Shadow and Flame

Slave Lake Mosque (apologies for my poor cellphone camera picture)

A few months ago, I wrote about my experiences in Slave Lake, Alberta, an isolated town in Northern Alberta that had a complicated relationship with its large Muslim community, including the arson of the former mosque in the aftermath of the September 11th attacks. The Muslim community had since built a new mosque, a beautiful one that unfortunately suffered from an almost complete lack of participation. For the most part, the Muslims there had been overcome with fear and suspicion, and were afraid to attach themselves to a targeted site.

I awoke this morning to the news that the entire city is now burning, due to forest fires carried by heavy winds. While the residents have been safe alhamdulillah, their property and belongings have largely been destroyed.

The pictures depict many streets I've walked myself. The hardest hit areas appear to be those within walking distance of the mosque itself, so it is entirely likely that their beautiful mosque is among the ruins. I can only hope and pray that the community can find a way to pick up the pieces again, and that they work alongside neighbours to rebuild their town. It would be a powerful statement of mutual respect and cooperation that could insha-Allah help them overcome the distrust and fear that split the community over the last decade.

Important numbers
To donate toiletries, bedding call Edmonton Emergency Relief Services	780-428-4422
To donate to Red Cross	1-800-418-1111
To register as evacuee or to reach evacuees call Red Cross	1-800-565-4483
Info on hospital patient evacuees	1-866-301-2668
Wildfire information line	1-866-916-INFO
WildFire Road Closure Hotline	780-644-5653 or 310-4455

Source: CBC

The Forgotten Slaves: The Curious Case of Slave Lake

Our perspectives repeatedly clashed, but we typically got along very well. Me, having lived all my life in Canada; him, having grown up in Africa, then migrating to Canada, then returning to Africa for studies, and eventually settling back in Canada. He was uneasy, unsettled, ready to leave at the first opportunity in order to secure the value of tradition in his family. That I felt no desire to leave, he felt, was a sign that I rejected tradition and embraced a culture that placed no value in family and morality.

While leaving has crossed my mind in the past, it usually ended up detouring to Tim Hortons before forgetting where it was trying to go. The thought could never make full the journey from idea to objective; the body, meanwhile, remained unmoved entirely by those fleeting ideas.

He never did feel comfortable in Ottawa, afraid for his daughter born days before my own. How could it be, he argued, that his daughter grow up in this society, with this culture, and still find room in her heart to embrace and practice her faith? How could she identify with the religion when she could not identify with a land that embraced the religion?

It was a conversation that carried on for a while, as we travelled westward towards the Rockies before the journey north to Yellowknife. It was an intimidating journey, one that would take days to complete, but it was sure to become a memorable experience.

And then we arrived at Slave Lake.

After the Second World War, as Muslim immigrants began migrating in large numbers to Edmonton, a smaller community made the journey northwards to this small fur trading town to establish business. Muslim generations grew up in this small town, mixing with the larger community until they were as much a part of them as they were of each other. By the 1990s, a small mosque was established to finally meet the needs of this growing congregation.

However, the mosque was something of an anomaly for Slave Lake. While the Muslim community worked for generations to mesh with the greater population to the point of becoming indistinguishable, the mosque stood out like a weird uncle. It didn't quite fit the family values, nephews would pretend they weren't related, but ultimately it still was part of the family - it had to be tended to, respected, and visited. And like this, the community maintained a relationship, however tenuous, with the mosque. Its existence was a significant achievement for the city as a whole, but it suffered from a lack of scholarship, a dearth of individuals capable of teaching, and a general disconnect with the larger urban centres nearby. As such, the promising Muslim community of Slave Lake, with roots four generations deep, lost touch with their identities.

Then, in the days following 9/11, the mosque was set ablaze, leaving a fiery ruin that suffocated whatever little spirit was left.

The people became afraid. It was never established, at least to me, who caused the fire - it may have been the Muslims themselves, it may have been others. It may have been a freak coincidence. But however it happened, it gave birth to a prevailing sense of fear in the community, the desperate feeling among the threatened populace that they could no longer be associated with this religion any longer.

