Sharing with you... No. 17
Uneaten sandwiches and creating a haven for belonging
Bismillah…
Seven months passed into my 3rd-grade year before my mother found the stash of moldy sandwiches in plastic bags piled up in the corner of our coat closet.
I disliked peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but what I despised even more were school cafeterias. The crowded lines and tables, the bright lights and pink Styrofoam trays – all of it still brings up the dread I felt when the lunch bell rang. I didn't want to trouble my mother with alternative lunch options, knowing I wouldn't have eaten any of what she would have prepared. Ramadan was my haven. With the simple "I'm fasting" response to teachers, I'd eagerly disappear to the back table in the library, knowing it was the perfect excuse to avoid questions about my lunch habits. Even after 30 days, I became blissfully comfortable with my solitude. I retreated to the library for lunch the rest of the year. Year after year.
Eating a meal always felt like something sacred. Something you share with those who are close to your heart in a space where you belong. Aside from a few forced instances, I couldn't bring myself to eat in a state of unease, looking around at the familiar yet distant faces of my classmates in my white-majority schools, supervised by administrators with walkie-talkies, chatting away. I learned early on that I was attending school for merit and nothing more. I followed all the rules to get the shiny accolades with gold-embossed letters showing I put in my time and surpassed all the standards. I chucked my desire for belonging inside the corner of that coat closet, sandwiched between those PB&J's. Belonging didn't matter.
//
Two nights before my son turned two, I descended our staircase wearing my sea-green San Francisco hoodie – the one I typically wear when I've run out of steam to busy my hands or my mind. I slouched onto the couch next to my husband and our cat, who took up most of the space.
"I'm not sure what to do for Yahya," I said. "We never really celebrated birthdays growing up," I confided in him.
As I sank into a pang of wholly unnecessary guilt, I thought of the elaborate cakes and themed tablescapes other moms put together nowadays, complete with goody bags and party hats. "You do enough," he assured me. In the past, I opted for pizza, cake, and a crafting activity with friends during the week of my children's birthdays but never felt compelled to host a full-fledged party.
To shake off the feeling, I went for a walk in the snow in my pajamas, slipping my winter boots right over them. I envisioned my sisters' stunning cake creations and wondered if I could create a miniature version to lift the kids' spirits this week, but quickly dismissed the idea, knowing I was bound to deviate from the recipe and cause even more chaos in my mind.
//
I got to see the roofless home in Dera Ghazi Khan where my father was born and raised before my Chacha's family moved out to the city of Lahore. My sister and I would cross the wooden slab over the water below. One giant step forward, and we entered the home. From a small dim corner, I could hear the crackling fire where my Chachi cooked rich, meaty salans and well-stewed sabzis.
Bajis and cousins were always there to greet us with the warmest hugs and du'as. One was clapping rotis in her hands while another swept the floors, matching dupattas always draping over them. My male cousins would enter and exit for different needs – yogurt from the market in hand, one returning from school in uniform, others to and from the masjid or a friend's home.
I remembered the sound of the jharoo sweeping in a rhythmic scratching mixed with footsteps, progressing through the main floor. We'd eat on simple mats and exchange stories from our lives and imaginations. Within a few weeks, our Urdu improved, and we wept when it was time to return to where we lived.
Were we leaving home to go home? Would I be happy to leave the place where I never questioned my belonging to return to the place that always reminded me I would never belong? Amidst the routines of home, school, family gatherings, and the masjid, my parents told us what they wished was true.
"America isn’t our home, beta. We're going back to live in Pakistan one day. Pakistan is your real home."
Our scheduled departure took place in August of 2008, bringing us back home with no plans to revisit pencilled in the calendar. Nowadays, with my family, I occasionally put on a vlog from families living in village homes in Pakistan to reminisce about simpler times. It's something my family enjoys too, knowing that even if we aren't sure if we'll visit Pakistan, we can still hear and feel the experience of being there, right here.
//
We're sitting with our craft box and pulling out sheets of purple and pink felt, checking to make sure we have all our supplies. My daughter designs a small bookmark with a house and a little mushroom. Her tiny fingers need help with cutting, so I snip the patterns and thread her needle. I contemplate how to teach her the blanket stitch, wondering if it's too advanced.
"Imagine a seagull swooping in to get some food from this big pond, and all of a sudden, the pond shrinks and shrinks until he flies right through and comes out the other way." Despite a rusty example, I'm surprised to see her pick up the stitch and say, "Actually mama this is much easier than the other one" (referring to the running stitch).
"Who lives in the little house on your bookmark, Waliya?" "Aunty Jamali," she says, not taking her eyes off her needle as she pulls the white thread up and through the hole. I watch with gratitude. She's sewing! She's doing what I've been trying to teach her for months, and she isn't getting frustrated, alhamdulillah! "What does Aunty Jamali do?" I ask. "She makes pulao and yummy chutneys, and she gives lots of du'as," she says. A smile stretches across my face. "That sounds like Naani," I say. She smiles and nods. "I'm stitching my way to her house, and she'll feed me parathas for my break before I keep going."
