I’ve been working with them now for the past eight years. I’ve had an opportunity to work closely with them and to travel with them overseas, and I see no foundation for this.

As a matter of fact, when I look at their zeal and their enthusiasm for the religion, and I look at how they practice the Qur’an and the life example of Muhammad the Prophet (upon him be peace), I’m inspired by what they do.

And they not only focus and center upon Muslims, they have great relationships with the non-Muslim community. And I would consider them to be like ambassadors for Islam.

They share Ramadan, they share neighborly needs, etc.

Muhammad the Prophet (upon him be peace) said he was one time talking with one of his companions, and he asked them if he knew one of the brothers. And then, he said, “Yes, I know so and so.”

And then the Prophet (upon him be peace) said, “Well, let me ask you something about him. Have you worked with him?”

He said, “No.”

“Have you traveled with him?”

He said, “No.”

Then the Prophet (upon him be peace) said, “Well, then you don’t know him.”

I’m pleased to say that I’ve worked with our brothers, and I have traveled with them. And I know them well.

And to classify them as terrorists in any form is a great misrepresentation.

The other thing that I want to say is that they are very loyal and very patriotic to this nation. They work to support the good works in this nation.

They also work with all people, faith or no faith, and they show by example what the Prophet Muhammad (upon him be peace) taught us.

Some of us read books, some of us talk, but they actually do. And I consider it a privilege and an honor to be associated with them and to be part of the brotherhood.

I see them as wonderful human beings and as true Muslims, and I can say this as one that has studied the religion and been a leader in the religion for over 25 years. I can say this.

Also, what I want to say to you is that when people try to come against them – because some Muslims don’t know about them and their movement and the good that they do in the world – I would tell them not to worry about that.

I would tell them to continue to model and be an excellent example of this religion and also build on the relationships you already have.

Myself, as one of your brothers and friends: if I know other Muslims don’t know you, I’m happy to take you with me and introduce you to them and let them get to know you so they can form their own opinions.

And I have no doubt that once they get to know you and get to know your leadership, I have no doubt that they will no longer believe these outrageous allegations against you.

Muhammad the Prophet (upon him be peace) made education a top priority. You all make education a top priority.

He told us that we should be kind and considerate and respectful and hospitable to our neighbor. You all demonstrate that. You host iftars, you host various events during the month of Ramadan to educate the people.

So the Hizmet Movement is, I think, vital to the Muslim community, and they are also showing us how to apply the wonderful, universal, timeless concepts of Islam in the 21st century.

My imam, my teacher, taught me that you never change the principles. You never change the logic in Islam.

He said, but it’s OK to change the way you express the logic. And we have to look at our current set of circumstances and our reality here in the West and apply the best application of this faith.

I see them doing that, and I see them embracing the entire human family and making a positive, wonderful difference in the world.

They’re a benefit to the Muslim community and humanity as a whole.

Imam Omar Shakir, Resident Imam at Masjid Bilal ibn Rabah of San Antonio, Texas

This article has first been published in the special issue of the Fountain Magazine © Blue Dome Press

Hizmet is a group of people that I have observed carry out the best of
Islamic ideals: kindness, hospitality, love, selfless service. They are
mainstream in their creed, as far as the Sunni Islamic school of thought
goes. They read the Qur’an; they pray five times a day; they fast. They’re
very spiritual people. They don’t push their beliefs, their Islamic
beliefs, on non-Muslims. That’s not what they’re out to do. They’re out to
serve the world, Muslim and non-Muslim alike. So in terms of being an
“un-Islamic cult,” Hizmet is anything but. What they really are, in my
opinion, is a true embodiment of the Islamic ideals of love and service to
the other. And I’ve never seen anything to suggest otherwise.

I’m a civil rights activist, a human rights activist; I don’t take my
marching orders from demagogues whether they are domestic or foreign,
whether they are elected or dictators. What I look at is the process, and
what troubles me in today’s Turkey is the process. Due process is the
arbiter between those who accuse and those who defend. It’s absent in
contemporary Turkey. And there has to be independent judiciary; it has to
be judges and a court that is not in anybody’s corner. What we’re seeing in
Turkey, unfortunately, is a situation where government is essentially run
by one party that acts as both the accuser/the prosecutor, the judge and
the executioner. And those who are accused don’t really have any leeway in
the system to defend themselves.

Those who know Hizmet, who have interacted with Hizmet, know Hizmet is the
farthest thing from violence. They’ve never promoted violence; they’ve
never accepted violence; they’ve been the first to condemn violence,
including a violent overtake of a Republic, a coup. They’ve condemned this
coup, and they’ve never promoted anything close to it. They’ve never been
involved in anything that is violent in nature.

Now that the accusation is there, we have to ask for proof. And, even if
there are individuals who may be associated with the Hizmet who were
involved in one crime or another, including a coup, the question becomes:
at what point do you incriminate an entire movement of millions of people,
volunteers who want to serve humanity through their Islamic ideals? Can we
condemn a teacher, a 24-year-old woman serving in some remote part of
Turkey, Pakistan, or Kazakhstan, or anywhere in the world where they build
schools in areas of underserved, underprivileged communities? How are these
souls devoted to service affiliated or associated with that particular
crime?

What you look at here is a witch hunt; it is “guilt by association.” These
are not in the tradition of liberal justice, liberal values that
democracies espouse.

And it’s exactly what is happening around the world when people in power
want to shut out those who are not in their pockets, those they can’t
control, or those whom they don’t like.

When a government is moving towards autocracy, when you’re becoming a
demagogue, when you become the “state” (l’état, c’est moi) and
when you shut out opposition, shut down media, imprison journalists, and
declare organizations, schools, mosques, or associations or universities or
charities, as terrorist organizations just by a signature, then I have to
say, that is incorrect, and that is problematic, and that is unjust!

And I’ll raise my voice, as a Muslim, as a human being, but also as a civil
rights and human rights activist, because civil rights and human rights are
not piecemeal. They cannot be divided; they cannot be allocated to one
group and then denied to another. I believe that ideals are only good and
are only meaningful if they apply to all human beings. It’s a belief in
blind due process, a blind independent judiciary, and having the procedures
and the processes of justice apply everywhere, equally, to all people.

