Dear Bloggers: Would you like to receive a copy of Loving You Wasn’t Enough?

To the bloggers who have subscribed to this page, first thank you for the follow. As some of you may know my novel, “Loving You Wasn’t Enough,” is now published and available on Amazon.

As a first time author, I am trying to reach out to friends, family, and the online community in which I am connected. I can use your help to get the word out on the book.

If any of the bloggers are interested in receiving a copy of Loving You Wasn’t Enough and sharing your thoughts about the book with your online community and networks, please let me know. Contact is below. Please tell me your name, name of your blog, and address to ship to. Thank you.

To those who have purchased and read the book, thank you so much for the support. I am always delighted to hear your thoughts whatever they maybe, so please feel free to comment or send me an email.

Many Thanks.

Fatima

Email: ebyanandnoreen@gmail.com
Book: http://www.amazon.com/Loving-Wasnt-Enough-Fatima-Warsame-ebook/dp/B00GV2OPJI

New Facebook page: facebook.com/warsamefatima

Tumblr: http://fatimawarsame.tumblr.com/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/fatima_warsame

LOVING YOU WASN’T ENOUGH AVAILABLE NOW IN PAPERBACK And Ebook

Loving You Wasn’t Enough is Now Available.

link: http://www.firstdraftpublishing.com/bookshop/loving-you-wasn-t-enough

And the E-book version can be found here: http://www.amazon.com/Loving-Wasnt-Enough-Warsame-Fatima-ebook/dp/B00GV2OPJI/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1385230151&sr=8-1&keywords=fatima+warsame#_

BOOK COVER 06x27x2013

Next week the Paperback will be available on Amazon.

Fatima

Loving You Wasn’t Enough will be available this Weekend!

Yeah we are finally here! This weekend, Loving You Wasn’t Enough will be available for purchase, in paperback and eBook. This Saturday,  it will be available on first draft publishing website and amazon the following week. E-books for both Amazon and Barnes and Noble will also be available this weekend.

Below is the link to First draft publishing website. Look out for the book there this weekend and I’ll post more information in the weekend.

Website: http://www.firstdraftpublishing.com/home

Also here is the Facebook page for the book: https://www.facebook.com/FatimaWarsameAuthor

Please know I do not run the Facebook page personally and am not responsible for what is posted. I do however have a twitter here: https://twitter.com/fatima_warsame and a tumblr page http://fatimawarsame.tumblr.com/. Both of these I do personally run.

Thank you and take care. 

Fatima

Excerpts Chapter 1 and Chapter 2

Below are Excerpts. Much of the story line remains the same as what I had posted here before, the major difference is of course the ending. The book will be available this month (November 2013). I started posting more on tumblr and here is the link: http://fatimawarsame.tumblr.com/

I will post more in coming days and update. So since once I start talking, I will take up most of the post and it will be hard to make me to stop, ill just get to the excerpts. Thank you a million times and more coming soon. I hope all is well if this reaches you. Take care.

ps: Also as a way to say thank you so much, I’d like to give free copies to those of you who had posted and gave me feedback, I know there were silent readers and I am very thankful to all, and to the few who had posted regularly and gave me valuable feedback–V, B, Ita, Nell, and Mandy (you I know personally so that will be easy), I think we can figure something out with technology to allow you get a copy shipped to where-ever you are in the world, that is the least I can do and I hope I am granted that opportunity. Will get to that when it’s time, again forever grateful and talk soon. Peace and Love.

Synopsis:

Ebyan Jama has always led a life of clarity. She stayed away from boys, prayed everyday and never let even her most passionate dream stand in the way of her faith. Her devotion to Islam and pride in her African roots provided her an unshakable foundation.

Unshakable, until her world was turned upside down and her heart was ignited the moment she locked eyes with Noreen Iqbal.

Noreen was everything Ebyan could ever want in a friend. Sweet, kind, loyal and selfless to a fault. Noreen made Ebyan feel things she had never felt before. She found it nearly impossible to break from Noreen.

What Ebyan thought was an innocent friendship turned into a life altering love affair. A relationship, which has Ebyan for the first time in her life, doubting herself and her faith. She turned into someone she didn’t recognize by a love too powerful to control. She searched for the answer to the one question that could ruin everything she has ever worked for her entire life.

Can she love Noreen and still be a faithful and devoted Muslim?

Chapter 1

Good morning, Dr. Jama,” Stephanie greeted me energetically as I arrived at my office ready to get to work.

I returned her smile.

Stephanie, a tall and slender brunette, was impressive as a secretary. She was always a minute or two ahead of me coming to the office.

Sometimes it bothered me that she seemed more eager than I was, yet I satisfied my competitive edge by convincing myself that I had a small child to see off in the morning, while Stephanie was an unattached young woman who had something to prove.

I preferred that she call me just Ebyan. However, I sensed because of the nine year age difference between us, she felt more comfortable using my official title.

“Good morning, Stephanie,” I replied.

We chatted for a few minutes about our weekends. Mine was predictable, spending time with family and going out to dinner. Stephanie’s was much more exciting even though she remained conservative in describing her time at a rock concert. She didn’t look like someone who had partied hard the night before. Not a hint of exhaustion. Being twenty-one seemed like another universe to me.

As our talk turned to work, Hassan walked in as she was handing me the folders for the clients I was to see today.

“Good morning Ebyan, Stephanie,” he said cheerfully.

“Good morning Mr. Khan,” Stephanie replied shyly with a tender smile.

I eyed Hassan suspiciously. His smile grew bigger. He must have understood what I was thinking, I thought.

“Morning,” I said in a tone devoid of any warmth.

“Well, it is great to see you too Ebyan,” he said sarcastically as he approached us.

Stephanie couldn’t contain her smile and she timidly sat back down on her chair. I let out a sigh, only he would be able to understand. He chuckled and then asked Stephanie for his client folders.

I met Hassan in graduate school at Harvard. We were both studying Clinical Psychology and became very good friends in the program. After graduation I went to Chicago to complete my post-doctoral training. I didn’t always want to be in this field. I dreamed I would be a musician and earn my living making and performing my own musical creations.

I never pursued that dream with any passion, however. I knew my devout Muslim parents would never fully support that choice and I was unable to balance my Muslimness with my love of music.

I felt like I didn’t have the luxury, being the daughter of refugees to fight for a dream that could take many years to come true if ever.

The war took everything from my parents except their lives. My father was a rising star in the world of real estate and my mother had big plans to become an iconic fashion designer. They were a vibrant young couple, who had just bought a new house in the suburbs of Mogadishu, then one of the most beautiful cities in Africa. They felt free, strong, and powerful in their homeland. All of that disappeared within a matter of hours, as militias sacked the city and everyone who could flee, fled.

My folks came to America with nothing except the clothes on their back. All their hopes and dreams became invested in my sister, Ubah and me.

Pursuing a higher education degree was non- negotiable for my parents. I went largely out of duty to them. I did very well in high school and had received a scholarship to Berkeley; otherwise I know I couldn’t have found the heart to spend my parents’ hard earned money just to get a degree.

It was towards the end of my junior year that I had a chance encounter with a young Muslim girl, which shaped the rest of my life and inspired my passion for therapy. I took our encounter as the catalyst for what I was destined to become. There was no turning back for me after that experience. I went to graduate school with a clear purpose and direction to pursue.

I wanted to own my own practice in order to provide cultural and religious sensitive therapy, but in the years following graduate school, resources remained tight and I had to struggle working under people who didn’t have the same vision I had.

Things finally began to fall into place a year ago. Hassan moved to New York and shortly afterwards joined me in the endeavor to open our now unique and successful practice in Manhattan.

