You ain’t got to have a lot to have it all.
When we bought a plot of land in this valley fifteen years ago, it was a poor neighbourhood. Now? Let’s say things have changed a bit.
Driving home just now, we passed an Aston Martin Vantage parked up at the end of our lane. Not quite the car I’d expect to see in these parts, but there we are.
So it seems we’re now surrounded by the mega rich. Dare we admit that I’m just a lowly civil servant in real life, collecting a public sector salary?
Luckily for us, I don’t have to. Our original neighbours remain down to earth, still grounded in a life of toil. We need not pretend to be what we’re not.
It is by God’s immense mercy and generosity alone that we find ourselves here at all. Çok şukr. Alhamdulilah.
I married aged 24, twenty-four years ago. For half my life, I have found myself tied to this far-off land and its people.
So unexpected — unbelievable even — but I wouldn’t change any of it. A strange reward for a quiet man from Hull.
“Are you a believer or not?”
Well, I think I am.
I believe in the Oneness of God, in prophets and messengers, and holy books.
I perform my daily prayers, fast in the month of Ramadan, give sadaqa and zakat freely, and generally try to live a good life.
Of course, only God knows whether this is sufficient to counteract the ill within or if I am just too flawed an individual to deserve redemption.
In this regard, I hope and pray for the ceaseless Mercy of the One who constructed the vast universe and everything in it, a mere speck as I am.
What I do not believe in: sectarianism, tribalism, corruption, injustice, righteous stupidity, personality worship, bullying, forced marriage, indiscriminate violence, total war, racism, slavery, subjugation, utilitarianism, and similar social ills often imbibed by religious communities.
It may be due to my critique of many of these that others question my beliefs. But here, my heart is at rest, for I believe all of this is perfectly aligned with my faith.
Our Book severely censures sectarianism. It demands we stand firm for justice even against ourselves. It does not describe us as a saved or chosen people who can do as they please. Freeing slaves is described as an act of righteousness. Limits are placed on warfare. Believers are called to be fair, kind, and just.
In short, I am a believer in the One, and in what the prophets and messengers brought — but that’s not necessarily the same as what is practised by all Muslims everywhere.
If I decline to follow part of what is taught by some Muslims, that is my business. I believe we are each given minds and hearts to differentiate between right and wrong.
I value community, but I do not equate faith with communitarianism: the idea that one must conform for the sake of unity, even when conscience demands otherwise.
“Stand up for the truth,” we are commanded.
I rarely rest or relax. My mind is abuzz.
Every nighttime dream (or nightmare) this holiday has featured work.
One of them, me arguing at length with our CEO. Another, me stuck on a support call all night long.
And even now, lounging on my sofa in a holiday home halfway up a mountain, I’m bouncing around ideas to address the problems I left behind at work.
Is it that I’m a workaholic or just that I take my responsibilities too seriously?
Or is this purely just my anxious personality on full display for all to see? Forever restless, always on edge.
How very astute. The kids note aloud that their dad has cyclical periods of low mood, lasting weeks at a time, when he is apparently blue and angry all the time.
There’s some truth in that, no doubt, but their timing is off. My present gripe has nothing to do with that.
These were the simple lamentations of parents out of step with the adolescent desire to laugh at everything and everyone constantly.
Maybe I’m just particularly sensitive to this habit, but it grows wearisome. There’s a time for humour and a time for seriousness, but alas empathy is rarely the adolescents’ gift.
When I’m here, I feel like quitting my job to live a simpler life in this valley.
No more sitting at a computer all day long. Let me serve tea to passers-by instead.
One day, perhaps, if the Most Merciful wills.
One moment we’re thinking we must get some milk to make yoghurt. The next moment, our neighbour knocks on the door gifting us milk from her cow. Receiving it, my wife can’t help but exclaim, “She read our mind, didn’t she?”
Deaf to the horror. Deaf to the proclamations of allies. Deaf to all the hideous hypocrisy.
Shame on our leaders, who avert their eyes, pretending not to see all that their allies do.
Shame on them as they thrust their fingers into their ears, hollering aloud to drown out any advocacy for the tyrannised.
And all of this on the 30th anniversary of the Srebrenica massacre, during which more than 8,000 Bosnian men and boys were executed in two days.
Proving once more that they weep nothing but crocodile tears in their annual commemoration of holocausts. Never again, they mouth, as they look the other way again.
Deaf, deaf… to the ICJ… deaf to eyewitnesses, doctors, journalists… to the cries of children and their mothers… deaf to even their own humanity.
Ours is a shameful generation, no better than those that came before. Weak, feeble, and totally compromised, sold out to perpetrators of racist violence.
Contemptible. Hopeless. A tragedy of fools.
Amazing positivity. Incredible gratitude.
My latest driving adventure: a Toyota Hilux Invincible.
A vehicle rather more powerful and voluminous than anything I’ve driven before.
Simultaneously perfect for navigating fractured village roads, and a bit too big, threatening to send you slipping down a mountainside.
I drove it successfully to my wife’s village and back, then stopped off at a budget supermarket for groceries, after which I inexplicably discovered I could no longer remember how to drive the thing.
In my defence, compared to my own car, it’s like a tank. Not so much in my defence: I may have forgotten to release the handbrake. Who knows?
It is the perfect farmer’s car. A five-seats SUV at the front with a large cargo bay at the back, perfect for shifting agricultural produce to buyers. Not much of a city car, though.
Our first rental of this holiday holds more promise in that regard. I don’t think I’d be tempted by a Toyota Hilux for myself. But a Peugeot 2008, just maybe.
Whenever I listen to the news, Mr Wendal springs to mind.
When I was younger, I was silent a lot.
But this wasn’t due to wisdom or piety. It was a cognitive deficit.
In adult life, I replaced the silence of the tongue with the expression of typing fingers.
So even if it could be said I am a quiet man, it could never be said I am a man of few words.
It’s true that in company, I rarely get a word in. But that’s more a limitation on my part than a choice.
Frequently, I find myself interrupted mid-thought. Others say this is because I speak too slowly.
The sage who ascribes nobility to my silence merely misdiagnoses what seems apparent.
Listen to the sheikh who petitions the pious to silence: his is the loudest and most verbose speech of all!
Actually, the prophetic advice was speak good or remain silent. Indeed, the Quran uses the word Qul (say) 332 times.
Contrary to popular wisdom, we are not commanded to be silent but to be truthful.
So silence yourself of lies, yes. Silence yourself of speaking ill of others. Silence yourself of injustice.
But be silent in the face of injustice or tyranny? The actual instruction is be patient!
The Quran says stand firm for justice. Witness to truth, it says. Do not bear false witness.
It is distasteful to me that the sheikh demands of others what he is unable to achieve himself.
Be silent, he says, while speaking at length, mixing truth and falsehood, good and bad.
He is the kind who would mistake my own silence for honourable behaviour and the one who speaks up as uncouth.
As can be seen, I have plenty to say. It’s just that maybe I don’t know how to except in the written word.
That doesn’t make me pious or wise. Who knows, perhaps the one who speaks up in the face of silence is the best amongst us all.
After several days feeling hot and bothered in an Istanbul apartment… it feels so strange awakening to this refreshing coolness, the city roar supplanted by sweet birdsong. We now kick ourselves, wondering why we delayed our arrival. A lesson learned.
