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.

Every once in a while, I let myself get frustrated. That’s a fairly natural human emotion, but I tend to feel guilty afterwards; life overall has been very kind to me, and the worries I struggle with seem so insignificant in retrospect. Monday was one of those days where I let impatience overcome me, forgetting all the good in my life for the sake of a few minor frustrations.

Vancouver is a beautiful city, but it holds a dark secret: there is more poverty here than almost anywhere else in Canada. The Downtown Eastside area, situated just a few blocks from beautiful waterfront condos and trendy boutiques, is home to what is considered to be the poorest area of Canada. The sad consequence is that the neighbourhood is rife with drugs, homelessness, and prostitution. The crime rate is reportedly one of the highest anywhere in North America, and the results of that trickle into the more mainstream areas of downtown.

I see more beggars on the street here than anywhere else in Canada. The impoverished come in all shapes and sizes; if you were to see some of them just walking down the street, you’d never expect that they would have to beg just to make ends meet. Many of them are young, with seemingly good heads on their shoulders; they could have so much potential were it not for the drug addictions. Others have lost their wits entirely, walking around aimlessly for days on end, yelling and screaming profanities at the wind and rain.

And that’s when I start feeling guilty about ever feeling frustrated. There was no choice these poor souls made that have brought them to where they are. None of these people simply decided that this was the life for them. They fell victim to circumstances mostly beyond their control, and now walk the streets with little hope of ever enjoying a comfortable life. They walk hungry, dirty, and incapable of even sorting out their own thoughts. Their beds line the sidewalks, and trashed coffee cups become their wallets. And my daily realities far exceed even the best of their dreams.

Neither my talents nor my hard work have saved me from such a life. There was no choice I made which protected me. Every breath I take, and the comforts I enjoy while taking them, have been gifts from my Creator. And perhaps the greatest gift I have is that I recognize this to be so; how many millions of people go through their lives with no belief at all? How many millions of people suffer from hardships without having the comfort of faith in their corner? It is a gift in itself to believe that there is Divinity listening to our thoughts and prayers; without this, we would all fall entirely to despair.

Ramadhan is fast approaching. Sometimes, I look at the beggars in the streets and try to justify my complacency by reminding myself that I will be fasting for an entire month in a few weeks. But that fasting, as valuable as it is, is still insufficient to truly show gratitude for all the favours I have been blessed with. Fasting in itself is a favour, because it is a sign that I have been given the gift of faith. So how do I show gratefulness for the ability to fast? What thanks do I give for the ability to perform prayers during the night and day? As one scholar said, “prayer alone is not a sufficient token of gratitude to Allah. In fact, the prayer is itself another blessing we must show gratitude for.”

Truly, no amount of action on our part will ever complete our obligation towards gratitude, but Allah remains the Most Beneficent, the Most Merciful. We do what we can, and pray that our actions are accepted; please remember me in those prayers.

Update 9.16.2006: Please read this wonderful post at Reflective Dust for a practical response to this piece.

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.

I was thinking of writing about the train bombings last week, or the Lebanon war, but things are just getting way too depressing. I’m getting frustrated just thinking about all this, so I’ll leave all that aside.

I spent the day in Whistler, British Columbia: future site of many events of the 2010 Olympic Winter Games, and one of North America’s most popular ski destinations. I always expected that the natural beauty of Canada would likely exceed anything else I had seen during my world travels, and here’s the confirmation:

I just bought this digital camera a few days ago; I’m not too happy with it, unfortunately. More photos here.

Update 7.20.2006: I was able to return the camera, even after taking over a hundred pictures and exhausting the included batteries. Yay for free rentals!

When I was in France earlier this year, talk had already begun about the World Cup. It was still over a month away, but the passion the French had for the game far exceeded even the passion Canadians have for their hockey. And the millions of immigrants in France beamed with pride that their national hero was of Algerian descent.

For the disenfranchised North Africans in France, Zinedine Zidane was not just a soccer football star; he represented so much more. He was a fighter who got past the prevailing French nationalism, and excelled in his field against seemingly all odds. He grew up in Marseilles, but not the romantic, wine-country Marseilles we might read about. He grew up in the squalid Marseilles slums, among thousands of other second-generation immigrants of North African descent. If the slums in Lyon were any indication (and I’m told that they are), these were not friendly places. From what I saw in Lyon, these housing projects were rife with drugdealers and other shady personalities. The religious ones among them were doing an excellent job to counter the efforts of the social underworld, but they were too few to reach out to everyone.

