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In the Name of God بسم الله
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Ashura: In the Dungeon of Cancer, al-Hussein Was My LightPosted: 11/11/2013 8:01 pmAmin G. Aaser I recall the moment when my world crashed. "Small cell carcinoma of the bile duct," Doctor Kubiak stated. "It has spread to the liver," she finished. I fell into the darkest part of my heart. It was cloaked in black, tasted of blood, and smelled of arsenic. Like one drowning in rogue water, I felt a sort of suffocation. I screamed for help. But, I was alone. I put my hands against the cold walls of this pit and tried to climb. With each online publication I read, I elevated. But, it was temporary. I soon discovered: this cancer had never been defeated with treatment. The rock of medicine that I had grasped so tightly crumbled. My strength crumbled with it. I was broken. I raised my hands in surrender. My heart began to beat loudly. I listened closely. In each beat, I heard a whimper. I called on my heart, "Oh heart! Is my situation so tragic that even you are crying for me?" My heart rebuked, "Oh Amin, do not be foolish! If we are feeling such anguish, imagine the grief of Aba Abdullah al-Hussein in Karbala." My hands covered my face as my eyes erupted. I replaced my selfish grief with the commemoration of the Holy Prophet's grandson. Through recalling the sacrifice of al-Hussein, I gained the tools necessary to fight this cancer. Holy War I felt surrounded. With each passing day, the darkness of small cell carcinoma would aggressively multiply in my mother's body. Sitting in our battle camp, alongside my mother and her white blood cells, I noticed a change on their faces. At the sight of this improbable enemy, a weakness became visible in their eyes. "There is no hope in victory if we are already defeated," I thought to myself. I needed an elixir for strength. Conjuring the story of al-Hussein and his 72 companions on the lands of Karbala, we found that strength. While it would have been easy to buckle under the pressure of the enemy, who outnumbered his group by over 1,000 to 1, al-Hussain remained strong. When faced with a decision: to give allegiance to an ill-fit tyrant or to fight for his life, al-Hussein elected the latter, irrespective of the odds. Through al-Hussein we gained strength. When battling a demon, whether a tyrant like Yazid or a disease like cancer, strength does not come from numbers; rather, it comes from the All Mighty. Perspective I remember unfolding old newspapers on my mother's bathroom floor, preparing to shave what remained of her chemo-damaged hair. As her hair fell onto the floor, I channeled every iota of confidence in my body to keep from crying. "In what world must a 24 year old prepare his mother for battle?" I asked myself. My thoughts went to Karbala. Among the 72 companions of al-Hussein who fought for the sake of righteousness, there were a handful of children under the age of 15. I can only imagine the toil of Zainab bint Ali, the granddaughter of the Holy Prophet, when she prepared her two sons, Aun (13) and Mohammed (11), for battle by fastening their armor and unsheathing their swords. "In what world does a mother prepare her children for battle," I thought instead. Through al-Hussein, I gained perspective. No matter how challenging my situation, I must remember that others have experienced far worse. Gratitude Mom is a 51 year old non-smoker who has never drank alcohol in her life. She was not supposed to get small cell carcinoma. I felt disdain for every doctor, nurse, and administrative assistant that I encountered, as if they were accomplices to this disease. "How am I supposed to act," I remember asking myself. I again sought counsel from al-Hussein on the battlefield of Karbala. After al-Hussein and his 72 companions were killed, their heads placed on spears, their bodies trampled by horses, and their women taken as captives, the family of al-Hussein issued a prayer while in prostration to God. They said, "Oh Allah, all praise be to You; the praise of those who thank You for their misfortune." They continued, "All praise be to Allah for my great misfortune." Even after such tragedy, the family of al-Hussain gave thanks. Maybe the family of al-Hussein understood that his sacrifice would cause an uprising which would overthrow the corrupt tyranny that existed at that time. Or perhaps the family understood that even 1400 years after this sacrifice, this story would illuminate the lives of many during the darkest of times. Through al-Hussein, I realized that I too should have gratitude for my situation. Through the reflection on death, I began to live. This caused a revolution in my life, overthrowing a tyranny of worldliness and replacing it with a passion for god consciousness. Trapped in the dungeon of despair, I finally opened my eyes to an incredible surprise. The Qu'ran opened itself and began to speak. "Be at ease," he said. "Allah is the firmest handle, which will never break off. He is the guardian of those who believe. He will take you from darkness into light," he reassured (2:256-257). Through the remembrance of Aba Abdullah al-Hussein, I gained the certainty to put my trust in God. Together, we scaled this pit. In July, my mother beat the odds. Her cancer entered into remission. Ten days ago, God blessed us with an opportunity to engage in battle again. Through the commemoration of al-Hussein, and your prayers, we hope to be victorious. Please, keep my mom - Shaheen Pyarali - in your prayers. --- To learn more about al-Hussein and his sacrifice in Karbala, please visit http://www.whoishussein.org Follow Amin G. Aaser on Twitter: www.twitter.com/AminAaser --- http://www.huffingtonpost.com/amin-g-aaser/ashura-in-the-dungeon-of-_b_4252754.html May God bless the author of this article.