A new mosque was rebuilt, eventually. A beautiful mosque, in fact - one of the best I've seen in the country, for its size. But it was little beyond mere walls; barely five people, mostly travelers, would join the Friday prayer, standing behind an imam who with his best intentions struggled with even basic Islamic terms. The mosque timetable only included 'Asr and 'Maghrib prayers - there was no expectation that one might actually pray outside of those hours during the summer, and no expectation of any prayers at all during the winter.

But more depressing was the refusal of basic services to those of us passing through the city who appeared visibly Muslim. "All I want is a slice of pizza!", pleaded a friend at one Lebanese-owned pizza place. But his beard indicated to the owner that he had other intentions, and the owner kicked him out with no meal. The business owners, afraid of being associated with those who identify themselves as Muslims, refused even to sell to us travelers, ironic given the economic history of the city.

This, my friend argued, was what our second generation communities were coming to. He felt that Slave Lake represented a microcosm of the growth of a new community in the West - initial optimism, gradual loss of tradition, and an eventual disappearance of all connection to Islam within a matter of three to four generations. This, he argued, was why he could not raise his own children in this country; perhaps, with Allah's help, they could keep things going through one generation, but two or three generations down the road, they may be refusing pizzas to men with beards.

Circumstances are different, I felt. Slave Lake was a small town, isolated and detached. The size, my friend argued, only accelerated the process of decline, but that decline was indeed the path all Muslim communities in the West will take over time. For larger cities, perhaps the decline would be more gradual, but loss of religion was inevitable.

Given my own upbringing, I have always decoupled the concepts of geographic tradition and religious tradition; one does not necessarily lead to the other in my mind. There is no guarantee that raising a child in a Muslim country would result in a better upbringing anyway; in fact, there are enough examples I can think of where youth embraced their religion only after leaving their Muslim homelands behind. But my friend was convinced otherwise, and who was I to argue with this friend whom I greatly respected; he had far more knowledge and experience than myself, and had traveled far more extensively throughout the country and world than I had. He was speaking out of experience, whereas I was only speaking out of false, misplaced hope.

But false hope is hope nonetheless. And it is that hope, misplaced as it may be, that can inspire a generation, while fear can suffocate it as it has done in Slave Lake. As Muslims, we are to live between hope and fear, which for me exists right where I am right now; it is home.

From Far and Wide

I've been asked many times to update my blog, which I've been meaning to do anyway. However, the summer - in spite of a lengthy holiday - has been bizarre and, as usual, travel has busied my schedule leaving me unable to just sit and write. But with things seemingly settling down now, I will try to get back into it lest my literary skills suffer.

The travels have been long and exhausting, but have provided me with a fair amount of inspiration for things that I would like to elaborate on through this blog. Alhamdulillah, I've traveled quite a bit in my life, and recently wrote a list of all the cities I've spent time in. Taking a cue from Target Theory, I intend on writing about most of these places at some point.

In the last two months, I haven't spent a full week in one city. My last two months of Jum'ah prayers have been performed as follows:

May 7th: Ottawa, Ontario
May 14th: Kingston, Ontario
May 21st: Gatineau, Quebec
May 28th: Calgary, Alberta
June 4th: Edmonton, Alberta
June 11th: Slave Lake, Alberta
June 18th: Yellowknife, Northwest Territories
June 25th: Edmonton, Alberta
July 2nd: Kingston, Ontario

And this upcoming Jum'ah, July 9th, I expect to be back in Calgary after a brief sojourn at home in Ottawa. I still hope I can get some writing done insha-Allah between flights and family responsibilities, so stay tuned.

Nine Thousand Miles

If the opportunity was presented to you to start a new life, over nine thousand miles away from everything you knew and loved growing up, would you consider it?

Many people live their entire lives within a small radius that doesn't even exceed the daily commute of many people working and living in large cities.  The home they were born in was the home their parents were born in, and their children would live there too, or if they were adventurous, then perhaps they would settle a few miles away.

In this part of the world, it is uncommon for people to stay in one place for so long; sedentary lifestyles are looked down upon, and it is often considered a vice to remain physically attached to one's roots.  I was the adventurous one in the family, settling only a couple hundred kilometres away from the rest.  In my pursuit of a livelihood, I was happy settling on the mantra, "anywhere but Toronto".

