As usual, a Sikh taxi driver drove me from my Vancouver hotel to the airport for my return flight to Montreal. The topic of conversation, of course, was the bloody rampage yesterday at Dawson College. Details regarding the gunman have started coming out, including the fact that the gunman was of Indian/Sikh origin. This troubled the taxi driver. “How come he became like this?”, he asked. “I’ve never heard of a Sikh doing such things.”

“But he wasn’t a Sikh,” I said. “He may have come from a Sikh background, but I don’t think he considered himself to belong to any religion. He was just evil, and religion had nothing to do with it.”

It felt weird; normally, I find myself trying to defend Islam against the horrible actions of some who claim to be Muslims. Today, I found myself defending Sikhism against the actions committed by the Dawson gunman. In this case, there was clearly no correlation whatsoever. Of course, if the gunman came from a Muslim background, this would clearly be considered a terrorist act. The way I see it, it was a terrorist act regardless of who was responsible; were people not terrorized by the threat of a gunman roaming the hallways of the college?

Where people are trying to find a correlation is with regards to the gunmans’ association to the Goth subculture. I had written earlier against the Gothic subculture as a very misdirected attempt to tread away from the norm; they focused entirely on image while ignoring the real threats present in mainstream society, particularly the rampant commercialism. One reader, himself part of the Goth subculture, interestingly remarked that he had never considered the Goth subculture from the perspective of someone already outside the mainstream. That is, since many Muslims are often considered outsiders themselves, their perspective on the subculture would be relatively free of the usual criticism directed towards their kind.

The obvious comparisons to the Columbine massacre have been plenty, and are deserved. In both cases, the gunmen belonged to middle-class suburbia, in relatively normal homes with relatively normal families. One important difference was that the Dawson gunman was reportedly not affiliated with Dawson College in any way, while the Littleton pair attacked their own school. His choice of the college as his target appears to be entirely arbitrary; his “revenge” was not against specific people, but simply an attack against a random group of youth he found to be vulnerable. And that’s just sickening.

A lot of criticism has been raised against the vampirefreaks.com website where the gunman kept his blog. Apparently, an earlier murder in Alberta also involved members of this website. I took the time to read some of the forums on the site, and found some very disturbing comments. While many were quick to condemn the actions (they almost sounded like Muslims!), a surprising number of them appeared to be defending the gunman. One wrote that “the way you people are cursing him and attacking him makes you no better than him.” Excuse me? I think cursing and attacking a guy who just walked into a school and shot over twenty people isn’t as bad as shooting over twenty people. Another wrote, “where were his parents?”

The unfortunate part is that the blame always seems to be directed towards everything else, because we simply can’t figure out why a person would actually do such a thing without any motivation or influence. It’s perplexing, but it appears to be the natural result of a society devoid of morality and faith. Of course, many argue that faith actually causes more hatred than it prevents. They’ll point to the many episodes of religious fundamentalism today, and make a strong case out of it. But again, it comes back to the same discussion the taxi driver and I had; some people are just evil, and religion has nothing to do with it.

The vampirefreaks.com website, seemingly taking a page from nearly every Muslim organization in North America, has issued a strong condemnation on their website, saying that Goths remain peaceful and loving, albeit depressed people. Blaming it all on the Goth culture is as much a flaw as blaming all of terrorism on Islam; however, just as there are certain questions Muslims must ask themselves regarding their direction and place in the West, the Goth subculture needs to do the same. Unfortunately, most people don’t quite consider them to be a legitimate “organization” of any sort, so their condemnations will fall on deaf ears. Then again, so do ours, most of the time.

What can we do? I don’t think anyone knows. No matter what anyone does, no matter what laws are in place, or no matter what people try to believe, there will always be crazies who go their own way. Right now, many of the families of the victims, as well as the victims themselves, have found some reprieve in the church. Some comments published in the Gazette demonstrated that even those who were never religious before simply did not want to feel alone and confused, and found comfort in the hallows of the nearby church. And of course, prayers were made at many local mosques.