When I read the news that [Hizmet] schools were being shut down in
Pakistan, it hurt, because Pakistan is in need of good schools, it’s in
need of education. We hear about radicalization, we hear about illiteracy,
we hear about the lack of education in parts of the country – same in the
United States, same in the world. And anyone who is putting themselves into
service to build schools and educate young people is doing good in the
world. As someone who built an organization, I understand how much effort
this takes. I understand every wall that is painted, every nail that is
hammered into that wall, every computer that is bought and connected, every
chair and every table, and then all of the content that comes along with a
good education. It takes so much to build a single classroom, let alone a
whole organization. And here you have a school of many classrooms, and then
you have a movement of many schools. One signature, for political pressure
or for personal gain, shuts it all down.

It’s so hard to build. It’s so easy to destroy. And we, Muslim-Americans
and people of conscience, have to raise our voices and say, “We don’t stand
for that!”

Ahmed Rehab, CAIR (Council on American-Islamic Relations), Chicago

This article has first been published in the special issue of the Fountain Magazine © Blue Dome Press

Sleep, baby, sleep
Your father tends the sheep
Your mother shakes the dreamland tree
And from it fall sweet dreams for thee
Sleep, baby, sleep
Sleep, baby, sleep.^[1]

Babies are such cute bundles of joy. They are simply adorable and very innocent. The birth of a baby is a miraculous event, and all babies deserve to be loved, no matter where they are born.

Lullabies are love songs written for them. Parents sing lullabies to their precious loved ones to send them sweetly into their dreams. In almost every culture, lullabies are inspirations and prayers for precious little children. Such songs hand down the hopes and dreams of parents, from generation to generation.

“Hush-a-bye” is a lullaby with a story behind it. It was collected by Alan Lomax, who learned it from his mother, who took it from North Carolina to Texas after the Civil War^[2]. It was originally sung by an African American slave. The “lambie” symbolizes the slave-mother’s child, for whom she is unable to care because she is too busy taking care of her owner’s child, to whom the song is being sung. The lullaby’s sourness is cleverly hidden in the comparison between the two children: one is a protected white child growing up privileged and the other is a black baby, left defenseless in nature^[3].

Hush-a-bye, don’t you cry,
Go to sleepy little baby.
When you wake, you’ll have cake,
And all the pretty little horses.

Black and bay, dapple and grey,
Coach and six little horses,
Hush-a-bye, don’t you cry,
Go to sleepy little baby.
Hush-a-bye, don’t you cry,
Go to sleepy little baby,
When you wake, you’ll have cake,
And all the pretty little horses.

Way down yonder, down in the meadow,
There’s a poor wee little lamby.
The bees and the butterflies pickin’ at its eyes,
The poor wee thing cried for her mammy.

Hush-a-bye, don’t you cry,
Go to sleepy little baby.
When you wake, you’ll have cake,
And all the pretty little horses.

Other than being musical stories, lullabies are also beautiful gifts from a parent’s heart to a baby’s ear. Every parent around the world sings a delightful lullaby in her native tongue to relax their child. Lullabies are great examples of how we show love in similar ways all around the world. There is no difference between us and the people on the other end of the world when it comes to our affection for our babies. We all love our babies and open our hearts to them with these songs. There are different lyrics or different rhythms, but they express the same love, support, and concern for the little human beings.

For example, in an Armenian lullaby, a mother says:

The south wind rocks you back and forth
Let the stars converse with you
And the sun and moon calm you
The wild deer will offer its milk
Sleep, sleep.^[5]

And an Azerbaijani lullaby goes as follows:

Every passing bird, every river
Says lay-lay to you my baby
In our most joyful and beautiful motherland
You are my pride and joy
You are my soul that is within my own soul
Your breath is so clean and innocent
Like the light wind in the field.^[6]

Although there is a long history of conflict between the two south Caucasus countries, there is no difference in a parent’s compassion and warm wishes for their children. They both pick nature up as their babies’ playmates and want them to grow up within that nature. Both of the lullabies can comfort a baby with a familiar voice.

Below are two lullabies from Israel and an Arabic country, Morocco. Would you be able to tell which one is from which country?

The first one is:

Sleep, my little girl, sleep
Sleep, my darling one, sleep
Daddy has gone off to work.
To work, to work he’s gone.
He’ll be back when the moon rises
With a gift for his little one.^[7]

And the other one is:

Sleep my baby
Until the meal’s ready.
And if it isn’t,
The neighbor’s will be.

Sleep my baby
Until your mommy’s arrived
The bread is on the table
The sweets are on the tray.^[8]

The former is from Israel and the latter from Morocco, but universal love is embedded into the message of both lullabies. They both touch our hearts. They are both very special in every way. No stereotypes, no wars, no hatred is passed on to babies; only love, and peace, are fostered in lullabies. Thus, lullabies provide an excellent tool to teach children to love all creatures. They allow the sharing of emotions that are filtered and softened by mothers’ heart. When people comfort their babies or make them feel more secure by singing them a lullaby, they also teach them the biggest life lessons. Lullabies smoothly whisper the essentials of life, the common needs of all human beings to babies’ ears.

Talking about the essentials of life, the adversities in life are a fact that the children must also be prepared for. But even when talking about the negative aspects of life, lullabies introduce them gently. An intelligent lullaby from Turkey passes along good wishes to a child, but also teaches a valuable lesson.

Dandini dandini dastana
Into the garden the calves did stray.
Gardener quickly chases them away.
Don’t let them eat the cabbages,
Huuu huuu huuu

Dandini dandini danadan
A moon is born from a mother’s womb,
God has not withheld anything from him
May God protect him from the Evil Eye
Huuu huuu huu hu

Dandini dandini danayli
May our pots be coated with tin
May my daughter be a bride in a mansion
And my son dwell in a palace
Huuu huuu huu hu.^[4]

In this lullaby, a mother’s desire for her son not to get married to a girl she does not approve is hidden beneath the lyrics in an amazingly clever way. The calf symbolizes the son and the garden represents life, while the gardener is the father, and cabbage is the girl that is not approved of by the boy’s mother. So the mother wants the father to keep that girl away.

