Ramadan

“Are you going to fast in Ram-a-dan?”  asked my old head teacher once. He had to repeat the question at least 6 times until, with the help of the rest of my class, I finally understood what he was saying. I was the token Muslim of the class at this Church of England school in greater London, where the ethnic mix was majority White. Everyone was very friendly and accomodating when it came to Ramadan. I started fasting at the age of 9, doing the full fast from dawn to dusk for 30 days. Dusk was around six in the evening, by which time I was near collapsing. My parents didn’t need to make me fast, as I did it of my own accord: I was religious and it was obligatory by that age. Their indoctrination worked so well that I was my own moral police. Unlike my siblings and countless others I knew, I never snuck in food when I could. I was a purist and an idealist.

Having started so young, fasting became a real doddle for me in later years. The first couple of days of every month were hard until the hunger and headaches turned into a light-headed “spiritual feeling” towards the end of the month. As the years wore on, I barely even noticed it. I especially liked it two years ago when I spent the weekends getting through lots of books for want of anything else to do in that state. I also liked it when I was 15: dusk was very early that year, around four in the afternoon, and being an adolescent at the time, I wasn’t out of bed till three.

What I got out of Ramadan varied year on year. When I was 9 years old, the day went from being painful and fuzzy to heavenly as I gorged on the lovely food at the mosque and played with my friends. When I was a teenager, Ramadan was a time I could get convene with my friends at the mosque where we would apply make up inthe bathrooms, look at the boys and giggle extensively throughout the evening programme. It was a delightful time of youthful tenacity, culinary indulgences and care-free adolescent adventures.

When I was at university, Ramadan was a time of sober, yet still very fun, get-togethers. There were many Muslim students with me, and we all basked in the warmth of the community spirit this month brought. I loved the Iftars that were organised by various societies, where we raised money with solemn faces and the burning blush of youthful passion. I fasted despite being an agnostic, despite not even praying, because I liked it and it was part of my culture. I was spiritual at the time, and so fasting appealed to me as a universal spiritual practice. Of all the rituals in Islam, this was the only one I liked.

This Ramadan is the first one I have not fasted. Now everything is out in the open and now that I have made the decisive shift from agnosticism to atheism, I see no point. I was apprehensive about eating openly in front of the family at first, but they couldn’t have expected anything else. 

I suppose I could easily fast if I wanted to, but I don’t miss that light-headed floaty feeling that arises from lack of sugar to the brain. I want to give my stomach a rest, but I do that anyway, all year round and it has nothing to do with religion. Now that I’ve stopped fasting, I can step back and look at the practice properly; I can see it from a unique position since I’ve been fasting for so long. Now I see through all the arguments in its favour.

 My mum encouraged me to fast this year because it was good for me apparently. I’ve heard this argument a lot, but I don’t understand it at all. Surely you’re not fasting because it’s good for you but because God has commanded it? If you wanted to do something that was good for you, you can go to the gym, or you could fast, but drink water since that’s even better for you. If fasting teaches you patience and empathy for the poor, you can also learn patience by abstaining from a certain food you like and giving the money you save to charity.

People also fast to get tuned into the spirit world by forgetting they’re human and need to eat for a while. This is all well and good, but you can’t really forget you’re human. You don’t stop working for a month (unless you’re in Saudi Arabia), and so you carry on doing human things, earning your crust, while attempting to be super human at the same time, when actually you’re just denying your body vital nourishment. Not many people know this, but you’re also encouraged to stay up at night to worship in Ramadan (siyyam wa qiyyam). You are effectively encouraged to be sleep deprived, food deprived and still carry on a normal working day. Now, I’m no doctor, but I don’t know how on earth that can be healthy. Trying to forget that you’re human and that you need nourishment and rest is not going to be very easy, what being human and all.

I agree making a ritual out of something does encourage you to do it; however, ritualising it also confines the good sentiment behind it, and as time moves on, retards it. Take the ritual of feeding indigents if you miss a fast. That might have been a charitable act 1400 years ago, but now a much better use of your money would be to contribue to economic development in developing countries to help their populations become more self-sufficient; it would be to campaign against corrupt African leaders who are choking propsperity for their people.

