The Burgeoning Weight of the World

There seems to be no stopping in this world of turmoil and despair issued by a very few to a very many.  As the situation grows more and more relentless and hopeless in Syria, as the threat of an Israeli attack on Iran becomes more and more realistic, where are we to turn for the thought that tomorrow might be better?  Where do we reach to find within ourselves the strength to move on and keep smiling?  To keep loving, and to continue being compassionate?

I met a man once that asked me if I knew.  I said, “Know what?” He said, “Do you know about the Prophet, Peace and Blessings be upon him.”  And I replied “Peace and Blessing be upon him.”

This man was no man, but an angel sent by Allah in my moment of need.  We spent three hours together working on my car and it was not until we were preparing to say goodbye that we found this deliberate commonality between us and my heart melted and subsequently flooded with the light and love of Allah.  The good graces of the Lord were there watching over me and just at the very moment I could not have asked anyone else for help, there stood Larwin Dutton.  A man walking in the light of Mohammed and speaking the words of Gabriel.  He told me that he had had a brain aneurysm that had left him paralyzed for two years, he had had heart failure, he moved across the country for a job that was denied to him when he got here because of his race and yet he was one of the nicest men I have ever had the pleasure of meeting in my life.

Our conversation after we said assalaam alaikum was concentrated in its depth of how to move on in times of strife and struggle.  He said to me, “Sister, all you have to do is step on faith.  Know that under each of your feet is the graceful hand of Allah guiding you to exactly where you need to be, so walk on, and step on your faith.”

As a muslim that re-found her faith just three years ago, the best examples have been those truest to their love of Allah and none other.  Those that remember that everything happens is for a reason that we often cannot understand and that the day we see our brothers killing brothers is the day we must muster more compassion than ever before, breathe la ilaha ilallah, and move forward with grace and power in whatever it is we must do.  We must not forget that as compassionate as the Prophet was, (pbuh) he too wielded a sword when it was necessary.

These times we live in are trying, yes.  They are trying our faith and our strength and it is just in this moment that we must redouble or retriple our efforts to be good muslims and practice Islam~  The Art of Surrender.

 

Please, my brothers and sisters, stay strong and we shall see the Light of Mohammed prevailing on earth together, either from this side or the other.

 

Bismillah ar-Rahman ir-Rahim

 

~Mani De Osu

Syrian Taqwacore

DIY DAMASCUS: INTERVIEW WITH SYRIAN PUNK BAND, MAZHOTT.

Posted by falafelwarrior, (Marwan Kamel) December, 2009

Everything is more complicated in the Middle East, even playing punk rock.

It’s difficult for us, punks in the First World, to really understand true love for punk. We’re spoiled. With somewhat cheap equipment, tons of places to play, and no one determining what you can say,  starting a band in the US is relatively easy.

This is Damascus, though. If you want to play punk, you need to really want to. The hand of politics is everywhere. Both US foreign policy and domestic law can make or break your band:  trade embargoes determine whether or not you can get equipment and censors make it difficult to speak about any real issues.  While the suffocating restrictions and obstacles are annoying, the fact that the punks exist is a testament to their perseverance.

In this interview, Rashwan, from Syrian band, Mazhott (Diesel in Arabic), shares their story about playing their brand of Arabic-infused, old school, pop-punk.

So, how did Mazhott start? Why did you start the band? Tell me the story behind it

Me and Dani, the drummer, started around 2007. I had a couple of songs that I had written, and I was “bandless,” but then we called up a few friends to get a bassist. We called it, “mazhott,” because it’s a funny word in Arabic, so we thought it had a certain shock value. This kinda name had never been used for a band name before [here]…

It’s a funny word, but it also reminds me of the petrol sellers that come around in the morning for heating oil. Did this have any effect on it?

Well that was the idea, a catchy, unusual and everyday name. And its not a very loved thing–the heating oil or the sellers,
because of the noise they make…

[laughing] That shit can be annoying… So, instead of hitting metal gas tanks, you’re doing it with electric guitars. Are there a lot of kids in Syria that are into punk?

There are, but they are mostly after what’s on TV. And since Green Day’s American Idiot went big, punk has been spreading–although people don’t know what punk is, so we’re trying to let them know ..

Yeah, it’s difficult to face up to the pop music industry. It seems like anyone that is trying to do something new, has to find a way to spread their music underground. Are you guys handing out your demos for free? How did you guys record?

Well,  I recorded everything at home, using Fruity Loops for drums and a small, [chat] mic for the rest. We’re try to hand out CD’s
and promote them on the internet, but it’s still very underground.