There are lullabies like the one above that are very personal and private, in which the narrator expresses how she really feels and thinks about certain issues while telling her stories. Such songs can help a parent express their own emotions more clearly, too, especially when they are unable to share them with others. Thus, lullabies soothe and help not only the babies but also the adults.

Lullabies are helpful to put babies to sleep and are useful for adults to enjoy the time that is spent with their children. A lullaby’s magic comes to life in a parent’s voice. These gentle melodies allow parents, who are a child’s first teachers, to impart valuable lessons in a soothing way. A personal message or story is planted elegantly into the lyrics. A loving parent embraces their precious baby with a beautiful lullaby. Plenty of joy, peace and love fill up the room at night when a loving voice smoothly sings:

Goodnight moon, goodnight stars and goodnight my little angel,
Close your eyes and open them to sweet dreams my sweetheart…

References

¹ http://www.romantic-lyrics.com/lullabylyrics/sleepbabysleep.shtml

² http://kids.niehs.nih.gov/lyrics/prettyhorses.htm

³ http://www.robertbohm.com/publications/3.html

⁴ http://lullabiesofeurope.wetpaint.com/page/Lullabies+(Turkish)

⁵ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lullabies_of_Armenia

⁶ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lullaby

⁷ http://www.hebrewsongs.com/song-numinumi.htm

⁸ http://www.mamalisa.com/?t=es&p=1249&c=168

Now I am going to ask you a “Fill in the Blank” question. There are political, economic, cultural, oppressive, feminist-based, family guidance-based, place of birth-based, religious, sociological reasons why woman… (Fill in the blank with: Cover or not cover their hair)

To understand the issue of head covering it is important to realize not all women choose to cover or not cover based on the same reasons. For example a woman may cover simply because she was born in a village in Sivas, Turkey, and this may come naturally. She will see it as something people in her family have been doing for hundreds of years, and might not even give a second thought to the practice. A woman born in Utah, USA may not cover because she has never seen anyone doing it in her family and might not even think about it. Both of these women are not consciously given decisions. They are just the way they are.

Another example may be that a woman in Pakistan, going to a more religious school, may cover not to stand out because she is afraid of peer pressure. And a woman in England going to a liberal school may be afraid of covering because she will stand out and be subjected to a different form of peer pressure.

In different sects of Christianity, Judaism, or Sikhism women may choose to cover their hair. Similarly, they may choose to shave their head if they are practicing Buddhism. Some Muslim women may cover, and others may not. So as you see, the argument about to cover or not to cover is really endless, and as far as I am concerned, is a time consuming debate which could go both ways depending on who is arguing it, and why they are arguing it. Arguments will usually take people nowhere because people going into the argument already have a predetermined opinion. During an argument, the only thing they are focusing on is defeating their opponent. So they are constantly thinking of coming up with new ways to prove why “they are right”, and even if they have not been able to convince their opponent by the end of the argument, they have convinced themselves even further by finding 100 more reasons on why “they are right.” So no, I am not here to offer you my argument on the topic. But instead I am here to share. I will share why I choose to cover and what I feel when I cover, realizing this is utterly personal. I am not speaking on behalf of all Muslim women, nor am I speaking on behalf of what is the right thing to do. I am speaking on behalf of my experience with the Muslim veil; so I can grow, and perhaps you can grow, and by the end perhaps we might be a little more inspired compared to our starting point before this article.

I come from an international family, so I was not raised Muslim. I embraced Islam at the age of 22, only a couple of years ago. My encounter with Islam didn’t come from my family or friends, but it was rather personal. I see it as something that was meant to be and so it happened.

In the days when I used to do makeup and my hair, I would say I could bring some attention to myself; yet no matter how much I dressed up, there was always a woman more beautiful than me in my immediate surroundings. Before submitting to Islam, I did try to compete and shine and draw attention, and I really think that was necessary for me to understand the meaning behind veiling.

It happened very suddenly. I was a student, doing my bachelor’s in the USA. I didn’t really think about it, nor did I really weigh the consequences. One night, I was turning in my bed, from left to right, right to left, unable to sleep and the next day I went out of the house with a black scarf on my head combined with a Victoria’s Secret hoodie and loose jeans, to meet my friend. I texted my friend before meeting her; my text said: “Hey, so I don’t want to shock you, but I am coming to meet you with a Muslim head scarf.” So that is how my story started. But I am not writing to tell you my story; I want to write about the state of worship I feel after I covered.

There is no doubt that female beauty was created by God in such a manner that it almost screams out the beauty of the Divine. And yet, just as many ideologies such as Feminism have pointed out, female beauty and sexuality has been turned into a matter of pure arrogance between woman, dictated by an industry run by men, whose only desire is to make money out of it. To use it and abuse it. Unfortunately, something so Divine, has been turned into something so shallow. They have used it to sell their products and they have used it to control power. And I had bought their story: this is how I know the amount of damage it can cause to a woman. Because it also damaged me. A lot.

I was created fairly beautiful, but instead of being thankful for it, I always competed with it. Sexuality and beauty had turned into things I would compete for, things that I would look at jealously in other women, and realize other women envied in me. It was a cruel competition, when women’s magazines constantly bombarded me beauty products, fashion, surgical and non surgical ways to beautify myself so that I could hold my man’s eyes upon myself. Things I needed to do so he wouldn’t cheat on me. Then I would turn the page, simply turn one thin layer of paper to come across an article about self confidence and the keys to feel beautiful and sexy the way you are. Between two millimeters of thickness lay two incredibly huge concepts that women have been enslaved to. We’ve produced this race that nobody will ever win; and that is the exact point of producing it in the first place. Feeding our ego that makes us feel so good when we declare our beauty to the world, and betrays us when something better comes along.

