasting imprint a fault a sign of failure struggling to reconcile they would determine my future eyes closed

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existing but not living oblivious that the worst was yet to come can’t bow down to Him can’t lay my head on the ground longing for His mercy for His help for Him yet questioning His decisions how do I place my trust in the Divine? when He has wronged me my dreams too far for me to reach inevitable longing never to be fulfilled they said He was listening then why didn’t He respond? silence all around me no one understood the pain and suffering I was grappling with I needed answers but my calls went unanswered lost in the nebulous nature of the world around me

These words stem from the naïve understanding I possessed at the age of 8. I use the word naïve with much hesitation because I know that my questions and doubts were valid, deep, and beyond my years. They weren’t baseless musings, but the result of late-night aching cries which didn’t escape my mouth, locked in the depths of my heart. We often think of cancer as the enemy — children are fighting the battle, and when they survive they have won but if their life is claimed by the disease then they have lost. This analogy ignores the realities and anguish which each child faces through the treatment process and their lingering fears during remission. Many of the close friends and companions I made over the years didn’t wake up one day; cancer took them far from me but I don’t believe that they “lost”. I gained strength from their free will and the dreams that each of them aspired to achieve yet never had a chance to pursue. I continue to live life in their memory, because their hopes cannot be forgotten simply because they are no longer with us.

My personal experience began in the fall of 2008, when I was diagnosed with Stage

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2 Ewing Sarcoma, a rare soft tissue and bone cancer which formed as a tumor in my right humerus bone. The long and arduous treatment process consisted of endless weeks in the hospital, shots, chemotherapy, surgeries, revisions, bone marrow transplants, medicine, therapy, and mental instability. Despite having my last chemotherapy and receiving NED clearance, cancer never left my side. The livelihood it took away from me may never be returned and I see no reason to glamorize the aftermath. My faith shook; I questioned religion and my purpose — I doubted God’s love not because I didn’t believe but due to my body’s rejection to hold over the burden.

We all have something to contribute, but to gain that potential we must overcome obstacles and tests. He would never burden us with more than we can bear, and it is important to value the stories and backgrounds of people around us, remembering that there is no fixed level of taqwa we can attain and sustain at all times. But when things feel burdensome, we should remember Him and turn to Him because verily, He loves us more than we can imagine, He is the Most Forgiving and Giving. He gave me life, He continues to allow my heart to beat, He has blessed me. For that, there is no doubt.

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sakura

photos | zahra ansari The word sakura means "cherry blossom" in Japanese. Every spring, Japan enters cherry blossom season transforming the country into a pillowy, pink paradise. The following are a few photos I took of the sakura last March.

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flamenco in my veins words | mona bdaiwi photos | zahra ansari

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very Saturday morning, my mother would nudge my sister and I awake with a gentle persistence that made me pull the covers over my head and shut my sleepy eyes tighter. In these moments, I prayed that maybe this would be the last time. All I wanted as a 7 year-old was to spend my weekend mornings lounging around, shoveling sugary cereal into my mouth, bite after bite, as I sat with eyes glued to cartoons on the TV screen like all the other kids at school. But, as my mother made so clear, my sister and I weren’t like the other kids; we had to go to Flamenco class.

Reluctantly, we’d slip into our long flowy skirts, pull our hair up with pins and flowers, slide our little feet into shiny black heels, and drag our cranky selves to the car.

All the way over to the studio, we whined incessantly in hopes of miraculously convincing our mother to turn the car around and take us back home. Unsurprisingly, the whining didn’t work, and week after week, we continued to find ourselves half-asleep, staring blankly at our instructor as she led us through the dance routine we pretended to have practiced that week.

Despite our insistent pleas and obvious lack of interest, my mother kept us enrolled.

As a mixed ethnicity family, she wanted to ensure we grew up in an environment that reminded us of our Latino heritage and that kept our Spanish language alive. While we are Mexican and not Spanish, she considered Flamenco a viable opportunity to achieve this while simultaneously exposing us to the discipline and grace that accompanied the dance world. After only a few years, however, my mother grew tired of our complaints and our whining won. Until recently, Saturday morning Flamenco sessions were nothing more than a distant memory.