You Don't Like the Niqab? Get Over Ithttp://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/robin-lustig/niqab-ban_b_3959671.html?utm_hp_ref=tw Give me one good reason why a woman shouldn't be allowed to cover her face in public if that's what she wants to do. You don't object to her covering her buttocks, do you, or her breasts? Do you find it offensive if a woman wears sunglasses? And anyway, what's it got to do with you? Yes, I deliberately phrase the questions provocatively. I do so because I find the amount of cant that's been spoken and written on the subject of the "Muslim face veil" (note the first adjective, to which we shall return) frankly ridiculous. Oh, and before you ask, yes, I do think this is an important issue, even though only a tiny, tiny number of women in Britain choose to wear the niqab, or face veil. It's important because it's about what kind of society Britain wants to be in the 21st century. There'll be other opportunities to return to Syria, Iran, Germany, and even the Lib Dems. This week, I want to write about women's faces. Here goes. Reason one: "It's not acceptable for people to cover their faces in public so that they can't be recognised." Really? So should we ban men wearing hoodies or face-concealing crash helmets? Women wearing outsize sunglasses even in the pouring rain? Anyone wearing a face mask because they're scared of catching flu from someone on the bus? I think not. Reason two: "It's a symbol of male oppression of women and often imposed on women by fathers and/or husbands as a means of control." Well, yes, sometimes it is, but sometimes it isn't. Some women's fathers/husbands insist that they wear skirts below the knee, or long sleeves -- but is clothing choice really a matter for legislation? And if you argue that even when women choose to cover their faces of their own free will, it's only because they wish to avoid lascivious male attention -- well, isn't that why women cover their breasts? Reason three: "It makes me feel uncomfortable because it's entirely alien to who we British are." Hmm. Who's "we" in that sentence, I wonder? We, the British Hasidic Jews of Stamford Hill, where the women wear wigs and woollen stockings, and the men wear long frock coats, wide-brimmed hats and side-curls? We, the British Sikhs of Coventry or Leicester, who wear turbans? Or we, the British Catholic nuns who wear cowls and wimples? I'm old enough to remember the rows over whether Sikh bus conductors should be allowed to wear turbans instead of peaked caps, and whether Sikh motor-cyclists should be allowed to roar around the streets without crash helmets. I remember the debates over whether schoolgirls from Pakistani backgrounds should be allowed to wear trousers to school, or special swimming costumes for their swimming lessons. I thought we'd moved on, and that Britain had learned to accept that minorities have rights too. Reason four: "It's important to be able to identify people, and you can't do that if you can't see their face." True, so in those circumstances -- in airports or police stations or court-rooms, for example -- where identities need to be checked, you can easily make arrangements to enable women with covered faces to reveal themselves in a private place. (We don't expect women travellers at airports to be body-checked by men, so if their wishes can be met, why not those of niqab-wearers?) As for teachers, doctors or nurses, or others whose jobs entail dealing with members of the public, if it's an issue, write it into their contract. The vast majority of Muslim women do not cover their faces, so I see no problem with religious discrimination legislation in saying: "You want to work as a teacher, or a doctor? Fine, no face veil." (By the way, even in ultra-strict Iran, contrary to mythology, women are not required to cover their faces.) I find it intriguing that most of the people who sound off on this issue are men. Why do they feel so threatened by women who don't want their faces to be looked at? Why do they think it's any of their business? Personally, I'm not wildly keen on women with metal studs in their lips, or men whose low-hanging underwear reveals far more than I would ever wish to see -- but I wouldn't dream of banning items of clothing simply because I don't like them. When a man says: "Women shouldn't be allowed to cover their faces in public", what I hear is: "I'm a man, and I have the right to tell you, a woman, how to dress." Sorry, not acceptable. Ah yes, I nearly forgot. Muslim. It's that word again. The word that seems to be inextricably linked in so many people's minds to other words like extremism, fundamentalism, terrorism. So if the niqab is Muslim, then, in the blink of an eye, the women who wear it must be extremists, fundamentalists or terrorists. No, actually. Most of them are simply women who, for reasons of their own, whether good or bad, have decided to cover their faces. Would I be happy if my daughter wore a niqab? No, I wouldn't -- but then what I want her to wear has rarely been a major factor in her thinking. Nor should it be. Because what other people choose to wear is nothing to do with me, or with you. You don't like the niqab? Get over it.
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