A little over two weeks ago, I was looking forward to Ramadan – my first Ramadan in the Middle East. My excitement stemmed from the idea that Ramadan in the Middle East should be an especially holy and spiritually enlightening period. A far cry from the Ramadan we had in Los Angeles, a minority group keeping its faith alive by individual effort during the day, conglomerating for the warmth of the faithful at iftar in the evening. Also different from a Ramadan in Pakistan, where ‘being Muslim’ is so taken for granted, that it is almost forgotten by many. If the ritual is followed at all, then the ritual trumps the sentiment, and the sentiment barely enters the equation.
In the Middle East, I anticipated a different world – fervent prayers, daras, and what not… A whole population devout and obedient to Islam. This is what I looked forward to. This is what I meant to partake in. We are now approximately in the middle of the holy month of Ramadan here in Bahrain... And I have barely experienced any of the things I had wished.
It’s strange to think – to look back over the past month of my new housewife-hood, and reflect. I have long believed in the idea that housework has meaning – the ability to make a home out of a house, the ability of put love into every little task and hence transform a mundane act of manual labor into an act of love, even one of worship – this belief caused me to settle down happily into the work I had to do.
My theory made the housework lighter, easier, and more joyous; hence it was no wonder that it was easy for me to start it with a glow of contentment. But, upon reflection, what was perhaps slightly unusual for me was that I seldom needed to revisit my theory in the time that ensued. Except for when I was writing about it or answering somebody’s questions regarding it, I seldom thought about my belief myself. It could partly be that I believe in it so staunchly that I hardly need to revisit the theory – but I think that it is largely due to the nature of the work itself that you hardly stop to think.
Housework is an ongoing process – in short, it never ends. Its demands are urgent, and need to be fulfilled on the spot. I no longer have to contend with a deadline for, say, the following Thursday. If the food isn’t cooked NOW, there will be nothing to serve for iftar. If the dishes aren’t washed NOW, there will be a visible mess through the rest of the day. The clothes must be washed NOW, they must be dried NOW, they must be put away NOW. The chicken must be thawed out NOW, the oil must be prepared NOW, the bed must be made NOW. NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW. The demands are constant, and pressingly urgent. There are no two ways about it. And as it happens, once you get into this routine, it is difficult to think of anything else.
And thus, yesterday, I found myself upon reflection… In the middle of my first Ramadan in the Middle East, with a series of household tasks completed, over and over again… But with little of the spiritual elevation I meant to experience. I had not even had a single opportunity to attend Tarawih so far. Thus, yesterday, I made my first venture to offer the Tarawih in the Grand Mosque of Bahrain.
Again, I was excited. I imagined what the prayer would be like – perhaps like the fajar prayers in Medina. Silent, peaceful, yet tinted with a certain holy awe. I looked forward to my experience with a healthy anticipation. Hurrying through the parking lot as fast as possible without losing some semblance of dignity, I went through the entrance closest to the women’s praying section at the Grand Mosque. Many cubbyholes were still empty, awaiting a pair of shoes. I took mine off and quickly obliged. Two vast wooden doors with carved metal knobs stood before me. I opened one, and entered. Three rows of women were praying far ahead. In the rest of the room, women lounged, and played with their babies. The first association that flashed into my mind was that of a nursery.
I joined in the prayer as fast as I could. The sounds of children playing with their toys, running around chasing each other, and running towards their mothers surrounded me. A little girl stood staring up at me as I took my place in prayer beside her mother. Firmly, I tried to shut the noises out of my mind. It would not be fair to say that I was distinctly disappointed… My gratitude for the fact that I had finally made it to Tarawih trumped all other factors.
Yet, as the Tarawih ensued, and the sounds of the children whirled around me, I could not help but reflect... Interestingly enough, what my mind was revolving around was a movie that I had chanced upon just the other day – ‘Motherhood,’ featuring Uma Therman. In the movie, Therman is portrayed as a frazzled mother at the end of her tether. She used to be regarded as an up and comer in the literary world, but is now wholly and completely a mother and a housewife. She comes very close to breaking down completely, as she feels that she has lost the ability to be passionate about writing, about life, due to the ‘debilitating’ effect of the continuous and repetitive household activities she is called upon to do. But near the end, with the help of her husband, she has an epiphany… And learns to love her tasks for what they are, while rising above them when she needs to in order to experience the passion and exhilaration in writing which she craves.
In a traditional household, the work of a woman is very different from the work of a man. The demands of the woman’s work are not something that can be left behind in an office. They are continual responsibilities which, particularly in the case of motherhood, have to be carried about at all times – not just theoretically, but manually, practically. Yet, as the prayers went on, I thought to myself: all these women, these mothers, these housewives – myself included - we have all come to the Tarawih prayer. And in prayer, we strive to rise above anything and everything else in this world, and think only of the Divine Being… God, and God alone. Thus we strive to rise above our work and daily responsibilities, and to overcome the cares and struggles of our lives, just for the space of a prayer. With this thought in mind, I tried to overcome… Overcome the sound of children, the demands made on mothers, on housewives, on women, and to pray.
It is my opinion that it is never healthy to let one idea, one belief, one
ideology consume your whole being. One idea may work for a particular aspect of your life, and for a certain period of time. But there are other things out there. I believe in the importance, in the meaning behind my housework. But I must train myself to be other things, explore other parts of myself at other times. I want to celebrate Ramadan, for which I must be a worshipper. I want to read a hundred books, in each of which I have to be an audience, a critic, and an explorer. I want to write this blog, for which I have to be a writer. All these roles are held in my being, and thy must all be well executed on each level. I will train myself to not be consumed by one single factor in the years to come. I am a proud housewife, Mashallah. But I must learn to let myself be other things as well.
This may be a bit belated, but… Ramadan Mubarak to all.
