Two Kinds of Intelligence

There are two kinds of intelligence: one acquired,

as a child in school memorizes facts and concepts

from books and from what the teacher says,

collecting information from the traditional sciences

as well as from the new sciences.

With such intelligence you rise in the world.

You get ranked ahead or behind others

in regard to your competence in retaining

information. You stroll with this intelligence

in and out of fields of knowledge, getting always more

marks on your preserving tablets.

There is another kind of tablet, one

already completed and preserved inside you.

A spring overflowing its springbox. A freshness

in the center of the chest. This other intelligence

does not turn yellow or stagnate. It's fluid,

and it doesn't move from outside to inside

through conduits of plumbing-learning.

This second knowing is a fountainhead

from within you, moving out.

Gibran - Your Thought and Mine

Your Thought and Mine

Your thought is a tree rooted deep in the soil of tradition and whose branches grow in the power of continuity. My thought is a cloud moving in the space. It turns into drops which, as they fall, form a brook that sings its way into the sea. Then it rises as vapour into the sky. Your thought is a fortress that neither gale nor the lightning can shake. My thought is a tender leaf that sways in every direction and finds pleasure in its swaying. Your thought is an ancient dogma that cannot change you nor can you change it. My thought is new, and it tests me and I test it morn and eve.

You have your thought and I have mine.

Your thought allows you to believe in the unequal contest of the strong against the weak, and in the tricking of the simple by the subtle ones. My thought creates in me the desire to till the earth with my hoe, and harvest the crops with my sickle, and build my home with stones and mortar, and weave my raiment with woolen and linen threads. Your thought urges you to marry wealth and notability. Mine commends self-reliance. Your thought advocates fame and show. Mine counsels me and implores me to cast aside notoriety and treat it like a grain of sand cast upon the shore of eternity. Your thought instills in your heart arrogance and superiority. Mine plants within me love for peace and the desire for independence. Your thought begets dreams of palaces with furniture of sandalwood studded with jewels, and beds made of twisted silk threads. My thought speaks softly in my ears, “Be clean in body and spirit even if you have nowhere to lay your head.” Your thought makes you aspire to titles and offices. Mine exhorts me to humble service.

You have your thought and I have mine.

Your thought is social science, a religious and political dictionary. Mine is simple axiom. Your thought speaks of the beautiful woman, the ugly, the virtuous, the prostitute, the intelligent, and the stupid. Mine sees in every woman a mother, a sister, or a daughter of every man. The subjects of your thought are thieves, criminals, and assassins. Mine declares that thieves are the creatures of monopoly, criminals are the offspring of tyrants, and assassins are akin to the slain. Your thought describes laws, courts, judges, punishments. Mine explains that when man makes a law, he either violates it or obeys it. If there is a basic law, we are all one before it. He who disdains the mean is himself mean. He who vaunts his scorn of the sinful vaunts his disdain of all humanity. Your thought concerns the skilled, the artist, the intellectual, the philosopher, the priest. Mine speaks of the loving and the affectionate, the sincere, the honest, the forthright, the kindly, and the martyr. In your thought there are the rich, the poor, and the beggared. My thought holds that there are no riches but life; that we are all beggars, and no benefactor exists save life Himself.

You have your thought and I have mine.

According to your thought, the greatness of nations lies in their politics, their parties, their conferences, their alliances and treaties. But mine proclaims that the importance of nations lies in work – work in the field, work in the vineyards, work with the loom, work in the tannery, work in the quarry, work in the timberyard, work in the office and in the press. Your thought holds that the glory of the nations is in their heroes. It sings the praises of Rameses, Alexander, Caesar, Hannibal, and Napoleon. But mine claims that the real heroes are Confucius, Lao-Tse, Socrates, Plato, Abi Taleb, El Gazali, Jalal Ed-din-el Roumy, Copernicus, and Pasteur. Your thought sees power in armies, cannons, battleships, submarines, aeroplanes, and poison gas. But mine asserts that power lies in reason, resolution, and truth. No matter how long the tyrant endures, he will be the loser at the end. Your thought differentiates between pragmatist and idealist, between the part and the whole, between the mystic and materialist. Mine realizes that life is one and its weights, measures and tables do not coincide with your weights, measures and tables. He whom you suppose an idealist may be a practical man.