Unemployment is extremely high in these housing projects. In Lyon, I met hundreds of young people of about my age struggling tremendously just to make ends meet. Their fathers, who had entire families to provide for, were perpetually depressed. Often, they would look at me cynically, knowing I came from a country where it was not considered uncommon to have a complete university education. I stopped introducing myself as a computer engineer or computer analyst early on when I realized that doing so might be considered arrogant.

Those who refused to pacify themselves with drugs resorted to the soccer field. And when the soccer fields were all occupied, as they often were, then the parking lots and basketball courts were good enough. I don’t think I ever saw people actually playing basketball on the courts; it was always soccer.

I’d be lying if I said I cared about the World Cup. I only watched one match during the entire tournament, and that was only in a waiting room while I was getting work done on my car. That one match was a somewhat entertaining affair - Portugal vs. The Netherlands - but I didn’t know any of the players on either side, and always found soccer to be boring on TV to begin with. But in spite of my apathy, I made it public early on that I was rooting for France, if only because their star was Algerian when I had personally observed the struggles of minorities there.

And France performed admirably, losing only in the World Cup final against Italy in a game I still didn’t care enough about to watch.

But the real story, of course, is the headbutt.

The word is that the Zizou headbutt was in response to racist comments. There has been lots of speculation and lip-reading done; while there isn’t a definite agreement, it’s clear that it was something very nasty. During my time in France, much was said about Zidane’s character off the field, that he was calm and humble. The headbutt is perhaps one of the most primitive (and hilarious) forms of attacking someone else, far removed from the persona of someone known for his humbleness.

I’m sure writers and the irrelevantly opinionated will try to derive some deep philosophical parallels from this incident. I’ve read someone trying to link the incident to European history in World War II. Sports analysts will condemn the man for thinking of his own revenge before the good of the team. Others will applaud him for standing up for a country that has frequently been ridiculed for being weak. And I’ve already read others ignorantly hanging off the “France sucks” bandwagon, labelling the incident as yet another demonstration of perpetual French failure.

Ultimately, it’s about a man, his head, and another man’s chest. And when the Italian fell, whatever racist or hateful rhetoric he spewed he said fell with him. And to me, that’s worth celebrating.

Update 7.28.2006: A Much Needed Head-Butt | Islamica Magazine

This is a much better article on the non-athletic connotations of the Zidane headbutt. It’s actually remarkably similar to what I wrote above, but is clearly written by someone with more interest in the game and the players than myself.

So I’m in Vancouver these days.

It turns out that the hotel I’m staying in was the site of a mutant research facility in X-Men 3. So if I come back a little weird, you’ll know why.

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.

On Sunday, May 21st, 2006, I returned to Canada after a five-week excursion to France. It was an eye-opening experience, and I was fortunate to have shared it with some highly charismatic Parisians. I learned a lot from them, but learned more from the disenfranchised youth that make up the most visible portion of the large Muslim population. Most are unemployed or working menial jobs, and were in awe that I, as a Muslim, was an engineer.

Unfortunately, the first escape for most of these angry youth has been drugs. At the very least, many of these youth - largely of Moroccan and Algerian descent - regularly smoke joints and occasionally heavier stuff. The one image that summed up my entire trip was that of a stoned Moroccan in his late 20’s, rolling a joint with three four-foot baguettes on his lap.

Which brings us to the baguettes. There are baguettes everywhere. I literally could not walk for more than five minutes, at any time of the day or night, without seeing someone carrying at least one baguette. But they’re fantastic - always fresh, buttery, and just plain delicious. I have no idea why the benchmark of all goodness is sliced bread - I’d prefer an unsliced baguette any day. To make things even more tempting, Nutella is cheap and socially acceptable for both kids and adults in France.

During the five weeks, we helped reconnect a son with his estranged father, bridged a decade-old gap between two communities, and spoke with several hundreds of angry youth, among other things. Hopefully, we’ve at least planted some seeds that will produce some fruit in the long run. From a personal standpoint, I learned a great deal about dealing with specific types of people, a lot about leadership and integrity, and vastly improved my French.

I didn’t expect to get a chance to do much sightseeing, but I did spend a day hiking through the mountains neighbouring Switzerland. Prior to this trip, the most naturally beautiful place I had ever been to was the mountains in Northern Pakistan. No longer; the natural beauty around the Cascades du Herisson in the Jura region of France tops it. Rolling mountains as far as the eye can see, with flowing streams dropping into majestic waterfalls… it was absolutely incredible, a true sign of the power of Allah. The same hiking trail also included a brief trek through a cave, which looked just like Faramir’s hideout towards the end of “The Two Towers”.

I’m back safely, and back to the usual routine now. I’ll write more about the trip later; there are thousands of stories to tell.