I had little money and it was Hassan, who mysteriously came up with the vast majority of the money to lease the expensive property. Exactly where he got the resources still remains a mystery. Hassan informed me the funds were donated to us by someone who believed in our project, but wanted to remain anonymous. I didn’t know him to be involved in any dirty business practices, so with great excitement I plunged into the project with everything I had in me.

So far we have been successful. Hassan and I both have similar passions and vision for what we want to accomplish. In just a year, our practice has grown to a staff of twelve, averaging thirty clients a day.

There is just one problem. Hassan is a very good looking man and he knows it. A tall handsome man with dark eyebrows, charming brown eyes and a strong but open face, Hassan never had a problem attracting women. In fact, he attracts too many for his own good. I was very concerned about hiring Stephanie, a young and beautiful woman.

He may be engaged, but that never stopped him before from being flirtatious with other women, including me. He made two advances at me, once in graduate school and the other during our business partnership. I was married both of those times and he knew this. I rebuked him strongly and he got the message quickly, never again repeating his foolishness. He also knew my strong position on dating employees.

“Here is your folder, Mr. Khan and your 11 o’clock appointment canceled on Friday,” Stephanie informed him.

There was that sweet smile again. Stephanie may already be under his spell, I thought as I headed towards my office eager to begin work.

I looked over the client list. Seven in total and there was one new client, a young teen. She was to be my first appointment and from the short information on her file I had a feeling she was keeping a secret from her family.

At 8 am, Stephanie ushered into my office a pretty, petite, and shy looking young girl. I was immediately aroused with sympathy and rose from my seat to meet her at the door and offer her my greeting.

I closed the door behind us and motioned for her to sit in the comfortable sofa area. From her hesitation and hard grip on her purse I could tell the young girl was in great distress. She came to see me with difficulty as every client does, but never was one as young as this child.

“Salmah, please make yourself comfortable on the sofa. I am happy you came to see me and I will do my very best to assist you in any way I can. But first may I get you anything to eat or drink?” I asked.

Her hard grip slightly relaxed from her purse and still holding a dazed expression, Salmah reluctantly took a seat.

I awaited her reply.

She gave none and shook her head gently.

“Okay. I will get us water just in case we get thirsty,” I added and grabbed two bottles of water.

I sat in front of Salmah and put the two bottles on the coffee table between us.

“You are safe with me, Salmah,” I said. “Have no fear,” I added softly.

She exhaled.

I wanted to run over to her side and wrap my arms around her, but instead I remained professional.

Therapy is a sensitive issue for Muslims. Many see some human emotions as weaknesses inspired by the devil and cured by prayer. It helps our clients to have a safe and professional place where their religious and cultural sensitivities are clearly understood. I knew firsthand how soul rescuing it felt to have someone to understand me when I felt confused, to have someone by my side when I felt all alone, and to have someone to talk to me when I felt unable to speak.

Having gone through my own struggle with a forbidden desire, I could better relate on a personal level to the challenges faced by my clients. It was not easy work, but I couldn’t ask for a better career.

“Let us start with getting to know each other a little better,” I started the conversation.

Salmah would hardly look me in the eye and she looked traumatized. Poor girl, I thought. Whatever she was holding inside had to be very difficult. I subdued my motherly instincts.

To gain her trust and more importantly let her know she had mine I gave her a background of myself and the practice. Slowly I saw her begin to relax. After my short introduction, I asked her for background information to get to know her better.

Salmah was fourteen, a straight A-student, a lover of books, from a traditional Pakistani family and a devout Muslim girl. In my practice I have found that the religiously conscious clients are easier to counsel and I was partly relieved when I sensed that from Salmah.

A half hour into our session she was almost fully comfortable. Encouraged by this, I started with the goals of the session and why she had come to seek my help. Her demeanor instantly turned grave and she broke down crying. I handed her the entire tissue box and comforted her as best as I could.

She began to narrate to me her story of falling in love with a fellow classmate, which eventually resulted in her current pregnancy.

Salmah was deeply distraught. She was ashamed at what she had done and she didn’t know what to do about the pregnancy. I felt the heaviness of my heart increase. I knew a Muslim girl could not commit a greater crime than become pregnant out of wedlock. It is the greatest fear of parents for a daughter. The ultimate disgrace if a daughter were to get pregnant before she was married.

I sighed and stared at Salmah.

Her tears flowed uncontrollably. Her display of raw despair and guilt reminded me a lot of my own past.

Witnessing her breakdown at that moment, I began to see my young self in her. But unlike me, this young girl had nowhere to turn and no one in the world to support her. This was the first time she had ever revealed her secret openly.

“Will God ever forgive me for what I have done? Am I still a good Muslim?” she asked, choking on her tears and tucking strands of hair that had escaped back under her hijab.

These same questions of desperation had haunted me years ago. I knew exactly how she felt. Pure bitterness. Her tears were tears of seeking forgiveness. She could care less at this moment about losing her boyfriend.

It was my turn to exhale.

“What do you think? What does God say about forgiveness in the Quran?” I asked.

We began to discuss repentance, forgiveness and sins in Islam. This was the part of my job that I didn’t enjoy, because I wanted to mother this young child and tell her: Of course darling, God will forgive youGod is most forgiving especially to innocent children like yourself.

Yet, I couldn’t force my views on her. I had to lead her to come to her own conclusions. Thankfully, Salmah was an extremely bright girl. It was only that her heavy burden of guilt had clouded her judgment and made her lose hope. Slowly she regained hope and eventually quoted a verse from the Quran.

“O my servants who have wronged themselves: do not despair of God’s mercy, surly God forgives all sins, surely, He is the Most Merciful and Compassionate.”

“I think God is most forgiving and most merciful,” she said keenly. “That is repeated throughout the Quran, which I have been reading a lot lately to give me peace. And the prophet, peace and blessings be upon him, said every son and daughter of Adam is a sinner and the best of sinners are those who return to God in sincere repentance.”

She paused, her eyes marked by fear and a bit of hope. I was impressed she had reached the conclusion I had wanted her to reach and she did so very efficiently. But I knew that God was never the problem. People on the other hand were.

“So let us go back to your questions. Do you think God will forgive you and do you think you are a good Muslim?” I asked.

Her large dark eyes began to fill with fresh tears, but these tears had a hint of reassurance.

She sighed.

“I hope so and in my heart I believe so,” she said poignantly.

She looked at me with a childlike melancholy that caused my insides to tremble.

“I made a mistake that I wish I could take back, but I can’t. I have repented sincerely every minute of every day and never will I make the same mistake again. I love Islam and have always followed it faithfully except this one time.”

I cleared my throat.

The young girl had no idea just how well she articulated my once upon a time heartbreak. She continued to tell me the whole story and how she slipped into having sex. I listened attentively. Finally we came upon the heart of the matter, the family.

“But what about my family? What am I to say to them about this baby I am carrying?” she asked frightened.

We exchanged a heartfelt glance.

“Are you close with your mother or anyone in your family, whom you can confide in?” I asked.

Her large dark eyes illuminated with more sad tears. She was physically trembling. She shook her head.

“This will destroy my family. They will never understand and will hate me forever,” she replied.

I didn’t know her family so I couldn’t tell how they would react. I also didn’t want to put her in a potentially dangerous situation, but I couldn’t give her the approval she was after to abort the fetus.

We both knew Islam was against abortion. It was seen as a greater religious offense than fornication. However, in the light of shame being the worst possible sin in certain corners, her family being a prime example, abortion often became necessary for young girls like Salmah.