During the fifteen months that my rizq was spread out across the country, I travelled over two hundred thousand miles, more than the distance to the moon.  And since then, my wings have been clipped, grounded in one place for two years.  While life has been extremely kind to me and my family, I've always wondered about what else may be in store outside the artificial boundaries I have constrained myself to.

Nine thousand miles is a long distance to cover.  "Permanent" can be a long time.  And a life away from everything I knew and loved may be difficult to bear.  But the Prophet Muhammad Salallahu'alayhi wa salam taught us to live our lives as travellers, as there is nothing permanent about this life.  And Allah Subhana Wa Ta'Ala has made this earth vast, and has placed within it many colours and cultures for us to experience and learn from.  What better way to live that life and experience those realities than by taking that step into the unknown?

And with a new life coming into this world, isn't this an appropriate time to consider a new life for myself?

There's good in everything

We don't usually have control of our lives. We dictate a portion of it through our efforts and perseverance, but life has a way of throwing curves which none of us can anticipate, and which can't always be handled. Athletes, for example, might dedicate their whole lives to their sport, investing every moment toward being the best they can be - and then a serious injury befalls them, and everything they fought for is lost. It only takes a second, and their lives are changed forever. And all they have left are the memories and the lessons.

I've always believed that everything happens for a reason. The good, the bad, and everything in between: all circumstances help shape the people we become, paving the path in our miraculous journey that begins at birth. Not only does everything happen for a reason, but there is good in all that happens. Many may not agree, of course, with that last statement. What good, they ask, can be found in the circumstances that have driven people to poverty, war, and overall misery? One would have to dig very deep to find any reason for optimism. I don't have an answer, but just keep reminding myself that with hardship comes ease. Verily, with hardship comes ease.

Of course, we often have to make the good out of the worst situations; it doesn't always come automatically. And when it does, it is not normally apparent at the time - only in retrospect do we realize why things unfolded as they did. In my own life, one of the best things to happen to me was the direct result of what seemed like the opposite of all my aspirations. A disappointing failure and poor decision-making on my behalf lead to the most important and most memorable period of my personal growth. Such is life.

In the last two weeks, two minor trials befell me. The good in the first incident became apparent only hours after the incident. But a day removed from the second incident, I am struggling to identify why things happened as they did. It all seemed like bad news at the time, and still does. Only with that confidence that there is good in everything am I relating this incident now, so that I may revisit it later and look back upon the unnecessary pessimism of my past self.

* * *

It began when returning to my apartment in Ottawa after a weekend visit in Montreal. Fifteen minutes after leaving my parent's home, my car starting shaking violently, possibly due to ice and snow clogging the exhaust port. Uncomfortable with the drive and only minutes past the bridge off the island, I turned back towards Montreal to switch cars with my mother.

I dropped off my own car at home, grabbed the keys to the old Volkswagen Golf, and headed back towards Ottawa. It was a pleasant journey in that little car, even though I've driven the Ottawa/Montreal stretch hundreds of times. All was well as I approached my apartment building nearly two hours later.

I arrived at my building, and turned into the parking lot to enter the parking garage, the massive door still open from a car just ahead of me. I advanced my car through the door, and BAM! The whole car shook, the heavy garage door having dropped right on the car. Normally, sensors would dictate that the door remain open when any cars are in the vicinity, but on this occasion, perhaps due to the heavy snowfall throughout the weekend, something didn't click. After parking and exiting the car, I realized that the door hit me much harder than I thought, and the bike rack above the Golf was knocked right off, left outside on the other side of the garage door.

At first, I was extremely annoyed that within two hours of borrowing my mom's car, I already got into something of an accident, with some minor damage. I realized after, however, that if it were fate that a garage door would drop on my car, it was much better that it fall on the Golf with the bike rack, rather than my Cavalier with it's naked roof. The damage would have been much worse, and could have even resulted in personal injury. The bike rack, there to insulate the blow, was a blessing. Those minor car problems I encountered in my own car, forcing me to turn back and switch, may have helped me avoid a much bigger problem later on.

