ISNA Scarves

This is just a quick post to direct any of you who might have stumbled upon this site in search of paint-splattered scarves or political tee-shirts. At ISNA, while selling my scarves from my messenger bag, I handed out business cards that would direct you to this site. Because I'm still a starving artist, lacking the necessary funds to put up a proper website, I like to do things the less professional way- in person.

For those of you who live in or around Chicago or its surrounding suburbs, I prefer to do buiness face to face. It would be best to meet at the DIC (Downtown Islamic Center), the Bridgeview Mosque Foundation, the Orland Park Mosque, or any other community-type building within a 20 mile radius of Chicago.

For those of you who live farther away, I can ship for an additional $2.00 (to cover extra costs).



For those of you who may have forgotten my prices:

Polyester square and laf (the normal kinds): $10.00 each
Options-
- All-color
- Single, Double, or Triple-color Combinations (your choice of any color(s), all types of splatters)
-Classy (your choice of nicer colors, such as peach, purple, etc, splattered in longer lines rather than splats and dots)
- Black(A black base scarf with your choice of two or three colors [I suggest vibrant colors like fuscia, white, or teal])


Cotton Two-piece Scarves- $4.00 a piece, $7.00 a set (1 underpiece and 1 overpiece)
-All-color
- Single, Double, or Triple-color Combintations

Custom- $12.00
1.Pick your color and type of scarf (or supply me with one for a $5.00 discount-- this is only applicable for those I can meet face-to-face)
2. Select your colors
3. Select what type of splattering you'd like (this is only if you're really picky, I don't really have many choices here)


For security reasons, please place your orders in an email to rockingonion@yahoo.com instead of in a comment here. Insert "Scarf Order" in the subject line, then explain the type of scarf or scarves you'd like. Please leave your address, or where you'd like to meet, there as well.

**Pictures of the different types of scarves available will be added shortly**

Collateral Damage

They say that no one but the poorest of the poor are left in Iraq. No one but the poor, unfortunate souls who can't afford to leave the hellfire in which they dwell. The homeless children in this six-year-old photograph are probably there right now. Unless of course they've already been killed by the civilians fighting for peace or, more likely, the soldiers fighting for God-knows-what. I wonder where they are right now- all the beggar children I met and befriended six long years ago- in proper graves six feet under or piles of rubble, their gory remains indistinguishable from their surroundings? I wonder when their deaths were announced on the news, their names hidden between the words "collateral damage." I wonder who they were killed with and when. I wonder if anyone but me remembers to grieve for them. Somehow I doubt it.

Though I can't be 100% sure, I know that these beautiful children are likely dead They are nothing more that numbers on a page and vague memories in a few people's minds. No one knows anything about them. No one cares. You don't care. As you read this post you may wonder about the pasts and futures of these children and those like them, but you know that in an hour or so you'll go on about your business, forgetting about these six children photographed by my own mother. I won't be surprised if, in a few days, you forget about them entirely. After all, they are nothing more than collateral damage.

When you hear on the news that 15, 24, or 52 more Iraqis have been slain in this horrible invasion- do you dismiss the deaths as nothing more than a statistic? When you hear that over 66,757 innocent civilians have been murdered in their own homeland, do you shrug it off as just another unfortunate incident? Are you able to live life not caring that babies are being killed in what the government calls "collateral damage?" Or is ignorance truly bliss? It must be beautiful to live without knowing- or caring- that a once beautiful country has been torn down to nothing more than a blood-soaked, bone-littered bomb crater. Are you able to live life because you don't know that Iraqi children are having their limbs blown off, families killed, and childhoods stolen? Or is it that your small, cold heart only has enough room for American children? Do you not realize that with every death another family mourns? Another mother, spouse, and/or child is scarred for life Does it not hurt you at all to know that 7 year old Majid's legs were blown off when his cousin blew up as they walked home frolm school together? Do you not woder how it feels to hold your bleeding, dying friend in your arms, staring at her bullet wounds as the final breaths of life escape her pale lips? How easy it must be to live a life of total and utter ignorance. How easy it must be to be deaf to the cries of collateral damage.