Early last Fall, my mother shared with me that her close friend, Mariam, had recently completed her dissertation on the history of Muslim Spain, and wanted to teach us

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everything she had been eagerly piecing together over the past ten years. Rather than just lecture us, however, Mariam felt that the best way for us to learn about Andalusia’s legacy was for us to directly experience what has been left behind in the tiles of palace walls and the calligraphy etched into the ceilings of mosques-turned-cathedrals. More than anything, she wanted to nourish our brains with her novel knowledge and replace the lies traditional history books try to make us believe. Mariam was actively convincing my mother to let my sister and I join her for a trip to Spain. Soon after, my mother was working on convincing my father.

I didn’t grow up in a family that even took local vacations throughout the state, much less new and exciting countries, so I was doubtful a trip to Spain would actually happen. And, to be honest, I didn’t want it to happen either. Visiting Spain felt hypocritical, as though I was going against my own morals, my own self. How could I step foot on the land of those who once invaded my ancestral home, killed so many, and forced its own beliefs and cultural customs onto my people to remain forever present through language, spirituality, and countless other aspects of life? The whole idea made me feel as though I was validating the colonizer, and that would never settle well within me.

But how could I confess this to my mother, who was already thrilled to live vicariously through her eldest daughters’ beautiful photographs and endless stories? For my mother, to travel was a fantastical thing of dreams. Family circumstances made it too complicated and impractical for her to venture off to wondrous places. But for my sister and I, she viewed this possibility differently. Each time she brought up Spain, there was an unshakeable hopefulness in her voice.. She was determined to make it happen, purely out of her love for us and her desire to give us what she never had.

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As the months went on, I did everything I could to make up excuses and persuade my mother against the trip. But on my birthday, Mariam’s passion for Spain coupled with my mother’s big dreams resulted in my parents lovingly presenting my sister and I with our flight tickets and hotel bookings. At that point, there was nothing more I could do to convince her otherwise. I thanked my parents for the opportunity of a lifetime, and scrambled within my heart and mind to figure out how I could justify the experience for myself.

I came back home for winter break mere days before my sister and I were set to travel. I still hadn’t come to terms with the fact that this was happening. As my mother and I drove from store to store to pick up travel necessities, she shared with me, “You know, Mona, sometimes I think about how big the Mexican Muslim community is getting, not just here in California, but in Mexico, too. And even more generally, Latinos are the largest ethnic group converting to Islam right now. Ever since Mariam started sharing her findings with me, I can’t help but think about how I fit into all of this. I wonder if, during the Inquisition, the Muslims facing persecution prayed deep within their hearts for the day that Islam might find its way back to their families, and that it wouldn’t have to be so secret or dangerous anymore. Sometimes I think about my conversion, and the conversion of so many other Latinos, and how maybe that in itself is an answer to their duas and prayers.”

Immediately, my heart softened and I sat in silence, my mind caught off guard by this perspective I had never once considered. I thought again about medieval Spain’s attempt to erase the indigeneity of Mexico, my mother’s land, and the everlasting impact it left behind. But this time, I also thought about the connection some of those Spaniards coming to Mexico might have had with Islam. What if, generations later, as the Spanish continued to come to Mexico, some of them descended from crypto-Muslim ancestry, whether they knew it or not? What if, after the passage of time and the intermarriage between the Spanish and the indigenous, my mom’s existence, and the existence of so many other Latino Muslims, was exactly what Spanish Muslims under persecution had prayed for? What if I am who I am, able to believe what I believe, with my mother being who she is, able to believe what she believes, because of the prayers our ancestors made for us? It isn’t easy to be Muslim in the United States right now, but we stand here able to practice our faith because of them.

Suddenly, I developed a newfound connection to Spain. Maybe I didn’t have to accept Spain as a colonizing power, but maybe I could appreciate the beauty of its Muslim history and the resilience of those whose oppression runs through my blood.

Finally, I understood why this trip meant so much to my mother, and why she wanted my sister and I to go. For someone who was never raised Muslim and had to find Islam for herself, she feels a belonging to a community of people like her, although generations and generations past. Her feeling of belonging was so compelling and profound that I realized this trip wouldn’t just be a way to learn about Muslim Spain’s history; rather, it would be a way for me to learn about my history.

From Madrid, we drove down to Granada, ready to explore the magic of Andalusia.