* * *

And two short weeks later, I was to return to Montreal. A long weekend, and an important one for me. I left work early Thursday afternoon in order to get a head start on my drive back.

I prayed my Zuhr prayer in the local musalla, where I spoke with the imam for a short while. It turned out that he was on his way to Montreal himself shortly, with a flight to catch to Bangladesh later that evening. He was scheduled to take the bus before 5pm, though he worried about having to pray his 'Asr prayer on the bus or at the bus station. He was reluctant to combine prayers when he didn't feel it was necessary to do so, so we decided to travel together in the newly rackless Golf. It was better for me as well, as I get terribly bored driving that 417 alone; all we needed to do was stop off at the Greyhound station to exchange the first segment of his Ottawa/Montreal Return ticket for a 25% refund, and we would be off.

We arrived at the bus station, which was busier than I had ever seen it in all the years I used to commute. I parked the car, while the imam waited in line to return his ticket. Fortunately for me, the spot I parked in happened to have 25 minutes left on the meter, so I thought I'd get out of the car and take a walk through the station. Bad idea. As the imam was approaching the end of the line, I returned to the car. Putting my keys in the ignition, I recited a quick prayer for travelling, and turned the key.

At least, I tried to.

The key wouldn't budge, no matter how hard I tried to turn it. I tried and tried, jiggling the key as much as I could, with no luck. The imam returned, sat down next to me with a smile, saying "challé": "let's go". "I have some bad news," I told him, as I continued my futile attempts at starting the car. He tried as well, to no avail.

It was almost 4:30pm by now, and after asking a number of friends and strangers if they had any ideas, we realized there was nothing we could do but send him back on the bus. He got back in line to buy a new one-way bus ticket to get back to Montreal, while I dropped to the back of the line for the bus itself, behind what seemed like over 200 people. The poor imam would not get a bus at 5pm, I was certain, given the rush at the station. So I waited for the bus with his luggage, while he waited in line to pay the full-fare, one-way ticket, which happened to be ineligible for student rates. After forking over the extra money, he returned to my place in line, and by 5:30pm, he was on a bus towards Montreal. Even if the bus sped down the highway with no traffic, he would be cutting it very close for his flight. Of course, he apologized profusely for all the trouble, though none of it was his fault. I realized, though, that if the roles had been reversed, I would be apologizing as well, in spite of having done nothing wrong per se.

I returned to my car, still stuck in the lot. My free 25 minutes was long gone, so I kept feeding the machine quarters until I had finally run out of both change and patience. The first few friends I called were unable to come and help, so I was waiting there alone. With no idea what do or what would happen in the next few hours, I considered calling my airline and cancelling my own flight that was scheduled for early the next day.

Finally, another friend arrived. Lucky for me, he was an owner of a new Jetta. The paperwork in his car included the new number for the Volkswagen roadside assistance number. I called, and after several levels of navigating the touchtone menu, I reached a customer service agent.

"I'm stuck in a parking lot of a bus station," I told them, "and my key won't turn. It was working just an hour ago, when I left to go to the bus station." I wanted to request a towtruck, thinking any attempts to start the car would be futile, as there seemed to be some significant mechanical problem. But as the agent explained what I should do, I figured I might as well entertain the suggestion.

"Press down on the break as hard as you can, while pushing the steering wheel to the right also as hard as you can", she said. "While doing this, try turning the key ... as hard as you can."

Like that would ever work, I thought. But I followed her instructions, the key not moving.. I kept pushing, and finally .. click, click, putt, putt, vroom - the car started! I couldn't believe it worked.

I thanked the Volkswagen agent and my friend, and decided that now, two hours after my planned departure, was no time to leave for Montreal; I would go home, pray, and leave later in the evening instead. I called the imam, who was still on the bus, to tell him that I made it out.

He was only half the distance to the airport, he told me. And he had his flight in just over an hour. He also lamented having to complete his prayer on the bus. There was little chance he would catch his flight. He told me, "everything happens for a reason; maybe this was a punishment for something, or it could be expiation for us. I was too tired to go to the mosque at fajr time this morning, so I prayed at home - maybe this was because of that." I have no idea. Maybe someday, I will look back on all this, and find some silver lining, but I felt no reason for optimism at the time.

