- Did you hear Geant will start charging for plastic bags starting July 1st?

- What?

- That’s great right

-  So you now have to pay for plastic bags?

- Or buy reusable ones which they sell for 500 fils for a small one and 800 fils for a big one.

- But what if you’re doing your grocery shopping for the month?

- You still can use reusable bags

- How many reusable bags should I buy?  I’m sorry, but that is so inconvenient. They’re only making us pay more to get the plastic bags.

It is a bit. Using woven bags might not give the consumer the ultimate ease and handiness of plastic bags, but is that really all there is to care about?

I was going through BBC’s Have Your Say discussing whether Turkey should ease its scarf ban at higher education institutions. I must admit I do not know a great deal about Turkish politics, but I found the thread interesting nonetheless. The mass majority of comments opposing lifting the ban stated in a way or another that it-the scarf- is a political statement at best or a sign of women’s oppression.

Living in 2008 Bahrain, a country with a high percentage of females wearing some sort of head cover, it is very hard to relate to headscarves as political statements. In Bahrain, there is no one scarf. There is no one cover. There is no one style. Females in the streets, malls, educational institutions, government bodies may have a form of head cover, but even their reasons for doing so are various. The reasoning behind it may have a correlation with its style, type or fashion.

There are those who do it- voluntarily- out of religious beliefs, and those who do so out of the religious beliefs of their families, simply because they are asked to. A female in the latter category may happen to like the scarf, hence communicate that in the way she’s wearing it, or hate it, and again that can be communicated in its style. There is also those for which it is merely a cultural dress code, one that you would wear only within the constrains of this society, where women are expected to dress modestly with a certain de facto fashion and hence those are often rid themselves of it once in foreign country. There are those for whom the scarf is simply a cultural fashion, an extra piece of accessory which can be worn in funky ways. I can go on.

I know this is how current day Bahrain is. With head cover way too spread and way too diverse in the same time for anyone to draw connections with Islamism, secularism or otherwise. In Bahrain, you find secular political societies with female members with head covers. In Bahrain, daughters of supporters of Iranian revolution – covered or not- may know nothing more than the name of Ayatollah Khomeini about that political movement.

Has this always been the case? Those who lived their adulthood in the 80s tend to think otherwise. They say head cover at the time was linked to Islamism. My grandmother would not know what you are talking about if you imply linking women’s covering up with politics. That generation of women was simply raised to think women dress modestly, with no connection to politics or icons of any sort. My mother, on the other hand, would tell you about how you had to decide between being “communist” or “Muslim”- in those terms.  She would also tell you how religious icons were fought, and how people wanted to make a statement by clinging to what they believed was their right- freedom of belief. I assume she lived what is now referred to in Turkey as political Hijab/ non-Hijab. Not covering your head was as much of a political statement as was covering it. I do not envy them. 

“Not excatly” was mum’s reply when I complained why we were to have an Eidless Ramadan this year. “We are having Eid, we are just not having Eid lunch”. “So what is it we are having for Eid then, mother?”

She herself seemed rather distressed but tried hard to appear otherwise. She composed herself; “some of your aunts are leaving for a short break during the holiday” she explained. Both my paternal and maternal side of the family decided that there were too few of them to hold a feast for Eid. “We can go out for lunch, with your brothers” she proposed. I was still sore and annoyed and did not hold from stating that the idea did not appeal to me, and that I felt that my Eid was sabotaged- by everybody.

My brother felt quite the same, “You mean no one is gathering at all?” he said with an incredulous look when I broke the news to him four days ahead of Eid. “Is that some collaborative work to ruin Eid?” he questioned. In fact, it seemed that way.

It is moments like those that I feel that my society is caught up between its collective past and a newly introduced individualistic trend.  While I do not mind either ways of life, I indeed mind having to do with no Eid plans- thinking there would be the usual collective one- only to find out four days ahead that there won’t be, since everyone is having their own little plan or vacation. I would have loved a short city break somewhere, but how could I have left the grand annual gathering that follows the holy month? If I had done that then all would have complained- I wasn’t even considerate enough to put an effort to attend something that only comes once a year.

Who is to blame, for my Eidless Ramadan? I wondered. The problem persists, since the lack of Eid feast this year does not necessarily mean abolishing it for the years to come. You cannot possibly guess or plan ahead, simply live on hope that your pick of holiday style would the correct one: choosing to travel the year everybody decides to leave or staying the year they stay.

