My dear friend (and author of Cairo, Ms Marvel, and The Butterfly Mosque) wrote a heartfelt and thought-provoking post today about the role of mothers in the construction of Ramadan, Eid, and other holidays.
I’ve noticed a lot of Muslim mommies getting burned out this Ramadan…the long summer hours, the difficulties that creates with children’s schedules and other household errata, the inability to stop and go deeper into one’s personal practice because one has to create a holiday atmosphere out of thin air for the sake of the family. The cooking, the special, time-consuming holiday treats, the Ramadan calendars, helping kids memorize their surahs, planning for Eid, etc…whenever I feel like it’s too much, I remember that for kids, mama and baba essentially *are* the holidays. There’s an early 20th c English writer (whose name I’ve forgotten) who put it very succinctly in an essay about his childhood: each household has its own animating genius, and that genius is often (though not always) feminine. I’ve shifted my thinking in recent years–since the kids have been old enough to understand what Ramadan is–from the idea that the holiday is something I celebrate to the idea that the holiday is something I create. It hasn’t made the work easier but it has made it more fulfilling. The idea that the kids will look back on these days with joy–and that the joy will shape the internal rhythm of their lives, which will carry the whole tradition forward through a time of tremendous uncertainty–is what makes this time wonderful to me in the same way the extra ibadat and contemplation made it wonderful to me pre-kids. We are in the rush hour of life; we are now the middle generation upon whom both the younger and the older generations depend, and if there is going to be delight and splendor in any of it, it will have to come through us. The joy we have will be the joy we bring. – G. Willow Wilson
Now, Willow adopts a joyful, creative approach to this loving labor.
My approach is the grumpy one, characteristic of the lazy youngest sibling of the family. In other words: WHERE THE HELL IS MY READY-MADE EID? Where are my ammi and abbu? Why am I the grownup today? Why do I have to be up and cooking? Why can’t I just walk into a pre-prepared holiday?
When I first wrote the poem Immigrant Eid (2005), I was desperately depressed for a variety of reasons. Svend was at work, unable to get a day off. I struggled to motivate myself to go for Eid prayer.
they announced Eid today.
my house is silent.
i hear more sirens than usual outside.
my husband’s at work.
i couldn’t get out of bed and go
to eid namaz.
i really should push myself, i thought,
and go, but thought, then, go for what?
so my husband and i can split up
at the mosque front door to go and sit
with our respective strangers inside?
so aunties in abayas can look
at my pants, because they’re shabby and
because they’re pants, and then look up
at my face unseeing-
When we’re done i come out and wait
for him in the cold parking lot
watching people hurry to cars
and segregated parties in their
tight little colour-coordinated groups-
while a bearded man in a jalabiya
stares at this female body jammed
outside in a twisting river of men.
when i got out of bed at last, i didn’t
want to, and i couldnt stop crying
in the shower.
ammi has cooked two types of sivayyan
and put them out in glass bowls,
with carrot halva and Kashmiri chai.
My Eid outfit complete with sparklies
is lying ironed on the bed.
Auntie Shaista in the drawing room loudly
waits to see how my outfit looks.
Little Izza is knocking at
my door, asking when i’ll be ready,
when I will come out to admire
her pink sharara and bright new shoes.
Asad is watching TV, but
the corner of his eye is waiting for me
Abbu and Imran are just returning
in white kurtas from eid namaz.
in the fortunate first world
where I’m supposed to be bettering my life
and speaking english all the time–
here, where there is no dust, no flies,–
here, in the warm clean tiled shower
i can’t stop sobbing
Alone, with sirens screeching outside,
i prayed two rak’ahs afterwards
with seven takbeers
and seven tears hit the ja’inamaz
with far too loud a splash, and then
i read some pages of the eleventh sipara
and sent sawab to the Prophet,
my shaykh, my uncles and aunts,
grandparents, like ammi does, and then
I’m sorry i didn’t go to Eid namaz
and then i couldn’t stop crying again
my heart broke right there on the rug
and spilled wide open
and i said please don’t be mad at me.
look, i’m here, and my outfit’s in Lahore,
and Izza’s knocking on the door,
and I have no sivayyan,
and my heart the poor tattered heart
that I know You love
is broken today.
He looked at me, with those quiet eyes
and said, yes, I know. i cried again
and said that eid is eid
only because You’re here with me.
ten years in this new home of mine
and still eid day is not quite eid.
They say it’s eid today, but there,
on the rooftops of Lahore, young boys
saw a little sliver of moon that shone
through smoggy clouds and snaky cables
as an eagle swam across the sky.