With a five-hour drive ahead of us, Mariam took the time to share what she had

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planned for us while there. “Tonight,” she beamed, “we’re visiting a good friend of mine, in a cave! She organized a Flamenco performance, just for us.” She explained that within traditional Flamenco culture, performances were only held on certain nights, like when there is a new moon, but since the woman and Mariam were such great friends, she made an exception for us that night. “You know, Spain has Flamenco performances all over the place, but none are like what we’ll experience tonight.

Those are meant for tourists; this is different.”

She began to describe how the performance wasn’t just something we were going to watch because it’s part of Spanish culture, but also because its roots are connected to the Inquisition.. Confused, I listened attentively as she explained that Flamenco, much like many other art forms, began not only as an expression of art, but as an expression of struggle and resistance. During the Inquisition, Muslims channeled their emotions and experiences into what developed into Flamenco. The music, influenced by the stylistic aspects and phrases popular within Arab and Muslim music at the time, explores themes of heavy grief in its lyrics and rhythm that can be attributed to the pain and emotions of the injustice Muslims faced. The hardships they faced were embodied and released through the dance’s composition of intense, frustrated stomping and clapping. This was their outlet during a time when they were being silenced.

As Mariam continued to explain, I was lost in thought, reflecting upon my childhood, and how, even before Flamenco was formally introduced to me, it was already part of who I was.

We drove up the hills to our hotel, passing the majestic Alhambra, a structure that once served as a military fortress, royal palace, and communal space, solidifying the Muslim presence within Granada. From there, we made our way from the bus stop up to the foot of the Sacramonte, a mountainside of caves predominantly built and occupied by members of the Romani community. Steps and steps led the way up to the cave we would be visiting tonight, and although the steepness of the trek and the brittle coldness of the night seemed daunting, with the flashlight of our phones, we managed to make it, huddled as close as we possibly could.

The Flamenco instructor welcomed us with a warm, kind smile as we entered the cave and took our seats on a wooden bench placed along the side. It was an intimate show, as we were cramped inside with all the instructor’s friends. A tall, slender woman dressed in polka dots, hair decorated with flowers and pinned away from her face, stepped into the cave, smiled and greeted us all. She and her partner would be performing for us that night. There was a guitarist seated at the other end of the cave. As he began to strum his instrument, my ears filled with notes reminiscent of my childhood. My mind flashed between memories of casually playing around in the dance studio, and the stomach-turning feelings of anxiety before a show. This was so familiar, I had worn that same skirt, those same shoes. I had stood that same way with arms bent gracefully in anticipation of the music to lead me through a rehearsed routine. But now all those memories, the powerful sounds of shoes stomping across the stage, hands clapping together in unison with the guitar, and the voices of the dancers as they called out, came together to affirm that I could no longer think of Flamenco without recognizing the resistance and the resilience of my ancestors in a

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land that did not want them because of their faith.

On our way back to the hotel, Mariam led us through the Albaicin, a neighborhood high in the hills of Granada, and one of the oldest hubs of Muslim culture. “Wait,” she said, “turn this way, I want to show you something.” We made our way through the narrow alley to where the masjid sat, nestled between Muslim-owned tea shops and white walls speckled with hanging flower pots. We walked through the masjid’s gated entrance toward a short wall across the garden. From that point, we stood and overlooked all of Granada. Mariam pointed excitedly and my eyes followed the tip of her finger. There, glistening under the stars, was the perfect view of the Alhambra, its orange color brilliant against the darkness of the night. We leaned against the wall for a while, breathing in the night air and absorbing the moment. We were here, standing in the garden of a masjid in Albaicin, the site of Islam’s rebirth in Granada, gazing at the Alhambra, nostalgic for what was once more than just a tourist attraction, for what might have been the home of my ancestors.

for my people words | setarah jahid photos | sania elahi

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t is a Thursday afternoon in my U.S history class. I am scrolling through my Facebook feed when I come upon an article shared about Afghanistan. As usual, I stop scrolling to read. No. No. No. I grab my backpack and leave.

Why the hell is no one doing something about this?

I am sitting outside the classroom in the hallway, trying to steady my breathing pattern. I pick up my phone to compose a message, thinking of anyone who could possibly be affected: “The United States dropped the Mother of All Bombs on the Nangarhar province of Afghanistan today…” “…. I know I need someone to talk to and I’m sure I’m not the only one.”