And so the fasting which is meant to teach you patience becomes a mechanical ritual, an excuse to socialise and a time of undernourishment for your body. The same with all ritual, it eventually becomes something that is done for its own sake.

Estranged

I’ve gained many new relationships this year. I’ve gained a husband as well as all of  his family, but I can’t help but feel the new family has replaced the old. Not that I see the new family often, or that I want to leave my old family, but I get on more with my parents-in-law and my own parents don’t like what I have become. I will always try to be close to them, but we are just fundamentally different: my family live a heavily prescribed life while I just like to explore and discover new things. At the wedding reception everyone discussed books and current affairs while my parents remained completely silent; we joked and laughed while my parents didn’t get it. It makes me sad. The same two people are two polar opposite things to me at the same time: parents and strangers.

None of my siblings were at my wedding due to work commitments. But despite that, I know one of them wouldn’t have come. This is the sister I shared a room with for 20 years. Yes, that long. We have two years between us and she left home when she got married a few years ago. After parents, it doesn’t get much closer than my sister. As children we played, discovered, learned and created imaginary worlds together. It was just us for 3 years before other siblings came along, but even after that, the other siblings couldn’t interfere with our closeness. We went to the same schools until we left at 18; we were even in the same class once. We shared friends for a while and went on holiday together. We went to talks and conferences together and shared books. But now I feel like I don’t even know her. I hardly see her, and when I do, she sometimes says she feels “awkward”. I suppose it is awkward; awkward like when two strangers are made to talk to each other at a party.

So this is it. This is what happens to your childhood and memories when you decide to make up your own mind about what you believe in. This is not about faith, it’s about culture, and the worst kind of culture you can imagine. A religious culture not only wants everyone to be the same, it claims divine licence to herd people into its superficial conformity. It tells you you’re free to believe, but doesn’t tell you that it’s at the expense of family, friends and a normal life. That’s the smallprint: you’re free to do what you want…but only if you’re willing to suffer for it. No wonder so few people excercise that freedom.

Music and me

I have a special relationship with music and dance. I loved singing nasheeds (religious songs) as a girl, I can bust a mean move on the dance floor (of my bedroom) and I bought my first guitar when I was a teenager.

The sense of rhythm is definitely the most natural of all. The others need work, but I can definitely say I have the musical germ within me. I’m not sure where I got it from. My mum definitely has some sense of rhythm as evidenced in the way she claps along to wedding songs, but otherwise my parents are tone deaf. I should by rights know nothing about music: not only do I not have much of a genetic predisposition, but musical talent, far from being nurtured from a young age, was totally forbidden.

Who’s to say how far I got have gotten had the talent been spotted and fed. I have no doubt that by now I would have been at the advanced stage of singing, songwriting and performing, but at alas I’m doing something completely different whilst struggling to teach myself music from scratch in the limited spare time I have.

I played no instrument at school. I didn’t know the basics of music theory until I was in my twenties, and the first music I ever listened to was manufactured crass pop music when I was 15. There was no  Beatles vinyl collection in my parents’ room, no Elvis, Sinatra, Brown or Hendrix. There wasn’t even any Fairuz or Umm Kulthum. There was nothing; nada.

It wasn’t long after first listening to music that I got into rock music. I fell in love with the guitar, and on an impulse saved up money to buy one. I ended up sneakig it in from the back window and hiding it in my cupboard for ages. Even when my parents knew I had it, I still never took it out when they were in the house. It seemed too daring and I wasn’t sure of the consequences. So I didn’t play it for ten years, and have only started now.

I am determined to nurture my musical germ and when I’m finally recording or performing in my middle age, sadly, I know I won’t dedicate any songs to my parents.

