On the importance of memoirs

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Photo Credit: Amazon

I just finished reading Leila Ahmed’s A Border Passage last night.

For those of you familiar with Leila Ahmed, you’re probably thinking “Oh no!” or “Right on!” For those unfamiliar, Leila Ahmed is a controversial figure within Islamic Studies scholarship. Or maybe just with Muslims. I don’t know. I honestly haven’t really read too much of her work. Maybe I should. I feel her views may have evolved.

In any case, I first encountered her work as a freshman in the midst of writing my very first research paper (we didn’t do that in high school – have things changed since then?). At the time, I didn’t wear the headscarf, but was still interested in the topic of Women in Islam. Leila Ahmed came up as THE scholar in this field and I basically used her arguments to justify my feelings on hijab at the time (i.e. it is not required).

Things obviously have changed since then.

Fast forward almost five years later, I felt regret and almost disgust for having taken the self-righteous and arrogant position I once had (I don’t blame Leila for this, this was all on me). For now, I had begun to don the headscarf.

So, when I came across Leila Ahmed’s memoir at Half Price Books a few months ago, I was at once intrigued and a bit hesitant. Did I want to subject myself to more orientalist drivel (I just love that phrase, btw)? But the synopsis (can it even be called a synopsis if it’s a memoir?) mentioned things like Arab nationalism and identity that I thought to myself, “Hey, it’s only $3.50.” I don’t have to buy into everything she says. So I bought the book.

And then read it (well, I read two books in between, because like I said, I was hesitant). But I have to say: since perhaps A Suitable Boy, I haven’t read a book that has caused me to ponder on so many topics on such a visceral level: manufactured nationalism (because it always is), women, feeling “home,” the “liberating” West, interfaith relations in a more pristine time, etc. I didn’t agree with everything Leila wrote, but I do appreciate her telling of history.

Whatever you think of Nasser (he’s the most prominent political figure in this memoir, Leila having grown up in Egypt in the middle of the 20th century – but you can substitute him for almost anyone), depending on what side you are on, the history book you are reading only tells you one side. We like to think of history as objective, factual, empirical in a way. But Leila’s recalling reminded me that there are many more perspectives than we are privy to. I particularly appreciated how Leila herself added many times throughout that her own memory might not have captured all that was going on. And that too reminded me of the importance of memoirs.

As someone who writes about her life with one-time plans to write a memoir, I realized that even if I don’t live an extraordinary life in the sense that I will never be recorded in “history,” that does not mean that my personal experiences don’t have something unique and needed to offer to those interested in the entirety of the human experience. As my last post almost abruptly touched on: What is it like to be a young woman who loses all that weight after the “entire world”* essentially made her feel that her weight was all that mattered? That story, as I’ve lived with for the past 8 years, does not come with a nicely packaged conclusion after that “after” shot.

But that’s not all. What is it like to be a young woman observing hijab in a world (or country) where some people feel that shariah law is going to take over the entire world? What is it like to be a Muslim from India and to be proud of this fact and yet also be concerned about what the right-wing hateful political establishment is doing to your Muslim brothers and sisters still living in the desh?

These are but some of the narratives constantly playing in my mind — and only I can weave them together in the way that I would.

In a world where individuals increasingly feel that there’s nothing we can do, that there are forces more powerful (and sinister, in many cases!) than we moving and shaping the trajectory of our lives, memoirs reminds us that our thoughts and our feelings are still within our control, and that they still matter… to at least someone.

*Remember that my telling will be subjective. But that’s fine.

My thoughts on Race in America

While the events that took place in Charlottesville, Virginia last weekend were – and still are – disheartening to many in this country including myself, I can’t say I am all that surprised.

As someone who was not born in this country, I never believed the lies that racism is a thing of the past. You don’t even have to be a Brown or Black victim to know this is a reality. If you follow the news and/or uncover the systemic racism embedded in national/state-wide/municipal policies, you would see these recent events merely as people feeling emboldened by their racism. It never died. But now, at least within some circles, it’s secretly (or perhaps not-so-secretly) being fomented.

On Sunday, Mr. Rafia spoke at a vigil for Charlottesville on behalf of the Muslim community (by the way, it was through me – I’m more of a “Let’s talk about Religious Studies” kind of girl ;). His speech was the only one that ended on a positive note. I am thankful that he was positive, as I believe it is the Islamic way. But the more I learn about the history of this country, the more I understand why Blacks/African-Americans are so angry.