May Day Rally of '07

Today, for the second time in my life, I attended the May Day rally. And now I have a small flame of hope for the world burning in my mind.

Last year, when I attended the first ever May Day rally, I skipped the march and went straight to the main event, this year, I participated in the march, and the sense of unity I felt there (with complete strangers, might I add) was amazing. I've attended many rallies and protests in my life, it comes with being a second generation Arab American, but the May Day rallies have been the largest ones so far. And other than Lollapalooza, today was the first time I stood with thousands of complete strangers and felt completely and totally welcome.

While marching, I constantly recieved smiles and approving glances-- the majority of the demonstraters were Latino, and I think my mother, two friends, and I were the only mat'hajiba Muslims who participated in the march. Instead of feeling alienated as I had expected, I felt welcomed. As a result, I chanted the Spanish chants that I knew I could properly pronounce, for the others, I just stayed silent.

As we marched on, taking up the entire width of the city streets upon which we marched, we passed by apartments located above the business buildings. People were hanging out of the windows of these buildings, snapping photos and shouting encouragement. One man stood throwing down baseball caps so that demonstrators who hadn't thought to bring one could keep the harsh sun from their faces. While we were marching, one friend of mine got dehydrated, and one demonstrator, seeing this, tapped her one the shoulder, said "You look thirsty," and handed her a new bottle of water. Later on, we saw a large truck parked near us, it was filled with cases and cases of water bottles that the truck drivers gave to demonstrators to pass out to others, so as to avoid any dehydration or exhaustion. Farther on, people were handing out American flags and posters to empty-handed demonstrators.

Throughout the entire march, demonstrators were shouting out chants, mainly in Spanish. Occasionally, though, people would just cheer, not really saying any words in particular. The main chant, Si Se Pueda, was simple: "Yes we can." Other chants were longer, and, not knowing Spanish, I was unable to tell what they were saying. I just chanted along, knowing that they couldn't possibely say anything I was against. We were all rallying for the same purpose, after all. Most of the chants seemed to originate towards the back end of the demonstrators (throughout the march I was located near the front.) One could hear the chants just barely at first, way behind us. Then, slowly, the chants would become louder ans they crawled foreward. Before long, people around us, up front, would be chanting, and we would jump in, making it louder so that the people at the very front could hear us and pick it up.

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These are the most interesting things I can think up to write about right now. I'll probably think of more things in a few hours, after I get some sleep. I'll probably post more information as I remember it.

Americans Are Gullible and it Pisses Me Off.

In school right now, we're reading Shakespeare's Julius Ceasar. When our class got up to the part in the play where Brutus and Antony deliver their famous speeches at Ceasar's funeral and they read how the plebians were so easily swayed, they were all talking about how stupid the plebians were, how gullible could they be?? What I don't think the class realizes is that most American civilians are every bit as gullible and fickle-minded as the idiotic plebians in the play. If you really think about it, you realize that most Americans believe everything they hear or read. They turn on the news assuming that the news caster knows exactly what he/she is talking about. They believe every word politicians spit out. If someone of authority tells them something, they swallow it up instantly. As long as they are not directly affected by something, they care too little to discover the truth. This is why the American media is so friggin dangerous. They can spit out all the lies and biases they want ((Fox News)) while taking joy in the fact that their viewers/listeners are too trapped in their own little words to look for another perspective.

Everything the American public has to read, watch, or hear shows negative aspects of Islam, Muslims, and Arabs. The news is always talking about suicide bombers and extremists. History textbooks are always making us out to seem like nomads and crazy bedouins. In one highschool textbook I read, there was a piece about Islam saying somehting along the lines of "Muhammed (s) got all his ideas about Islam from listening to Jews and Christians, he's not really a prophet, Islam isn't a true religion." This disgusted me beyond belief. I can't believe these things are actually printed. Do publishers not undersand that Americans will believe everthing you spoon feed them?? Sometimes I just want to shout out to the country "MUSLIMS AREN'T TERRORISTS; I WEAR THIS HEADSCARF BECAUSE I WANT-- NOT BECAUSE I'M OPPRESSED; 'MADRASSAH' IS ARABIC FOR 'SCHOOL' NOT 'TERRORIST TRAINING CAMP'; AND JIHAD DOES NOT MEAN SUICIDE BOMBING-- SOMETHING PROHIBITED IN ISLAM."