I’m not even allowed to be angry

Another day and another row with my parents. This time it started out theoretical before it became personal. I had gone jogging and my mother seemed to look at me disapprovingly when I came back. It brought back memories of the way she used to hate it when I rode my bike because it wasn’t ‘hijabic’. I was just generally complaining about the greater obstacles that Muslim women had in this life and how they can never do things as easily as men, like go jogging in shorts or swim without looking very conspicuous and silly in a burkini. It wasn’t a particularly serious discussion, but somehow it got more personal. It was when things were fairly heated that my mum delivered her blow. She claimed that I had stopped wearing hijab because I wanted to look nice. In effect, out of shallow vacuous vanity. Now, ordinarly, people wouldn’t get offended by something if it wasn’t true, but imagine you were a very pious person and someone accused you of being a money-laundering drunken philanderer. You obviously know it’s not the truth, but it’s because it’s so far from the truth that it becomes an insult. When we are so misunderstood that people think we are the opposite of what we in fact are, it’s actually quite offensive. What’s worse is when the person who misunderstands you is your own mother. I’m the most unfeminine female I know, by which I mean I’m quite anti-beauty when it comes to feminine beauty ideals. If I changed my whole lifestyle just to look nice, you’d think I might apply a brush to my hair once in a while. You’d think I’d pluck my eyebrows, get waxed and wear a bit of make up, at least on my wedding day, but I’m not even planning to do that. I straighten my otherwise very wavy and messy hair once in a while when I go out, and for that my whole life philosophy is trivialised by my mother. This made me very upset and I raised my voice, as I always do when I row. But somehow it’s not the cruel things she says (in her cool, pre-meditated, quiet way) that are bad, but the fact that I raise my voice, unconsciously and in reaction to perceived injustice, that is considered the heinous crime.

I’ve been rowing with my mum since I was a teenager, and every time I’ve ended up shouting, whereas my mum rarely raises her voice. It could be because she didn’t get as angry and as upset as I did, it could just be a character trait. My anger is certainly not a character trait, but is reserved mainly for my parents, firstly as a reaction to the perceived injustices I suffer from them, and secondly, because I care about them, and those whom you love have the greatest capacity to hurt you. After one of these rows, instead of dwelling on the subject matter, the main thing my mum would take from it is how I had wronged her by shouting at her. Forget about the possible cause of the anger, how she had wronged me, and even whether she had wronged me. This is not even contemplated. My anger is seen as a disembodied vice and character flaw. It greatly hurts my mother as she feels personally insulted by it, even though it is an unconcious emotional reaction, like crying. We don’t expect someone to stop themselves from crying,  but it seems they’re not allowed to express their hurt in any other way.

I was raised to believe that anger is a vice rather than just a mere emotion in the repertoire of an emotionally healthy individual. Ever heard of righteous rage? Those people who protested against The Satanic Verses seemed pretty angry to me. In fact, people who never get angry are very freaky, abnormal people to be avoided at all costs; you never know when they’ll finally snap and go on a mad killing spree. Yes I’m angry, I’m angry and proud. I’m angry about child poverty and minority discrimination. I’m angry at my government and our corrupt MPs. I’m angry that we’re constantly fighting wars and plundering our precious resources. I’m very bloody angry about these things. But I’m not allowed to be angry at the way my parents treat me.

Every time we had a row in the past, I had to eat humble pie. I had to apologise…because I shouted. My mum never had to apologise, no matter what she said to me. I had it ingrained in me that shouting at parents was a terrible sin, and so I had to put myself through the humiliating routine of one-sided apology every time we fought.

Now I don’t feel so guilty, and now that my mum doesn’t have this stick to beat me with, she has resorted to calling me a cold-hearted abnormal monster because I shout at her. It’s also interesting to note that my brother doesn’t get labelled in this way when he gets angry.

My parents will always be so blinded by their rage at my anger that they will never address the root of it. I’ve tried corresponding with my parents through writing, so our communications can be less emotionally-charged, but they have refused. Everytime we talk in person, emotions run high and I end up shouting, but now my mother has had enough of being shouted at, apparently. So the perception of themselves as God’s representatives on earth, whom you should never say “uff” at let alone shout, will now put a stop to all future communication between us. My relationship with my parents will be yet another victim of the pointless hollow ritual that is religious morality.

The Catholic Church: everything that’s wrong with religion

I’m sure you’ve heard of the shocking findings of that 9-year research of the Ryan Commission into the Catholic Church’s abuse of children in Ireland. It’s been a while since I’ve seen anything so depressing. Why did it take the commission 9 years to collect the data and why has it only come out more than a year after the findings were gathered? Because religion is untouchable, that’s why. No one in ireland dared question or criticise the religous orders. The victims of abuse knew no one would believe them if they spoke out.