You have your thought and I have mine.

Your thought is interested in ruins and museums, mummies and petrified objects. But mine hovers in the ever-renewed haze and clouds. Your thought is enthroned on skulls. Since you take pride in it, you glorify it too. My thought wanders in the obscure and distant valleys. Your thought trumpets while you dance. Mine prefers the anguish of death to your music and dancing. Your thought is the thought of gossip and false pleasure. Mine is the thought of him who is lost in his own country, of the alien in his own nation, of the solitary among his kinfolk and friends.

You have your thought and I have mine.

Talking - Khalil Gibran

And he answered, saying:

You talk when you cease to be at peace with your thoughts;

And when you can no longer dwell in the solitude of your heart you live in your lips, and sound is a diversion and a pastime.

And in much of your talking, thinking is half murdered.

For thought is a bird of space, that in a cage of words many indeed unfold its wings but cannot fly.

There are those among you who seek the talkative through fear of being alone.

The silence of aloneness reveals to their eyes their naked selves and they would escape.

And there are those who talk, and without knowledge or forethought reveal a truth which they themselves do not understand.

And there are those who have the truth within them, but they tell it not in words.

In the bosom of such as these the spirit dwells in rhythmic silence.

When you meet your friend on the roadside or in the market place, let the spirit in you move your lips and direct your tongue.

SSHHHHHHHH: QUIET STUDY AREA

Just a warning everyone. I might be quiet, I might be unavailable, I might be poor and I might be unreliable for social events. I am determined to finish my thesis and get a job before January, God willing. This is my schedule for the next three months, and I will not allow anything to throw me off course, isA, and I WILL be intense. And when I say intense, I mean intense on the real: sunrise article summaries, gym at the crack of dawn, living on the number 3 bus, eating canned soup, missing birthdays, canceling plans on Friday nights to write, and insha Allah getting published this year. I'm focused, finally, alhamdulillah, and I'm sorry if I become boring for a little while. If you really need me, of course I'll be around, but I'll be less available to play until after I'm back from Spain (that doesn't mean no fun at all though). You will be able to find me pretty consistently in these spaces in case of emergency or in case you are in the area: Wilson Library second floor study area near the big windows overlooking the Humphrey Institute, my new and improved cozy bedroom, Lifetime Fitness Roseville in the early mornings (sorry dudes - it's the chicks only lifetime; you can't come in, so you'll have to find me on the bus or at the library) or at pray times in AMCC and surrounding areas.

I traded in my job for the chance to finish my thesis and complete a research project with a professor "unmolested" - and I loved my job, all things considered - so I've got to make myself proud, and now it's crunch time. It's hard for me to say no and not hang out, or to miss out on fun events, so if I decline, please know that it hurts me more than it hurts you.

Don't forget me.

Reasonable Accommodation: Just Another Term for Legislated Marginalization

Quebec, you are my home. I love you. I love your markets and your lively streets; I love your pocket neighborhoods and your commitment to the greater good. I love your pacifism, your reason, your academy. I love your linguistic plurality, your dry humor and your outdated armed forces. I love your loose public health codes and your flexible importation laws. I love your jazz festivals, your lights, your seaway. I love the way you roll your eyes at bar crawling Bostonians. But this year, you've let me down. If I belonged to the Netherlands, I'd be saying the same thing to her.

As Canadians, we pride ourselves on being the friendly neighbors to the north, a Utopia of sorts, where we reject assimilationism and support pluralism, we give everyone health care, we love our public universities, and we condemn the war in Iraq. And yet, today I see an very anti-socialist rigidity and racism bubbling under the surface of my home and native land. And if this is happening inside your borders, Canada, I feel unsafe everywhere else, too.

In February of 2007, Asmahan Mansour, age 11, was given the choice to de-hijab or get off the soccer field. Jean Charest, Quebec's premier, defended the referee's actions. Charest said he played soccer as a boy and recalled a referee telling players to tuck their shirts into their shorts. "It's a case of safety in sports," said Mario Dumont, leader of the Action democratique du Quebec. Safety first. Right.