It’s fitting; no matter how much people say about religious fundamentalism, no matter what atrocities are committed in the name of God, we as humans always turn back. Because in spite of all our shortcomings, in spite of all our ingratitude, Allah still loves His servants. Allah still wants us to return to Him. And even while some continue to associate partners to Allah, or reject Allah entirely, the doors of repentance always remain open.

Update 9.17.2007: Great post by Shan - The Blame Game

It’s one of those things that happens somewhere else. Unfortunately, Montreal is somewhere else to the rest of the world.

A man, reportedly in his mid-20s, walked into Dawson College in Montreal with an automatic weapon, opened fire against a mass contingent of students in the cafeteria, and eventually either turned the gun against himself, or was shot by police. There have been conflicting reports throughout the course of the day; some say there were up to three shooters, others give different descriptions. What has been confirmed is that two are dead (including the shooter) and at least nineteen have been injured (several seriously). No motive has been established.

Dawson College is part of the CEGEP network, the brief post-high school/pre-university phase we all go through in Québec. Many of my high school friends studied there, while I went through John Abbott College. I can’t think of anyone right now, but I’m certain that I know current students of Dawson; there are only a handful of options for English-speaking students, and Dawson is definitely the most central one.

I was only 8 years old when a gunman entered École Polytechnique in Montreal, killing fourteen young women before killing himself. I didn’t quite realize the ramifications of the event at the time. I was probably in Grade Three at the time; I remember writing about it for the “Current Events” journal we needed to keep back then.

It’s incredibly frightening that such people exist in our own backyards. What are their motivations? How can someone foster that much hate, that they would be willing to just start killing people randomly? This is not Iraq or Palestine where people are growing up in the midst of violence, where everyday is a nightmare. This is Montreal, the home of hockey and smoked meat sandwiches; where does such hatred come from?

There is currently a murderer on the loose in downtown Vancouver, accused of killing a number of homeless people in the last few weeks. The murders have been occuring on the streets I walk everyday, yet no one knows exactly who is responsible, or what their motivation may be. The sad reality is that some people need no motivation; they have simply lost any trace of humanity they once had.

The motivation for the Dawson shootings remain unclear; perhaps, we’ll never know. Media reports stated that there was no clear link to terrorism, but whatever happened clearly was an effort to terrorize innocent people. I imagine that for some twisted individuals, the posthumous glory is enough of a motivation; after all, there were several incidents of “copycats” in the wake of the Columbine massacre. The children responsible for that atrocity have left something of a legacy, however morbid. Whatever the motivation, there can be no justification. The students will never be the same, nor will the school itself.

For the average person like me, it hurts to feel so helpless. Being helpless against aggression and hatred overseas doesn’t worry me as much as it should, because the physical distance is a legitimate barrier. But when you see and hear of these sorts of atrocities from your own city, it’s another story altogether. Like many of us felt eleven years ago after the Toope murders, we are forced to ask ourselves, is there anything we could have done?

It’s a bit of a conundrum; we’d like to think we can do something to prevent such senseless acts, but at the same time, we don’t want to hold ourselves responsible. No matter what anyone does, no matter what efforts are in place to prevent such incidents, there will always be people who fall through the cracks.

Hopefully, we’ll see the details unfold over the next few days as the investigation begins. Unfortunately, none of those details will change anything, nor make this any less of a crime against humanity, nor will it alleviate the suffering of any of the victims. Investigators will investigate, reporters will report, and bloggers will blog, but that will not stop haters from hating or murderers from murdering.

May we all be protected from hatred, injustice, and aggression. Ameen.

Monday, September 10th, 2001:

Of all places, I happened to be in Moscow.

“So, what’s the story?”, my friend asked.

“You’re not going to believe this. The flight has been delayed seventeen hours,” I replied. We had already been waiting for a few hours. I had just returned after running around the dismal Moscow airport for hours trying to figure out what the heck was going on; there were no indications as to where we were to gather for the final leg of my journey, to return home.

“Seventeen hours?!”

“Yep, seventeen hours. The flight is at 3am. We should be home around 8:30am Eastern on September 11th.”

