“On the
first day of Ramadan, my true love gave to me…”
From
his name we knew, our Lyft driver was going to be an Arab. He was Palestinian
and we greeted each other with well wishes on the beginning of Ramadan. It’s
always that awkward moment of silence in a ride where you wonder do I initiate
a conversation? If he/she initiates are they just trying to break the silence
or do they genuinely want to chat? Considering it was 6:00 a.m. (a time far too
early for my soul) I let my mom have the conversation and it turned out to be
quite interesting.
As
I sat on the plane, feeling overwhelmed by this thought and the thought of a
million things in the churning wheels of this mind, I realized this would be an
opportune moment to catch up on the sleep I’ve been missing this past semester.
There was one problem. It was cold beyond belief that we literally asked the
captain to raise the temperature. The stewardess scoured the entire plane twice
and couldn’t find a blanket till the last hour. It must’ve been the only one—or
she finally felt pity and took it from first class. Either way, it amazed me
how quickly I knocked out for the last hour after feeling the warmth of that
blanket and then guilt kicked in. How have those Syrians in the streets,
beneath tents of awful refugee camps, slept? I couldn’t even process that.
If
you’ve kept up with the rants of Lady Narrator, you know that one of my
resolutions this year was try to find the silver lining in all situations, no
matter how awful. It’s not neglecting the realities, but embracing every
element of that reality. So I refused to let myself drown in guilt or misery. I
had done that for almost 28 years of my life. I remembered the sweet gentleman
who parted the way of people to let my mom and I pass with her wheelchair to
the gate (her back has not been cooperating with us). He said, “I’ve been there
before once. I know how difficult it is.”
I
marveled at the miracles of God of being able to fly thousands of feet up in
the air, traveling thousands of miles, to an island, a large piece of land
entirely surrounded by water, still floating. I laughed at the irony of being
expected to pay an extra $20 fee above our baggage fee of $25 in order to get
our bag checked in on time and how suddenly the man at curbside was oh so sweet
and caring after the financial exchange. I remembered God once more as I
overlooked the Hawaiian horizon, watching the sun set and eating one divine
four course meal graciously offered to us by our host for the trip. Each plate
was a modest masterpiece of colorful deliciousness that we pretty much inhaled.
Day
one ended with a short walk from the restaurant to our beautiful hotel where my
mother and I engaged in a session of belly aching laughter we both genuinely
needed and realized was long overdue. I’d say, the first day of Ramadan was
perfect. Aloha!
“On the
second day of Ramadan, my true love gave to me…”
The
only constant in life is change. I’ve heard that quote in varied forms many
times but the bottom line is this: life is unpredictable and scary at times,
but God has a plan and although it’s difficult to roll with it when it’s
unknown, the safest thing to do is just that. We woke up to unfortunate news
that made us appreciate the blessings we have. Praying for stability and
resilience is key and I knew that this would only take a toll if I didn’t stand
even stronger for my mom.
As
we got ready, I found myself singing the seriously old song, “Hey Ya,” by
Outkast. Don’t ask me where it came from; my mind has a mind of its own. The
crazier thing was two hours later, on our ride to the Dole Plantation, guess
what song came on the radio? The weirder part? The station the driver had on
was an 80s and 90s genre, so where on earth did that 2003 song slip in? Then I
knew, it was those little things God does for us on our heavy days that matter,
so I danced along.
So
that Dole Plantation, let me tell you, yum-mazing. Yes, we got a dole whip
float. Yes, we got some legit pineapples. Yes, we got to tour the botanical
garden. And yes, we got lost in their ginormous maze that hit the Guinness Book
of World Records. My mom and I came to the conclusion that we’d never survive
being lost in a jungle or forest, but we cracked up with every wrong turn.
“Didn’t we pass this flower before?”
“Was
this the same bush that I walked into last time?”
“Should
we just climb out of the fence that leads into the highway?”
“Are
we dead?”
Unfortunately
we didn’t beat the world record of finding all eight hidden stations in the
three acre jungle in fifteen minutes, but we got three…in one hour…then we had
to go back to the hotel for the interfaith discussion. That was what brought us
here in the first place. The Shinnyo-en Foundation invited a group of
representatives from various interfaith communities to join them at the Lantern
Floating Hawaii ceremony that has happened every year since 1999. The goal? To
unite people together and celebrate the memories of lost ones.
We
had no idea what to expect but we were in for one beautiful surprise.
Before
that surprise however, I stumbled upon another lovely surprise when I randomly
Googled “open mics in Honolulu.” There it was, one happening that very night
and guess who decided she was going?