It’s easy for us children of (South Asian and/or Arab) immigrants to say, “Hey, it’s not so bad!” While we’ve certainly had to deal with racism, we also provided utilitarian benefit to the economy (all dem doctors and engineers? Where you think they from?). For this reason, we’ve been able to attain a certain level of success. I will never truly appreciate the struggles my parents’ generation had to go through to ensure their children live a cushier life than they, but for many Blacks/African-Americans, moving out of the ghettos is just not possible.

I lived close to the South Side of Chicago for two years, but was told to never venture south of 62nd street. Today, my daily commute to work literally starts from the posh suburbs up north, goes into the heart of the Indianapolis ghetto (not a grocery store in sight, but quite a few liquor stores!), finally ending in the very gentrified downtown (I learned more about the extents of this gentrification last Sunday).

My connection to this country spans less than 20 years. For other South Asian Americans, maybe 40 or 50. But our ancestors were never enslaved (not here anyway). To be a descendant of the slaves, who built this country by the way, and to see all that is going on today? I understand their anger and frustration.

I don’t agree that fighting fire with more fire will do any good, but it’s easy for me to stand back and say so and so is what must be done. Education is obviously needed, but will ignorant people listen?

I want to make sure that I am doing my part to be a positive force in this world. When I think of all the tasks ahead, it can be very demoralizing. I know one person alone cannot change the world… but we need more people to think that they can do something good.

This really is not the best way to end this post, but I really don’t know if there is a way to end it, because the work is not over.

A journey of discovery into the world of cakes

Yay, it’s Eid! I can eat again ;)

What I love about Islam is that it’s not an otherworldly religion. We are commanded to give charitably, to be hospitable to our neighbors, to always speak with gentleness, etc. And the month of Ramadan gives us the perfect opportunity to improve upon these virtues. But we are never asked to restrain joy or happiness.

And so yesterday, my husband and I refused to let all the ugliness going on in the world take away from celebrating our first Eid together. One moment in particular was just fodder for this blog. And I would not be living up to the name of Cake & Cows if I did not document this event.

After Eid prayer, we decided to do a lunch date – and as you can guess, no date is complete without some dessert for Rafia! So we headed over to my favourite place in the world, The Cake Bake Shop. The fact that Indiana is home to such a treasure is enough to make me proclaim I am (now) a proud Hoosier.

It was a beautiful day and the sign outside was just begging for the signature Rafia pose:

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Of course, they had their world-famous Earl’s Court Chocolate Cake as they always do. Normally, I’d never venture beyond chocolate. Oddly enough, I don’t find their chocolate cake to be the bestest chocolate cake I’ve ever eaten. The Fleur de Sel they top on the icing really ruins it for me. I’m sorry, but salt does not belong on my chocolate! I only like my chocolate with more chocolate.

But because all their cakes are so incredibly gorgeous and perhaps I was still feeling the Ramadan spirit, I agreed to let my husband finally order the flavour he’s really wanted – Mint Chocolate.

You have to understand just how generous of a gesture this was of me. Not only do we always share when we go to Cake Bake (that instantly makes me the Mother Theresa of Cakes), I was letting him decide on a flavour I have been dead set against my entire life! My brother and sister can vouch for this. I’ve never liked the idea behind mint chocolate, because to me mint is only for gum and toothpaste. Mint is a signal that my precious food time is done. Adding mint to my beloved chocolate is just plain confusing to my taste buds, I’ve always maintained. I want more, but then I get a signal I should stop, I want more, and again another signal I must stop. It’s just too much for me!

After our waitress brought us our order, I took a moment to grimace at the concoction laying in front of me, almost regretting my generous gesture just moments before. The green is very pretty, I thought. With the brown though, it just looked wrong.

But cake is cake – and I’m not one to ever say no to cake. So I took a bite.

“This is really… minty,” I winced. But the sugar already had me reaching for the next bite. I took another bite and then another one and then another one. And with each bite, I came to finally understand what my siblings had been talking about all this time. Mint chocolate is actually really, really good. The darkness of the chocolate juxtaposed with the springiness of the mint frosting was a surprising but very welcome delight. My taste buds did a little dance.

I told my husband to document this momentous event before it was too late:

OMG! What have I been missing my entire life?

Ramadan is supposed to be a humbling month. I indeed was humbled… in more ways than one. Eid Moobarak again to all my Muslim readers! :)