I'm so sick of Americans' being too lazy to open their eyes. But hey-- ignorance is bliss, isn't it? I guess it's just easier to be prejiduced and racist than intelligent and open-minded.

Meen Erhabe? Who's The Terrorist?

An Ode to Mrs. Hamayel, Among Other Things

I've already posted about Abdullah Hamayel, the student at my school who passed away rather suddenly a couple days ago. Now I think I'll take the time to write a little about his mother, my beloved teacher.

So often, one hears about how when a child dies, his or her mother becomes frantic, pulling out her hair and beating her face. It seems as though their own love is hurting them. This was not the case for Mrs. Hamayel. I had not seen her at the hospital, but I heard accounts form everyone, telling me how she had remained calm sitting beside her small, brain-damaged son. She had wept, that is to be expected, but she had not screamed or cursed at the heavens or done anything of the sort. That is not exactly surprising, however. I spoke to many teachers and students who had visited them at the hospital, and they all relayed to me the same information. All the other trauma victims lying in the hospital looked horrible and terrifying. Abdullah did not. His face was that of a ‘sleeping angel.’ They said he looked at peace with the world.

Mrs. Hamayel remained powerful and strong throughout the ordeal. When the decision was made to cut off life-support and they removed the tube, Abdullah’s eyes, and mouth opened, one uncle actually believed he was alive. Everybody told me that they believed it was the soul of Abdullah being taken by God, gently and beautifully. Some liquid came from his mouth, and his mother wiped it away, and then closed his eyes for him.

Later on, the loving mother washed her son’s body and prepared it for burial, the next day, today, was the janaza. The mosque where the funeral prayer was being held was more crowded than I had ever seen it, save select days during Ramadan and Eid. Every student in my school from seventh grade on up had gathered there, as had the high school students from the all-girls school next door. This was in addition to all the Hamayel’s friends and relatives. We were packed together as we prayed in congregation. Afterwards, I located Mrs. Hamayel and went forth to give my condolences. There was a horde of people surrounding her, and I gladly waited until it thinned out a bit before shaking her hand and speaking to her very briefly.

I made my way towards the exit where my shoes waited, and I saw my friend Duha, Abdullah Hamayel’s very close, older sister. I hugged her and spoke to her as well. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry when I heard how she comforted all her crying friends with, “why are you crying? My brother’s flying in jennah (heaven).” I could tell she was holding back strong emotions as she smiled at us.

A while later, after school, a couple friends and I were waiting outside the mosque when we saw Mrs. Hamayel again. I had never seen such a sad face before in my life. She walked slowly out of the mosque, her head held high but her face looking down. Her eyes were blood-shot and her expression so full of sadness and lament that I cannot begin to describe it. She turned and saw us standing by the doors and she walked over and hugged each one of us. I felt so horrible, so utterly miserable at that point. It was as though I hadn’t really felt her pain until I saw her like that. She looked as though all happiness had been wrenched from her, as though her body was nothing more than an empty shell, and her spirit had traveled back to a happier time. A time when her little boy was with her. I was completely speechless as she hugged me. I hated seeing a person that I held in such high esteem looking like that. I wanted nothing more that moment than to bring her child back to her.

The next time I saw her was about an hour later, at the azzah (culturally equivalent to a wake) for her son. I didn’t approach her at first, giving her time to recoup and speak to the many concerned friends and relatives that surrounded her. In the meantime, I sat beside Duha as we ate and talked. She seemed to me like a shaken up pop-bottle, ready to burst. She kept her composure though. Afterwards, just before I left, I went to give my condolences to Mrs. Hamayel once more. She still looked as completely devastated and miserable as she had earlier. I felt horrible once more. I wanted so desperately to ease her pain. I wanted to soothe her distraught nerves. I wanted to comfort her. I wanted to bring her baby back to her, but I could do nothing. I rarely feel as helpless as I did at that time.