My uncle lamented the absence of his mother- my paternal grandmother- and commented on how this would have never been the case if she, may she rest in peace, was around. “See, they need the dictator to impose some discipline on them, they cannot even shoulder the responsibility of their own Eid” he said.

It feels good though, that I managed to gather those of my family who were left on the island and still got my ever-so-great maternal grandmother to cook her delicious Eid Feast which she religiously refused to have ready from any catering.

I do, indeed, find it gruelling to start my day without my morning coffee, not forgetting food and water of course. Towards sunset no longer am I craving food; but needing it. I like Ramadan, nonetheless.

I like Ramadan because it is the only time of the year during which all my family members gather for a meal- everyday. They are all punctual, too. I like Ramadan because it is a change from the year-round routine. People’s schedules, meals and greetings all change for Ramadan; I like how special Ramadan is treated. 

I like the change of air, just how I like the change of seasons and how life and people change to adapt for it. The snow, the coats, the boats, shorter days and longer nights, then the blossom, followed by the sun- flip-flops, beaches and dining alfresco style. A change seen nearly in all aspects of life- I love it.
 
Almost deprived from the four seasons, watching people revel in Ramadan is refreshing. Ramadan brings with it a feel of togetherness and a connection to tradition not seen any other time of the year.

It stays true though, that every year we manage to successfully sabotage its spirit and extinguish its spark squabbling about when it should start. No, we do not stop there; we squabble once again about when it should end. I care not about Wednesdays or Thursdays, for the joy of Ramadan and Eid would always be one.

In spite of some Ramadaners’ temper and confused start dates, Ramadan Kareem to all of you.

The night before last was indeed one of a kind. The 14th of the Arabic lunar month Sha’baan, the month preceding the holly month of Ramadan, is a spectacular day to visit Bahrain. A grand festival is held throughout the island’s villages and towns; the largest of which is held in the capital, Manama, where I spent my night. It is believed that the 15th Sha’baan is the birth date of the last Shia Imam, who is thought to be still alive since his birth in the 12th century. Shia believe that the Imam, called Al Mahdi, is their saviour, whose location is concealed from everyone awaiting the day of his expected return, in Makka. Nonetheless, a stroll in Manama last night is enough to show that the event metamorphosed from a religious congregation into an enchanting social event.
 
Free food and (soft) drinks is served to everyone. Short after sunset prayer (Maghrib), the narrow alleys of Manama were heaving with buffet tables that offered a wide range of dishes for the passers-by. Open barbecues, fried to order kebabs and dumplings, vine leaves, sandwiches, puddings and baklava are few amongst many one can pick while enjoying the background music of the Hussaini Studio Band meandering around the old town. Where the band was not present, was the Islamic DJ van, whose beat resonated through the neighbourhoods of Manama. Yes, all was for free. You are most likely to be receiving coins and treats (which used to be mostly chocolates and sweets but have now diversified to include miniature dolls and figures) from people around you.
 
Yet, there was more to be seen. Cork figures depicting various prophets are also seen. One that I can clearly recall was a cork figure of a big fish (whale) which has inside it a man praying, representing the story of prophet Jonah (Yunus in Arabic), which according to both the biblical and Qura’nic story was thrown overboard a ship and swallowed by a big fish. My hometown was resplendent in colours: paintings, figures and neon lights. Even the dusty walls of the old houses were draped in ornate hangings.

If it wasn’t for the humid August weather that makes our nights hotter than our days and the piles of litter along the sides of the streets I would say my night was perfect. Not any of the decoration or the festival modernization stopped people from littering the streets with empty plastic cups, plates and tissues.  Towards the end of the festival, you could see lines of white – everywhere. It was such a painful scene, given how much time and effort people put into making this event perfect, but not when it comes to rubbish.

I was, however, positively surprised by how naturally everything happened. No forced segregation lines between the ladies and the gentlemen or dictated code of conduct. People were simply themselves: conservative, yet not all the way, allowing themselves to simply enjoy the moment. The happy look on people’s faces, not distracted by beads of sweat on their foreheads really made my night.