Such abuse and corruption  is endemic in any totalitarian institution, and what major religion is not totalitarian? What religion out there allows the free questioning of its priests and edicts? Religion is in its essence no different from a Stalinist state. It’s not surprising that these things go on, and go on a lot more than we know about. How often do religious dissenters speak out against the religious powers? When they do, how often are they pardoned and listened to and how often are they lynched and persecuted? I want religious people to think hard about this. Is anyone allowed to criticise your religion, and if not, why? Is God going to be upset, or is it the status quo? If God is all powerful, what does he care if people criticise him?

I find it almost hilarious how some religious people use the actions of Stalin as an example of the moral bankruptcy of atheism. Stalin may not have believed in God, but he certainly acted like a god, and his followers unquestioningly did his bidding in just the same way Catholics do the bidding of the Pope.

Victory

I have been relatively victorious. My parents (or dad rather, since my mum just follows his opinion when it comes to his daughters’ honour) have agreed to be satisfied with just a civil ceremony. No more demands for theatre and fake conversions. It seems the whole we-want-to-rest-in-peace-knowing-our-daughter-is-not-sinning bullshit excuse has fallen apart. It couldn’t have meant that much to them, not if they would rather keep in touch with their sinful hussy of a daughter than cast her out to keep their home pure. Here’s to victory over misogynistic stupidity.

They still have an unhealthy infatuation with my sex life, however, and are determined to stop me from having sex before the wedding. Now what kind of killjoy would do such a thing? It’s pure evil I tells ya.

The religion of unreason

I just had a fresh argument with my mum which ended in me saying that I’ll leave home. I’m going to move to another city in September anyway, but I said I’ll go now. I’m probably not going to leave, not just because of the inconvenience and money loss, but because I’m not as uncompassionate as they constantly accuse me of being. It’s funny; my parents are threatening to disown me out of compassion and love for me. I’m uncompassionate because I don’t care that my relationship with the man I love is hurting my parents. They want to stop the relationship out of love for me, as they say. If I don’t listen, they’ll disown me. All in the name of love. No, I’m not making this up. 

The argument was meant to be a civil dialogue, but I don’t know why I was so naive. I’ve never had a dialogue with my parents. They are the most unreasonable people I’ve ever known. Instead, my sentences are interrupted and the amateur dramatics are brought out. In a quivering voice my mum will read out the litany of worries she has about my dad and how she’s scared of losing him. Yes, you read that right. She’s scared my dad will have a heart attack because I go out and spend the day with my fiance. You can see why civil dialogue and reasoned debate is not going to work.

I try at the very least to make the absurdity of their position known to them. The whole raison d’etre of the argument was that I don’t get to see my fiance much. We already live 200 miles apart and I can’t spend longer than a day with him. I complained that this was frustrating and upsetting, especially as I had a lot of free time now compared to September when I would be up to my eyeballs in work. My mum told me to wait till September or leave. As long as I was living with them, I had not to dishonour them. What about when I was not living with them and dishonouring them, you may wonder. That’s okay, they say, because they can pretend it’s not happening.

The other alternative is for my fiance to fake a conversion and Islamically marry me. But they would know it’s fake, you may be wondering. Would it fool them? No, they say. Are you trying to fool your community? No, they would answer. So why do it? At this point my dad would shrug, and say, “You never know, he might become Muslim”. Ah, okay. A kind of pre-emptive conversion.

So clearly showing my parents the absurdity of their position is not going to work. How about I put it in the simplist terms? Mum, can I see my fiance for more than a day or do I leave home? To which she’ll answer the obvious. Leave home. So this is love? You’re kicking me out onto the street, making me lose my job, sleep on friends’ floors, drain my precious funds, all out of love for me? “This is love!” I cry out. “Look world, this is love! Welcome to my parents’ world where love is hate and hate is love!” to which my mum replies, “You’re just a drama queen, aren’t you?”

To drink or not to drink?

It’s official. I’m no longer an alcohol virgin! I tried some wine yesterday…and nearly vomitted. That’s right. It tasted like vinegar and rotten fruit (which it is) and I left most of it for the next lucky person to take my seat at the pub. It’s disappointing that I don’t like such a world-famous delicacy and can therefore never call myself a real food afficionado; can never have the full experience of Mediterranean cuisine, go on wine-tasting trips in the French countryside, or be the bell of the ball at formal dinner parties. But more than disappointment, I feel complete and utter berwilderment. How can so many people like this puke? Am I missing something here? 