I was nearly her age, when Tiffany became pregnant. Although Tiffany came from a liberal Christian family, her single mother was conservative when it came to getting pregnant before completing college. Tanya was tough on all her children, especially her daughters and her hard work paid off in producing four successful adults. But back then Tiffany too had become pregnant at an early age and she was terrified to death of her mother just like Salmah was now.

Tiffany decided to have an abortion. There were no other options available in her view and she sought my help in the process. My background put me in a terrible position. I was caught between being there for my dearest friend and assisting in what my religion would deem as a great sin.

In the end I chose my friend. I held her hand that day and kept her secret all these years from her mother, a close family friend. I felt guilty and still do for deceiving Tanya, but as Tiffany said back then, “It is best this way.”

I was lost on what would be best for Salmah now. Abortion seemed like the safest option to take, considering all the pain, shame, and harsh consequences that could come from the alternative option of having this baby. I couldn’t reveal these thoughts to Salmah of course.

“What about the boy, how is your relationship with him now?” I asked.

“I don’t want anything to do with him and I wish I never got involved with him. He is not even a Muslim, which makes everything that much worse,” she confessed somberly.

I exhaled, frustrated at the deadlocked situation, but trying my best to stay hopeful. It would have been easier if the two youngsters had the same background and had loved each other, I thought. They could get married and hide the pregnancy, but that was just not to be in this case.

Stephanie knocked on the door to inform me the next clients were here for their appointment. I hated to leave Salmah this way, but I could only reassure her at the moment.

“Salmah, it’s obvious you are a strong and faithful young girl. You will get through this and I want you to continue to be smart and make smart decisions. Try to find allies within your family without revealing your secret if you feel it’s dangerous for you. I want you to keep coming to see me. I will be available by phone to you anytime you need me. Ok?” I assured her as I handed her both my home and cell numbers.

Taking me by complete surprise she wrapped her arms around my waist, her grip so tight that I gasped for air. I suddenly wished she was my daughter so she wouldn’t have to suffer alone and seek a paid counsel, but know that her mama would always be there for her no matter the problem.

I hugged her back tightly and bullied back a tear as I watched her leave my office, still looking uncertain as when she first walked in, but less grief stricken. I silently prayed to Allah to watch over her. She was a special young woman.

Salmah came to see me again on Wednesday, two days following our first meeting. I was tremendously relieved when she came through the door displaying a distraught expression, but a warm smile for me.

Salaamu alaikum,” I said and she replied with the same greeting.

After we sat down she went on to describe what she had encountered the past two days at home in a straight-forward manner, which indicated she was very comfortable with me. She informed me that she had done what I had told her to do about finding allies within her family.

Cleverly she related to her family that a Muslim girl at school had become pregnant, but the family not knowing that the girl in the story was actually their daughter, reacted harshly to the news. After witnessing their severe reaction, she was discouraged and came to the conclusion that an abortion was the only viable solution.

I had a strong inclination this was going to eventually become her decision and blamed heavily the cultural system that pushed young devout girls like Salmah after falling into a one-time mistake to commit greater religious offenses.

“Do you think your family would disown you if you told them the truth?” I asked.

Her reply came without hesitance.

“I have no doubt. I know my family. It is the worst possible sin in their book. It can’t ruin them. I must have an abortion, otherwise my life is over,” she replied, defiantly.

We talked in length about abortion and her family. She was unwavering in her decision, but her request of me was very unsettling. “But I don’t know where to go and I don’t have any money,” she said in a tone that pained my heart so much that I felt fifteen all over again.

I finally let out the breath that had been trapped after hearing her statement. It was very unethical of me to get involved. I couldn’t take her to a clinic and pay for her abortion. But I also couldn’t let her fall into a dangerous trap and suffer severe consequences. I felt protective of Salmah. If her family disowned her, I would adopt her myself. I almost uttered those thoughts to her openly, catching myself at the last moment.

I eventually decided to call Tiffany, a physician, and hand Salmah’s case to her. For the first time since she had walked in my office, I saw a large and beautiful smile appear on Salmah’s sweet face after I informed her about Tiffany. She hugged me tightly and asked if she could still come see me afterwards.

“Of course you can Salmah. I’d like that very much.” The young girl left my office full of blissful hope. I went back to my desk gently smiling and then began to look over the client chart.

Chapter Two

After handing over Salmah’s case to a trusted friend and a professional, I felt more at ease. Since she had walked into my office two days earlier, I had been feeling very tense and unsure on how I could help the young girl. I reasoned that the abortion was a necessarily evil step that had to be taken in order to save herself and her family from the trials and tribulations that could have arisen. I knew that a young girl’s reputation and that of her family could be completely decimated by this type of scandal. Having a baby out of wedlock could ruin her entire future.

The only thing more devastating I could think of was if she were gay. And seeing how much she cared about her family’s standing in society, I was happy for her sake that she wasn’t. A pregnancy could be erased with an abortion, but how could one erase the wishes of one’s heart? I’ve been there. You can’t. If you decide to live then you must engage in a lifelong battle to forget.

It was unfortunate, but that was the type of world we lived in and we were not superhero’s that could change century old entrenched traditions. Still deep down I felt very uneasy about it all. I decided to not dwell on it any further.

At a little past one, I took a lunch break with Hassan, Stephanie and two other staff members. We decided to have Chinese food for lunch and after a block of walking in the freezing November Manhattan winter, we reached the fancy two floor restaurant. I had never gone to this particular restaurant before and stopped to gaze at the beautiful cultural art around the walls and ceiling. I silently hoped décor.

We took a seat at an open window booth overlooking the busy street outside. Immediately the casual conversation about the cold weather and good food turned to Hassan’s upcoming wedding. Hassan was finally going to settle down at the age of thirty-five.

We got along very well in the years we had known each other and had a close working relationship. A relationship I silently feared would arouse suspicions in my husband. I would be jealous if my husband had a close working relationship with a female colleague. It was only natural to feel that way, but my husband never questioned me or gave any thought to the issue. He had complete and unquestioning faith in me. I felt lucky to have married a good man like him.

Even if I was not married, I would never get involved with a man like Hassan. He made a great friend, but he was far from being husband material.

Through the years he dated many women from across the globe. Women were a game to him. He was never serious about any girl he dated. He loved the chase.

Such men were natural born heartbreakers and I was concerned about a fling he had with Tiffany back in Harvard. That concern lasted only momentarily, because like him, Tiffany was a heartbreaker too.

After all the womanizing he had done in the past, he was finally ready to commit to a pretty blonde from Russia. I always thought he would forever remain a bachelor, but was very happy he found someone special even if I highly doubted he could remain faithful to her.

We continued to talk about Hassan’s upcoming wedding festivities and my upcoming birthday, while we enjoyed our lunch. Hassan excused himself and rose from his seat. My view of him was replaced by a clear view of a young Asian woman, enjoying her meal alone and reading a magazine at the next table over. The familiarity of the face on the magazine cover she was reading both caught and held my attention captive. After taking a closer look, my heart rate escalated and I was overtaken by a choking heat. Unaware of how long I had been staring, the girl finally looked up and gave me a curious but concerned glance.

Stephanie gave me a nudge to get my attention, but I was too overwhelmed by the moment to address my colleagues. The girl set the magazine down and I was released from the grip of the face on the cover. Shaken, I forced a smile and followed everyone out of the restaurant.

Once outside and on the sidewalk, I just couldn’t continue walking. I was disabled by the unsettling thoughts ravaging my mind. Despite the cold temperature I felt warm from the burning emotions that were boiling inside of me. The group stopped and looked back at me incredulously.