The broader subject of reasonable accommodation has been in the news in Quebec after the town of Herouxville, comprising 1,300 mostly white, French-speaking residents, adopted a code of standards for immigrants. The code stipulated that: Women should be able to show their faces in public and should also be permitted to drive and write cheques. And it is "completely outside norms to... kill women by stoning them in public, burning them alive, burning them with acid, circumcising them etc." Um. Duh?

And this is not all. In March of 2007, a woman was banned from working as a corrections officer at the Bordeaux prison because she refused to roll up her veil. All this, in a political atmosphere where 'reasonable accommodation' is in hot debate. Reasonable accommodation is a political term used in the PQ in reference to the so-called 'dynamic of multiculturalism' in a predominantly Western, French speaking province.

Legally, this movement is meant to determine to what extent a society should reasonably shape its rules and values to "accommodate" religious or cultural minority citizens. Reasonable accommodation, by my understanding, is meant to draw the line of what is acceptable to the majority in granting equal rights to the 'other.' Lots of pretty words for something very ugly.

Now, a sort of good outcome: Reasonable accommodation has deemed that women wearing niqab can vote, provided they bring with them two other forms of non-photographic identification (this seems reasonable, right?).

Premier Charest publicly acknowledged this as a "bad decision" and said further that the discussion had already occurred in his province, which forbade the practice. I mean, why let them vote at all? After all, real Canadians don't wear niqab.

Worse still, a reasonable accommodation commission has been put together by Charest to investigate these so-called 'unreasonable accommodations'. This two-man commission is scheduled to report back by 31 March 2008. Its formal title is the Consultation Commission on Accommodation Practices Related to Cultural Differences. Its commissioners are professors Charles Taylor, a well-known federalist philosopher, and Gérard Bouchard, a separatist. Doubt can be cast on Bouchard's fitness to serve as an impartial chair, as before the commission held even one public hearing, he announced in an interview that "sovereignty" was the solution to calm Franco-Quebeckers' cultural insecurity.The commission is having ' open' conferences in various Quebec regions, such as the remote Rouyn-Noranda, Sept-Iles and Saguenay, Quebec, where religious accommodation is mostly irrelevant because few minorities exit there. The committee will listen to individuals and organizations and experts in Quebec identity, religion, and integration of 'cultural communities.' But why not in the places that really matter? Because this is just a show - cultural communities have no voice, at least not really.

Before formal proceedings began, Bouchard and Taylor said they found insecurity in Quebec's "pure laine" population in focus groups across the province. The commissioners feel that the paranoia that Muslims, for example, are somehow taking over our society (when they represent 1.5% of Quebec's population) can be countered by facts - as if feelings of insecurity stemmed by bigotry should even be justified at all. (An aside - As once oppressed minorities in Quebec, themselves, French Quebeckers insecurity about loss of culture should be an equalizing factor, but yet again, the marginalized become the marginalizers, I guess.)

And this is on the record. All over the world. I shudder to think of what is said off record and behind closed doors.

Just last year, in 2006, the Dutch banned the burqa and niqab in public.

Dutch MP Geert Wilders: "It's a medieval symbol, a symbol against women...We don't want women to be ashamed to show who they are. Even if you have decided yourself to do that, you should not do it in Holland, because we want you to be integrated, assimilated into Dutch society. If people cannot see who you are, or see one inch of your body or your face, I believe this is not the way to integrate into our society."

These are not new issues, but when I am faced with the same line of reasoning from otherwise open and liberal individuals, daily about whether I'll ever, gasp, cover my head, I get very very sad. I'd like for a second, to pull each person out of their paradigm and talk about equality and feminism within the Islamic framework. But I am not sure I'm the best person to articulate it yet. However, here's a pretty standard secular argument that also works: As a woman I have the right to wear tight jeans and low cut tops in public; I have a right to be free from harassment because of this. The body is not supposed to be public domain, and we, as women, have a right to not be commodified or objectified regardless of our clothing choices. If I can take it off, can't I also put it on? Why is what I wear as a woman still, and again, so politically significant? Why am I so highly policed, and my choices, so highly charged? There is still a blatant inequality in existence, the way I walk in the world is now a political symbol of progress or regression. We've come so far as Westerners that we've doubled back over and violated our own beliefs.