Man, you guys are tech savvy.  The last time i was in Syria, there weren’t that many computers around at all.

[Laughing] .. Well, it has improved in this context, but not so much on the internet, though. I mean, I’ve been telling people for ages to check out our songs online, but they just look surprised. Yeah, I am telling you, man, people are crazy lazy over here.

That can be a problem in terms of DIY, but you are pulling it off. Did you guys have any problems starting the band, like in terms of equipment or even in terms of getting a space to play?

We still have [problems], man.  I only have a guitar, but no amp, and Akram and Kareem (guitar/bass) don’t either. We still don’t have a place to practice, so we have to rent a place each time, and it’s pretty fucking expensive. It’s like almost impossible to get a gig, unless you’re very lucky, so we play for free all the time, whenever we get the chance.

You mentioned to me before that you guys canceled your last show because people were “fucked up”? What did you mean by that?

Well, the audience would have thrown eggs and tomatoes at us and beat us up, man.  So, we decided not to do it, because they were not the kind of people who would appreciate out music or anything like it.

Yeah, I guess that’s always a problem with shows. It’s never good to not play to the right crowd. You guys need the crowd that comes with a bunch of beer. I usually like to wait until people are drunk to start playing. You guys need to get sponsored by Barada Beer (Syrian national beer brand).

[Laughing] We are thinking about it, actually.

You guys have played in some pretty cool places though, like in el Medine 2edime (Old City). How do you guys pull that stuff off?

We got lucky actually, but having Arabic lyrics helps. There aren’t many places to play here except the Old City, so whenever a band wants a gig, they go there first.

Have you played in other cities in Syria yet?

No, not yet. There’s no such thing as touring here, and the percentage of people that listen to rock, in general, is very limited too.

There’s a lot of metal in the Middle East these days, but punk is a different ballgame. Why do you think that there aren’t that many other punk bands forming?

Well, the thing is, people, here, don’t care much about either punk or metal. So, anyone that plays an electric guitar is a metal-head
in Syria, and [they] think punk is silly, or whatever. Metal fans say it’s too easy, so it’s not good enough. But, normal kids like it, somehow, because it’s more poppy in a way.  You know?

Yeah, and metal is sort of banned here, so it’s difficult for us (Syrian punks) too, since we’re connected to it.

I think that also might have to do with lyrics too. Metal lyrics can be really cheesy, sometimes. Maybe, your lyrics are more relevant to peoples’ lives. What do you guys sing about?

We sing about stuff that matters to young people, in general, and social [issues]. [For example], the high school diploma, here, is unbelievably difficult, so, we wrote about that. We wrote about fathers forcing their young daughters to marry older men, about our generation that is frustrated and lost and don’t know wot to do with their lives,  about less separating of boys and girls, and about how we need more attention and freedom.

So, why do you think that punk and metal are banned? Does anyone cause complications for you guys playing at all?

Well, metal fans, here, are considered Satanists, so they’re opposed by everybody. And, yes, we have had some problems of that kind, but not big ones, since we sing in Arabic, which is a very positive thing, actually. People can relate more to the songs and it’s something new, so they get more interested. I think, since we’re an Arabic-speaking country. it would be stupid to write songs in English.

Yeah, I know what you mean. A lot of bands, in the rest of the world, think that it’s better to write songs in English because it’s more international. But, punk is always local at heart, and it’s our way of talking about things that matter to us. I guess, it’s difficult to do that in syria, without getting too political, so that you don’t have any “friends” from the government come visit you.

Yeah, we try to stick to social stuff. We have a song about corruption, though, “Baba.” If you’re a son of someone, or know someone important, people treat you different–or they treat others, with no connection, in a bad way. You know? Those things ..

Do you think that the future of punk in Syria is different from the rest of the Middle East?

I don’t know, actually, but I sure hope so. Rock bands are realizing the importance of writing in Arabic, which could make a better future for rock, in general, including punk. But, punk is getting noticed anyway–much more than it used to.

So, what’s coming up for Mazhott? recording?

Yeah, hopefully,  and more gigs!

How can people get in contact with you or hear your music?

They can email us on Myspace at http://www.myspace.com/mazhott or http://www.reverbnation.com/mazhott or on our group on Facebook.

Hey, I’ve gotta go the place (internet cafe) I’m at is closing.  Salam.
Alright, Peace.
-Marwan

~Now, this was before all of the protests and the revolutionary spark.  We are waiting to hear back from Marwan about the state of Mazhott and how they are holding up during all of this upheaval.  Insha’allah they are all well and staying strong.  Insha’allah.