I was flipping through all the lame radio channels in my car, when I heard the voice of a young lady introducing herself in language that was so far away from my daily life and so deep into my childhood that it brought with it nothing but nostalgia. I stopped my search for a bearable song and intently listened to the stranger on the radio introducing herself. I did not know why or what is it in her voice that made it different. The way she vocalized her vowels and consonants, her intonation, the neutral accent that made it almost impossible to guess where she came from, and the innocence of her voice; where all things that took me back to the days I watched a TV show called Al-Manahil as a kid.

All the way to my house I indulged in listening to Haneen recite her poem, light and rhymed, beautiful words of a 23 year old Algerian student whom I listened to for the first time. I loved it. For once I wished my journey home would last longer. When I googled her name I realized she was a contestant of the Prince of Poet competition aired in Abu Dhabi TV. Amongst my search I came across Tamim Al-Barghouthi, another contestant who made me spend the rest of the night replaying his poem, Al-Qudus.

I felt attached to the sound of the language he used. He sounded as if he came from long ago, from a time where people spoke Arabic for their daily life, from an old historical TV show whose actors did not replace one consonant with another, from a cartoon dubbed for kids when dialects were not used for cartoons. “There are still such poets” I told my younger brother, and I was both happy and amazed with the realization that, yes, there are still some people who can write a poem that both has such a deep meaning and rhythm. I could think of nothing but how much this language means to me, how strong the feel of belonging and identity is, how all those contestants living hundreds of miles apart can still feel there is something that ties them together, regardless of how different they all are.

While helping a European colleague learn Arabic I remember him once suggesting that standard day Arabic should no longer be one language. The difference between all spoken Arabic accents is so vast that it’s time they are all classified as different languages- Bahraini, Egyptian, Iraqi, Lybian and so on. I disagreed. “They are all subsets of the mother language”, I argued. “If you can speak the mother language, you can easily understand its subsets”. That was the virtual reason for why I refused to believe they are different languages.

The real reason, however, was much deeper than that. It was far deeper than mere linguistics. Although no nationalist, I did not want Bahraini to be a different language, I wanted it to be just a variation of the great mother Arabic, I wanted that tie with the past and present, I wanted the glory of the once upon a time great language of Imru' al-Qais and Al-Mutanabbi. Having a Bahraini language would mean having to start from now, it would mean leaving behind the rich history- regardless of good or bad. It would mean that no longer can I say that we were or were not, that no longer can anything belong to me, but to them, the Arabs, and I still want to be one.

He greeted me every morning as I opened the backdoor and entered the office. Some time back when I first joined I had asked for a cup of coffee, with cream and no sugar. Ever since, every day at the same time he would come with my morning coffee. He received my “Thank you” with a wide smile, “welcome madam” he would say back. At times when I was stressed and so were my colleagues he seemed to be the only smiling face in the office. Malcolm was different- he did everything cheerfully. More than once my co-worker had commented on how good our “office boy” was that maybe the company should consider opening a restaurant. 

While asking him to move some boxes I clearly remember the probably only chat I have had with him. I asked why he was not considering working directly for the company, rather than for the agency that is contracting him to us. I offered to talk to the manager about it, as I had no doubts everyone in the office loved Malcolm. He said he could not. He signed a binding contract with the company who paid for his Visa and expenses, and he had to finish the four-year contract with them, or pay a big sum of money which he could not afford. His hometown is Mangalore, India. He spoke English well enough to communicate flawlessly with all of us, and I never knew or asked what his mother tongue was.

Two weeks ago I was surprised my coffee was black, but I did not even think twice about it. Later that week someone had asked for their water bottle to be filled, and I watched as Malcolm carried the bottle away, and then back, empty. He had just moved some boxes out of the store when he, for some obscure reason, moved them back in. It was evident that same afternoon that something was wrong with Malcolm. He stopped responding, sat on his chair staring at the empty space and saying nothing. He was repeatedly asked what was wrong with him with at no avail. Finally I asked a co-worker who spoke his mother tongue to ask him to go home and rest, but also to try to find out what was wrong with him.

He told her about his girlfriend, a famous Indian singer whose songs were frequently aired in the radio. He asked her to sing, and asked her if she herself was a singer. He said random things about how he could not leave the office because he should be serving water, coffee and lunch.

Some, like many of you might be, found it hard to believe that Malcolm was not mentally stable anymore, but he was. He was not acting because he has stolen something like some had suspected. When asked if he has taken anything from the office he enthusiastically said yes, and even named the very person who was interrogating him, along with Jesus, as the people who helped him to steal. He seemed rather happy saying it. On his last day in the office he was exercising and dancing to the rhythm of music that he was singing.