Where is the discussion? Where is the pluralism? Where is the acceptance and understanding that we, as feminists, as Quebeckers, as academics, and as the so-called 'culturally competent,' so pride ourselves on? Why can't we see that what we want to build is understanding? We lack humility, and we have a surplus of fear at our disposal that we can use to justify our bigotries. We fear "islamists" and sikhs and all those other words that really just mean "not us."

Have my people become so linear in their thinking that they forgot the premises from which they began? Think women's liberation, think religious freedom - all those TENETS (sigh.) that we've fought for in recent history, with suffrage as the leading example. Recently, we burned our bras and lost lives for equality, we fought in wars to promote religious freedom. And now we are the same people who support a premier who tells little girls that they are not 'progressive' enough to play on the field. A piece of clothing becomes an insurmountable emblem of difference? Or, is it because she was challenging the dominant belief that women who wear hijab aren't liberated?

She was Canadian enough to play soccer, and therefore she had to be stopped? Was it just too confusing for people? Would it somehow soften the images of Muslim women to Canada's white secular children to be playing alongside a hijabi? I don't know what the underlying roots of the issue are, but I'm pretty sure some of these arguments might apply.

It doesn't really matter though. In the end, the message to Asmahan and girls like her is this: "You are oppressed because you wear that. Your line of thinking is wrong. My line of thinking is right. Yield to my line of thinking or I'm going to show you what oppression really feels like."

And to Asmahan, I'm pretty sure it wasn't her hijab that made her feel unworthy or oppressed on February 18, 2007. It was the ref. And the premier. And all the people who feel entitled to see her hair - as if seeing it is somehow their human right. Because her rights and her beliefs don't actually matter. They aren't 'ours' (meaning her beliefs don't belong to the majority), so therefore, it is clearly unreasonable to accomodate them.

What It's Like to Fly Off the High Dive

La ilaha il Allah. That was the climb, and now I'm in mid-air. My stomach is full of excitement and I am light.

When I first took shahada the next months were spent full of fear. Fear of what would be said about me, fear about my ability to follow through, fear that taking this step was something I could not reverse. I was afraid of how my family would feel, what my friends would say, and about whether I'd find someone who would love me despite my 'strangeness.' Fear really ruled my life, January through August. Sometimes it was better than others. Sometimes it was nearly unbearable. I've always been a "hope for the best, prepare for the worst," type of person, and unfortunately, this new and difficult change was something one cannot prepare for, which compounded my anxiety. In the beginning I was met with a cacophony of reactions, but I was certain that even the most supportive of my friends would change their minds upon seeing me pray or realizing that this was 'for real.' Some did. Some really awful things were said to me. The worst did happen. And coming out of it, I still had faith. I had no choice.

And then, Alhamdulillah, I saw Ramadan approach.

I took a deep breath, I closed my eyes, I rolled my shoulders back...

I prayed with people. I carved out time to learn new surahs and began making sure I woke up for fajr. I practised fasting. I made du'a. I put on hijab and drove myself to the masjid. I've forced myself to endure the quizzical stares (and made sure I didn't mistake them for hostile ones). I ignored the hostile ones. I've allowed myself to be corrected when I made mistakes. I began to give salaams even if they aren't returned. I began answering questions (even the hard ones) and promoting discussion with the people who matter to me. And finally I'm not afraid anymore. And this has nothing to do with me. This has to do with five. Five prayers a day, every day, to the One that matters. It has to do with swallowing hard, choosing faith and diving in. It has to do with feeling certain that I'll belly flop, knowing that it will hurt, and doing it anyway because it's worse to stand on that wavering board so far up, looking down.

