Muhammads Everywhere

Nobody told me, before I was to fly off to the UK, that I would be entering a land of Muhammads*. Which was, I guess , a pleasant(?) surprise for me.

For the last 20 years of my life, I’ve been addressed as Mikhail. Or Mike. Or Michael. Or Mickey. Or Mikey. Or Mike Callum. Or Kappa Mikey. Or even (for a brief period of time in Standard 1), as Mata Kail**.

But never as Muhammad.

So when my tutor read out the name on the attendance list:

“Muhammad”

I was obliged to reply:

“Which one?”

There were, after all, two Muhammads in my PBL group: Muhammad Ishack, from Mauritius; and myself, Muhammad Mikhail.

In my Anatomy group, it was even trickier: there were 6 Muhammads (in a group of about 13).

So it did strike me at first as impersonal to be called Muhammad. There was even a tinge of insult there: a small part of me felt that, as a Muslim, I was being subtly categorized as 'just another Muhammad'.

But then again, should I really be offended?

Humor me, for just a moment, and allow me to talk about Muhammad.

No, not the Muhammad writing this post but about the Muhammad born over 1400 years ago as the rahmatul lil alamin (blessing to all worlds).

By any standards, this guy was preettty cool.

And hey, don't just take my word for it. Take the words of Michael H. Hart (incidentally, a non-Muslim) who, in his 1978 book "The 100: A Ranking of the Most Influential Persons in History", ranked Muhammad as no. 1. 

Hart described the Prophet as "supremely successful" in both the religious and secular realms.

And the description makes sense; after all Muhammad was a man who was a successful businessman, a hugely influential social reformer, a fearless warrior, a visionary statesman, a spiritual guide.

But there is a danger here...the phenomenal successes of the man who somehow change the spiritual, political, economic and social landscape of the world may mask the actual man behind this whole event.

So allow me to talk about the man.

Muhammad was born into a noble bloodline, but he was not well-to-do. In fact he was born to a single mother (his father had died a few months prior to his birth). At his death, Muhammad (in terms of material wealth) died a poor man.

Muhammad did not partake in the immoral acts of his community before the Revelation was bestowed upon him at age 40. In fact, even before this he was known as "Al-Amin" - "The Trustworthy" (which you gotta admit is a way better nickname than "Mata Kail").

Muhammad did not (as some have the impression) spend all his time preaching from a stage set up in a mosque somewhere. In fact he lived very much a normal life, he was even known to walk through the markets of his town regularly.

The fact of the matter is, despite all his great successes, Muhammad the man was (consistently!) a caring father, a romantic lover, an awesome teacher, and a great neighbour.

Who else would stop an army for the sake of finding his wife's necklace?

Who else would help the same person who verbally abuses him everyday?
(click statements above to see my point)

And yet be so humble to continuously remind the people around him that he is not divine.

He is only a man, like you and I.

He eats, he drinks, he marries, and he dies.

For all this, Muhammad bin Abdullah has won my admiration, my respect, and InsyaAllah my sincere love.

Peace be upon you, the blessing to all worlds.

I am truly honored to have you as my namesake.

*in 2010 "Mohammed has become the most popular name for newborn boys in Britain." - Daily Mail.

**the Malay word for fishing hook.

Homeception

They were familiar, but somehow different;
People I love, but haven't met for a little too long.

Those four people, as they sat among an enormous pile of luggage at Terminal 1 of Manchester Airport, represented a life I kept mostly out of my mind for the past three months.


In that amount of time, everything has changed.

I have become the typical medical student; my schedule packed.
Food is on-the-go (and not-so-healthy).
I have become accustomed to the cold; 10 Celcius qualifying as quite warm.
New weather, new food and new things to learn.
New country, new friends and new commitments.

Goodbye to home cooked meals, hello to Arab-sized portions of foreign food.
Goodbye to flip flops, hello to winter boots.
Goodbye to my old life.

Hello to a new one.

It has been pretty easy to bury my head into this life so far...so much so that it is only sometimes I look up and remember: "I'm in Manchester"



Until I called out to those four people in Terminal 1 of Manchester Airport, and suddenly my two lives are one again. Because those four people...they are my family.