Words were exchanged, people were added to the group message, allies shared supportive sentiments, and campus organizers sent out a mass e-mail about a “safe space” to be held that same evening at the Peace Lounge on campus.

At the peak point of the event, there were 20 people present. We formed a circle and discussed what the devastating attack meant for family back home and the future of Afghanistan. When it was time to speak about personal reflections to the news, I started.

“I guess my first initial thought was how for as long as I have been alive, Afghanistan has been in war. A bomb of this magnitude confirms for me that I will probably never see pea—” The tears overtook me. It was irrepressible, the way I was crying. I was grieving. I kept repeating, “there’s no hope, there’s no hope.”

An Afghan graduate student graciously interjected: “Everyone here right now is proof that there is.”

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*** I like to think that I am on a pursuit for truth. Truth, “no matter who tells it,” as Malcolm X proclaimed. Truth, “even if it is against yourself,” as the Qur’an teaches (4:135).

Naturally, that meant when growing up, I did not accept convenient answers to my questions. The narrative that my family, like other immigrant families, came to the United States for “a better life” struck me as empty. Despite my parents’ consistency in sharing this storyline, one look at my father’s eyes while he reminisced about the watan, or homeland, proved otherwise.

Padar, (father), how far were you able to go with your studies in Afghanistan?

Padar, what does Panjshir look like?

Who was your best friend growing up?

Would you go back one day?

I was in high school when the Russian invasion interrupted my studies. Panjshir is a lush green valley, with a river running through it. The river has clean, pure water, we would drink from it. Fariq, it’s been over 20 years since I last saw him. God knows if he’s well.

The last question was met with silence.

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*** “Forget about Afghanistan, it’s a lost cause,” an older family friend would advise me during a mehmani, or social gathering, at my house. I was fifteen at the time, and had just attempted to participate in the elder’s discussion of politics – and of course, exhibited an interest in Afghanistan’s affairs. “You only have hope because you have not seen the ruins yourself,” he completed.

Out of respect, I did not respond. This encounter marked the first of many instances where I was forced to question my identity. The hyphen in my identity “Afghan-American” inherently entails a perpetual state of limbo – I am neither Afghan, nor American. I exist and navigate the world in the space between the two identities.

And the elder’s swift dismissal of my perspective, an abrupt jolt to my consciousness, forced me to acknowledge this bitter truth.

Resentment ensued. I’ll never truly know what it means to be Afghan. My parent’s recollections are the only link I have. It is said that memories can never be robbed from a person, but I believe my parents are still digging to find pieces of their memories under the rubble of war. A 5-foot tall chocolate cake customized as the Eiffel Tower at their wedding. My mother as a young girl walking home from school in the lively streets of Kabul, followed by boys in her class who teased her for her green eyes.

“O, Peshak!” (cat), they would call after her, but her step never faltered. My father as a young teenager hiding in the caves of northern Afghanistan, witnessing Russian bombs drop on the province of Panjshir, the center of resistance against the Soviet invasion.

I held on to these memories growing up, the ones uncovered from the debris, the ones my parents would tell in passing, from fear that they would forget or no longer care to recall. I depended on these fleeting moments to help me understand my identity as an Afghan. And for a considerable portion of my life, it worked.

As I entered my twenties, however, I outgrew the memories. The memories did not suffice in the long term. It served as temporary relief to the historical trauma I inherited, but it did not explain why. I ached to know why. During my parent’s youth, it was the Soviet Union waging war in Afghanistan. Now during my lifetime, it is the United States’ ongoing involvement and war in the region, severely heightened post-September 11th. The U.S.-Afghanistan war is the longest in U.S. history, happening as we speak, yet no one is critically asking why. I was enraged by the world’s silence – it was, and continues, to be deafening.

My pursuit of truth began where the silence ended.

I intentionally turned to the discipline of history to answer my questions. History has an infinite amount of traces – each trace leading to a potential answer – and perhaps if I pinpoint the right one and follow it, I could begin to unravel the knot that has been suffocating my people.

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Donald Rumsfeld's (US Secretary of Defense from 2001-2006) memos were released by the National Security Archive in January of 2018. This image shows that on Nov. 26, 2001, (post-September 11th attacks) Rumsfeld requested a listing of the languages spoken, by percentage, of the people of Afghanistan. Considering that the U.S. has played a huge role in shaping the condition of Afghanistan since the 1980s (Cold War), this released memo showcases the major lack of knowledge of a significant U.S. official, Rumsfeld, in the "never-ending" war in Afghanistan.