My aim with my veil is to internalize the philosophy of Rumi, who said, “Die before you die.” I tell myself: “It’s ok, there is no race, step aside. Be humble. Keep your beauty within. Liberate yourself from things that don’t matter. Be afraid that one of your sisters may feel pain in her heart because she feels less because of your beauty. Understand that the most precious creation in this Universe is a human heart. Be sensitive toward the women who have lost their families because of the cruel sexuality games. Be sensitive to those who are going through the pain of anorexia. Care for the ones who are depressed because of their weight. Care for the women who have been used and abused by rich business man only to be thrown away like a piece of garbage and who are feeling lost and empty inside. Don’t judge the women who don’t cover. Don’t judge women who have sexual relationships in return for money. Don’t judge anorexic women trying to models. But instead, care for them. Be sensitive to their feelings, to their inner battles. Step aside from the silent completion that is going on between them, hide your sexuality and let women who are in the competition feel safe in your presence. Be their shelter. Allow her to look at you and know that you are out of the game. Try to give her a moment of peace while she is with you because only God knows the struggles she is going through. Suppress your ego. Know that your value does not depend on how you look but depends on your spirituality. Take every part of ego in your heart and crush it. Crush your desire to be superior to other human beings, in every single aspect. Internalize it in every possible aspect of your life, including spirituality, physical beauty, success, fame or money. Love them, care for them, nourish them. So before going out from your house, first wear your veil over your heart that will protect it from the evil in the world, then complete it with your physical veil. Be at peace. Smile like the Virgin Mary…”

And quite surprisingly, when I was in the Western world, the moment I tried smiling like Mary, I would encounter people acting like Jesus. I am in no means saying veiling is the only way to accomplish this, but I am saying that veiling, together with other practices, has led me to this path and I am very thankful for it. Veiling has become a means of healing for my heart. And for the first time in my life, I felt satisfied with how I looked, which led to self confidence and internal peace. No matter what I say, I can’t express myself better than Rumi did, so I will finish with a quote from him:

“With God two ‘I’s cannot form. You say ‘I’ and he says ‘I’. Either you die before him, or let him die before you, then duality would not remain. But it is impossible for him to die, either subjectively or objectively, since he is the ever living God, the undying. He possesses such gentleness, that if it was possible, He would die before you so that duality may vanish. But since it is impossible for him to die, you die, so He may manifest himself to you and duality may vanish.”

“Honey, you already fasted last year for three days, didn’t you?” replied her mother, hardly able to hide her smile.

“Mom! I don’t mean a ‘kid’s fasting’. I am talking about the real stuff,” she said raising her soft voice.

“It is wonderful that you want to fast but you need to grow up some more. Why don’t you first try your ‘kid’s fast’ again tomorrow, fast until noon, then have your lunch. I am sure even angels will look down at you with admiration. They will say ‘Wow! Such a brave girl! She is only five years old and yet she already fasts for half of the day.'”

Rolling her eyes, she protested to her mother once again:

“Mom I am not a baby anymore! My sister is fasting, my older brother is fasting, you are fasting, and dad is fasting. Everybody is fasting except for my baby brothers and I. Please mom, I can do it, I want to do it, please…”

“Dear, you are a very strong girl, I know, but you see your stomach is still very little. Your hands, your mouth, you are still a little person. You already know that children don’t need to fast until they are a lot older. Maybe next year, or the year after you can try to fast a day or two, and when you become a teenager, you’ll be fasting the entire Ramadan. But this year you’ll only be doing the kid’s fast.”

As she looked at her little daughter hoping that her words would end the discussion, her heart was overflowing with such a joy and happiness, in the midst of compassion. How proud she was! She uttered a silent little prayer inside, “My little angel, O my dear Lord, please keep the love of worship and devotion overflowing from her heart her entire life with a child-like purity and sincerity, just like now.”

As soon as the little girl’s dark eyes caught her mother’s lips moving, she jump off of her seat. She must have had thought that it was a green light, and that her mother was about to say “yes.”

“Great!” she screamed, her face was enlightened with an excitement. Hardly grasping a breath, she continued: “Then you can wake me up for the early morning breakfast before dawn. Then I can have enough food and water and then be prepared for a day of fasting. I am so happy. And then…”

Her mother and father looked at each other, somewhat reluctant, and then her father interrupted her. “Dear, it seems like you are not listening to what your mother is saying. I know you are a brave girl, and your mother told me that your friends have been calling you ‘fearless’ since the day you challenged them and climbed all the way up to the top of the power pole on the street. I also know you love God, and you want to begin your journey as an obedient servant, and you are excited about your first full fasting, but you are missing something my dear…”

Ready to protest again, her little fingers swayed back and forth over her fork and spoon, and she asked: “What? What is it that I am missing?”

“You also have to be patient. God willing, next year you could try to do one full day of fasting.”

About to burst into tears, she mumbled with a barely audible voice:

“I am fasting tomorrow, whether or not you wake me up for the early breakfast. I am ready and I am fasting tomorrow!”

Her older sister sitting next to her couldn’t help hearing her murmuring and she whispered into her ears: “Oh, you are more stubborn than a goat!”

As she left the table and went back to her room, she wasn’t sure who the winner of the argument was. She climbed up to her bunk bed and closed her eyes tight. She murmured: “Tomorrow will be my first real fasting!”

As soon as she opened her eyes in the morning, she jumped out of bed, almost falling down as she climbed down, and ran to the window. It was already very bright outside. Was it already morning? Had she missed the dawn? Did everybody oversleep? She ran to her parents’ room, screaming:

“Mom, dad, wake up! We overslept, we overslept!”

She saw that her father had already gone, and her mother was about to finish her daily reading of the Qur’an.