“Are you okay Ebyan? You don’t look so well,” Hassan said, with concern in his voice.

Hassan was a playboy, but a caring and loyal friend. I managed to smile and exhaled.

“I am fine. I’ll meet you all in the office. Please go on without me. I need to take care of something first,” I replied.

I left them standing there, pondering over my strange behavior. I went back inside the restaurant. With my heart in my throat, I climbed the steps to the second floor and located the booth by the window. The girl was still sitting there bent over her plate. I breathed in and out several times before I slowly made my way to the booth and took a seat in front of her. Her reaction was one of extreme surprise. I smiled, hoping to reassure her before her alarm intensified.

“I am sorry to bother you, but may I please see the magazine you were reading?” I asked.

Seeming relieved, she slowly pulled out the magazine from her bag and set it in front of me. At first I hesitated to look down at the cover. I took a deep breath. When I finally looked down my heart shook even more violently. I searched desperately for air, finding it hard to breathe. If the picture was not clear evidence to the identity of the person, the letters on the cover confirmed it:

Film Maker and Writer, Noreen Iqbal will be screening her critically acclaimed film, “Loving you was enough for me”, on November 30th.

I knew all along who it was. How could I ever forget those eyes? I closed my eyes.

I opened them to look back at the magazine. I tried to compose myself. The young woman was concerned for me and asked if everything was all right, but I could barely hear her let alone give her a proper reply.

Noreen.

I studied her picture.

She was at a studio. Movie equipment was all around the background of the picture. She wore a simple, but elegant brown dress pants with a yellow blouse and colorful jewelry. Her once magnificent long curly hair was now all chopped off and she sported a short, but feminine hair style.

Although she looked older, her large, dark, kind and innocent eyes remained unchanged. And her smile.

God her smile.

She looked incredibly happy, radiant, and beautiful. I was instantly aroused with feelings I thought I had left behind long ago. I re-read the title of her film,

Loving you was enough for me.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. Only one other person in the world besides her understood the encrypted message.

November 30th. My birthday.

I felt physically sick.

“Are you all right?” a soft voice in front of me called.

I had been very absorbed with Noreen’s picture that everything in the world had ceased to exist. I composed myself as best as I could, then I looked up at the unaware young woman, whose reading choice had revived a poignant past that I had buried deep. She had no idea the explosion she had just set off.

I managed to nod and smile.

“Is it okay if I buy this magazine from you?” I asked.

The girl smiled exhibiting friendly warmth.

“Please keep it,” she replied.

I thanked her and walked out of the restaurant holding the magazine tightly in my hand, believing it contained a prophetic message that had come to inform me the unraveling of my life was about to begin.

was surprised that I made it back to the office and managed to continue with work as usual. I appeared normal on the outside, feigning strength and professionalism to everyone, yet I felt numb and chaotic on the inside. When the last client walked out the door I slouched back on the sofa letting out a loud sigh. I must have sat there motionless for nearly twenty minutes when Stephanie came into my office to inform me she was heading home for the day. After she left I went back to my desk and pulled out the magazine.

Minutes later my unmoving concentration on the cover was interrupted by Hassan, who came in and sat down in front of me. My slow reaction led to him taking the magazine out of my hands. We were close enough friends that he could pull such an immature move without any worries. A suggestive smile appeared on his face as he looked over the cover.

“Now she is a beauty,” he said teasingly.

I chuckled and reminded him he was to be married soon.

“I haven’t committed a sin. I am only appreciating a woman’s beauty,” he winked studying the magazine more carefully.

“That’s enough Hassan. When will you stop drooling over other women? Remember your fiancé?” I protested. Hassan’s carefree nature suddenly turned serious. He looked up at me curiously then back at the magazine.

“Wait a minute. I have seen her somewhere,” he said. My heart shook upon hearing his statement. I swallowed hard.

“Where could you have seen her?” I asked.

His eyebrows narrowed. He drew the magazine closer to his face and then opened it to read the content inside. I wished he would not read the spread on Noreen. I had not read the spread myself, but from the details on the cover I knew it was an intimate interview about the movie, which only meant one thing. Nervously, I watched him closely.

“I can’t quite remember, but I am sure I have seen her before,” he continued, while meticulously studying the magazine.

“She is a famous film director. You probably saw her in a magazine or something,” I replied hoping he would get the message and lose interest.

But Hassan, the ever persistent one, continued to hold onto the magazine. His strange chuckles made my heart tremble. Only two people in my life knew what Noreen meant to me, but it wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to put two and two together, I thought.

After he finished reading, he looked at me with a questioning expression. Then he cleared his throat and handed the magazine back to me, without saying anything, which was unlike him. I took the magazine and tossed it to the side like it was nothing, its contents containing just cooking recipes not the words of my first love. I forced a smile and shuffled paperwork around to demonstrate to Hassan that I no longer wanted company. Getting the hint, he slowly rose from the chair and we exchanged anxious smiles.

“I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a good evening,” he said in an awkward tone.

For the first time in our friendship, he was at a loss for words. I just knew he was hiding something from me. Although I didn’t know what that could be.

“See ya,” I replied and watched him walk out the door.

Once he was out of sight, I exhaled, releasing the tension I felt. I collapsed my face in my hands. My heart pounding, I grabbed the magazine and opened the spread on Noreen. There were more pictures of her inside.

Her bright smile, searching eyes, and sweet expressions rekindled old affections. Oh Noreen. I fought to subdue the emotions that wanted a desperate release, but I failed.

I read carefully over the interview, which was mostly about her career. I learned she had done a few films before this one, but it was this film that was the most personal to her, as it was dedicated to her first and greatest love. The tears finally broke free when I read that part. I closed the magazine feeling overwhelmed. A few minutes passed with me walking around the office like a mad woman searching for composure, but I was unable to find it.

I returned to finish reading Noreen’s interview. Noreen picked a Fulani girl to play her love interest. The girl resembled me, but the differences in our ethnicities protected my identity. Hassan could have made the connection after seeing the magazine in my possession. I had a gut feeling he must have, but Hassan was not my worry. It was my parents and husband, who were my greatest concern.

What would they think of me if they knew I once had a love affair with another woman? The imagination of their reactions alone frightened me.

I stayed glued to Noreen’s interview for one more hour, until I was startled by the ringing of my phone.

It was Farhia, one of my closest friends.

I still remember the first day I saw her in class. She was dressed in a green worn out jilbab, only her brown innocent looking face and pasty hands were visible. She seemed so out of place sitting quietly in her chair even amongst fellow Somalis that I instantly pitted her. I said hi to her one morning with the biggest smile I could muster. She just looked at me blankly without an ounce of emotion and went back to reading her textbook. It stung. I was sure at that point we wouldn’t become friends.

I was wrong.

The making of our friendship came during History period when the teacher, a bigot, selected Farhia’s dress to make a point about the oppression of women in the world most especially in the Muslim World. She even went as far as to call Farhia’s jilbab unhygienic. Some in the class giggled. I couldn’t contain myself so I told the teacher her breath stank and she was in no position to talk about hygiene, which to be fair was indeed true. The class exploded with laughter and her face turned completely red. It felt so good.

After that incident, we became great friends. At that time she lived with a cruel aunt, who abused her physically and emotionally. Yet Farhia was courageously determined, working at McDonalds and sending her every paycheck back home to her family, while attending high school. She inspired me in a way that no other person was able to do. When her aunt kicked her out, she happily moved in with us. We have been like sisters since we were sixteen. I couldn’t believe how fast time has gone by.