Mama and Papa greeted me with the customary hug. It's been the longest time yet that I've been away from the only two people I've truly known my whole life.
Adik acted cool, but I knew she missed me as much as I missed her.
And Danny was the same ball of hyperactivity that he has always been.


Not too long after that we were heading to the centre of Manchester.

During the journey l inadvertently found myself in the position of tourguide.
It's weird...me, a foreigner in this country, suddenly showing my family around MY city.

My new home.

This is the parking lot I hurriedly pass through on blustery weekdays, late to class, with barely a glance around.
Mama exclaims at how beautiful it is, Adik takes pictures, and Danny runs around.

This is my room, the bastion of my new life. Neat as I can keep it, suddenly host to the (many) bags my family brought along with them.

This is the bus I take to the City Centre. A route I have travelled often enough. Today my hyperactive bro sits beside me.

This is the path I take on the way to the Curry Mile. Usually I go with an empty stomach, today I bring along 5: mine and my family's.


That was my life again for three weeks...

Three weeks of Papa's lame jokes, Mama's lovely cooking, Adik and Danny's voices.

In the past few weeks I lived in 3 separate hotels in 2 different cities, a lakeside cabin, and even a canal boat. I should be travel-sick by now. But somehow, I'm not.

Because here's the thing: I feel more at home than I've ever been in the past few months.


Here's the reason, then, why I buried my head into my "new life" in Manchester...
It was a self-defense mechanism. I wanted to keep myself from being homesick, from missing my old life too much.

But this is not my real life. I am my parent's son, my siblings' big bro. That's who I am. My family...they are my real home. My life.


I guess it took my family to travel halfway across the world to meet me here for the message to truly hit, well, home.


As I write this, I have already left my family at Terminal 1 of Manchester Airport. The time I welcomed them to my city just three weeks before seems like a lifetime away now.

Mama cries, just as she did at KLIA 3 months ago. But they have their lives to get back to.

And so do I.

But suddenly I can't imagine living that life again; hall to class, class to hall.
Nobody to greet me as I step as I return to a home which is not truly a home; life alone.



My family, my true home has left.

Goodbye guys...

The World Ends Again

We’ve been here before.

From Heaven’s Gate to Y2K, from the Jupiter Effect to Jehovah’s Witness, from Zombieland to The Terminator; history is dotted by (often absurd) examples of doomsday prophecies.

And so (insert yawn here) this Friday, once again the world is coming to an end.

What’s interesting, though, is the insanely wide range of reactions people have had to this piece of news.

At one extreme are the Preppers, folks who have decided that the world will end, and they will be prepared; no ands, buts, or ifs. Preppers stock up on food for months, hone survival skills and fortify their houses for the off-chance of, let’s say, a zombie apocalypse.

On the other end of the spectrum, meanwhile, are the people who have decided that the Apocalypse is a great opportunity to party the night away (“hey, it is the end of the world after all!”). Flyers abound for such merry doomsday get-togethers from those thoughtful nightclubs.

-__-"

But maybe I’m being a little too hard on them. After all, at the very least they’re doing something at the face of imminent widespread death and destruction.

What about the rest of us?

Most, I guess, lie in the “I don’t give a rat’s gluteus maximus” category.

The average person shrugs dismissively: “what will be, will be”

We don’t know and/or care that the world will one day come to an end.

Here’s an epic line from Tuesdays With Morrie which I want to quote at this point, said by the author’s dying professor:

“Everyone knows they’re going to die…but nobody believes it. If we did, we would do things differently.”

Because here’s the first painful, blindingly obvious truth: You will die one day.

You can die a thousand years old (if those medical journals are to be believed), or you could die an hour old.

You could die as heroically as being hit by a bus after pushing a child out of the way, or as embarrassingly as slipping in the toilet and breaking your neck.

You could die as spectacularly as a soldier in a hail of bullets, or as quietly as an old man on his deathbed.

Which brings me to the second painful, blindingly obvious truth: you don’t know when (and how) you will die.

Yes, the world will end one day (third painful, blindingly obvious truth).

But when it comes down to it, does it really matter when?

You could very well die tomorrow, with the world going on its business as usual.

In the end, the question (addressed to myself as well), is this:

Have we prepared enough for that personal doomsday of ours?

Will you face Death and say: “I am not afraid”?