So it’s clear I’m never going to have alcohol for the taste experience. The only drinks I like the taste of are cocktails, and that’s because I like the taste of the fruit juices, sugar and cream that have been added to them. It seems silly to pour potent levels of whisky down your throat just because you like the cranberry juice it’s been mixed with. So what about the other perks alcohol offers? Well, they can be summed up in one general category of good feeling that includes relaxation and jollity at the lower end of the spectrum, macho willy-waving somewhere in the middle, and dependence and escapism at the extreme end. Let’s pass over the last ‘perk’ for obvious reasons. I don’t need anything apart from good food and enough sleep to feel jolly, and fortunately, I don’t have a willy. 

That leaves just one reason for me to drink: socialising. Unfortunately, people in this rather uptight, neurotic and repressed nation of ours need to drink themselves silly before they can have a conversation with someone. So do I have the occasional dangerous cocktail to fit in, or give them the very British two-fingers if they complain that I’m not drinking? I wouldn’t mind a Mojito once in a while so long as it doesn’t get in the way of my greater desire of living a healthy and long life. Everyone has their priorities, so if it bothers you that I don’t want to go on the razzle with you on a Friday night, you can quite rightly fuck off.

Through sheer dumb luck I was raised in a teetotal religious way, so didn’t have the same pressures that define so many people’s drinking habits. But your informed choices in adult life need have nothing to do with your background. I have English friends who, despite being raised in a culture of heavy-drinking, have the same attitude towards alcohol as I do, an attitude based on mature and informed choices. Yet their drinking habits will probably be considered an independent choice, while my habits, which are no different, considered a ‘Muslim thing’.

The asexuality of Muslim women

This is a follow-up to my previous post on virginity.

A good Muslim woman is expected to enter a marriage completely inexperienced. Of course, the man  is meant to be as well, but there’s no way of knowing and no one really cares either way. A man can even confess to youthful indiscretion, say he’s sorry and turn over a new leaf. But a woman can never do that. Confess that you’ve had sex when you were a feckless youth and expect to never get married because no one will want you.

Whether he’s had sex or not, people would expect a man to have masturbated at least once in his life. There is no strict ruling against it, and once again, it’s so easy to do… and get away with. Even if a man’s never let anything touch his penis apart from water when washing, he will get a nice, pleasant surprise when he finally has sex. On the other hand, sex is slightly less simple and mechanical for women. A lot of women go through their whole life never experiencing an orgasm. A lot of them accept the myth that sex is more pleasurable for men, when any physiologist can tell you this is absolute rubbish. The only difference is that sexual pleasure is not as straightfoward for women as it is for men. Anatomists are still discovering the parts and functions of the female anatomy, the complete knowledge of which remains a mystery. We’ve only recently understood what the clitoris is, and even more recently, the G-spot. In short, female sexuality is an intricate labyrinth that needs lots of exploration for women to achieve maximum pleasure. Yet, if  you’re a pure Muslim woman, you’re meant to have had no experience or practise whatsoever, not even masturbation, while your husband could have had as much experience as he liked.

It would be nice to think that husband and wife can start practising when they get married, but somehow I doubt they do. First off, they have no sexual contact before their marriage night, and if I’m not mistaken, the marriage night brings the expectation of sex. So the woman is thrown into the deep-end straight-away, unless the man is sensitive enough to start small. But, remember, he’s not meant to have any idea what he’s doing , and the woman would probably feel it her duty to let him enter her. This is not a good formula for female sexual enjoyment. She’s likely to be nervous,too, showing her body for the first time, under pressure to please. According to net doctor, a woman needs to be relaxed and like her partner if she’s to achieve orgasm. From my experience you need to be relaxed and turned on to produce enough lubricant just for the penetration. Already nervous, the pure Muslim woman is not likely to be sufficiently turned-on on her wedding night, and so has to allow a large object to pass through a tight, previously unopened passage with no lubrication. I assure you, it’s as painful as it sounds. Some men may be knowledgable and sensitive enough to bring artificial lubricant with them. But that only solves the problem of cancelling out the pain and does nothing to enhance pleasure.