She must be calling about my 30th birthday on Sunday, I thought.

“Salaamu alaikum Farhia,” I said, after the fourth ring.

She returned the greeting and asked about my family and work. I am comforted by her voice and good words. No matter how low I am feeling, Farhia has the ability to be comforting without even trying.

She just celebrated her tenth wedding anniversary with her husband and two children. They are planning a trip to Kenya for the upcoming Christmas and New Year holiday break. She wants to visit me before they leave. I inform her how much I would love it if they do come to New York.

Insha Allah that is the plan macaanto. Ali and Ayan have grown up so much since you have last seen them. And I can’t wait to see little Jawahiir and everyone,” she said, full of excitement.

“Oh Farhia, I can’t wait either,” I replied affectionately.

I was looking very forward to sharing the closing of the year with the people that I loved. “We all miss you very much. But please plan to stay at least two days,” I pleaded.

She agreed to that plan. Before she hung up, she wished me an early happy birthday and promised to call on Sunday.

Whatever comfort I was feeling with Farhia vanished once I looked at Noreen on the cover of the magazine. I wanted to shout and scream. No sound came out. I can sit at my desk and silently stare at Noreen for hours, but the next phone call from my husband insisted that I go home.

I tucked the magazine deep inside my purse and hurried home. He hadn’t settled in from work and was busy putting away his suitcase when I arrived. I was immediately comforted by his tender smile. The same smile I have loved since we were twelve. He still looks like the sweet boy next door only manlier. It’s difficult to believe that skinny boy grew into this strong, tall and handsome man.

I never took much notice of him until one day I was dragging the trash bag to the bin and Jason, as was his name before he converted, offered to help me. I refused his help and instead of continuing on his way like I thought he would, he snatched the bag from my hand and threw it in the bin with ease.

“Nothing wrong with accepting help,” he said to me with a funny Southern accent.

We’ve been friends ever since. He was my first crush, but our friendship didn’t turn into more until many years later in graduate school.

I never told my husband about the woman I loved before him. I was unsure if I even had the strength to mention her name out loud.

I hugged him tightly and kissed him urgently. I was heavy with emotions and almost on the verge of tears. He put his suitcase down and looked at me curiously.

“Is everything all right honey?” he asked immediately.

I exhaled.

“Everything is fine. I love you Muhammad,” I replied, putting his handsome dark brown face in my hands and kissing him more eagerly.

His strong arms completely enveloped my petite body. He pressed our bodies together and kissed me back hungrily. After five years of marriage, it still felt like our honeymoon. The engulfing heat had not died. I felt his excitement grow against my thigh as our daughter’s voice from behind startled us.

“Has the nanny left?” he asked like an upset child whose privileges were taken away. I grinned at him and then whispered in his ear while playfully pulling his ear lobe with my lips. I walked towards our daughter leaving him agitated. His wounded expression caused me to laugh.

Our first year together was like discovering a whole new universe for me. I had never been intimate with a man before him. On our first night together, I was terribly awkward and nervous, but also very horny, a desire that I was thrilled to be feeling for him.

Following dinner he tried desperately to get our daughter to turn in early for bed. I found his schemes comical. She finally went to sleep after we read several stories to her. Barely outside her door he seized me from behind and took complete possession of my entire body. With great ease, he carried me to our bedroom.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, running his fingers through my hair.

I stared into his loving brown eyes then kissed his moist lips like I have never kissed them before. It felt desperate and urgent. When I stopped, he gasped for air. He was taken aback by my aggression. I ignored his surprised expression and erratic chuckles.

I started unbuttoning my blouse. He was amused at my odd behavior. Normally for us, he was usually the initiator. When I threw my bra off and stood before him nude from the waist up, his amusement turned to arousal.

He loved my breasts and it didn’t take him long before they were in his mouth. He took his time and enjoyed tasting every inch of my body. I loved the tender way we made love, but tonight I didn’t want him to caress me or plant soft and deep kisses all over my body.

I pulled down my skirt and unzipped his pants. I didn’t need to tell him what I wanted. He understood my need. He lifted me up and placed my back against the wall. I wrapped my legs around his waist and waited to be filled.

And fill me he did, thrusting slowly at first and then picking up speed as his desire and pleasure grew. The more pleasure I felt, the more my emotions began to take over me. I began to cry. Silently at first and then out loud.

I didn’t know why I was crying, but I couldn’t stop the tears. The deeper his thrusts became, the more intense were my cries.

Suddenly our orgasms took over us and we both were overwhelmed by the powerful sensation. Out of exhaustion, we fell down to the carpeted floor. Neither of us could speak.

When the intensity of the sensation subsided, I finally began to understand the truth behind my emotions. I was not stirred by passion, but deep grief. There, underneath my husband’s naked body, I thought of Noreen.

had a very bitter taste in my mouth. I changed into my night gown, went downstairs to make coffee and then headed to my corner of peace, carrying the magazine. It was a large room my husband added onto the house for me, which doubled as a recording studio and a home office. The room housed recording equipment, paintings, Islamic calligraphy and shelves full of books collected over the years. The furniture was in the middle of the room and green plants were all around the vicinity. I went to the work desk, sat down on the leather chair and switched on the laptop.

On the internet, I typed in Noreen Iqbal. For nearly ten years I had resigned myself to forget her memory. I resisted any reconnection with her that could arise by completely blocking out anything which could lead me to her. For our honeymoon, my husband wanted to go to Hawaii, but I refused because Noreen and I had once planned a getaway trip to the island. I even avoided the entire world of independent films (which I love), because it is her field. And now she has returned into my life in the most unexpected way.

The information I gathered from the search stated she had made several critically acclaimed films most of them documentaries in her short career and like the magazine spread detailed this was the most personal film to her.

On her website she was quoted as saying:

Loving you was enough for me is a love story that has never been told, but needs to be told. It is a special film for me, because it was inspired by real life events. With this film I wanted to share with the world the undying love between the two main characters, the undying love that lives in my heart.”

The undying love that lives in my heart. Those few words snatched away the security that took me years to build. I closed my eyes and collapsed my face in my hands. I felt lost and the only action I could take was to let the tears run down my face. Why after all these years Noreen? Why do this to me and dig up a past that should stayed buried, I whispered to myself.

Those words consumed my every thought. I couldn’t move or breathe normally. They recovered a lost passion.

Trembling, I looked at the two striking girls on the film poster. I suddenly felt nauseated,  scared, and overpowered. Nothing from the magazine interview or the search indicated she was romantically involved and despite being happily married, I found that bit of information a great relief.

I opened the bottom cabinet to my left and pulled out a case of which I had not looked inside for many years. It contained all the precious memories I once shared with Noreen. Pictures, letters, DVDs, and the gifts she had given me. On top of the pile I took out the silver heart bracelet, which had been inscribed: Ebyan, I will love you forever.

Tears gushed out my eyes furiously as I stared at the bracelet she had given me for my twentieth birthday. I cried and cried. The years of hurt, pain, regret and anger I had buried deep inside of me made the tears continue to run uncontrollably like an endless stream. I thought I had moved on with my life and forgotten this history, but it was clear to me in the face of these raw emotions I had only reshuffled the past and never really faced it honestly.

I looked at our many pictures together. More tears ensued. Then I put one of the DVD’s into play. Materializing on screen was me at the age of twenty wearing white dress pants and a long fitted red blouse with a red scarf displaying a large smile, while singing Vanessa Carlton’s hit single A Thousand Miles.

I remembered that night perfectly. Noreen and I were on campus in the wee hours of the morning, but instead of studying for final exams we roamed the grounds, chased each other in the hallways, and then ended up in the music department. We sneaked into the studio room where I sang this song.

