I’m not really sure about this Web 2.0 malarkey. I’ve just deleted my Facebook account again. Last time it was because I imagined a fantastical conspiracy in which key investors were databasing our identities for unspeakable ends. I can’t remember how the account came to be resurrected, but somehow I delved back in and rebuilt …
Guess what this is…
Aslam, the servant of Umar Ibn AlKhattab, narrated that one night he went out with Umar Ibn AlKhattab until they reached a place with harsh terrain, where they saw a fire. Umar told Aslam that these people had been forced by the night to set camp and decided to go to them. There they found …
A week or so ago I received some advice that knocked me off course and disorientated me. Reflecting on their words, I found myself wandering around, wondering if I really had got everything wrong. I pondered on the advice and criticised myself for not being a dictator. And then, when I was done, I decided …
Do you know, I’m getting rather tired of the near constant chatter that husbands and wives are enemies? The mockery of marriage amongst work colleagues, perhaps, is only to be expected, where phrases like “getting tied down” abound; the night before one’s wedding described as “the last night of freedom”. To encounter the enmity of …
I followed the lamentations about the Westernisation of Muslim women for a while—I call them islamofeminists, quipped one of their detractors—but it started to occur to me that the complainents’ views had a ring of the very traits they claimed to abhor. Remarks about the housework began to fall flat as I recalled the scholars of …
To become a faithful believer is not easy. This thought occurs to me repeatedly as I set out to renew my faith and recommit myself to God. This voyage has recommenced many times over, only for me to stumble again within days. This time I’m serious, I tell myself, but still it is a struggle. …
‘What’s he twittering on about?’
What’s this Twitter business then? Crawling out of my cave recently, I learned that Twitter’s all the rage.
What’s this Twitter business then? Crawling out of my cave recently, I learned that Twitter’s all the rage.
Who said we were pacifists?
Who said Muslims were pacifists? I have never heard a Muslim say such a thing. In fact, the only religious community I have encountered personally who take an anti-war stance are the Quakers. My father is now an Anglican priest, but his passionate faith did not prevent us from spending our childhood climbing all over tanks, artillery and fighter planes at military museums and air shows.
Who said Muslims were pacifists? I have never heard a Muslim say such a thing. In fact, the only religious community I have encountered personally who take an anti-war stance are the Quakers. My father is now an Anglican priest, but his passionate faith did not prevent us from spending our childhood climbing all over tanks, artillery and fighter planes at military museums and air shows.
Ignorance
Ignorance is a blameworthy state, while seeking knowledge is praised. I don’t doubt or deny this, but sometimes witnessing the great schisms between better Muslims than I, I start to take comfort from my ignorance. I cannot call myself a Salafi, a Sufi, a Traditionalist. I am none of these things, for my knowledge is meagre, my learning scant.
Ignorance is a blameworthy state, while seeking knowledge is praised. I don’t doubt or deny this, but sometimes witnessing the great schisms between better Muslims than I, I start to take comfort from my ignorance. I cannot call myself a Salafi, a Sufi, a Traditionalist. I am none of these things, for my knowledge is meagre, my learning scant.
In Loving Memory
My mind is crowded with memories of Grannie Bowes. Of those warm days in summer when she would host my sister and I, treating us to elevensies, to a mug of Ribena and half a Kit Kat each. Of those moments passing through the fly screen door at TreeTops with bowls with which to harvest gooseberries from the bottom of the garden. Of super-ripened bananas powdered with glucose for pudding at lunchtime. Of mountains of sunflower seeds munched before Coronation Street whilst babysitting for us at night. Childhood with Grannie was always a joy.
My mind is crowded with memories of Grannie Bowes. Of those warm days in summer when she would host my sister and I, treating us to elevensies, to a mug of Ribena and half a Kit Kat each. Of those moments passing through the fly screen door at TreeTops with bowls with which to harvest gooseberries from the bottom of the garden. Of super-ripened bananas powdered with glucose for pudding at lunchtime. Of mountains of sunflower seeds munched before Coronation Street whilst babysitting for us at night. Childhood with Grannie was always a joy.
In Defence of Civilisation
I have before me a copy of The Telegraph—it isn’t mine; my grandmother left it with us after her visit today—and there is a photograph and a headline on the front that occupy me. I keep on returning to the dining table to sit hunched over it, studying the photograph and the words that accompany it.
I have before me a copy of The Telegraph—it isn’t mine; my grandmother left it with us after her visit today—and there is a photograph and a headline on the front that occupy me. I keep on returning to the dining table to sit hunched over it, studying the photograph and the words that accompany it.