Will you look back at your life and say: “I have spent it well”?

And will you look ahead to the hereafter and say: “I am ready”?

For myself, to all those questions, my answer right now is “No”. And I want to change that by becoming a better person everyday.

I am young and naïve; but I think that’s an aspiration we should all share.

And hey, it’s not too late; the world hasn’t ended yet. ;)

[The time of] their account has approached for the people, while they are in heedlessness turning away. (21:1)

My Mujahadah

"Free, free Palestine!" 

Something wasn't quite right...even as I believed every word coming from my lips.

"Free, free Palestine!" 

15th November 2012: The savage Zionist attack on Gaza has just begun, and around the world people were gathering in public squares, streets and town parks; keen to show solidarity with the Palestinians. One such gathering took place at twilight in Picadilly Garden, Manchester. 

And I was proud to be part of it. 

"Free, free Palestine!" 

It was heartening to see that so many people have woken up to the tragedy of the Palestinians. Things seemed a bit different this time, compared to the reaction to a similar attack by Israel in 2008. 

The Palestinian cause is not forgotten; if anything there were more people out to demonstrate their support this time around. 

"Free, free Palestine!" 

And yet... I could not shake off the feeling in my heart that something wasn't quite right. More than once during that cold twilight at Piccadilly Garden, I questioned what I was actually doing. Yes I was voicing out (quite loudly): 

"Free, free Palestine!" 

But what exactly was I achieving? How exactly does my chanting and yelling here help my brothers and sisters all the way in Palestine? 

In that sense nothing has changed since 2008. How I felt then I feel again now: a feeling of utter helplessness... 

"Free, free Palestine!" 

The cheer is, to my tongue, tarnished by a tinge of hypocrisy now. I am saying something that I've done nothing to achieve. 

"Free, free Palestine!" 

But then I realize...I too have my own mujahadah; my own struggle. Everybody does. In everybody's personal way everybody struggles against something. 

It could be a mujahadah for good grades. 

A mujahadah to show patience with that annoying little bro. 

A mujahadah to keep fit. 

A mujahadah to wake up for Fajr prayers in the dead of winter. 

A mujahadah to not text that particular girl so much. 

The list goes on. 

"Free, free Palestine!" 

My Palestinian brothers and sisters are prevented from studying through the night by troops knocking on doors; nothing stops me but my lack of will.
They are prevented from contacting their parents because they are split into different refugee camps, or by death; nothing stops me but forgetfulness.
They are prevented from going for Fajr prayers in the morning by falling bombs; nothing stops me but the weight of my duvet.

My brothers and sisters in Palestine undergo a very public mujahadah; but alongside them I undergo a personal one. Yes it does not involve picking up a rocket launcher or a dusty battlefield - but in many ways the struggle against personal desires is just as difficult.

"Free, free Palestine!" 

So I thank my Palestinian brothers and sisters. They have reminded me of a vital lesson in mujahadah. Their struggle continues in the public eye. For the rest of us, our mujahadah continues in our own private lives. 

"Free, free Palestine!"

The Chronicles of Dayah

WARNING: THIS STORY IS EPIC

The year is 1990. There hangs an awkward silence over the dinner table. A man breaks into cold sweat as his mother, without a trace of emotion, sizes up his girlfriend.

Will the relationship work out?

Or will true love be smashed irreparably against the unreasonable expectations of a mother?

Those questions bear heavily on every mind at the table save for one: a hyperactive 5-year-old girl named Dayah. She is the only cucu of the family, the apple of her grandparents’ eye, and allegedly as cute as a China doll (refer to pic above). Also, Dayah has taken a liking to this man’s girlfriend; constantly calling her cheerfully: “Aunty Esther, Aunty Esther!”

Suddenly, as if on cue, she jumps on the table and starts singing and dancing. The man breathes a sigh of relief as his mother and father laughs and claps along to the tune of their grandchild’s impromptu performance. All tension in the room seeps away; the ice is broken.

A year later the man and his girlfriend is married, the next year she gives birth to an adorable little boy named Mikhail.

On that basis it can be argued that Kakak Dayah, as I would call my eldest cousin, had a crucial role to play in my birth; that she broke down the walls to my grandma’s heart, so that my Mum could move in and win it with her charms. Without which I would not be here.