“Honey,” said her mother. “I thought we had reached an agreement last night.” She wasn’t able to get any answer from her daughter, so she continued: “Our Creator is so merciful that He never asks us to do anything that is more than we can bear, it is not only children, but many adults are also excused from fasting. For instance, do you remember when I had your baby brother, I didn’t fast for a while, or when your grandmother got very sick and had to take so many medications, she skipped some days of fasting. When you become old enough and your body gets stronger, I know you will be super cool with your fasting, but now I don’t want you to rush into something before you are ready and lose your enthusiasm for later.” She was ready to continue but when she saw the tears in her little angel’s eyes, she stopped and hugged her: “Okay, okay young lady, let’s make an agreement then. You can try and keep your fast as long as you can but it is a summer day, it will be long and very hot so when you get really thirsty, hungry or tired, you can take a few minutes break, then you can continue your fasting. If you forget that you are fasting and eat or drink something, that’s okay, that means angels are trying to help you with the blessings from heaven. And don’t forget, no matter how you do, I am proud of you.”

Finally all the shine and happiness came back to her eyes and the little girl answered: “Deal mom!”

A couple of hours later, she decided to go outside to play. It was really warm outside. She looked around to see if any of her friends were around but she could only see a few shadows from the distance. First she thought about running over to play with them, but then she felt a little tired. Instead, she sat down on the brick pavement.

” I guess I am tired, and it is not even noon yet!” She bent over her stomach and began to chat: “Hey there! How do you feel? Are you hungry?” The only response from her little stomach was a rumbling voice. She smiled and patted herself on the stomach: “Listen, we are growing up today and learning to be patient. Think about all the poor people in the world, they cannot find food most of the time, now do you understand them better?” It seemed like her stomach was convinced and stopped rumbling, she was so proud of herself. With a big smile on her face, she started to watch people passing by on the street.

All of a sudden she heard her favorite sound of summer. A street vendor was calling out: “Snow cones! I have snow cones! Snow cones with all the flavors!” She forgot about everything and quickly checked her pockets. Yes! She had enough money to buy whichever flavor she liked. She rushed to the snow cone vendor and shouted: “Hey, wait! Wait for me! May I have a chocolate flavored snow cone please? You know what, give me the one with lemon and strawberry flavor as well.”

The vendor was a dark skinned young man. As he handed her snow cones wrapped with blue papers, he greeted his favorite customer with a big smile: “Look at you! You have grown up a lot since last year.”

She giggled and handed the money. She was hardly able to hold all three snow cones in one hand, the weather was so warm that they started to melt and drip all over her hands. She didn’t seem to mind, the coolness of the icy drops helped her cool down a little, but it also made her feel her thirst even more. In a hurry as she was trying to unwrap the blue paper from the first one, she noticed the vendor’s dark face, now even darker due to walking under the sun trying to sell all the snow cones and his lips were cracked probably because of thirst. She felt so selfish to have all these three snow cones for herself. A little shy and hesitant, she extended one of them to the man and said: “Please have one of them, three is too much for me anyway.” The man answered: “You are a generous girl, but thank you, I am fasting.” Suddenly, time stopped and she remembered that she also was fasting. “Oh ok,” she said nodding her head goodbye to the vendor and headed back to the brick she was sitting on a few minutes ago. With her stomach rumbling, she mumbled: “So am I, so am I!”

As her vendor friend disappeared around the corner, she didn’t know how to feel. She looked around, there was no one watching her. Well, nobody would think that she was fasting anyway. Her stomach started rumbling again, her lips felt dryer than ever, her hands were covered with the cool-sweet snow cone drips. She took a deep breath, stood up, and began to run towards to children playing in the distance. As she was running her heart was pounding, the ground under her feet felt like it was slipping away and her lips were constantly moving: “I am fasting, I am fasting. My dear God, I promised you, I am fasting today.” As she reached the children, she was gasping for the air and her legs were shaking, she could hardly call out to them: “Hey guys, do you want some snow cones?”

As she walked away from the children enjoying the cool sweet snow cones, her stomach had stopped rumbling, her lips were still dry but wide open with a big smile. Her heartbeat had slowed down and felt like it could fit into it the entire universe. She took her every step with such confidence, she felt like a big oak tree. Her fingers were still sticky and wet, and her lips were still moving: “I am fasting today, I am fasting. I am fasting for the sake of My dear God.”

***

“Excuse me, could you speak a little louder?” With the kind voice of the moderator, she was pulled back from her childhood. It was an interfaith group meeting where people were discussing various faith related topics including their stories in regards to how they shaped them as adults. She must have zoned out in the midst of the last question.

“Oh I’m sorry!” she said, clearing her throat nervously and a little embarrassed. “Where were we?”

As her group-mates smiled at her, the moderator answered:

“So it was your turn. Would you care to share with us your first memory of when you felt the presence of God in your life? It might be very difficult to pin-point, maybe in your teenage years or later? It’s okay if you can’t recall the exact moment, we are just causally sharing.”

She quickly glanced at the wondering faces of her friends. After 20 some years, she could still feel the cold-sugary drips on her hands. With a smile, she took a deep breath before she started to tell her story….

“That’s okay, I know exactly what moment it was.”

Ayse Kubra Coskun, MD, is currently serving as Vice President of Boston Dialogue Foundation.

I know You say

There is no compulsion in religion

But I don’t want this freedom

Any longer

You can have it

And me as well

Only teach me to count

One and one and one is one

And gather up the world’s phone-books

So You can read me

All of Your beautiful names.

Jacob Winkler is a spiritual teacher and creator of the website www.glorytothehighest.com.

People spoke of him mockingly. They said he behaved strangely, obeyed his wife to the letter. He didn’t hang out with other men after work in the coffee shop. He liked to read, a good-for-nothing sport. He didn’t speak the local accent although he had breathed the air of this town all his life. Presor Dyli didn’t curse or spit on the ground. He was unusually polite and mild, almost like-God forbid-a woman. He was weird, they said. People made fun of his wandering eyes, but that’s too cruel, and I am going to skip it.

I didn’t think of him as weird. He was different yes, but far from weird, if you know what I mean.

When Presor Dyli decided to start the first afterschool club ever in the history of our school, he ensured that he would become the laughingstock of the town for a hundred more years. Nobody knew what the club was about or even what an afterschool club was supposed to be.

Somehow he managed to secure a small room in the municipality building, five old typing machines, and a considerable supply of index cards and pencils.