Now that I think about the incident and I replay the whole day in my head, I realize that they were not sad for Abdullah. They all knew he was in heaven, as he had not yet hit puberty at the time of his death. Many people, including myself, envy the child. He already made it. He’s flying in eternal happiness. Isn’t the pursuit of man happiness? If you believe in life after death, as Muslims do, then you believe that there is eternal joy awaiting all righteous, good people. This life is only a phase, a small part of this huge, never-ending play in which we all participate. It’s happy to think that at the tender age of twelve, Abdullah reached his goal.

No, the Hamayel’s were not lamenting for Abdullah. They were grieving the loss of an incredible person. They cried- and continue to cry- for the loss of a brother, a son, a friend. They are grieving because they will not see him again until this phase of their plays end, and they move on. They cry not because Abdullah is gone, but because they are left behind.

Abdullah Hamayel

“You better stop smiling because Mrs. Hamayel’s son is brain-dead.” These words, spoken last night by a friend of mine over the phone, stopped me in my tracks.

Earlier that day, in school, I’d heard that a student in my school, also the son of my much-loved Geometry teacher, had gone into a coma and was in the hospital. I hadn’t thought much of it at the time—another kid I knew from around the area had gone into a coma only about a month or so earlier and he’s perfectly healthy. We had the inclination that the child, Abdullah, would be perfectly healthy and leave the hospital soon as well. We never thought for a second that things could possibly turn out less than satisfactory.

Later on, after school, I was home, hyper and happy, when I received the phone call. I was completely shocked. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I couldn’t speak at first, I just stood there stupidly, my face frozen in an expression of shock. Upon regaining my speaking abilities, I asked the girl to repeat what she had said, hoping that I had heard wrong. I hadn’t. I asked her for her source of information, hoping for it to be some sort of a sick rumor. Her mother was at the hospital. My mind still refused to accept the fact.

After a while, when I came to realize that what she spoke of was indeed the truth, I had a long discussion with her about it. Abdullah is the first person in our tightly-knit, miniscule school to be victim of such a thing. I spoke with her for a while, discussing everything related to the situation, before hanging up and calling everybody I could, relaying to them the news before they heard chopped up versions from others. They were all as stunned as I. A few others called to inform us, thinking we hadn’t heard. My chemistry teacher (also one of my mother’s closest friends) called as well, sobbing. I had forgotten how close she was to the Hamayel family.

That night seemed to drag on interminably. I made it through, however, and managed to drag myself to school the next day, dreading the very idea passionately. As I’ve said before, I attend a very small, very closely-knit school. The entire school is made up of about 600 students, only about 200 being in high school. Most of us had been attending since elementary and consider ourselves related. That’s why Abdullah’s situation really hit us hard. I knew, from the moment I woke up that morning, that school would be difficult, with everybody discussing the horrible situation.

Instead of our normal morning assembly, all the middle and high school students were gathered into the gym to sit on mats laid out on the floor, in our typical Arab way. We knew we were going to be spoken to about Abdullah. We sat silently, a first for us, and waited for the administration to address us. When they did, I knew that their job could not possibly have been more difficult. What really bugged me, though, was when the school founder, also the doctor who had done the MRI on Abdullah, came up to speak. He told us to stop saying Abdullah was dead. That he wasn’t yet. I knew that his heart was still beating and his lungs still functioning, but only through a machine. His brain was lost.

After making a few collective prayers for Abdullah, we were dismissed to return to our classes. For the first time in all my years in Universal (11 and counting), I have never walked to class surrounded by such deafening silence. Our hallways and staircases are particularly small, just like the rest of the school, and usually sounds of students laughing and shouting over to one another reverberates throughout the area. This time there was complete silence. All our minds were focused on Abdullah and his family.