Mindblowing stuff right there, dude…

Kak Dayah: mastermind who made marriage possible.

Yet, I never really saw Kak Dayah as a puppet-master of my conception.

Instead I have always seen her as the natural Head of the Council of Grandchildren (CoG). After all, for 5 years Kak Dayah was the only member of the CoG – before Kak Nadhirah came along (henceforth to be called Kak Ngah)

Then I arrived, becoming the third-in-command of this esteemed organisation.

The membership of CoG did not stay at three for very long though; soon after came Taufiq, my BFF <3 <3 <3 (agak gedik di situ...)

Then my sister came along as the 5^th CoG member.

Next, Ajmal a.k.a. “The Weirdo”.

Later still, Akhyar at no. 7.

Inayah a.k.a. “Penan” next.

Aqashah a.k.a. “The Sumo” at no. 9.

Danny boy my bro at 10^th.

His partner-in-crime Haikal at 11^th.

Along with Aishah at 12^th.

Then Baby Chu my sis at 13^th.

And last but not least, Raziq at 14^th.

But the story, of course, is not as simple as an addition of cucus.

There has been no shortage of drama, intrigue and Korean drama-like twists.

A few dramas which come to mind include (but are not limited to):

1. Kakak Dayah’s epic struggle for the family’s attention as Kak Ngah’s birth stole the spotlight away from her.
2. Taufiq and I were arch-nemeses as toddlers, beating each other constantly (with fists). And stealing each other’s pacifiers. And pushing each other off baby chairs. But then we became buddies, and today only a petty MU-Arsenal rivalry (which MU totally dominates) is a thorn in our BFF-hood <3
3. Dan lain2 lagi.

But sweet memories totally outweigh them:

1. Acting out of P. Ramlee scenes for nenek/atuk’s birthdays.
2. Random Cucu Day incidents (Mak Long tripping over a log comes to mind) :D
3. Being forced to say “Mak Chu is pretty” everytime we visit rumah nenek (I’m totally not kidding) -.-
4. Ajmal’s consistently odd facial expressions.
5. Pak Yep’s stories (starring elephants and snakes. And the trademark line “Ko jangan salah paham…!”)
6. Taufiq and I curi2 main snooker on Raya eve quietly so that Pak Yep won’t wake up and catch us.
7. Playing badminton with pizza boxes as rackets.
8. Playing football with balloons.
9. Trips to the 7/11 near rumah nenek in Mak Chu’s car.
10. Main mercun on Raya eve until kena marah by neighbour T.T
11. Watching Jeepers Creepers 2 on Raya eve.
12. Being called a “Kendil” (a species of monkey) -.- by Inayah.
13. Calling Inayah “Penan” in return 8-)
14. Beating Aqashah at Fifa 12 (despite him using the Classic 11 team :DD
15. Dan lain-lain lagi.

Between the first cucu and the 14^th lies 25 years, and how much has changed in those two and a half decades.

Kak Ngah is a teacher now. Seriously.

Taufiq in five years will be Dr. Taufiq, or Ustad Taufiq. Or both. :O

I’m not too far behind, also studying to be a doc.

Adik is studying to be a lawyer. Seriously.

Ajmal is taking his SPM soon, Akhyar and the Penan not too far behind.

Aqashah is a Standard 5 boy who is also a Pengawas Perpustakaan (macho kot).

And who knows what the Danny, Haikal, Aishah, Baby Chu, Raziq rabble will turn out to be one day?

But perhaps I am going a little off topic here…after all, this post is titled “The Chronicles of Dayah”. Hehe. So let’s get back to Kak Dayah.

And what has our protagonist been doing these past 25 years? She has gone to school and graduated, opened her own business, moved into her own house, gave countless Head of CoG speeches (primarily during atuk/nenek birthdays)…and fallen in love.

As of last week…THIS HAPPENED *jeng jeng jeng*

The engagement

But wait…there’s more!

During the engagement ceremony, my Mum was Kak Dayah’s make-up artist. The former “Aunty Esther” now puts on make-up for the girl who once upon a time sang and danced on the dinner table.  22 years on it is the 5-year-old who will soon be married.

And so the story comes full circle.