Here, i saw no moon, i saw
moonsighting.com, and wrote an email-
eid mubarak exclamation point-
and cc’ed it to everyone.
i thought of calling ammi to say
eid mubarak. but i was afraid
my voice would catch, and she would hear
who i am here
and then i’d know for sure that she
was there, and there are no sivayyan
on my IKEA table, no halva
on the stove, no kashmiri chai
steaming in pretty china cups
no smiling niece outside my door
and no red kurta on my bed
I remember my friend Jasmin affectionately reminded me that here in North America, I was ammi now, and I must cook sivayyan and plan outfits for everyone.
Humph, I thought to myself, (though I inwardly agreed), but I’m not done being not-a-grown-up yet. When I sleep deeply, I often wake up groggily, thinking tranquil thoughts of: “I can sleep in, because ammi and abbu are taking care of everything in the entrance of the house – comings, goings – and I am not in charge.” And then I remember, my kid is waiting for a meal, and I have to go to work, and ammi and abbu haven’t lived with me in 26 years. I’ve been gone from home since 1991, and have been a guest in my own family home since then.
As the baby of the family (um, a rather old baby now), I never quite mastered the domestic arts. My husband – well, he’s got patriarchy to blame – certainly never mastered domestic anything. I once asked his dad (an old-fashioned White guy) why he never trained his son to pick up his socks; dad replied, “Well, [with a trace of gentle accusation] my mother took care of all that and I never had to do it. So with my boys, I wanted them to have what I had.”
Well, funny enough, my mother had to take care of everything, forever, and she wanted me to have what she never had – the liberty to chase ideas in books all the way to the United States and a PhD, and to be free from the kitchen. My father, who loved his daughters’ academic pursuits, groused irritably, “And then they all have to just make rotis some day.” He really hated that.
My mother rarely ever asked me to take care of household affairs. This was a practice rare in Pakistan in my socioeconomic class. My mother did this partly because I was sensitive and prone to fevers, partly because I was the baby, – and partly because I started observing strict purdah at age 16 and announced virtuously that I would not be serving tea to mixed-gender groups in the living room and I would not be interacting with the gardener or the peddler. Well, then, I’ll be the Outside Market Woman, ammi decided, and guard my daughter’s spiritual virtue while she reads Iqbal’s poetry in seclusion.
I was a teen who’d pile up my clutter and shut it up in an armoire: my mother and sister gasped when I said, “Well, what else is the armoire for?” My father would often dart into my messy bedroom and make the bed for me, shaking his head at my response: “What’s the point? I’m going to sleep in it in a few hours anyway.”
Here I am now, in the U.S., a place where we often do not even get a day off for Eid and must make arrangements. In Chicago, we can get sivayyan (not good sivayyan, usually) at a restaurant on Devon Street, and we can join the festivities with other families (families with grownups who grew up before I did).
Adulting still hurts, but I’m starting to do more of it. But a disproportionate share of the burden of holiday-construction still falls to mommies like me. Creating the decorations, when you are not a crafty or practical person, may not sound painful to you. Preparing holiday meals you’ve never made (making them in treacherously large quantities so that they never turn out the way ammi made them) is often simply depressing to those of us who aren’t sugghar domestic goddesses. Yes, we exist. We are mothers, and some of us are not great at cooking, we hate cooking, and are terrible at tidying up.
Some of us are married to spouses who are even worse at the domestic arts. Some of us have spouses who cannot physically see dust, dust-bunnies, dirty dishes on the coffee table, and gunk on the counter. So I am perpetually trying to keep ahead of the other clutter-creators in the house: if I abandon one cardigan on the couch, pretty soon my kid will abandon socks, hoodie, books, and pencils in that spot and my husband will forget to pick up socks, boxers, pants, and t-shirt. I can leave no trails, because they will become mountains.
The urgency to get better at adulting comes home to me even more now. Ammi is now losing mobility. She whose hands never failed to produce meals proverbial far and wide in their deliciousness is now not cooking anymore. She is also more forgetful. She reminds me gently that she is in her 80s. I know why she is reminding me. She wants me to be prepared. She knows I am not. I am not ready to lose my ammi.
And I am not ready to take on that role alone. I am not ready to be the kind of kick-ass ammi my ammi has always been. Maybe that’s why I don’t want to try – because my version is so mediocre. Sometimes, I cook saag gosht or kareley keema, and am filled with disgust and frustration because it is so uninspired in comparison to my mother’s cooking. I toss the spatula, cover the pot, and inform Svend, “I’m not touching that junk but you’re welcome to it,” and he rushes to gorge himself on the meal. “It’s good,” he always says, “your standards are too high.”
I’m not ready to be in charge.
Sure, though, I guess I enjoy it when my family enjoys the summer vacations, the religious holidays, the experiences I create. But sometimes, it’s a bit like trying to tickle yourself. Or trying to experience suspense in a story you wrote. It’s just not the same. But sure, it is the circle of life.
Eid Mubarak to you. And good luck creating a holiday for your children. Or sulking because you really don’t want to do all that work.