* * *
Tuesday, September 11th, 2001 - Montreal:

We were tired, hungry, but relieved. We were finally home. I walked towards the exit where I caught a glimpse of my family, awaiting my arrival after an entire summer overseas. A security guard pulled us aside, and sat us down in a room outside Customs.

I didn’t know why. There must have been at least a hundred people on the plane, but only three of us - myself and my two friends - were pulled aside. Quickly, we discovered that something was greatly amiss - security started running about, barking into their radios.

“Do you know what just happened?”, one guard angrily asked me.

“No idea,” I replied.

“Two airplanes just hit each other on top of the World Trade Center in New York.” There was no clear consensus as to what actually happened in those initial moments, but what they did know was that all air traffic controllers in the United States were being urged to ground all flights. I didn’t know what was going on, but somehow I was being singled out for some reason.

And then they instructed me to open up all my suitcases. I complied, as did my travelling companions. They searched everything, digging through my books and notepads, finally stumbling upon a bag of jewellry my aunt had put away in my suitcase without my knowledge. I was slapped with a big fine for misrepresenting the goods I was bringing into the country. During their search, they also inquired about the purpose of my visit to Pakistan, my earlier visit to Saudi Arabia still listed on my passport, and why I wasn’t aware of the contents of my own suitcase.

Finally, I was let go, over an hour after everyone else on the same flight had already left.

I finally met with my family. My greatest worry at the time was the week of school I had already missed. That worry didn’t last very long.

* * *
Friday, December 14th, 2001 - Ottawa:

It was just before Jumah prayer. I was living at the University residence, descending to the lobby in my usual gray thobe.

On the elevator, an older, caucasian man looks me up and down, and asked me, “So… did you see the tape?”

He was referring to the Bin Laden “confession” tape that was revealed the day before.

“Oh yeah… that tape. Yeah, I saw it. I wasn’t convinced, to be honest.”

“You know what I think?” I had gotten fairly used to hate speech by that point, so I was mentally prepared to respond; fortunately, I never had to.

“You know, as soon as it happened, I was sure it was Bin Laden,” he said. “But after seeing that tape, and how it was so obviously a fake, now I’m starting to think otherwise. That they would go to such lengths… it’s clear that it’s fake.”

* * *
Friday, September 8th, 2006 - Vancouver:
I watched Loose Change for the first time. Nearly five years had passed, but my mind was never settled on the whole issue. Earlier, I had a discussion with a colleague regarding my misgivings around the whole “official story”.

“So, you don’t believe that it was done by terrorists?”

“No - that’s not what I said,” I replied. “It was done by terrorists. By definition, it had to be done by terrorists - it was an evil, murderous act to promote some twisted ideology. I just have this radical notion that terrorists don’t have to be Arab or Muslim.”

* * *
I don’t know what to believe about what happened, except that it was horrible, inexcusable, and the guilty will one day pay a horrible price. At the same time, I don’t consider it to be any more an act of terrorism than bombs being dropped from fighter planes in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Lebanon. And for those, there’s no doubt as to who is guilty.

Loose Change, and similar media efforts, raise some fundamental questions. The typical responses, minus the profanities, are as follows:

1) “Yes, and Elvis was escorting the plane while riding a unicorn.”

2) “Yeah right, you stupid liberals. Go back to killing babies and raping men.”

3) “What, you want me to believe some crappy low-budget film made by some stupid kid? What’s more likely, that the government would go to such lengths to kill it’s own people, or that some stupid kid just wants to get attention and make a whole lot of money?”

4) “Shut up you stupid moslem, we’re going to blow up your countries and send you back to the stoneage you damn towelhead.”

A whole lot of ad hominem, unfortunately. The actual arguments are rarely challenged, primarily because no one wants to believe that the allegations can be true. If they were, it would challenge every idea of freedom, democracy, and justice the Western world has ever thought existed. Thus, anyone who dare question the official story is dubbed to be a fanatic, a nutcase, or a terrorist.

I have read a few actual counterarguments, but none that can stand up to even basic scrutiny. At best, they’ll explain how the collapses of the North and South towers could have happened, but none of them dare try to explain the absent wreckage at the Pentagon, or the collapse of Tower 7. They won’t even start on the suspicious trading and insurance claims that preceded the terrible events.