When I first delved into Waldorf education, I found myself reading stories and singing songs with rich language and beautiful imagery. However, I quickly noticed that the people in the stories didn't resemble us or speak like us. The grandmothers sat in rocking chairs instead of charpais, reciting carols instead of Qur'an, and folklore with magic instead of real miracles from Prophetic times. I began weaving my memories into the stories I'd tell my daughter, infusing her heart with love for her great-grandparents who've passed on and for cousins who now live in all corners of the world, whom she may never meet. Though her feet may be planted here, her roots stretch miles and miles away.
We have a steady rotation of nasheeds in Urdu and Arabic that we sing in our home with gestures, each of which brings a sense of harmony, beauty, and mahabba to the soul. One of our favourites is "Tal'al Badru 'Alayna" sung by Ehsaan Tahmed.
Like a warm stew cooking away slowly with layers of flavours and textures, I am creating our home culture with newfound thoughtfulness – sprinkling in what has come before me, mixing, tasting, and adding a splash of this, a dash of that, making it unique to who we are from the first ingredient to the last.
//
I open the refrigerator and see a box of pound cakes my husband brought home, and all of a sudden, an idea pops into my mind.
"I've got plans for you," I think to myself, looking at the plain little cake.
Sure, I can't make three-tiered cakes, and nor do I have a clue what to do with fondant, but what I can do is create a fun winter memory with fruit paired with chocolate fondues, cute whimsical décor, and a pot of warm tea. Oh, and the pound cake will get a rustic makeover with sprinkles when I'm done with it!
We clear out our lesson plans and instead spend the day prepping our evening fondue party. For the table, I pull out my colourful felt garland. I quickly paint a watercolour scene with a little boy looking up at the snowy tree, perfect for how Yahya looks out in the snow these days. We head over to the store to get a rainbow of fruits: kiwis, bananas, blueberries, strawberries, and tiny halal marshmallows along with chocolate bars and double cream. I chop the fruits while keeping my kids from eating all of them before they're on the plate.
"Remember your waiting hands," I say with a firm tone and forced smile that says "I know this is for you, but please don't tamper with it before I get a picture, thankyouverymuch."
I bring out three white ramekins, break up the chocolate, and stir in hot cream, watching the two become one. A small green cake pan from the kid’s play kitchen ends up in my kitchen for a singular task – turning the rectangular pound cake into a circle. Waliya's eyes widen as she asks, "What are you doing, Mama?!" I smile, feeling rather savvy as I push the green circle down to create a near-perfect round cake. Thankfully, this is just for my family who are no strangers to my strange cooking hacks.
Yahya helps whisk up the cream cheese frosting before smothering it over and topping it off with sprinkles. I tear open the last "winter tea" teabag from my last trip to Trader Joe's. We gather around and say, Bismillah. I share the story of Arwah when Yahya was just a little soul and Allah chose to bring him into this world, into our arms. Waliya listens eagerly to the story of the day Yahya was born, of how she had her first sleepover, while Yahya eats his cake – nose-first of course. We delightfully take turns dipping bananas and strawberries into white and milk chocolate, sipping our hot tea.
I look around and steep in this feeling of belonging. What I once longed for is now right in front of me. A family to serve and eat my meals with. No secret corners or dreaded cafeterias. With my special touch, I'm striving to merge my roots with the branches that are growing yet weak and unsure at times, knowing Allah sees my efforts to create a safe, happy haven for my children to belong. I pray it's one in which their full being is loved and celebrated. Where they don't have to hide parts of themselves. Or allow false insecurities to fester within the sacred heart Allah (swa) has put within them. Through telling stories woven with my memories, singing nasheeds elevating our love for Allah (swa) and His Messenger (saw), and creating memories which may look different than what I've known or what I see around me, I'm giving my heart the gentle embrace it needed on those long walks to the corner of the library with my uneaten sandwich. I can eat in peace and create the peace I hoped for, day after day alhumdulillah.
*Alhumdulillah for husbands’ photography. Somehow, even with all the fancy phones, my pictures often look like I took them with a potato.
What else is new?
My new website is live! I cleared out many of the old elements and brought some fresh ideas.
I’ll be running a 3-day creative personal writing challenge on WhatsApp starting April 22nd inshaAllah. Join us!
I recently shared how much we love Dear Muslim Kids and how we’re using the episodes for Qur’an Journaling, and a few friends had questions about how to start. So, I wrote up this quick exercise with all the steps and supplies.
Your words are a gift.
I’d love to feature your essay or creative nonfiction poem to be published in April on the Refresh Sisterhood Substack inshaAllah. All the details can be found here (topic ideas, $ honorarium, etc.) Submit a piece any time before📆 April 9th: We have a growing list of over subscribers and many who look forward to the stories and art we share.✨A suggested topic is: “A Mother’s Ramadan”.
Till next time,
I pray you have the best remaining days of Ramadan and a joyful Eid. May Allah alleviate the suffering of our brothers and sisters in Palestine and all over the world. May Allah cleanse us of our sins and put the love of His deen in our hearts and homes. Ameen.
♡Asma