People ask me about my path to Islam almost every day. Surely every time I enter a mosque and tell someone my name, the questions begin. It happens when I'm buying groceries and the butcher mistakes me for one of his, speaks to me in Egyptian, and I have to ask him to slow down, in my own halting formal Arabic. He smiles, asks my name, where I'm from, and yells for his buddies to come meet "the convert who passes for shami." Non muslims wonder too, for different reasons. After jumu'a today I stopped by Old Navy. I was still wearing hijab because I can't bring myself to take it off in public. The man at the register was really nice, but spoke a bit loudly to me, and enunciated unnecessarily. I smiled, choosing not to be annoyed and handed him my credit card. "Katherine Downing!" he exclaimed. I just laughed and said "that's me!" Because it is.

Everyone is curious. And I don't mind. So I might as well get comfortable in this space.

What everyone else thinks or thought or will think in the future is out of my control, and if I get caught up in predicting it or worrying about it, I'll miss the point entirely, which is to get comfortable with my place in the world, to be a good person and cultivate my connection with Allah, who encompasses and commands all those things. That's my perspective, and I believe that if I believe, the rest will fall into place, insha Allah. And it has been falling into place, more neatly than I'd even hoped it would.

Johnell at work, for example, surprised me today. I walked out of the office bathroom wearing hijab, getting ready to go to prayer. "Wow!" he responded. I looked at the floor bashfully - it was the first time my co-workers saw me wearing it. Before I could speak he said, "Girl, you still fine. Do what you do. Don't look at the floor. See you after prayer." I opened my mouth. Closed my mouth. Smiled and went to prayer.

I really couldn't ask for more.

But then, my friend Melissa came over for dinner. We've known each other since middle school. She's been incredibly supportive of my Islam, almost unquestioningly so. We broke the fast at 7:14 with dates and milk. I explained why, and then I went to pray. I prayed maghrib in my office, and when I finished I looked up to find her crying in the doorway. "I hope I didn't scare you," I said, "it's just prayer..."

"No, Katie," she responded, "You are beautiful that way. I hope it's ok, I wanted to pray with you."

And so, I reiterate, I could not ask for more.

And this is what it's like to fly off the high dive. You climb and you climb to the top of the diving board. It takes forever. Your heart begins to race. You hesitate mid-climb, you look down and realize you can't climb down. You get to the top, the board is slippery with water. You hear the echos of swimmers below. Your whole body tenses. You walk, gingerly, toes pointed, scared. The board vibrates. You almost lose your balance. You get to the edge, your weight bends the board, you bounce, you hesitate, and then you breathe... At this point, you've waited as long as possible, you have no other option. You jump. And really, the climb is much much scarier than the descent.

Pathos

A feeling of sadness and longing that is not akin to pain, and resembles sorrow only as the mist resembles rain. (Longfellow)

I wandered for two and a half years and somehow tonight I am at the beginning of the circle - that's what it looks like in my head, the beginning of a circle, if that makes sense. It's certainly the way the air feels. Crisp, below 65 degrees (Farenheit, now, which reminds me that it's not a circle after all) and clear. It feels as if everything paused and I am again at my arrival, and some cinematographer has dulled it into sepia tones. It is beautiful like this. The way it should have been, two years too late, and right on time.

The year 2005.

To come here and study and be near family. To do the right thing. To take comfort in pages and watch the seasons change. To grow up. And to have nothing distract or disturb that. Right.

All of a sudden I'm lighter and younger, and my arrival here is not clouded by a whirlwind of heartache or the chaos of distraction. It is finally what I envisioned in time for me to leave, and I am nostalgic.

What could have been, if life hadn't happened. Isn't that always the way? (and of course I wouldn't change it, so don't bother asking)

Where would I be now, if things had gone my way? What would I have become if you and you and you hadn't happened? If the autumn breeze hadn't turned into the blizzard of the unpredictable. I wavered and it won. But one finally learns the game and then it changes. So I'm not saying anything new. I'm sure you aren't shocked.

I still accomplished my goals. Over budget and behind schedule, but still. A few opportunities squandered, the important ones salvaged. Some lovely surprises. The worst case scenario played out, but it wasn't so bad.

I fear less now. I know less now. Am I finally resolute?

The air still feels like Autumn. The beginning of a circle. A romantic memory that is still to come and has already passed. A second chance.

Many new plans, or rather, old plans, resurrected.