* * *
Whatever one believes, one must never lose sight of the fact that this was not the beginning; this was merely one of many atrocities which have been committed not for religion, not for democracy, but for wealth and power.

I’m struggling to find a conclusion, probably because there has been no conclusion to the events that I’ve written about here. I’ll leave the politics to other blogs; I’ve written far more about politics than I am comfortable with already. While I search for my conclusion, I hope everyone else has success in coming to conclusions of their own.

It’s amazing people still fly anywhere.

* * *
Awaiting my flight at the Ottawa International Airport, I passed by a drink stand and asked for a bottle of orange juice.

“Sure,” said the cashier. “But because of the new restrictions, I’ll have to pour it out of the bottle and into this cup before I can give it to you.”

“Um, okay.” I replied.

The cashier pulled the bottle off the shelf and began pouring the contents into a plastic cup. She looked up and smiled.

“Don’t worry, we’re fighting terrorism.”

* * *
I can’t bring deodorant on a plane, but I can bring a Dell laptop that may explode.

* * *
An Iraqi American was refused entry onto a flight because of Arabic writing on his t-shirt.

The story: Arabic T-Shirt Sparks Airport Row | BBC News
The personal account: Back from the Mideast | Raed in the Middle

* * *
Panic erupts on a flight bound for Ottawa because of a flushed iPod.

The story: iPod prompts airport scare in Ottawa | Ottawa Citizen
The reaction: Flying the Paranoid Skies | Ottawa Citizen
The personal account: I played a game, I became a terrorist | World of Warcraft Forums

* * *
A pilot flying from Ottawa to Winnipeg locks himself in the toilet in the middle of a flight.

The story: Canada pilot in toilet trip drama

* * *
There were six well-publicized crashes in August 2005, making it one of the worst months in commercial flight history:

• Air France Flight 358
• Tuninter ATR-72
• Helicopter Crash near Talinn
• Helios Airways Flight 522
• West Caribbean Airways Flight 708
• TANS Peru Flight 204

August 2006 began with the uncovering of an alleged plot to blow up a number of commercial aircraft at Heathrow Airport. There were two major commercial airline crashes in August 2006, followed by another on the first of September.

• Pulkovo Airlines Flight 612
• Comair Flight 5191
• Iran Tupolev 154 Crash

And yesterday, a British Royal Air Force plane crashed, killing all twelve soldiers on board.

* * *
Well, at least we won’t be subjected to the threat of an Arabic t-shirt on a flight.

Update 9.06.2006: Another amusing story out of Ottawa:
Speeding Driver blames lack of goats | Reuters

Not related to this post or worthy of it’s own blog entry, but I just had to put it somewhere.

I’m approximately 33,000 feet above Alberta or Saskatchewan right now. I should be sleeping, since I have a busy day of working, driving, and partying tomorrow, but 20 minutes of sleep early in the flight has made it very difficult to keep my eyes closed since. Hopefully, writing a few irrelevant anecdotes should help put me back to sleep, so here goes.

Once a week, I’ll have dinner at an Indian restaurant situated between my office and hotel. It’s a fairly nice place in the heart of downtown Vancouver, but going there alone every week was always tiresome. Because of the surprising unavailability of halal food in downtown, Subway is my usual dinner destination, and I often prefer it mainly because of the lack of awkwardness of eating without any company. But in the absence of home cooking and real spice, I would always get drawn back to the Indian place, where I would sheepishly walk in requesting a table for one, and sit alone awaiting my order.

After a few weeks of pestering my Jewish colleague, he finally agreed to join me at the Indian place for dinner on Wednesday night. As I was somewhat of a regular there, it was very refreshing for both myself and the staff that I entered the restaurant requesting a table for two. I advised my colleague on the best options for him which would satisfy his kosher constraints. Finally, he settled on shahi paneer, which he had served with mattar chawal and roti.

I sincerely hoped that my colleague would enjoy his meal, as I didn’t want to continue coming to this restaurant alone. He didn’t like the papadum that is always served as an appetizer, so I was banking entirely on the paneer. When the food arrived and I instructed him on how to eat it, I waited anxiously for his verdict.