In the end, I guess this post is not just the story of Kak Dayah growing up; it is a story of how the family has.

This Raya I realized how much the family has changed. No longer are we spirited little kids dying for mercun on Raya eve. No longer do Taufiq and I stay up to play snooker as quietly as we can, so that Pak Yep wouldn’t wake up and catch us. Now the older cousins stay up to take advantage of rumah nenek’s Wifi, and are put in charge of making sure the younger cousins are asleep.

Before I get too sentimental, lemme just show some pics, aite? T____T

The Chronicles of Dayah in Pictures

Kak Dayah spotted at Mama & Papa's akad nikah. I can't help pointing out Ayah Ngah's 'Mat Rock' look :pp

Pic featuring an early Cikgu Kak Ngah

By the look of things, the founding of CoGG (Council of Great-Grandchildren) is not too far off :D

Kak Dayah: still at rightful place as Head of CoG

This is the chronicles of Dayah.

But it is not just her story, it is ours too…

Half-time at Badar

Half-time during a battle on the 17^th of Ramadhan 2 Hijrah: 300-odd Muslims stubbornly occupy the wells of Badar. They could very well have chosen to stay home, but instead they were here. Ahead of them stood a Quraisy army, calling for nothing less than Muslim blood. Still they stood proudly, against a force outnumbering them 3 to 1.

Half-time during a match on the 24^th of July 2012: 53000 odd fans (many of them Muslims) stubbornly occupy seats of the National Bukit Jalil Stadium. They could have chosen to fill their masjids, but instead they were here. Ahead of them stood 22 players, playing nothing more than a friendly. Still they stood proudly, the score 1-0 to Malaysia.

*                                             *                                             *

Half-time is a time to reflect on how the match has panned out so far. And so it should be for Ramadhan.

Have we been playing at too low a tempo, putting off our pursuit of pahala for the 2^nd half?

Have we overlooked teammates, to go for a failed solo attempt at pahala?

What of player morale? Have we approached this month with the necessary enthusiasm?

What of the attendance at our masjids?

Have we been sloppy in front of goal, missing open chances? For is not Ramadhan an open goal pahala-wise?

Half-time is a time of anticipation of the rest of the match to come. And so it should be for Ramadhan.

Will the momentum be lost, so that eventually we just go through the motions?

Will the fans stay in the masjid until the final whistle?

Will we be blinded by the commercialism of Eid to lose to a last minute goal?

Will we make the obvious substitution, that of takwa in the place of nafsu?

If we find it hard to answer these questions perhaps we have not truly understood the Quran, our ultimate book of tactics.

*                                            *                                             *

Half-time at Bukit Jalil, Malaysia led 1-0. At full time they have lost 2-1.

Half-time at Badar, the Muslims were outnumbered 3 to 1. At full time they have routed the Quraisy, killing 70 and with only 14 syaheed.

Half-time at Badar showed how much we learnt. Half-time at Bukit Jalil showed how much we have forgotten.

Written by a big fan of football and a bigger fan of Islam.

Men of The House

The drizzle has just stopped as I write this post.

The fresh scent of rain wafts in through the window ahead of me. All is quiet. Not too far to my left Papa is on his laptop, working. Downstairs Baby Chu is up and watching the TV. And not too long soon Danny will be back from school, noisy as always.

Adik is at UITM as I write, as she has been for two weeks. Mama is in Bangkok for a conference. With the exception of Baby Chu, it is only the men of the family left at home. Yet it hasn’t been the macho bachelor’s experience of Maggi meals, futsal-til-late-at-night-followed-by-ping-pong-til-later-at-night which I have kinda expected.  

Because even though I know how noisy Danny is, I also know that even he won’t be able to truly break the silence which has enveloped us all day.

The quiet in the house is not a mere absence of sound – it is the absence of two loved ones. An absence as tangible as the raindrops drumming on the windowpane just a few moments ago.

It is said in Islam that Allah created the first woman, Hawa, from the rib of the first man, Adam.

But it doesn’t mean she is inferior to him.

It just means that, like a rib, a woman is always close to a man’s heart. And without her he is incomplete.

Miss you, Mama and Adik :-/

Sincerely,

Men of the House

P.S. Papa and I are planning to play ping pong tonight :D