His agency was notified and his replacement was there next morning. The contact person in the agency did not even seem sceptical or surprised. He even offered to check Malcolm’s room to find out whether he is a kleptomaniac. They did, and all they found in his room was two pairs of shoes, and three pairs of his uniform. That was all Malcolm’s property that next day when he was leaving to Mangalore he was only carrying a plastic bag on him.

Never will I forget Malcolm or his smile. How little I knew about him the person. How I had previously been under the impression that Malcolm was amongst the luckier ones whose office had nice people who never shouted at him and always thanked him for what he did. When Malcolm was gone I was disgusted with myself for what I, shut in my own world, had previously thought.

He worked in our office from 9 to 5. He then worked at a hotel from 6 to 1. The weekend was shared between the two premises. He lived in a room where there was nothing but his uniform, and as per his earlier conversations with some staff members, he had no friends. He only spoke to those in our office, on the random occasions when my likes thought about chatting with the “office boy”. He was alone. In a foreign country among people who spoke a different language, most of which are better-off than he was. He had no right to quit or change jobs, and he did not have the money to arrange for his emancipation. He was a legal slave, with little attention from everyone.

He left, to his hometown; his legacy from Bahrain was only a plastic bag.

I can see it through the glass walls of my office. There it lies, still blue, nonetheless. Every other day, I also track any visible changes to some of Bahrain’s biggest forthcoming projects: Bahrain Financial Harbour through the left wall, Bahrain Bay through the right.

Admiring eyes surround the Financial Harbour, anticipating businessmen, clients who envy us the privileged view. Once and again I looked at the massive structure by the shore, fixing my gaze I tried so hard to admire it. I never could.

What now looks like a lake to the side of the Harbour is full of nice boats, boats that remind me of nothing but of the Islands of Pearls. Bab Al-Bahrain is also there, now a door to an elapsed era.

Maybe I could have had some passion towards our new skyscrapers; maybe I could have seen them as national symbols, if only they did not despoil the sea, if only they did not exterminate precious fish species.

The view evokes vivid images in mind, created by verses of Al-Gosaibi’s poetry in “The Island of Pearls”. Fighting tears in my eyes I hear the concerned voice of a colleague: “Why do you look, if it bothers you so much?”.

I do not know. Maybe look because I care. I look because for years when I was away I dreamed of when the moment comes and I can once again see those very shores and inhale the sea breeze. I look because like a lover, passion drives me to visit, once again, the beloved.

We have the fake Lulu Islands (Pearl Islands), we have the fake Amwaj (Waves), we have the fake Durrah (Large Pearl), we will soon have the fake Asdaf (Seashells).But like many, I yearn for the real seashells, the real pearls, and the real waves.

I feel alien in my hometown. I feel away, in my own country.

غازي القصيبي - جزيرة اللؤلؤ

لا هــذه أرضـــي..  ولا
أهلـي لـدي.. ولا الحبـيـب

 [...]

أرضي هناك مع  الشواطـئ..
والـمـزارع.. والـسـهـول

في موطن الأصداف.. والشمس
المضـيـئـة..  والنـخـيـل

أمي هنـاك.. أبـي.. رفاقـي
نـشـوة العـيـش  الظلـيـل

حيـث الحيـاة تمـر  صافيـة
مـعـطــرّة الــذيـــول

حـلـم شـهـي  الـطـيـف
تقنـع منـه عينـي  بالذهـول

أرضي هناك .. مع الشواطـئ
والـبـحــار الأربــعــة

والأفق.. والشفـق المخضّـب
حـيـن يـنـثـر  أدمـعــه

فتـظـل ترمـقـه الـمـيـاه
كـأنـهـا تـبـكــي معــه

حـيـث المـسـاء  يـطــل
في صمت ويخطر فـي دعـه

ويعانـق الآفــاق..  يمـنـح
كــل قـلــبٍ  أذرعـــه

الضوء لاح.. فديـت ضـوءك
فـي السواحـل يـا  منـامـه

فـوق الخليـج أراكِ زاهـيـة
الـمـلامـح ك  ابتـسـامـة

المرفـأ الغـافـي وهمسـتـه
يـهـنــئ بـالـسـلامــة

ونــداء مئـذنـة  مـضـوأة
تـرفــرف كالحـــمـامـة

يـا موطـنـي ذا  زورقــي
أوفـى عليـك فخـذ  زمامـه

The Fatwa was in a way revoked. Al-Azhar suspended Dr. Ezzat Attiya following his controversial adult-breastfeeding Fatwa. The notorious Fatwa gained fame in no time, with widespread criticism. Stupid, idiotic, insulting, funny, hilarious, offensive, backwards, and many others were familiar words when referring to the Fatwa and the cleric who promoted it.