Presor Dyli asked all his students to enroll in the club. Anything that could be an excuse to get out of the house, away from the never-ending chores, was welcome, so I was happy to oblige.

I remember the first meeting of the club quite clearly. My best friend, Lindita was sitting by my side, and she would giggle every time Presor Dyli looked at us, his wandering eye extremely lapsed in the wrong direction. I became annoyed with her since what Presor Dyli was saying kindled my curiosity. I turned to her sternly and scolded, “Oh, hush for a moment, won’t you?”

She looked at me like I had gone crazy. Little did I care if I had.

His soft voice spoke in unfamiliar words such as noble cause, great service, our language sweeter than honey. I felt like I was transported to a strange new planet.

“My dear children,” Presor Dyli said, “our mother tongue, Albanian, is an old and rich language. Unfortunately, many words used by older generations are about to vanish because they never saw the light of print on the pages of dictionaries. These old words are called archaisms; most of them originate from Ottoman language as a legacy of 500 years of Ottoman rule in Albania.”

“It is our mission to save these words from dying. While listening carefully to adults talking, if you catch a word you have never heard before, write it down on the index cards I will provide for you. At our club meetings we will compare notes, consult the dictionary, and type the words we don’t find in it. Okay? Later, we will mail those words with their meaning and usage to the National Committee for Albanian Language, so that they may be added to the dictionary. I know it sounds complicated but it is easy, you will see. Any questions?”

All twelve of us stood there dumbfounded. My brain felt fuzzy, like a TV which has lost its signal.

Nevertheless, Presor Dyli went on with a new subject–the methodology of our work. After explaining step-by-step the instructions on word hunting, he relaxed our overstretched minds with a story of a smart linguist on an archaism hunt.

“This linguist on an ancient-word hunt went to the farmer’s market. Immediately he spotted his prey-a toothless white-haired lady selling eggs, and he approached her. He asked her how much one egg cost.

She looked at this well-dressed, prospective buyer and smiled. “10 leke,” she said.

Then the linguist did the most unimaginable thing. In a frenzy, he snatched the egg basket and started throwing eggs to the ground, one by one. The old woman, cursing with contempt in her heavy mountainous dialect, fought back with this crazy man. To the surprise of everyone watching, the linguist, delighting in every curse as if receiving blessings from heaven, took out his notebook and excitedly recorded the lingual pearls.

The old woman, making no sense of what had happened, squatted over the broken eggs and cried over the ill fate that had befallen her. Right then, the linguist told her that he would pay for all the eggs he broke, 10 leke each. She did not believe him at first, but when he took out his purse and pulled out the money, she opened up like the sky after a storm. She thanked him effusively and upon hearing that he was willing to pay 15 leke for each, she let flow from her old mouth a string of benedictions. Again, the crazy linguist wrote down whatever she said, as if his own life depended on it.

“Well, children, this is the story of the linguist who dearly loved our language and did everything in hand to preserve it, even wasted eggs and paid for them” Presor Dyli smiled. “Don’t try this yourself though, all right?”

Later he dismissed us with the air of a commander sending his troops on an expedition.

I hugged the pack of index cards he had given me, and on my way home I made a mental list of suspects. I put my grandmother at the top. She was over eighty. She was bound to spill some ancient word from her mouth. Second, came our next-door neighbor, an old lady. “She loves to chat for hours. She gossips a lot too, but if breaking eggs is okay, then I will put up with that.” I decided.

I went to sleep that night, my chest filled with great aspirations for the remarkable service I would render to our mother tongue, which was sweeter than honey.

The next day I lay in ambush for my neighbor on her way to the farmer’s market. She started into her favorite sport-gossip-immediately.

“Did you see how the so and so’s wife was dressed in the so and so’s wedding?” she asked.

I shook my head, but that only invigorated her.

“Her outfit was for hakaret. How could she come in a dress that was so revealing? She should have…”

“Wait, wait a second,” I interrupted. A bulb started blinking in my brain.

“What is hakaret?” I asked, feeling for my pencil and the index card pack in my pocket.

She looked pretty annoyed to deal with words when greater scandals regarding the wife of so and so were involved. She answered anyway, maybe for fear of losing my interest.

“Hakaret means something discreditable, something that people will point their fingers at.

I started scribbling industriously on my index card as she spoke. My neighbor eyed me suspiciously.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking notes.”

“You aren’t going to tell the wife of so and so about what I said, are you?” She looked worried.

“Oh no, no. This is something related to my language club assignment.” I assured her.

Unconvinced, she decided to take no further risks and bade me good-bye, murmuring something about not wanting to miss the fresh eggs in the market.

As I watched her hurry away looking flabbergasted, I wondered if she would tell someone in the market about her neighbor’s so and so daughter doing strange things with a pencil and some what-you-call-them cards.

That evening I listened all ears, pencil in hand to my grandma complain to Mom about one of her grandchildren, my uncle’s only son among three daughters.

“The child is spoiled rotten and if something isn’t done to bring him to his senses, he will bring shame to all of us. It is as clear as that. As they say, you don’t need a kilavuz to the village for what you can see.”

“What is a kilavuz, Grandma?” I asked curiously.

Grandma froze, unprepared for this all-out assault. Soon enough she came to her senses and replied, “Kilavuz is someone who leads the way.”

“A guide?” I said, coming to her assistance.

“Yeah, something of the sort. Now why don’t you go and pick some grapes from the vine, wash them thoroughly, and bring us some to eat.”

I went out, sat on the front steps and wrote down with indescribable delight, kilavuz, my second victory. My heart beat with glory.

At the third club meeting I brought three hard-to-find words. You know the first two already. Why, the third came from a street argument among two drunks shouting at each other at the top of their lungs. I just wrote down the word because, as you can figure out, I couldn’t ask them, drunk as they were, about its meaning. I asked my mom instead. She blushed and threatened to make me bite on red hot pepper if I ever spoke that word again. Just as Professor Dyli asked us to hand him our index cards, I erased the third word. I reasoned that our language might do better with one less bad word.