“This is really good!” I sighed with relief. “And it isn’t too spicy at all!” He requested the mild meal, while I was burning up with the extra-hot cholay. My meal, in spite of the overwhelming spiciness, was delicious as well. We both sat there enjoying our meals while discussing and comparing the concepts of sanad in hadith sciences and the laws governing rulings from the talmud.

At one point, he asked me, “This is the type of food your mom cooks every day?”

I nodded. “This is the stuff I grew up on.” Cholay has always been one of my favourites, and is staple Ramadhan food in our household. “My mother makes this stuff really well.”

He looked up, shook his head, and sighed.

‘Isn’t it sad that there aren’t any girls out there anymore like our mothers?’, he asked.

The question caught me off guard, but I agreed. My colleague, who is of Moroccan Jewish descent, understood the common lament of many young Muslim men like myself. I explained my personal situation to him, while acknowledging that I have three wonderful sister-in-laws that have helped keep my hopes up. “But they’re not from here, are they?”, he asked, sounding much like a mentor of mine who often seeks to convince me about the merits of importing. “Actually, only one of them was born in Canada… the other two are from back home.”

“There you go.” Though we heavily differed in background and religion, he clearly understood and shared concerns around the eroding principles of tradition. We discussed the issue further. I was surprised at how similar our feelings were on issues of marriage and family relationships. “Ce qui mari la fille, il se mari la famille,” he said. We both acknowledged that the ‘traditional’ system worked, and how important it was for the family to be involved heavily in the whole process.

Many close friends of mine have tried doing things outside of the usual process. While I admired them for looking past cultural barriers, I worried about conflicts between the respective families. Though they were very religious people in each case, they neglected the importance of respecting their parents wishes. They intended to prove that they knew better than their parents by leaving aside nationality and culture, focusing purely on the Islamic character of their prospective spouses. As noble as their intentions may have been, in each of those cases, the engagements (and marriage, in one case) failed, and all of them suffered greatly. Hearts were broken, parents became bitter, and some very close friends fell into despair and misery. I was usually the first person these friends reached out to when things were going awry. I did my best to comfort them; however, I could clearly identify where things had gone wrong, and was incapable of reversing it. And even after years have gone by, some of them still have not fully recovered from the frustrations of those days. I continue to pray for them, but consistently hear bad news every time I give them a call.

This is not to say that we must restrict ourselves by culture. However, I do believe that such decisions must be made only with the consent and full approval of parents. If a young man ignores the wishes of the parents who raised him, sacrificed for him, and who understand him like no one else, he is doing a great disservice to himself. He is shunning the advice of those who have the deepest understanding of his needs, while embarking on a path devoid of the necessary guidance. I assume the same applies for young women as well; many would be incapable of making wise decisions without assistance from her parents. I have seen intercultural marriages work, but the parents on both sides were heavily involved in the process.

My colleague and I split the bill, and proceeded to our respective destinations. As I walked back to my hotel, I thought about all the decisions I’ve made in my life, and how often I strayed from the guidance of my own parents. Thankfully, none of those decisions have caused me much grief, but I often look back and recognize the deeper wisdom of parental advice I neglected. Alhamdolillah, I am where I want to be right now because I listened and followed them to a satisfactory extent; I may have been further if I listened and followed even more.

Rabbirham huma kamaa rabbayaani sagheera.

The lineup through security at Vancouver airport was much longer than usual. I’m accustomed to passing through security in under five minutes, with a total entrance-to-gate time never exceeding ten minutes. Today, the lineup took at least fifteen minutes on it’s own. As usual, I passed through the metal detector without triggering any alarm, and so no additional search was done. Security quickly checked my laptop, then let me proceed on my way.

I got off much better than most. I saw security agents searching the bags of hundreds of passengers, grabbing any toothpaste and deodorant they could find, tossing the “suspicious” toiletry in a trash can. I was encouraged by the fact that no special attention seemed to be given to the visibly South Asian or Arab passengers. Everyone was inconvenienced equally.

All things considered, I’m satisfied that the worst fallout of the alleged attacks was long lineups and wasted toothpaste.