I watched the DVD with a mix of sadness and longing. When her sweet voice finally flowed from behind the camera it felt like a hot blade pierced my heart. When her beautiful face materialized on screen I broke down completely. It has been a decade since I last laid eyes on her and I now know I never did get over her. I only deeply buried her memory.

I could no longer ignore the one person I was never able to let go and whose reappearance on a simple magazine spread had the ability to turn my entire world upside down. I now understood that my future and finding closure depended on making sense of that time period in college I had covered up many years ago even from my own subconscious.

Update and New Blog

I have realized that I haven’t updated this blog in over a month. Thank you to those of you who have subscribed. For the 2 plus years I had this blog, most subscriptions came during the time that I was blogging the story and now that I am not, I kinda feel “imposing” with the randomness of my posts. I know it’s my blog and I can do with it as I please, but I have never been the type of person, who thinks just about what I want even online. As strange as this may sound, I don’t wish to annoy those of you who have subscribed to this blog, because of the story I was blogging. I feel like you are my guests to my home, and came for a reason (the story), and I don’t wish to give you something you didn’t come for ie my randomness. (I am kinda strange, I know, but that is my feeling). 

For a reason I can’t quite explain, I get a different feeling with using different mediums. On twitter and now tumblr, I feel like I am in my own world and I share whatever I want to share, as random as it maybe, as silly as I want to be, or as serious and so forth. It’s just me and my thoughts, that’s how it feels, although it’s not quite true since it’s of course its online. 

However with wordpress, especially with subscribers, i feel less free to be random, annoying, thoughtful, or whatever. 

What I am trying to say, is that I came to the conclusion to start a new blog over at tumblr to post and be my random self. I will always love this space, because it allowed for me to express myself and to grow, and interact with wonderful people, who I will always be grateful for. 

I am not completely abandoning this blog. I just won’t be posting here, however I will update it when the book comes out and so forth. 

We are still in the editing phase, but very close to being finished. I still haven’t told my parents what the story is about, which is something in itself that I hope to blog about soon.

That’s my update. I wish everyone is having a wonderful start to the New Year. Peace & Love to you all.

Here is my new blog: http://fatimawarsame.tumblr.com/

Sweetest Video Ever

This was just too sweet to not post. Hope it makes you smile, as it has made me.

The ethics of justice and legitimacy of which victim (s) matter

Please forgive the title of this post (I am not even sure if it makes sense) and the disorganization I am sure that will be found in this post and perhaps most of my posts. My mind is clouded, jumbled with a lot of disconnected thoughts and it’s difficult to put it all together. I tend to be very impatient to organize my thoughts for posts. Something triggers my thoughts and I just write it, otherwise I will never get around to posting anything.

Several years ago I read a book called: At the Dark End of the Street: Black Women, Rape, and Resistance–A New History of the Civil Rights Movement from Rosa Parks to the Rise of Black Power.

It is an amazing and informative book on the pivotal role of black women in the fight for freedom. It was very eye opening. I couldn’t put it down. I felt a lot of emotions reading this book. This is an entirely different topic, but I don’t think recent immigrants appreciate the struggle for freedom in this country. Perhaps one can say the same about Americans, whose ancestors arrived several generations back.

The book provides an extensive coverage on the freedom struggle and one historical figure that the book focuses on is Rosa Parks. The real Rosa Parks was very different than the Rosa Parks we were taught in school, a quiet, sweet, gentle lady, who was just too exhausted to give up her bus seat to a white passenger. The real Rosa Parks was anything but that sweet church lady image we have been told, rather she was a fierce, courageous, and seasoned activist.

The relevance here in which I am aiming to provide is that before Rosa Parks, there were several others, like Claudette Clovin, a young teen, who took a stand against Jim Crow laws. The leaders of the movement didn’t get behind Claudette after her arrest for refusing to give up her seat, because she was an unwed pregnant teenager. Taking a stand for the rights of an unwed teenage mother may not help the cause, they feared due to the social norms of the day. When the same unjust act happened to Rosa Parks, the movement leaders rallied around her, and it ignited an uprising.

The moral of the story, even within the fight for freedom, justice is selective.

Recently I shared the tragic story of the university student, who was brutally raped in India. I didn’t think that story could get any more horrific, but it has. In the previous post, I mentioned more than once that I didn’t know the region, or the politics of the region. I was horrified and sickened at the gruesomeness of the crime. I cried for the girl and in spirit, I protested with the protestors on the streets of New Delhi.

Reading up on the reports of the story, I came across this article, which brings into attention the legitimacy of which victim matters. Like the rallying behind Rosa Parks, this article stated similar sentiments.

The 23-year-old was clearly English-educated (she’d gone to watch The Life of Pi), she had a boyfriend who was an engineer, she was a physiotherapist — all markers of an independent, upper middle class, urban identity. This is why we are collectively angry. It is an affront to us, India’s small English-speaking elite.

Yesterday, an 8-year-old girl was raped in Bihar, a desperately poor state in central India where one-third of the population lives under the poverty level. Think about that. AN EIGHT-YEAR-OLD. The trauma of any incident of sexual abuse is, of course, impossible to quantify or compare, but the crime against this little child is perhaps just as horrifying as the Delhi rape. And still, I’m writing about this little girl’s rape only because that rape in Delhi is legitimizing our conversation about sexual violence against women in India.

This is just one article and I am not at all, in the slightest, concluding the part I quoted is the real reason why Indian citizens are outraged and took to the streets. It would be very unfair to make that assessment, hence why I felt it was right to keep repeating I don’t know the region or what’s happening beyond what I read to come to a informed conclusion, however in the greater context of the differences in people’s reactions towards victims of injustice, I do think the examples above are revealing (very unfortunately) about the state of our humanity.

Why is there a great difference in the reaction of people towards victims, who suffer the same act of injustice or any injustice for that matter?

This same question was asked by many following the recent massacre of children in Newton, Connecticut. Many commentators pointed out the differences of reactions towards the kids killed in Newton, to those kids killed in US inner cities by gun violence, and kids killed in Yemen, Pakistan by US drones.

Journalist Glenn Greenwald, points out the reasons why stark differences between all those tragedies exist and further identifies the importance of ethics in caring for all victims, be they in Newton or Pakistan, be they a Rosa Parks or Claudette Clovin, be they rich or poor.

To begin with, it is a natural and probably universal human inclination to care more about violence that seems to threaten us personally than violence that does not. Every American parent sends their children to schools of the type attacked in Newtown and empathy with the victims is thus automatic. Few American parents fear having their children attacked by US drones, cruise missiles and cluster bombs in remote regions in Pakistan and Yemen, and empathy with those victims is thus easier to avoid, more difficult to establish.

One should strive to see the world and prioritize injustices free of pure self-interest – caring about grave abuses that are unlikely to affect us personally is a hallmark of a civilized person –Source

All of these examples I believe raise ethical questions, not just for nations, movements, organizations but for each individual. I do commend those, who raise our consciousness, by highlighting the double standards that exist in national conversations regarding tragedies in our borders and beyond our borders.

And if we are honest with ourselves, we all face ethical/moral questions. And when we think about those questions we are all guilty, not just the media when it comes to legitimizing some victims while ignoring others.

Reflect on this AD by UNICEF (Bad Water Kills More Children than War) and listen to Peter Singer talk about ethics.

UnicefBadwater

Two letters on strength and falling in love

I’ve read these two letters before, but today I saw them again on twitter. I’ve always loved both letters and wanted to share it here. If you are like me and a fan of intimate letters, this website maybe of interest to you.