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The catch, however, is that no classes are offered on Afghanistan. This is not an issue specific to UC Davis, but with academia at large. I would eagerly scan the syllabi of my Middle East History courses, knowing that because of the ongoing War on Terror, Afghanistan is lumped under the label “Middle East” (despite it being in the center of Asia) – but to no avail. Western academia’s marginalization of Afghanistan did not deter me from continuing my search for answers. It was infuriating, yes – but when your people are murdered under the pretense of “freedom” and “democracy”, and your psyche is scarred from the reality of war in your country, you must continue to find answers. It is what will free you.

Above all, I believe if it was not for life’s paradox, I would have not been this driven in my search for truth. For instance, the hyphen in my identity as an indication that I am included in both categories of “Afghan” and “American,” simultaneously creates a separate space of identity. Afghanistan is declared to be a “lost cause” by both the oppressed— the Afghan elder— and the oppressor— the U.S. stating Afghanistan is a “failed state.” My close involvement with the Afghan diaspora in the Bay Area and at UC Davis taught me that as a community we carry the ironic banner of “unity” yet fail to recognize the divisions and tensions between Afghan ethnic groups: Pashtuns, Tajiks, Uzbeks, Hazaras.[1] The discrepancies and inconsistencies of my being all culminated my final decision to initiate my own research. I applied to the 2017-2018 History Honors program at UC Davis and completed a 62-paged thesis on U.S. intervention in Afghanistan from 1996 to the present. The time frame encompasses my life span. This was personal. This was about healing. My dedication page states: For My People.

Here is a sample of findings that can begin answering crucial questions: Afghanistan is particularly unique because there is a recycled discourse that surrounds the region. Journalism, public policy debates, and even much of the scholarly work on Afghanistan are saturated with tropes that by no means reflects the historical reality of the region. The most pervasive trope being Afghanistan as the “Graveyard of Empires” – a land where empires go to die. This mythologized trope has persisted since the nineteenth century, painting Afghanistan as an isolated kingdom stuck in the past with Afghans as the barbaric inhabitants.

The power of such discourse, as Edward Said states, is that “[t]exts can create not only the knowledge but also the very reality they appear to describe. In time, such knowledge and reality produce a tradition, or what [Michel] Foucault calls a discourse.” Simply put, in the case of Afghanistan, the knowledge that is produced by imperial powers, such as the British in the 19th century establishing the “Graveyard of Empires” narrative, is reflected by how people to this day talk about Afghanistan.

Ultimately, the rhetoric that has been recycled for centuries about Afghanistan reify the very conditions of the region today.

It is no surprise, then, that on August of 2017, Huffington Post published an article titled “Charging into the Graveyard of Empires” about president Donald Trump’s

[1] It is important to note that these are the four main ethnic groups in Afghanistan, but by no means is this list of four conclusive. The Afghan constitution recognizes 14 ethnic groups in Afghanistan.

announcement of renewed U.S. involvement in Afghanistan. It states, “Afghanistan is known as the ‘graveyard of empires’ for a reason. War there is deceptive…This is a tribal war, and the Afghan tribes are not going to stop fighting…it is a question of the tribal code of honor and [the Afghans] will continue to fight no matter the cost.”

The power behind the words is that it skews the world’s perception of Afghanistan.

Afghanistan is reduced to a violent “ancient” land: a “Graveyard” to wage wars in.

Maybe, then, we can begin to understand why when the Mother of All Bombs, the most powerful non-nuclear bomb, was dropped by the U.S. on Afghanistan on April of 2017, the world did not flinch. After all, it was only Afghanistan, the “ancient” graveyard of empires, at the receiving end of the brutality. The country is used to bloodshed. In fact, it is meant for it.

So yes, kaka jan, my dear elder, you were right when you said I have not witnessed firsthand Afghanistan’s ruins. But I see the ruins that are inside myself, inside other first-generation Afghan-Americans, and in elders like you. I want to rebuild; I want to heal. I will not stop asking questions and learning until I do.

Perhaps there is some good that comes with my hyphenated identity.

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