With any luck, sex will become better as the marriage progresses- that’s if the wife hasn’t developed vaginismus, a tightening of the vaginal walls after painful intercourse- but most likely it won’t. I don’t care if there are hadith about the prophet engaging in foreplay. There are more famous hadith enjoining women to obey their husband’s sexual urges, and even more famous Quranic verses comparing women to tilth, to be ploughed at whim. A Muslim woman could well have to endure much painful sex in the course of a marriage, a pain rendered excruciating if she also has vaginismus.

If only something could be done about this. Let’s raise our voices and discuss this…oh hang on, it’s immodest for a woman to talk about sex. I don’t know what it’s like in your families, but my family are pretty prudish. Especially considering that they’re educated doctors and are open about other biological realities like menstruation. Even saying the word sex is considered taboo. How can you talk about something when there’s no word for it? When I mention the deed using its many euphemisms, they express shock and disgust. When I reject a suitor on the grounds that I’m not attracted to him, they call me shallow. When I explain to them that you can’t sleep with someone you’re not attracted to, they block their ears again because they don’t want to hear any dirty talk.

I appreciate that it’s not like this for all Muslims, but I’m so glad I broke free of this hellish, repressed way of life.

The value of virginity

Warning: this post talks about sex.

I, like many oppressed, self-hating women, was obsessed with virginity. It was my key asset, the one thing I consoled myself with when I thought about how lonely I was. Who cares if I had never been kissed or touched, never loved, I was pure! And therefore desirable. An unused commodity. Even if I was never to be ‘used’ or ‘bought’, my high commodity value gave me a sense of self-worth. What misogynistic bollocks.

This is why sex was a major taboo for me, even in my most unreligious state. Forget hymen reconstruction, I couldn’t even live with the knowledge that I didn’t have the real thing.

So when I was finally ready to have sex post-apostasy, I was still protective over the hymen. If I were to lose it, it had to be properly, through phallic sex; only that would make it worth losing such a precious thing. I wouldn’t let anything else near it. So when my partner wanted to insert a much more harmless finger he was flatly denied. It was penis or nothing. How strange, when a finger does much less harm: doesn’t spread disease, doesn’t impregnate. This purism was clearly not invented with me in mind, but by phallocentric men who believe women are only there to be ploughed by them. I unconsciously bought into this view, thinking that any other kind of sex was lesser, insignificant.

When this slowly started to dawn on me, I thought about letting a finger in, but only to practise for the ‘real thing’.  The sole aim here was to rupture the hymen, so I was officially no longer a virgin, rather than enjoy myself. The whole thing was like a surgical procedure and I endured much pain from friction, thinking nothing of it: I was under the impression that sex is meant to hurt the first time.

The first time I had sex it wasn’t so painful, but it wasn’t particularly comfortable either. I was so desperate to have had it that I was willing to go through any amount of discomfort. Rather than think about enjoying myself and being passionate with someone I love, I cared about passing this particular hurdle. In some ways you can’t blame me. I no longer wanted to be a virgin and carry the burden of purity that had weighed me down all my life. I wanted to ruin my parents’ plans for me, because they’re the main stakeholders in this: they will gain the good son-in-law, a union with a respectable family, and lots of good Muslim grandchildren. My virginity was their asset, not mine, and I wanted to completely spoil it for them so they no longer had a hold on me.

Now I don’t have to worry about virgnity, I can enjoy making love, not necessarily always through penetrative sex. It’s just so sad that my parents are desperate to be involved in something that really is none of their business. If they want to know all the details of the most intimate part of their daughter’s life,  why not just pull up a chair and watch? One day they told me to promise not to “do anything shameful”, by which they meant have sex. I said I wouldn’t, and I didn’t. I had oral sex instead. Like Bill Clinton, I did not have any sexual relations (defined by law as penetative sex). Problem solved. I don’t even have to worry about lying to them when I have penetrative sex, as I’m not really having sex: there’s a barrier of latex preventing any exhange of cells.  

The finer details and realities of sex seem to be lost on religious misogynists. To them, sex is only one thing: a woman lying back and painfully receiving sperm. No wonder they’re all so uptight