The first letter is from W.E.B. Du Bois to his 14-year old daughter, Yolande. It’s just a powerful letter from a father to a daughter, but also a message that can be a great benefit to all of us. The second letter is from John Steinbeck to his son Thom, who has written to his father that he has fallen in love. It’s simply a beautiful letter that puts a smile to your face. Both letters and their sources are below. Enjoy reading them. They are a treat to read!

Dear Little Daughter:

I have waited for you to get well settled before writing. By this time I hope some of the strangeness has worn off and that my little girl is working hard and regularly.

Of course, everything is new and unusual. You miss the newness and smartness of America. Gradually, however, you are going to sense the beauty of the old world: its calm and eternity and you will grow to love it.

Above all remember, dear, that you have a great opportunity. You are in one of the world’s best schools, in one of the world’s greatest modern empires. Millions of boys and girls all over this world would give almost anything they possess to be where you are. You are there by no desert or merit of yours, but only by lucky chance.

Deserve it, then. Study, do your work. Be honest, frank and fearless and get some grasp of the real values of life. You will meet, of course, curious little annoyances. People will wonder at your dear brown and the sweet crinkley hair. But that simply is of no importance and will soon be forgotten. Remember that most folk laugh at anything unusual, whether it is beautiful, fine or not. You, however, must not laugh at yourself. You must know that brown is as pretty as white or prettier and crinkley hair as straight even though it is harder to comb. The main thing is the YOU beneath the clothes and skin—the ability to do, the will to conquer, the determination to understand and know this great, wonderful, curious world. Don’t shrink from new experiences and custom. Take the cold bath bravely. Enter into the spirit of your big bed-room. Enjoy what is and not pine for what is not. Read some good, heavy, serious books just for discipline: Take yourself in hand and master yourself. Make yourself do unpleasant things, so as to gain the upper hand of your soul.

Above all remember: your father loves you and believes in you and expects you to be a wonderful woman.

I shall write each week and expect a weekly letter from you.

Lovingly yours,

Papa
Source

New York
November 10, 1958

Dear Thom:

We had your letter this morning. I will answer it from my point of view and of course Elaine will from hers.

First — if you are in love — that’s a good thing — that’s about the best thing that can happen to anyone. Don’t let anyone make it small or light to you.

Second — There are several kinds of love. One is a selfish, mean, grasping, egotistical thing which uses love for self-importance. This is the ugly and crippling kind. The other is an outpouring of everything good in you — of kindness and consideration and respect — not only the social respect of manners but the greater respect which is recognition of another person as unique and valuable. The first kind can make you sick and small and weak but the second can release in you strength, and courage and goodness and even wisdom you didn’t know you had.

You say this is not puppy love. If you feel so deeply — of course it isn’t puppy love.

But I don’t think you were asking me what you feel. You know better than anyone. What you wanted me to help you with is what to do about it — and that I can tell you.

Glory in it for one thing and be very glad and grateful for it.

The object of love is the best and most beautiful. Try to live up to it.

If you love someone — there is no possible harm in saying so — only you must remember that some people are very shy and sometimes the saying must take that shyness into consideration.

Girls have a way of knowing or feeling what you feel, but they usually like to hear it also.

It sometimes happens that what you feel is not returned for one reason or another — but that does not make your feeling less valuable and good.

Lastly, I know your feeling because I have it and I’m glad you have it.

We will be glad to meet Susan. She will be very welcome. But Elaine will make all such arrangements because that is her province and she will be very glad to. She knows about love too and maybe she can give you more help than I can.

And don’t worry about losing. If it is right, it happens — The main thing is not to hurry. Nothing good gets away.

Love,

Fa

Source

You never know where a blessing can come from

My mother always said you never know where a khair (blessing) can come from so be open to everyone. As is her custom she would teach me these important life lessons with a short moral story. This story in particular involved a husband and a wife of meager means. One night they had a visitor. The visitor knocked on the door. It was the husband, who stood up to answer the call, but before he opened the door, the wife asked the husband, who it was that was at the door. The husband replied it was so and so. Upon hearing this, the wife asked her husband to ignore the visitor and not open the door. The husband obliged his wife’s wishes and the visitor left when no one would open the door. It is said the visitor had glad-tidings for the family and had they opened the door for him, the family would have inherited riches, a great blessing, which would have made the rest of their life one of ease.

And thus, my mother said, one doesn’t know where a blessing will come from and who is carrying that blessing for you so be open my dear. She also said, you never know where shar (misfortune) can come from so keep your eyes open too. I understood this to also mean what or who seems to be honey, can really be rather poisonous. And what looks harmful can turn out to be sweet honey.

I am sure many of us have had such experiences and how enlightening it is or sometimes heartbreaking when what we saw or thought was the truth wasn’t the actual reality. I had many such experiences, both done by me and done to me.

One experience done by me, which still sticks in my mind, because it is rather silly and of course for my personal life journey it remains a reminder for me to always look beyond what is apparent. In high school part of our graduation curriculum included that we take computer courses. I remember going through the course packet looking through all the classes to pick for the following semester. My criteria for taking these electives was not for the purpose of education or to gain skills, but to simply take any computer class that was not being taught by Mrs. Davidson. It is important to note computers were just coming of age in the early 2000s when I was starting HS and I practically didn’t know anything about technology nor had much interest. I loved science, history, and English, not computers.

Only a handful of teachers taught many of the computer courses available at my school so I picked the ones that were not being taught by the “mean-looking Mrs. Davidson.” My buddy and I were in the same boat. We saw Mrs. Davidson in the school hallways and she did not look like someone we were going to survive. We judged her as not being nice and she scared us so we avoided her courses. As destiny would have it, the following semester reporting for duty for my database class, guess who is the teacher?

Mrs. Davidson and not the teacher whose name I don’t even remember now. Mrs. Davidson took over the course for the other teacher, who had gone on leave or something. My friend and I were shocked. After this shock wore off, we plotted to change courses, but were unsuccessful. Not wanting to spend a semester in Mrs. Davidson’s class, my friend dropped the course. I stayed with it, because I didn’t want to fall behind on my courses or take a summer course. It was one of the best decisions that I made in HS and Mrs. Davidson’s impact on my life I still benefit from now and will do so forever. Remember as I’ve said, I was very illiterate almost in computers and technology. Her teaching style, her encouragement, and high expectations not only made me computer literate, but helped me excel in other courses. She became my favorite teacher ever and I her favorite student. She nominated me out of all the classes she taught as her student to represent the school. The teacher whose class I plotted to avoid, I would end up taking her other advanced computers courses that I didn’t even need. She was an amazing teacher, who unlocked my potential and love of learning of challenging subjects that I didn’t find interesting, and pushed me to be better. I can write in great length about Mrs. Davidson. I am grateful to her not just for making me a better student in the classroom, but a better student of life. Thank you Mrs. Davidson.

My mother’s saying was right. We simply don’t know where a blessing can come. That is just one experience of many for me.

And one such experience that was done to me and what sparked this entry down memory lane, happened today. I was at the gas station. A very busy gas station, in which cars were in line to pump gas. Around the same time that it was my turn to pump at my station, two young white guys pushed their car to the station diagonally across from the station I was at. They had run out of gas. Both were wearing baseball caps, white sneakers, and baggy t-shirts/pants. The more active one of the two begin to ask people for money and he didn’t ask in a polite sort of way. It was more:, “Hey you got some change.” The middle-aged white guy next to my station shook his head no almost in disgust. Undeterred the guy goes on to ask other people at the station, one by one. Well, everyone except me. I even looked towards his direction to see if he would ask me for help. He didn’t and walked across to the other side to ask.

