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Over the weekend, while sitting on my couch, in a beautiful city called Doha (located in Qatar) some 3363 nautical miles away from home (Johannesburg, South Africa), I recalled some incidents of my life that brought me to this point in my life. This thought, actually started a week ago when a friend played a song that I bought myself – a song I used to play often in my car when I arrived in Qatar, 2 years ago. I never knew my friend back then neither did I know the real meaning of the song, (an Arabic song, “MeshA’aref atghayar”), but I knew it was a sad song and it was so fitting at the time, as I had just arrived in Qatar, alone without my family and little emotional of my life. My thoughts left unattended that day found its way back to me over the weekend. In an effort to uncover them, I have decided to write it on my blog exactly the way it is in my head – I’ll be sharing my life, the sad and the good, then I’ll bring you back to Qatar where I will tell you more about this amazing place that brought peace to my soul.
Being a South African and pushing against the politics of a western nation as a Muslim left me often feeling cheated. I was a 4th generation Muslim female growing up in a country that had a turbulent history in terms of race and freedom and as if that was not hard enough, I often felt life dealt me an odd set of cards because of life as a young person.
My story seemed to have begun with my mother becoming a revert to Islam - it seemed like the most treacherous sin ever, even bigger than killing someone perhaps that she reverted to Islam - how dare a revert from the Indian community seek solace in the circle of the Muslim community? As strange as it sounds, that was the reaction my mother endured for most of her Muslim life. The tiring burdening cultural differences of the country seemed lesser of a issue as my mother’s quest to be accepted seemed to have been a self induced war because of her love for my father.
My mother married my dad (a Muslim) and embraced Islam for him but that reason soon became a misery that passed on to us, her children - we were never really "Muslim" according to people. I remember the day when I was about 5, my mother dressed me up in a red short sleeved t-shirt and a knee length pants but was told by the Muslim elders, that it was not permissible. So instead of opting for summer fashion, I lived winter all my life. While they were correct, what was not, was imposing that behaviour on a 5 year old whose mother was just letting her be a child. What became a norm to me was seen as bizarre to others but nonetheless my mother was destined not to be shot down so easily. It was like a boxing match and in my mother’s corner; there were a few people, good people, who assisted with her reversion into Islam and while I don’t know all of them, I do make dua, they will be amply rewarded for the good they bestowed upon my mother and indirectly us, her children.[Inshallah].
Instead of giving up, she enforced a reverse approach in an effort almost to prove a point. I remember the days when my family was conveniently not invited to weddings or sitting alone with my mother through some Eids while my dad and brothers went to pray or opened shop as a means of passing-time.
Our parents tried their hardest in the midst of their own battles to give us a good life; money was little but so well spent and appreciated. Sundays was our pleasure day, a trip to “Games”, the store to get our weekly share of chocolates and other smallies that made our weekend glow. I loved going for drives in the car, often stopping at the side fruit grocer to pick the fruit of the season or those really cool stick bubble gums that came with the world flag series stickers. Those were the days when stamps were cool and lime milkshake was the treat of the week. My brothers were darlings (I had no sisters) so I was typically the tomboy – either hiding out in our secret valley (a bush that seemed to shelter some shade and privacy from the rest of the world) or building tents – it always fell over though. We had some chickens and cats too – my eldest brother was tasked with taking care of the rooster and chickens while the cats seemed to have found a home with us. I wonder what happened to those chickens…the rooster used to be my eldest brothers friend. We used to race to the door, when we knew the milk was delivered. Clover Milk - yummy, in glass and creamy as ever. In front of our house, we had a piece of open land, my mother and brother homed some corn, herbs, wrinkled lemon, guava, mango and avocado trees…Somewhere in there too was the home of the chickens and at the back of the “garden”, was a tree filled with black berries. The sky used to be the prettiest blue with the clouds, all low hung and as bouncy and cuddly as they come.
I love the taste of fresh lemons and often ate them off the tree.
When we young, we used to take many trips to the South coast, two places of note are, “Port Shepstone and “Margate” – it was resort city, ideal break away with horse riding, windy palm breezes, sandy shores, picnic time, shell hunting, boat rides and games… it was mini paradise.
My eldest brother, often now perceived as “stubborn” is actually a sweetheart but filled with a heart of emotion possibly even greater than mines as he leads with 4 years gap over me. Now he often laughs when his son, says something to him, and while we all try to spoil the little guy like there is no tomorrow,in lieu of our past, we are trying equally hard to make sure that as the head of the next generation (in our family), he has strong values and is a true Muslim. Filtering the western out from him is more difficult than our times though, considering he gives us a run for our money – he never quits on a hearty debate especially when it’s a question of animals or dvd’s! My little politician (and national geographic fan) and I often used to sit in my bed on Sunday afternoons watching movies, while he would engross me in discussions over whales (pronounced way hools) and sharks. They were apparently the best he’d known until now that is – its dragons right now, namely one in particular, “Toothless”.
My often dubbed “twin” is second brother who is younger than me by a year, we spent a lot of time being naughty and getting big brother into trouble because of our naughtiness. None the less we did all put in building the Saturday afternoon lunch tent, even if it was a failure from the start :D. Mind you now he has 3 little gremlins of his own and his boy, the only one, is the naughtiest fellow, even more so that his self pro-claimed princess sisters. Strangely enough his first and second are a year apart too:)
7 years on, came the youngest, a great disappointment for me at first as I was expecting a sister and got another brother *pfft*…all in all he turned out to be cute pumpkin of a baby whom we loved and fought to carry. In a few months, he borders on new territory, as he gets ready to tie the knot, Inshallah. So that leaves me officially as the only unmarried one – my mother prefers to call me the only baby in the house *how cute*.
My dad, a very reserved person, often till this day, does not talk much. He is retired now, enjoying life and works just to fill his time. Back when were young, he spent tiring days in the business to see us through school and university with the help of my mother, they accomplished well-appreciated life together
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Source URL: https://pukitattoo.blogspot.com/2010/05/my-story-where-it-all-started-part-1.html
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