We slowly made our ways through our classes, reading Surat Yaseen (a passage of the Qur-an often read during hardship) and making duaa’ throughout all of them; not really learning in any. After we made Dhuhr, our old principle, also a board member, stood to speak to us about the situation. He told us that Abdulla’s brain was completely damaged, and that the family had made the decision to cut off life-support, though they decided to wait a bit so that others could bid him farewell. He spoke to us about the situation, and many students broke down in tears. Later on, he made a rather brilliant analogy. He told us to imagine twins while inside their mother’s womb, about how throughout all nine months, all they know is each other. They are the only companions they have. During birth, when one twin is taken out, it takes anywhere between a couple minutes and twenty-four hours for the second twin to follow. If unborn children had the ability to think, imagine what would go through their minds as their sibling, their twin, their sole companion is taken away, for that relatively short amount of time. The only other living thing they’ve known for their entire existence is gone. It’s a lot like how we view death. Our friends, relatives die, and we lament constantly. But, as for the unborn twin, we don’t know what our brothers are going through. For the twin, his/her sibling is being received by overjoyed individuals, awaiting their arrival with open arms. I like to think the same is true for Abdullah; he really was an incredible kid.

A while later, we were in our last class when the principle asked all seventh through twelfth graders to report to the gym. For some odd reason, many people seemed to think that some miracle had happened and Abdullah was fine again, perfectly normal. I told them I doubted it, and, when they looked at me, utterly appalled, I told them I wasn’t being cynical, just realistic. I didn’t want to get my hopes up, just to have them crushed. They just turned away. Once in the gym, we sat down on the rubber floor, hurriedly awaiting the news. Everyone was anxious, some fidgeting, other pacing. We didn’t have to wait long. Our principle took the floor and began speaking into the microphone. She began her sentence and I knew immediately what she was going to say. She had to struggle to keep her voice from cracking.

“We told you that if we were to get- to get any news on Abdullah… we would tell you. The family decided to- to end life support. He passed away… just two minutes ago.”

Everyone should have been expecting this, but still, everyone bawled. It was still silent though. I looked around the room. Everyone’s faces were twisted in distress. Tears streamed down from their eyes as their shoulders trembled and they let out muffled sounds of agony. That was it. The first Universal School student had died. I couldn’t help but wonder who would be next. Mr. Madhi, my history teacher then moved to lead us in a duaa’ for the boy and his family. He had to stop constantly and attempt to keep himself under control. It was the first time I had ever seen him cry. The first time I saw all my teachers, all my classmates, every single high school student sob. We were drenched in anguish, but still, did not question anything. It wasn’t like in the movies, no one began screaming at God, demanding to know why he had taken such a young, intelligent boy. We were sobbing but we had peace of mind. At twelve years old, he had yet to reach puberty, he was considered a little boy, and would enter heaven right away.

I found out from the Abdullah’s teacher that he was constantly picked on. Kids in his class would throw things at him, call him horrible names, and torment him every way they could. Abdullah never let it get to him though, he was a happy, goofy kid. It explains a lot though. This morning every single boy in his grade, excluding one, had been sobbing. Our school plans to bring in counselors for them.

I found something uncannily ironic about this whole situation. Yesterday morning, when I first heard that Abdullah had fainted just after leading his family in prayer, in the middle of reading a hadith, I thought it somewhat amusing how everybody just assumed that he would be okay. Even when I first heard that things were turning for the worst, I couldn’t believe it. Everybody is always covered by a blanket of disbelief. We always assume things will be better. I guess this is what happens when things don’t turn out that way.

Something that I found very touching was that an entire school was mourning for one boy. I, myself, hardly knew him. Though friends with his older sister, I had had probably three conversations with him in my life. Others had never spoken to him at all. But still, we were all grieving the loss. I know that many were crying for the family. His mother, my geometry teacher is an incredible person—she actually helped me feign off much my intense math hatred. The entire family has a happy-go-lucky feel about them. Though religious, they’re always laughing, and always able to make us laugh. I can safely say that over half the mourners were grieving for the family. Others were sobbing because they just got a virtual slap in the face from Above. Death has a way of hitting home with many people, it makes us realize that we’re not going to be here forever so we had better use the time we have wisely, and that we better treat others kindly, because we don’t know when their time is either.

I think I’ve exhausted the topic for now. Though I don’t think I have clearly conveyed the deepness of the event. Tomorrow is the janaza (funeral prayer) inshallah. Maybe more will hit me then.