I'm sitting on my own flight now, with no information as to whether the imam caught his flight. Perhaps this little test of patience was something I needed; perhaps I had become too confident with my extensive travel experience, and needed something to bring me back down to earth - both literally and figuratively. Maybe I needed that little challenge in order to prepare me for my own journey. Many would say it was all for naught; that sometimes, things just screw up, with no rhyme or reason, and there's simply nothing we can do about it.

Yet somehow, I know that all this happened for reason. And that there will be good in it, someday.

The Anti-Qiblah

A few weeks ago, I learned of a neat website which uses the Google Maps API to identify the direction of Qiblah (prayer direction towards Mecca) from anywhere in the world. Naturally, I thought to use it to answer a question that has intrigued me for some time: what is the polar opposite of the Qiblah? That is, where in the world can one pray in any direction and still be praying towards Mecca in the shortest possible line? What are you praying toward if you're off by a full 180 degrees?

My cousin and I searched through the South Pacific until we found that specific point, using the Qibla Locator tool. While the exact polar opposite point fell in the middle of the ocean, a nearby island caught our attention. It was a ring-shaped island, quite unlike anything I had seen before.


View Larger Map

At the outset, the island appeared uninhabited. Google's satellite view did a remarkable job in allowing us to zoom into the details, and there were no immediate signs of human interference. But in those details, we noticed something quite unusual: the uniformity of the vegetation. Many of the trees were aligned in an odd grid pattern, almost as if they were replanted after being destroyed somehow.



Looking deeper along the northern perimeter of the ring, we did find some signs of human intervention. There appears to be some sort of helipad, and a few buildings scattered around it. The buildings were nestled perfectly within the grid of trees, leading me to believe that the same people who replanted all those trees have raised those buildings.



It turns out that there are a number of such islands along the South Pacific. The ring shape is a naturally occurring formation called an atoll, but the tree patterns are definitely not natural. I do wonder what is going on in this most remote of locations, furthest away from Mecca. Perhaps it is a nuclear testing site, where scientists are studying the effects of radiation on reforestation efforts. Or maybe they've genetically re-engineered dinosaurs, for the sake of building a massive theme park. Perhaps it is something far less sinister. Either way, it makes for some interesting speculation.

A study in contrasts

Three days ago. Miami Beach.


Today, my car.


It's good to be home. :)

Photos: Seattle A bunch of random stuff

The rhinoceros from the previous post was used to identify one section of the parking lot at Butchart Gardens. That visit was at the tail end of my final Pacific weekend, in which I tried completing the last of my personal West Coast goals. I wasn't able to cross every item off the list, but I did come close.

The first segment of my weekend journey was a road trip to Seattle. I've always had a slanted perception of Americans, thinking they were impolite and crass. My last couple of visits to Chicago only reaffirmed those perceptions. But Seattle was different; it reminded me that in spite of the ridiculous, imperialist policies of the nation to the south, the average American is not that different from us. The few people of Seattle that I interacted with had a very Canadian personality, and the city itself felt no different than Vancouver.


Of course, I didn't anticipate getting stuck in traffic for over two hours before the border, allowing me just shy of three hours to explore the city itself. Fortunately, the border itself was uneventful, with my interrogation limited to two simple questions about my Middle Eastern travels.

On reaching Seattle, I had only a few precious hours to explore the city. All alone and with only a few handwritten notes on driving directions, I found myself lost quite quickly. After driving around in circles for twenty minutes, I finally found myself approaching downtown.



I wouldn't recommend attempting photography while driving 120km/h, but it was the only opportunity I had. Nearly all of my Seattle pictures were taken from the car.



The sky took an almost alien hue on my return. Being stuck at the border another ninety minutes allowed me to watch the full sunset against the Pacific ocean, which was an absolutely incredible sight.


Though my American sojourn was extremely short, seeing this sign was comforting; there's no place like home.


More pictures here.

I'll try to get the Victoria pictures up for tomorrow, with my closing thoughts on Vancouver and the journey thus far. I don't expect to post anything through all of Ramadhan.