Suspending Attiya or expelling him, although does stand to show Al-Azhar’s disagreement of such a Fatwa, does little to solve a major problem. Yes, there is a problem that is far beyond a creative Mufti, far beyond someone who was high and came up with an inspired solution, and far beyond this very Fatwa.

Alayam reported that the majority of clerics unanimously believe that the Hadith appearing in both Sahih Moslim and Bukhari about breastfeeding adults – is Sahih (authentic), yet disagree on the implication of that on their Fatwas. “Unpracticed” was the license this Hadith gave to Muslims for the past 1400 years. Opinions range from “a specific license given to the women in the Hadith for a particular case” to “a Sahih Hadith with an opinion that conflicts the majority of Muslim clerics, hence left unpracticed”.

Dr. Attiya did not bring something new, he did not bring something that did not exist, and he did not bring something from a disputed source. He pointed to a Hadith that, according to Hadith classification, is considered as authentic. If such it was categorized, then why was he suspended and attacked, for working accordingly? And why is it that the majority of Muslim clerics have an opinion that counters an authentic Hadith?

The problem lies in the classification of Hadiths per se, our refusal to discuss or tackle the problem of such Hadiths, still insisting on their authenticity on one hand, and struggling with the consequences on the other, as people start suggesting we practice the message of an authentic Hadith. Why not, if it was authentic? Yet the common sense of most people refuses to accept the unacceptable, not even through a feeding bottle.

Such a situation is not unexpected, when Chinese Whisper is the only way of passing on religion from a generation to another. Muslims have had a tendency of not critiquing Hadith texts, and what happened –at best- was to ignore them. The amount of Hadiths found today and their content is a clear indication that a lot of these are bogus, especially with Hadiths having contrary messages, or outrageous messages like breastfeeding adults.

Sticking to the scriptures is fine, but if that would lead us to losing the original message then it is time to wake up. It is high time we had a major reform and a fundamental change.

“I just bought a 70-kilogram cooler of prawns yesterday. The prawns were so small, such a pity” he said. I casually asked when the fishing season for prawns started, since I did not know it did. “It did not” was the answer I got.

That should have probably been the end of the conversation, but I could not let it be. Why did he buy 70 kilograms of illegally fished prawns when he certainly did not have to? Not for business, I know that much for sure.

“But it is prawns reproduction season. You are practically not letting the prawns reproduce”. “We cook prawns Machboos every year on the commemoration of Imam Ali’s death. Whenever I have that quantity of prawns available I have to snatch it and stock it”.

Now his reasoning not only made me feel worse, but rather appalled. That occasion is supposed to be a spiritual one, a religious philosophy celebrating sacrifice, fighting for the cause and devotion. How that can mandate fishing prawns when it is endangering our ecological system is beyond me. Now I did not only feel bad for the poor prawns, but also for the poor occasion.

Could not your Machboos be lamb or chicken? Could you not wait at least, with the occasion being four months away (21st Ramadan)? How about dried prawns – popular for Machboos in Bahraini cuisine?

I said I felt it is haram to fish for prawns now. Yes, haram with a small H, since I meant haram with its Arabic linguistic meaning – unfair. It was communicated as Haram – not allowable in Islam – and I went with the flow. I was accused of devising Fatwas that are not part of Sharia books. Indeed, no Sharia book talked about fishing at the wrong season, and no Hadiths were found to support my Fatwa.

Only I felt my Fatwa, although not at first intended as one, was right and well-justified. I wondered what Prophet Mohammed or Imam Ali would have said about destroying our marine life. I also wondered if those occasions are losing their original aim, or have they, already?

With such a mentality about marine life, are we really expecting the government to respect and preserve our environment, and not destroy our Fashts or reclaim our sea?

It has been a week of environmental shock and pain.