There was a Chinese man in front of me in the line, while a Caucasian man chatted on his cell phone next to me, informing someone that he expected to miss his flight. The Chinese man informed the Caucasian that there was a delay, so he need not worry. I asked him which flight was delayed.

“All of them,” he growled in his heavy Chinese accent. “They’re all late.”

I was a bit relieved, as I was cutting things short myself, and may have missed my flight if there were no delay. The Chinese man then turned to me, his voice dripping with anger.

“F**k the America,” he said. “If there were no American, there would be no problem.”

Touché. The thought crossed my mind that I should defend the average American against his hateful statement; something along the lines of, “there are still lots of good people in America. Don’t blame the average American for their corrupt government.” I opted instead to remain silent, and let the man believe whatever he wants. I recognized that anything I say could be misconstrued; the Chinese guy can say whatever he wants, but if those words were heard coming from my lips? I could very well be arrested.

It’s funny; the powers that be want us to believe that the “terrorists” hate the West, and seek to destroy the Western values of freedom and democracy. I wish people would wake up. Nobody “hates your freedom”. But many do hate your government. They hate the government that has lied to the world, killing hundreds of thousands of innocent people to get oil. They hate the government that pumps billions of dollars into the defense of a Zionist, fascist government while overlooking problems on it’s own soil. They hate the government that is run by inept, arrogant, and spoiled brats, pushed into power by wealth and greed.

“But we can’t forgot 9/11,” they say. “Remember what happened on 7/7?” This quickly becomes the catch-all justification for any military action, no matter how ineffective and atrocious. But on the other side of the fence, there are people who are asking themselves, remember 9/19? Remember 3/12? Remember 7/16? Remember 7/30? The list goes on and on, and that’s only within the last year. And people still wonder why such hatred exists.

And it’s not just “angry Moslems” who hate that government. It’s the Chinese guy at Vancouver airport. It’s the Canadian guy in the cubicle next to you. It’s the black man in the sewage water flooding New Orleans. And it’s the child who lost his parents, their lives destroyed under the artillery paid for by that government. Say all you want, that child doesn’t hate your freedom. He hates that bomb that you dropped on his home. And nothing you say will change his mind.

With all the difficulties going on in the world today, I thought it was time to be a bit nostalgic.

In October 2001, with tensions still high after the attacks in New York and Washington a month earlier, I was riding on Bus 97 towards Bayshore with one of my closest friends. We were both wearing Saudi “thobes” on the bus, and were likely under suspicion already. Regardless, I was in a good mood, and things were soon to become brighter.

While still in downtown, a familiar face walked on to the bus. At first, I didn’t recognize him, but then I recalled him as one of my close friends in my CEGEP days; I hadn’t seen him in at least two years, and seeing him in Ottawa after knowing him only in Montreal was quite a strange coincidence. His name was Jihad, he was of Lebanese origin. Jihad is a common name meaning “struggle”, but is often misinterpreted as an evil word in the traditional Western lexicon.

So when I realized who it was, I burst with enthusiasm, jumped out of my seat, and yelled out on the crowded bus, “JIHAD!!!”

It wasn’t until the next day that I realized that I must have freaked out dozens of terrified passengers with an open declaration of holy war.

There was a limo service awaiting my arrival at O’Hare International Airport. The driver was a Muslim, and greeted me with salaam; a welcome introduction given my tainted images of the United States. As large a city as Chicago is, he knew some of the people I knew, and we had a friendly discussion the whole way. I was extremely tired, and somewhat frustrated by the delays caused by my cancelled flight, but I tried my best to be an active participant in the conversation. As we pulled up to the conference centre and I was stepping out of the vehicle, he requested a favour of me.

“You’re travelling right now. Please pray for my child, he’s quite sick.”

I didn’t pay enough attention to what he said, presumably because I was exhausted and also because I never quite expected to see him again. I paid him, and walked towards the conference centre.