Punk Muslimah

 Donna Ramone on Islamophobia in the Punk Scene

Graffiti on a wall in Manama, Bahrain. (Photo by Donna Ramone)

“You’re MUSLIM?”

“I guess. I’m an Arab. It happens. So?”

“Nothing… it’s, just that I thought you were Mexican is all.”

And suddenly it all goes one of two ways: Things get crazy awkward while they have to deal with new feelings, or it becomes my one and only defining characteristic. I try not to be offended and try and see things from their perceptive, but it’s really hard sometimes since this has always felt like something I felt alone. I mean, when was the last time you ran into a muslim punk girl? Exactly.

I heard the Ramones when I was 12 and THAT became my religion. I didn’t want to be the weird muslim kid, I wanted to be the weird punk kid. So I was, and didn’t really offer up who I was culturally. Then suddenly I started to encounter weird moments I wasn’t ready for. In high school people would learn I was an arab muslim and try and joke it off with “Don’t blow up my house!”Haha…wait. No, fuck you. That’s not funny. In college, in our post 9/11 America, I ran into people saying a lot of awful things at shows. One guy tried to tell me how he didn’t like arabs since he had friends out there in the military dying, and somehow this was the entire ethnicity’s fault. I let him know I also had friends in the military… on both sides. Another guy, not realizing I was from the Middle East, in a political discussion told me, and I quote, “You have to admit that the world would be a better place if we just paved over the Middle East.” But then Fat Mike came out with the “Not My President” campaign and things 180-ed.

Word gets around and suddenly everyone is extra super saccharine nice to me. My boyfriend and I started a punk venue in Chino, California (that was recently shut down by the city) so I’m getting my ass kissed from every angle. “Yeah, that girl right there owns this place- AND SHE’S MUSLIM.” I got this insane backwards punk cred. And I can’t decide what’s worse: people being truthful but awful, or people being fake and really nice.

I am muslim. I do speak arabic. I don’t wear a hijab. I do drink alcohol. I don’t eat pork. I fast during Ramadan. I don’t pray five times a day.Yeah, confusing I know. Islam is a religion that seems so strict and marginalized, doesn’t it? Even I didn’t believe there was such a thing as a “moderate muslim” and renounced the religion of my birth. But now, thanks in part to the book The Taqwacores by Michael Muhammed Knight, I’m able to come to terms with who I am- and I fucking love who I am. I love my culture, it’s beautiful and amazing and everyone should see that about it.

And if some assholes can’t see that and want to be islamophobes, I exist to prove everything they believe about Islam wrong.

Donna Ramone ran The Warehouse at 12th & G in Chino, CA until the recent clampdown. She likes the Ramones in an unhealthy way. Find her online at facebook.com/TheWarehouseAt12thandG and donnaramone.tumblr.com.

You might also want to check out stfuislamophobes.tumblr.com.

Khadija and Aisha

Khadija showed my how to wrap my hijab and Aisha whispered in my ear, “I love you!”  The sweetest faces both young and old I had never been told so much love and out of this little face I could see the Prophet’s love loving me as a woman of faith I wept  in my heart for the time and space traveled for the message.  There is no place like the heart of a believer and the heart of the believer is warm and friendly.  Kind like Allah and generous in the face of all, Tawqacores, we believe in the truth and beauty of Allah in Islam we have surrendered our hearts and minds allowing them to rest on faith in the capable hands of the created creation knowing it to be all full of grace and love.

As salalm alaikum, my dear Taqwacores, wa rahmatulahi wa barakatuhu.

Alif Ba

No, Sir, I’m Not Planning A Revolution.  I Am The Revolution.

 

If I place my hand in yours,

My Beloved,

You will guide me on the straight path.

The path on which Thou hast bestowed favour.

 

To move without hesitation is to know

You have placed your hand in His

And that in that placement your hand has become His

And He is the Knower of All

And the Most Certain.

 

Whoso knoweth himself knowest his Lord

And we who know are blessed with kindness and mercy from the King.

When we forget, we feel the biting sting of loss of self.

The loss of space around us,

The abandon of the beating of our hearts.

When we forget we cannot hear

And we cannot act.

We cannot do His work any longer

And we are no longer able servants.

 

To not be of servitude is of the greatest agony.

The ecstasy gone and not but torment remains.

In this whence we said “Yes,”

We are obliged to be dutiful to our Lord, Master of the Universes.

We are bound by that which we desire

And we desire and are desired to know.

We desire to know nothing but the Alif.

We desire to be nothing but the Ba

And we claim with all our might,

Our right to servitude.