Update 2007.09.15: I'm not going to write anything about the rest of the weekend, I'll just post links to my public photo galleries.
Victoria

From 2007-09-02 Do...

Wax Museum - warning: some disturbing pictures here

From 2007-09-02 Wa...

Butchart Gardens - very nice pictures here!

From 2007-09-02 Bu...

Photos: Serenity

I finally decided that it was time to buy myself a decent digital camera. My first attempt at camera ownership only lasted a few days; I bought an Olympus FE-115, went to Whistler and took about a hundred shots, then returned it a couple of days later. It was the cheapest one I could find, and understandably so. It was rather cumbersome to use, and took way too long between pictures.

My new camera is a Canon PowerShot SD1000, which I am absolutely loving so far. At first, I thought most of the features were somewhat useless; I never thought I'd need an "Aquarium" mode, for example. But lo and behold, only three days after the purchase, I found myself in an aquarium, face to face with some pretty amazing looking animals.



The jellyfish were quite a sight to behold. The near translucence of their structure was something I had never quite seen before in a living organism. Truly amazing, subhanAllah.



The sea otters were napping at the time, but they looked pretty darn cute and comfortable doing so.



It never ceases to amaze me how much beauty there is even in the smallest creatures in nature, subhanAllah.



The camera purchase was also partially one of my first steps in my farewell to the West Coast. It has been an amazing experience, and I thought it necessary to capture as much of it as possible before I leave for good. There are a few sights I will miss in particular.



This was a new one for me, though I had passed this way so many times. I am not entirely sure what the intent of this monument is; does anyone have any ideas?



My weekend ended at the Pacific Coast, just a few kilometres north of the American border.



This is a fairly cliché shot, but I assure you that the lens flare effect is not photoshopped in.



A man can get a lot of thinking done in a place like this. Of course, I've done more than enough thinking. It's time to take some action.

Coneheads redux

Canadian Islam 101: Wooden Domes? | Seeker's Digest

I'm loving this union of Islamic architecture and Canadian ingenuity. Seems like something out of Hobbiton, with a touch of Andalus on the side. As I start looking more deeply into the housing market, it's definitely something to think about.

Gee, had I known...

Canadians can now mention bombs, guns at airports | Reuters

Good news from the world of Canadian air travel! I think it might be safe to say that I'm at least among the top hundred most frequent air travellers among Canadian Muslims within the last sixteen months (over 250,000km so far), so anything that makes my travel safer is good for me.

So if I ever run into you at the airport, old friend, I'll greet you just as enthusiastically.

Photos: Easter Weekend

In the absence of relevant content, here are some photos from this past weekend. I think I tried to go for some artistic effects that I've seen done really well on Flickr, but in the absence of a tripod, and working with Shan's digital camera that ran out of batteries every ten minutes, the results aren't great.

Here are a few of them, anyway.

Defining Diversity

A few weeks ago, I was invited to a technology conference in the famous windy city of Chicago. Nearly 900 people attended, mostly North Americans but not exclusively, brought together by the prospect of stumbling upon that next great idea, and to hear from experts what the future may hold.

In the opening address, the host paid respect to the diversity of the crowd. And looking around, there certainly was a lot of variety; many colours and shapes, from the East and the West, and I certainly wasn't the only Muslim around. Browsing the guest list as I reached the hotel, I found at least a couple dozen Muslim names, mostly South Asians but a healthy dose of Arabs as well. And in that crowd of people, at the heart of corporate America, I actually felt like I fit in.

That feeling didn't last long. Surveying the audience, I noticed the uniformity of the participants. Yes, there were black people and Hispanics and Indians and Chinese people, but somehow they all looked the same. They all sounded the same, and they all dressed the same. There was an almost robotic feel to the crowd. In spite of the multitude of traditions and customs that their ethnicities may have been known for, in this forum, everyone followed a single custom, portrayed a single personality. Even as I first reached O'Hare Airport prior to the conference, I was able to easily identify others who were attending the same event simply by their appearance and gait.