I spent two weeks there, among an international contingent of colleagues. I was amazed at just how American the Americans were; they all seemed to live lives inspired by television shows, from the goofy but lovable class clown to the young and melodramatic “southern gal”. I eventually got used to it, but it still bothered me how ignorant they were of the rest of the world. Even the Muslims among them were no different. One thought Ottawa was in Idaho; when I told him that there was a world outside the United States, he assumed I lived in Alaska. Another brother asked me this beautifully ignorant question:

“Why don’t you just live in United States instead?”

I enjoyed answering this question, drawing on all the things that I love about Canada: the relaxed lifestyle, the polite people, the functional and tolerant multiculturalism, free healthcare, among other things. I also mentioned how I would feel guilty for paying taxes to such an incredibly inept, violent, and dangerous government. That was a moot point, he argued, as the majority of Americans don’t support them. If the majority don’t support them, I replied, then how can it be called democracy? He changed the subject.

On a quiet and rainy Sunday afternoon, I happened to take a stroll outside despite my lack of appropriate clothing to handle the rain. Waiting in front of the Welcome Center was the driver who brought me there a week earlier; he had come to drop off someone else. He greeted me with salaam, and asked how things were going. He reminded me about the ijtema that was taking place in Chicago that weekend; unfortunately, I had already missed most of it, as did he.

“I wasn’t able to go myself,” he said. “I’ve spent most of the weekend in the hospital. My child just passed away this morning.”

I was stunned, having completely forgotten about his request a week earlier. Innalillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’oon, I muttered. From Allah we came, and to Him we will return. The child, an infant boy no more than three months old, was gone, and I had irresponsibly forgotten both him and his father in my prayers. I told the driver that I would pray for him, for his patience, and for Allah to compensate him greatly for his loss.

The news left a cloud over my travels for a while; the driver had become a friend, and I was saddened by his loss. He was a young man himself, only a year older than I, and had been married for just a little over a year. What struck me most about it was that in spite of his situation, he could not get any break from his job. Just a few hours after such a tragic loss, he was back in the car driving people from place to place. I’m certain that his passengers would often be rude and impatient, completely negligent of the fact that the driver was also a husband, a father, and a mourner.

Such is the nature of life, though. The demands don’t stop for anything, and there is rarely a moment of respite for those who struggle to make ends meet. Such incidents remind me of how thankful I must be for all the blessings I have in life. I live a very easy life, and have seen little of adversity in my quarter century of experience.

“And then which of the favours of thy Lord will you deny?”

So here I am, writing in the middle of the night when I would much rather be sleeping. Unfortunately, a scheduled flight to Chicago yesterday was cancelled, and thus I am now awaiting an early-morning flight which will just kill my sleeping schedule, and reduce my chances of staying awake at a Monday 8:00am meeting to zilch. I need to be at the airport at 4am, to arrive in Chicago by 7:15am.

Prior to the official cancellation of the flight, I waited patiently in the airport after a fairly lengthy security process. It’s frustrating that I’ll probably need to do this all over again because of the cancellation.

This will be my first time flying into the United States since 1999; much has changed since then. American Security had a field day going through my passport. I was asked many questions about my time in Saudi Arabia (lots of Arabic Hajj-related stickers in my passport); and when I affirmed that I had been to Pakistan within the last five years, the furrowed brow of the security lady was a sight to behold. I turned over all the papers I had that confirmed my business in United States, and finally the lady was satisfied.

Last week, I was the emcee at the annual graduation dinner for all the Muslim students in colleges and universities in the Capital Region. The keynote speaker was Maher Arar, whose story continues to worry me. With no evidence or charge against him, the man lost more than a year of his life to excrutiating torture, and his future will always be tainted by the nightmarish memories. His mistake was only being in the wrong place at the wrong time; a victim of wayward fire. The shots fired in the name of security have often missed their mark, targetting people with nothing but irrelevance to share; I always fear that another may be caught in the crossfire.

My return to Canada also brought about another significant change in my life: I now live alone. My roommate left for India while I was in France, leaving the apartment all to myself. This is a significant departure for me, as it officially ends my student years. Though I’ve been out of university for a while now, I’ve still lived like a student, and would even occasionally spend weekends at the university labs helping my roommate with his project. Now the place is all my own, and I can do with it as I like.