 

And when we witness Seraphim fly

We are in the presence of the Divine

And we are home.

 

Letter from a Taqwacore

by Sadiya Abjani

I am a hated breed. By day one way, by night another. When the sun rises, I put on clothes after morning ablutions and prayer, and make my way to a college campus littered with my kind. I feel entirely alone, but show nothing but a loquacious vibrancy. I employ the day in learning about others like me, but not. I spend the day being out staged by those who are smarter than me, but not. At night, alone in my bed, covered by a veil of secrecy, I listen to music and fly. I have believed, for an excruciatingly inordinate amount of time, that I am alone. Not only am I hated by other Muslims, but I am not well accepted by those like me either. I do not believe that there is a choice, that there are many ways to live my faith. And then one night, I hear The Kominas.

I live two lives, and serve two masters. My ibadaat is spread between Allah, and Steve Jobs. My Zakaat consists of buying Ethos Water at Starbucks, and sending money to the Aga Khan Foundation. Yes I am an Ismaili, and yes I know I am not well accepted, or liked, by the majority of Islam. I’m ok with that. I understand why others hate me, and why my people have some of the bloodiest pasts. We are the Hashashin, the Shi’at al-Ali, labeled the Fatimid Cowards, and the human worshiping kafirun. Al-Ghazali despised us, and Farhad Daftry made us famous again. Living in secret and being hated by brothers in faith does unusual things to a person’s psyche. How does a punk Muslim survive in a faith that is already considered to be on the fringes of acceptability? How does this purple-haired individual stretch the already thin cord of her diin, and not feel like a kafir?
In the Ismaili faith we are taught to keep a balance between diin and dunya, taught to spend an equal amount of time in search of material and spiritual success. So many dualities to live, so many juxtaposed realities: material and spiritual, acceptance and rejection, visibility and secrecy. It becomes impossible to keep ones own secrets, improbably not to be torn in so many opposing directions. Rebellion is instituted as a way of life, but sometimes you forget what you are rebelling against.

I was a muslim all my life, but I became a Muslim in 10th grade. Faith was never forced on me; it was something I accepted when I was ready. I fell in love with my diin, with my people. I went to college, majored in Islamic Studies, working on a Double Bachelors in Islam as I write this. The more I delved into the history and modern perspectives of Islam, though, the more disheartened I became. Modern Islam made no sense to me, an antiquated faith in the 21st century – a macabre comedy of errors resulting in the death of thousands of innocents. I dyed my hair purple, and thoughts of a dragon tattoos swirled in my head, while my professors droned on about how the Arabic root S-L-M meant submission and peace. I stopped going to Jamatkhana on Fridays, stopped paying attention to the words of my Imam. In the deep chasm of my despair, I held on to hope though. I still volunteered at my Jamatkhana, still hoped that the knowledge I gained would help my future Jamat. I wanted to help them avoid the dark secret I had stumbled on to: there is no Islam that is mine, personalized faith is a hoax, and organized religion is a system – one can either be a cog in the machine, or be destroyed in uncertainty.

Broken and spiritually destitute, I discovered Taqwacore. A disgusting and messy collision of material and spiritual; Islam the way it should have been all along. A Taqwacore does not practice his faith; he lives it, knowing that shit happens and that life is messy, but that faith cannot be extricated from the shit. Islam has a future, it does not have to dwell in the glory of the past, and it does not have to espouse western material ideology in order to continue its existence under cover of apologetic sermonizing. Islam can be the proverbial phoenix, rising from the ashes of its past transgressions. In order to do so, though, Muslims must remember that Islam once existed in the public sphere, and it should be so today. Before it was packed up and compartmentalized into the private sphere by the will of western religious norms imposed on eastern society, the Muslim faith existed in each and every moment of life. Islam was once on every breath in a man’s body, no matter where hewas or what he was doing. In hiding our faith, in moving it behind a veil, we no longer live it, and so are torn by dualities; unnatural norms we have trouble understanding and surmounting to find the hidden Truth.

As an Ismaili, I’ve realized that many of my ilk are incredibly apologetic. We walk up members of the Umma and beg for acceptance. It is a useless waste of time. I now walk into Jamatkhana with a revolving door of hair colors, plans for a tattoo, and more knowledge of Islam than anyone knows. I do so not in rebellion, but in complete and utter submission to my diin. I can no longer imagine a faith separate from my modern life, there are no problems joining the two. I am an Ismaili, a Hashahiin, a member of the Shi’at al-Ali, a Fatimid Coward and an alleged kafir, I am a Muslim. I am Taqwacore.