At the end of each day, the inevitable alcohol would come out, and I would disappear off to explore downtown Chicago. I was saddened to see that a number of those participants with Muslim names gracing their nametags would be drinking along with everyone else, likely out of a desire to fit in with that crowd and make key connections with industry leaders. I was often told about how important it is to network with the senior people in the industry, and networking in corporate America invariably means sharing drinks with a person. In spite of all the ethnic diversity, social interaction was limited to the practice of only the corporate West. There would be no sipping tea with these managers, and no Tim Hortons to discuss all the issues of the day; alcohol was the fuel that built relationships in this world, and I had no interest in taking part.

As I wandered through Millenium Park (pictured above), I kept thinking that the diversity that was being applauded earlier was entirely superficial. Ethnic diversity means little if one loses all the uniqueness of that ethnicity, and religious diversity means nothing if there is no accommodation for religious difference. Of course, one can't please everybody, and what is a restriction for one may be an obligation for another. So where does that leave those who won't trade their values for the sake of fitting in? It usually leaves them on the outside looking in, and that will always be their personal challenge to overcome.

I've had the honour of working with a number of outstanding people who have seen diversity beyond the superficial recognition of its existence. I've been a part of some fantastic teams that embraced diversity not just in words, but in practice - and that definitely strengthened our effectiveness. But those appear to be exceptions, and on a large scale, whatever diversity exists in the corporate world still remains shallow.

It remains a challenge, and perhaps it should remain a challenge. Perhaps our strength lies in our ability to overcome societal norms. After all, few have ever achieved anything by simply following the course. Let the current flow as it may, we must hold our place.

Update 4.5.2007: More pictures here.

Surreal

Clearly, my Ramadhan break took a little longer than expected. It was a good one, though I spent nearly the entire month alone. Normally, I would break my fasts with my Jewish colleague, who skipped lunch for nearly the entire month out of "solidarity"; quite a departure from all the years of breaking fast with family, or the six years of Ramadhan at the University of Ottawa with 200 friends every evening. All that being said, Ramadhan did afford me a unique chance to be part of the community, and I quickly found my place at the nearest mosque. That particular community was a very different demographic than what I am accustomed to, but I somehow fit right in as the token young single guy.

I was a little surprised upon seeing the imam for Tarawih on the first day. He did not at all match the image of most huffaz and imams I grew up with. Rather, he seemed like the most typical Pakistani uncle you can think of, and I was somewhat disappointed. He recited fairly well, however, and made very few mistakes. Still, I was not entirely comfortable at the beginning.

A friend used to drive me home nearly every day after tarawih. One day, he commented, "the blind hafiz is amazing, isn't he?" The blind hafiz? I didn't know who he was talking about. But lo and behold, it turns out the imam I was reading behind was completely blind, even though he made no visible indications of being so. Instantly, I developed a great deal of respect for that imam, and any superficial thoughts I had of him as a typical Pakistani uncle quickly disappeared. That revelation also reminded me about the beauty of the Quran, and the miracle of hifz. It's an amazing thing, that adults, young children and even the blind equally have access to memorizing the most beautiful text in any language. It's something that appears to be quite common, but we must never lose our sense of awe at the magnificence of it all.

A person doesn't need to look far to see the signs of Allah. Whether it be witnessing the miracle of Quran memorization, or seeing the beauty of nature, the signs are all around us. As I once said in a speech I delivered a few months ago, we don't need to wait for the moon to split; there's enough evidence in our day-to-day life.

It seems fitting to include pictures from my trip to Whistler yesterday. My cousin made the trip down from Petawawa, and we had an awesome weekend traipsing the snowy mountains and navigating dangerous cliffside highways in a fun little Yaris. There's one more activity that I'm dying to try, so I just need to convince someone else to take a weekend trip to Vancouver and accompany me on another crazy adventure.


Lions Gate Bridge, on a typically wet, dark, and rainy morning in Vancouver.


In the valley between Whistler Mountain and Blackcomb Mountain.


A suspension bridge through the valley.


Snow sitting atop the needles of a Western Hemlock, with Usnea lichen hanging down, as gentle snowflakes fall in the background. This picture makes a great desktop wallpaper.

More pictures here: Flickr

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.

Sidewalk Afterthoughts

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.

Random observations on airline safety

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.

Musings in transit

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.

Whistler while you work

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!

 

Fly away

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.