My first course of action was to buy some lamps to brighten my bedroom. An old lady living by the university happened to be selling some lamps that met my needs, so I dropped by her place to take a look.

When I arrived there, I was greeted warmly by the old lady, who appeared to be in her 70’s but was actually only in her late 50’s. She spoke with a heavy British accent, having grown up there after her parents fled Poland during the second World War. I expected to just take a look at the lamps, perhaps buy them, and then be on my way. Little did I know that I would be there for well over an hour.

The house itself was over 100 years old, the kind of place you might expect to find a kind old grandmother. There were old books stacked up everywhere, dusty and untouched for decades perhaps. The hallways were narrow, dimly lit, and had a 19th century feel to them. And yet, between the creaking floorboards and the peeling wallpaper, there was something distinctly warm and uplifting about the place.

I had only intended to buy the lamps and leave, but she insisted that she introduce herself and tell me about her life, the house, and other stories. She lived in the house with her husband and a number of students who rented the rooms. The couple spent quite a bit of money on renovating the place to accomodate the students, whom she treated like her children. She cooked and cleaned for them, and did her best to accomodate their hectic student lives. She lamented about her own children, one of whom she felt she could not care for the way a mother should. I reassured her that she must have done a great job, and that eventually her children will realize it.

Having introduced herself, it was only proper that I introduce myself. I described my work, and told her I graduated from the university at the end of 2004. She mentioned her son graduated at the same time. “It’s a big university,” I said. “I probably don’t know him.”

“No, he was in engineering too! His name was..” She mentioned the name of a fellow classmate, among the top students in the program. It turns out I knew the son, though not very well. He was one of those students that lesser students tend to be jealous of: smart, witty, popular, and annoyingly sappy. I personally didn’t know him well enough to have any real opinion.

“I wasn’t the mother I needed to be for him,” the old lady whimpered. I couldn’t understand what mistake she could have made, seeing as how the son seemingly turned out fine. “He’s married now, you know. To some Canadian girl.”

And there it was. He didn’t marry a girl of Polish descent, and that didn’t sit well with her. She later went on to explain how her husband was invited to the wedding, but she herself wasn’t invited. I couldn’t understand that at all; how can someone possibly not invite his own mother to his wedding? The same mother who endured the pains of labour, cleaned up after him for years, fed him with the best foods, took care of him when he was down, and never asked for anything in return? Even if there was a disagreement, the mother is just too important to ignore.

It couldn’t possibly be a case of a negligent mother; she treated me with so much kindness that I couldn’t imagine that she would treat her own son any other way. She kept complimenting me for being so polite and courteous; I don’t believe for a second that she could come off as anything less but a proud, supportive mother for her own children.

Unfortunately for her, the son responded to her shows of affection with disdain and contempt. According to the old lady, the son did not want to be “mothered” any longer, and moved out fairly early on. The only other child went off to another city for studies, leaving her with no one to share her motherly love with. And thus, she had to rent out the rooms to students, which I believe she did subconsciously to fill in the void left by her ungrateful children. The students, however, treat her as no more than a landlord.

I told her about the value of the mother in Islam. Heaven is under the feet of the mother, as the tradition goes.

“Your mother must be very proud of you,” she said, holding back tears. She was breaking up, but she did not want to let me leave. She seemed so happy getting the chance to talk to a young man who cared. Unfortunately, I don’t come anywhere near fulfilling the rights of my own mother, but I suppose I do better than a lot of people from other cultures.

After an hour or so, I purchased the lamps. She walked out to my car with me, offering a few more bits of advice regarding family life, my beard, housing, and where to buy glasses. I noticed she waited until I had turned off her street before she went back inside; I could see her waving in my rearview mirror. A few minutes later, she would go back to being lonely, with my visit only being a temporary relief.

The most basic structure of any society is the family; if all the families run well, the society as a whole a chance to run well. But if the family structure has broken down, any social hierarchy built atop these broken families will inevitably break down.

The North American family can only last a couple more generations at it’s current rate of decay. When it has collapsed completely, the floodwaters will pour in, and society will be washed away. Only at the feet of the mother, one can stay afloat.