Week by week, month by month, the about-to-be-lost words accumulated, like little streams in a pond. When we finally correctly typed thirty of them, Presor Dyli put the list in an envelope and mailed it with an accompanying letter, explaining our humble service to the National Committee for Albanian Language.

We continued on our word pursuit the rest of the school year, although we didn’t hear back from the NCFAL. Presor Dyli’s matchless enthusiasm fueled our little engines.

During that year, our country was undergoing great changes, although we, young club-goers, took little notice. On the radio, television, the coffee shop, the street, everyone talked about the big transition from over forty years of communism, to democracy. The land and the factories were being privatized and words such as private property and business were articulated boldly for the first time in many years. We brought them over to club–that’s how I remember. Presor Dyli told us that they were new words, therefore of no use to our mission.

My parents talked over dinner each night of how some of our neighbors or their friends had come up with amazing ideas to start a trade, and how courageous it was to take such a risk in the collapsing economy. Some of them had turned their patios into little shops, selling anything they could lay a hand on and stock in such a little space. My parents wished we were living in the walk-in level apartment, so we could try our luck in business. Why, it was such a convenient thing to work so close to your living quarters. I understood nothing of their talk. Nonetheless I listened carefully, my pencil and cards nearby.

At one of our meetings, which I learned later would sadly be the last, Presor Dyli told us apologetically that he had to quit the language club. He had to dedicate his time to something really important.

“I am sorry, children. I tried to find a substitute to keep the club going but to no avail. You kids did a great job. I am proud of you. I am sorry to quit but I have to,” he said in a sad tone. He did not look at us.

We left in silence, wondering what could be so important and so sorrowful at the same time.

Had he come down with a bad disease and he needed to go for treatments? Was he moving to another city? Had he received a disheartening letter from NCFAL? What could it be?

Weeks went by. Presor Dyli still taught us language arts during regular school hours but as soon as the last bell rang, he would hurry in the direction of his apartment. I had been taught to never pry. That’s why, tempted as I was, I never followed him.

One day, I took another way home after school because I had to take a make-up assignment to a sick classmate. I was entertaining myself with my shadow sliding ahead of me on the pavement, when his voice startled me.

“One kilogram tomatoes, two dozen eggs, one box of matches. Anything else I can get for you, sir?”

Yes, it was him. In his apartment’s patio which had been converted into a shop. I couldn’t believe it! He still had on his morning attire-white shirt and black pants. A black apron hung loosely about him and his shirt sleeves were rolled up. He had tomato stains on his shirt.

“No thanks,” replied the customer as he handed him the money.

As Presor Dyli rummaged in the big front pocket of his apron for change, a passerby who was the age of my father, stopped at the door of the shop and shouted.

“Hey Abdyl, how is it going? You’ve got a pretty good-sized shop here. Hang in there, buddy and before you know it, you will own a big market, just like Naim. He started small like you but look at him now. Has money to cover himself standing. I am happy for you, man.”

He made his point and patted Presor Dyli on the shoulder.

“Finally the cat caught a mouse, eh, Abdyl? “

I was about to cry. This little business was his really important something. What’s worse, he didn’t even mind being compared to the ill-famed Naim, a mafioso who was known to sell anything illegal.

Presor Dyli looked up. He saw me standing on the pavement across the street, like a statue of salt. He tried a genuine smile and waved at me, a bit hesitantly.

I was waking up from the dream.

He had lost his charm. I had lost my aspirations. He wasn’t weird anymore by the town’s standards. He was Abdyl now.

I didn’t wave back. I moved on and let my tears flow.

Fred (not his real name) is 21 years old, living in a university community. Last year, he did a project to “stretch into infinity”, i.e. he attempted suicide. Fortunately, his project failed. After his return to the normal life, he found an alternative way to infinity. I wanted to interview him as soon as I learned about his story, which he accepted.

“I am doing a double major in mathematics and biology. Unlike the regular biology students who are educated to think traditionally and memorize constantly, my way of thinking is rather mathematical and rational.”

I wanted to punch a hole in this super confident young boy’s claims about himself. “So, you never fell in love, but instead, rationally proved some girl to be the one meant for you?”

He chuckled. “I guess, I did fall in love, but suppressed my feelings since they were irrational.”

“Then you must have a strong will. How do you rationally explain the human will? I mean, we are talking about a young man whose hormones are keeping him at the verge of love. And how do you think your will fights against these molecules that pervade your body?”

“My thoughts on this are different now, but at the time, I was trying to express everything in terms of testable, concrete concepts. There is so much research on the effects of genes and the environmental conditions on human behavior. So, my will had to be some proteins synthesized from my DNA.”

“So do you think, or did you think that one day people could use love pills for keeping up their love for their partners, and to have compassion for their children?”

“Why not? Actually, it is not just that. I had many thoughts that engulfed my mind and motivated my actions, including my attempt to suicide. I couldn’t receive rationally satisfactory alternatives to my conclusions.”

Then Fred took me on a tour d’horizon of his view of life and people. There were many elements in his views that you could hear from other people, but this one was unique and noteworthy:

“This is a bit irrelevant, but I can tell you a funny one too. If the speeding tickets are issued not due to an actual harm but due to the increased risk of harm, then people who drink more than a minimal amount should be given drinking tickets. Statistically speaking, the number of crimes linked to speeding is nowhere close to the number of crimes linked to drinking. So, if I am getting a ticket for speeding, although I haven’t harmed anyone, then why isn’t my friend for whom I am the designated driver, getting a ticket for his increased potential to harm someone?”

Speechless, I tried to steer him back to his conclusions that led him to what he did.

“You know, I was never hospitalized for depression. Nobody thought that I was in deep trouble, including me. I was considered to be an intellectual, an extraordinary friend. I don’t know how it goes with other people, but when the idea came, it wasn’t like a freaky idea to entertain myself for a minute. It came as an irrefutable theory. It only made sense. Really.”

The idea of suicide making sense? That didn’t make sense to me! Seeing my blurred gaze at him, he picked up again.

“If motivation is essential to accomplish your ideals, how come things that bring motivation are considered harmful?”

He was talking about drugs.