Now I was fascinated by this. I follow the school of thought, which says give folks the benefit of the doubt. I don’t like to rush to assumptions and when I do, I try to check myself. But there I was thinking about it and I couldn’t come to any conclusion, apart from me being a visible Muslim. That was the only thing that separated me from the other diverse/mixed race crowd at the pump. Only one guy gave him a bunch of coins. No one else helped the young man for the few minutes this was ongoing. Maybe they had looked at him, judged him and saw a no good, lost child. It is possible.

I just went inside my car, in case he came back to my side and asked for my help at last. That would be testing my principles you see. Because if that had occurred and I refused to help him knowing I could or did help while also letting him hear a piece of my mind then it would be about my ego and kindness to another human being shouldn’t involve the ego is what I’ve always told myself. I guess I didn’t want to be tested. I am not a Prophet or a Monk. I do have selfish feelings. And who knows, maybe that young man saw a Muslim woman and he thought he was a man so he didn’t want to burden me for my own benefit. So not asking me was rather a favor he had bestowed upon me in his eyes. It is possible. But I certainly would have been the one to give him actual dollar bills.

Cultural assimilation in America and two interesting Somali boys

Recently comments by a mayor in Maine, dubbed “one of the whitest states in the Union” caused a controversy, when he stated: Somalis ‘should leave culture at door’. Following protests, the mayor has since retracted his statements and toned down the racist implications in those statements by stating he meant immigrants should try to assimilate into “American culture,” not give up their language or traditions. Yeah. Right.

I am not sure really what makes up “American culture”. What exactly is American culture? What I see is a nation shared by many people, all whom are immigrants one way or another, except the Native Americans. Each group has a unique history/”culture” which they brought into this country and all have the commonality by being governed by the ethos/laws of the land.

Have Somalis and other recent immigrants broken the law of the land? Is there something in their culture, which makes them not law abiding citizens or unproductive members of society? Because if I was a mayor or a public figure this would be of a greater concern to me, if immigrants were breaking the law and thus endangering the fabric of society. Don’t you think?

But of course this is not what unsettles the mayor and assimilation enthusiasts. Those Somali families, who have gone to Maine have gone to seek a better environment to raise their children. Years ago as the wave to Maine was underway, I met parents, who felt their children were losing their way in Ohio so they sought a nurturing and family oriented environment. I don’t know who the first person was to lead the way, but many more families followed other families to seek a better life in Maine. I believe now the number is around 6,000 Somalis live in Maine.

You see that has always been at the core of every immigrant story since the beginning of time, to seek a better life. People risk their precious lives and that of their families for the dream of creating a better life. That to me is so remarkable and courageous and deserves support, compassion, and kindness. If the tables were turned, those from richer environments would be embarking on the same journeys we have seen throughout history. I’ll get off my soapbox.

Somalis are no different than the immigrants that came before them. Well, except of course they happen to be black and their women tend to wear a lot of bright clothes from head to toe on top of that. And that ladies and gentlemen is what unsettles the mayor of Maine and assimilation enthusiasts.

To me, that is what makes America or Canada for example, great and beautiful, our diversity. Our diversity of race, of language, of attire, of poetry, of song, and dance. I love for example when I go to a big city like NYC (I’m from Indiana) and I see much of humanity represented. That is beautiful. I want to see Latin cultures, Indian, Nigerian, Indonesian, or Haitian and so forth all around me. I don’t want to live in a world where we are clones of each other, speak the same language, dress in the same attire or believe in the same things. That is boring and quite frankly limits our human growth.

But you know what, behind those words of the Mayor of Maine and those like him, “assimilate into “American culture,” means hey look more like me, think more like me, and dress more like me. It is not politically correct to say that, thus hiding behind those words of “assimilate into American culture.” Because let’s face it, which “American culture” does the Mayor wish Somalis and recent immigrants to assimilate into? Yeah I thought so.

Here is the thing. Somali’s are very new immigrants. As an immigrant community, they haven’t even reached their 20 year milestone. The first Somali born American generation is just coming of age. And Mr. Mayor don’t you worry, history is on your side. Be patient. Be a man of vision. Think about every immigrant story before the Somali’s you are now fixated on, wishing they’d change their ways immediately. Remember change doesn’t occur overnight. You’re in politics man, you should know that already. And the change you’d wish would magically happen to the Somalis, well that kind of change takes generations. Think of the Germans, the Irish, the Italians, the Puerto Ricans and so forth. But as I’ve said, history is on your side.

What you are seeing now is our mothers, fathers, uncles, aunts, and grandparents, who haven’t been away for long from the land of their youth. They are very unlikely to give up “their ways”, you know how old folks are, they are very stubborn, but our children and their children’s children will dress, eat, speak, and honor your “American heritage” better than you sir. Now doesn’t that make you smile and put you more at ease? I thought it would.

And oh no, I am not making this up. Of course there is nothing scientific about my theories, only personal observations over the years. You see even today, I met two very bright Somali boys. Both under 12. They have an older sister, who is 16. Both of their parents are Somali. The father drives a cab, the mother stays home, I believe. Both of their parents hardly speak English and they are very gung-ho about their Somaliness. You know, they are the type of folks who follow more what is going on in that God-forsaken country of theirs, instead of immersing themselves in the Great US of A. We are having an important National election for goodness sake and they are more interested in the local politics of a “failed state.” What gives? Beats me too.

Well here is the kicker. I had a long and interesting conversation with the two boys, in English, as they and their older sister speak not a word of Somali. That must make you proud, Mr. Mayor. But this will make you even more proud. The boys went on to tell me about the world in a perspective of “us and them.”

They were bright you see and we discussed various topics including important world events like WW1, WW2, Pearl Harbor, the Vietnam war, Africa, and even “the financial threat of China.” I sat there fascinated as these two young boys of Somali descendent, whose parents spoke very little English, told me how “we won WW2 against the Japanese”, how “we put Japanese in camps, because of Pearl Harbor”, how “we are greater than the Chinese and Africans, and they need us to survive economically.” Fascinated I tell you, fascinated.

So I asked the boys if they considered themselves, “Somali-American, just Somali, or just American.” They replied, “American.” They didn’t even pause to think of the answer. And I tell you, identities for immigrant children and I am one can get very complicated. Anyways, I asked them why they answered just American, and they said, “because we were born here and have no connection with Somalia.” Fair enough. Even I, who wasn’t born here, but raised here identify more with the land I grew up in more so than the one my dear mother gave birth in.

But here is what troubled me and not because I am a proud, hardcore and diehard Somali culture, afrocentric adherent. It was the total disconnect, almost disregard of their Somali/African heritage. These two boys saw the world as us and them. And what was foreign to them were their ancestors, the fathers and mothers of their father and their mother. Somalia and Africa to them was a place unthinkable, undesirable, and alien so far removed from what they could possible find any value in. It went as far as looking down on their parents, because their parents had accents and can hardly speak English. It was very scary actually and very sad to me. Now I understand they are just children and children grow and learn. I just hope they don’t grow up to be like the Ivy League educated Somali guy I met a couple of years ago, who thought the less he identified with being Somali or African the more sophisticated and awesome he was. Or the Nigerian guy in my class, who got angry every-time someone didn’t identify him as an American and asked him where in Africa he was from.

So Mr. Mayor, chill and just wait a generation or two. If the pattern continues as I have observed, it is the cultural enthusiasts who wish to maintain their rich cultural heritage and language in a very westernized world, who have more to fear than you do.