“If success is all about hard work, then why is it forbidden to pave your way to success rather than leave it to luck?”

That is fortifying hard work through taking drugs.

“If my mental activity is nothing but complex dynamics of molecules in my brain, then shouldn’t I take drugs that are the embodiment of rejuvenating and exhilarating inspirations leading to innovations?”

After a second of pause, he concluded:

“If happiness is all about certain molecules in my body, then what is wrong about getting it directly rather than mining it through the thorny relationships with people?”

How would you answer these questions, knowing that they are asked by an individual in the making who is trying to make sense of life but who is bewildered by the discrepancies of the mature people?

“My line of thought and other people’s line of thought in this matter are similar to the graph of 1/x. We are both aiming for the same point, i.e. zero. But our distinct approaches take us to opposite directions. The two couldn’t be more divergent than this.”

In mathematical elegance, Fred was describing the state that nurtured his suicidal thoughts. He could not establish ties with the rest of us. With an intention to never come back, Fred used drugs to become a zero in our world, and to stretch into unknown infinity. Did he succeed?

“But you know, like a sad love story, 1/x never converges to zero. I failed, too, in that sense. The way I conceived it, death was going to be a culmination of motivation, success, and happiness. I aimed for it head on. According to my conviction, I was supposed to have achieved all of those. When I opened my eyes in the hospital, I realized that I had neither success nor happiness.”

You don’t have to be a sage in order to understand that suicide is not a key to success or happiness. But a brief journey to death made Fred a sage.

“It is possible in this life that one receives death while perfectly healthy. It is also possible that one can survive despite a miserable health. In other words, just like being healthy doesn’t necessarily mean you can’t die, there isn’t a mechanic relationship between being unhealthy and arriving at death. My own failure to die despite what happened to me is a living proof of this.”

I noted in my mind that this was a good example of learning from your failures.

“The moment I realized that death is given, just like life is, my suicide attempt transformed from being a story of failure to a story of success, because that’s when I started believing in the unseen.”

Believing in the unseen was a quality that Fred did not have before, but why and how had it been the elixir that changed his failure into success?

“It is so ironic and controversial. In the beginning, what I was missing was my acceptance of self-deficiency in grasping the existence. In the end, by admitting to be incomplete, I was becoming complete; being completed by God.”

Suicide is one of the most severe sins one can commit according to the monotheistic religions. Yet, this young man found God in the very sin that could throw him light years away from God.

“I don’t define myself anymore as an outstanding, perfect intellectual as my friends used to call me. Instead, I am a story in progress. No matter how severe the calamities or how satisfying the joys are, I don’t come to an end unless my author ends the story.”

Funny though, sometimes while walking in the enchantment of the awakening nature around me, I run into a tree, and I hug it as if I met a friend. You can imagine how entertaining I am to the passers-by.

It was one of those days when I felt the presence of a second person near me. Strange enough, though, he wasn’t laughing at my hugging the tree.

“Hi fellow, what is wrong with you? Why aren’t you laughing at this lunatic who is in love with trees instead of people?” I asked.

I was shocked upon hearing his answer:

“The sight of people is of no value to me because I cannot see the light coming from them. But you are certainly shining through your voice.
“For me, people shine through their presence; they change my heart beat.”

I exhaled the air that was hiding in my lungs with anxiety, and teased: “So, I should be careful when I am talking to you since I cannot hide my true feelings from you!”

“You bet. But don’t worry; your voice is giving me positive signals.”

Then, I quickly returned: “I am happy to hear that. So, shall we play a game together?”

“Like what?”

“Alright. Only by listening, we are going to try to predict the coming of the next person.”

“I’ll take your challenge,” he said.

And, we kept silent in order not to miss the clues of an approaching person. Believe it or not, we waited for minutes and not a single person passed by. We could hear voices of kids running in the distance, wind rubbing the leaves, trunks of the trees squeaking as they swing, flies, birds flying or landing, etc., but not a single person passing by. Suddenly he said:

“Maybe we should play something else.”

“You know what? You are the ever first person with whom I can play the game of solitude. We are together but not like cans on a shelf. We are together like two flowers smiling at each other although we cannot see or hear one another. Outsiders may think we are lonely. But in essence, we are hand in hand in the depths of our hearts.”

“It is strange that you say this. Why should you enjoy solitude?” he asked.

I did not answer that question. Actually my silence was the answer; and I think, or hope, he got my answer. I didn’t want my discovery of a solitude-mate to disappear so abrupt.

“Here comes one!” he exclaimed. I could feel his joy of catching the first person. I smiled; and he felt it because I give out a warm and vibrating breath when I smile.

“It is so alive,” he said.

“What? The person?” I was startled. Why was he using “it” for a person?

“No, your smile. I don’t feel many smiles like yours. I usually hear frozen laughs and smiles of mass-production, which carry no sincerity.”

I was embarrassed by his compliment. Again I kept silent, but my face was burning up, and he felt that as well.

“Now you are as flushed as I was when we started talking.”

“Yeah, what had happened to you? Why were you so flushed earlier?” I inquired.

“I climb this tree often. I actually do this whenever there is nice weather. Sometimes, I feel the footsteps of someone, whom I want to catch. I rush down to the ground hoping not to miss the encounter. But always, I miss the person. Now, that spirit is standing before me.”

Once more, I was embarrassed. I didn’t know what to say. We both kept silent for a while. Then, I heard my daughter calling: “Dad, it’s time.”

She was the one predicted by my solitude-mate.

“Forgive me for disturbing your conversation,” she added.

“A conversation by presence cannot be disturbed by words,” replied my friend. We all chuckled.

I felt my daughter pulling my arm – an authoritative sign meaning “let’s go.” I grasped her hand firmly, turned back to my solitude-mate, and gave a goodbye silence, and he did the same to me. Then I gave him that lively smile, and he went through that shower of heat. I picked up my cane and started knocking on his ears again as I returned home with my daughter as my guide.

Barbara Koerth is a freelance writer and has written published poetry and continues to do so. She lives in the Houston area with her husband and children. She is currently studying Psychology.