Unfamiliar
with the area, and slightly misconstrued by the media’s portrayal of
picturesque Hawaii, I was met with another surprise when I came to find that
this area was a mirror image of the worst areas of DTLA. Actually, the
population of homeless here is surreal and it left me aching.
Four
were sleeping on the floor right beside the arts center where the open mic was
happening and it had the Lyft driver on standby, waiting for me to get inside
safely.
Imagine
the 70s with disco balls, bubble lights, incense and other plants being burned
for various reasons—that’s what I stepped into. I knew I was probably the first
Muslim woman in hijab to ever set foot in the venue. Heck, I think my mom and I
were the only hijabi women on the island. People were looking at us like
magical spectacles that it sent me into frequent laughter. I never understand
when hijabi women say staring people make them uncomfortable. It makes me
happy!
I
signed up and grabbed a seat when this adorable puppy came right over and made
a home beside my feet. The first 30 minutes of prep work the organizers were
doing, I spent trying to gage the environment and what kind of poem would they
be welcoming of. This sure as hell wasn’t Da Poetry Lounge, but I factored in
the side effects of burned plants into the equation and realized my poem
“Weakness” would suffice.
It
did and it felt so good to perform in front of a brand new audience that wasn’t
accustomed to poetry, but rather music. Three different people came up to me
during other people’s sets to tell me how moved they were and had I not been so
jet-lagged and tired, I would have stayed the whole night but by 11:00 p.m. I
was pooped. But what resonated was the host’s powerful statement of the value
of these open mics: “Because we want to build a place where people feel that
they don’t have to be in a bar to have a night life.” It hit me because I thought
of the Arab culture too, where everyone thinks that the only thing to do on a “night
out” is chilling for six hours at a hookah lounge, smoking and wasting time and
money. We need a revolution.
I
did get a chance however, to hear the beautiful sounds of the Native American
flute by a man who called himself “Broken Eagle Talon” and it was the perfect
spiritual touch to my second day of Ramadan.
“On the
third day of Ramadan, my true love gave to me…”
What
makes traditions unique is that they remain in place for generations.
Sometimes, however, traditions can be broken and we learned that in a beautiful
way. Ramadan has always been known as our family’s hibernation month.
Literally, people joke about our family as being the bears that disappear
during this season but that’s because Ramadan has always been that one month of
the year where everyone is home for dinner daily, a time for family bonding and
a very spiritual renewal. It’s a time to reduce the social hours and late
nights. It’s a time to reassess where we are at in our lives. It’s a time to
fast from not just food but from a majority of other things that we didn’t even
realize were taking away from our precious time and purpose.
Last
year, I broke tradition by not hibernating but that was because back then I
knew that part of my healing process needed community. This year I recognize
that I don’t need to go out as often in Ramadan, I want to, and this month is about doing more of what you need and
less of what you want. I need more home time and family time.
And
God gave me the latter with this trip. He knew it was exactly what my mother
and I needed and while it felt so awkward to be on white sand beaches with blue
waters and halal piña coladas in the first four days of Ramadan, it’s where He put
us because that is where we were going to find new routes to Him.
We
found it under the humidity and heat of walking back to our hotel after a
daylight stroll and then not knowing whether to laugh or cry from exhaustion.
We found it under the shared aches we exchanged and pondering life and what it
will be when we return to our routines in 48 hours. We found it under the
remarkably impeccable perfection of Shinny-en’s organized efforts in preparing
the lanterns that more than 50,000 people will release at sunset.
We
sat there at the table, in awe at it all, trying to figure out what prayers to
write in honor of Syria and its refugees. “Here, write a poem,” my mom said,
handing me the lantern and a sharpie. “Like that?” I asked, puzzled at her
expectation and belief in my spontaneity. She believes in me, even more than I
believe in myself, because seven minutes later, a poetic prayer for Syria was
born. The photographers and videographers were mesmerized by the words that
were then accented with maps of Syria. To us, this was our most painful loss,
especially that it continues.
The
ceremony was held at the shore; the high tide creeping in. It started with
phenomenal music and dance, a procession and an utterly moving speech from Her
Holiness Shinso Ito, who then signaled to the over 50,000 people that it was
now time to release the lanterns.
There
we were walking straight into the Pacific—ankles to knees to waist—well I
didn’t go waist deep but my mom did, holding on tightly to that lantern with
dear life. Her tears streaming. The most amazing thing was witnessing the
transformation of the ocean. Going from an empty blue sea to a sea that was
slowly filling with glowing orange lights was mesmerizing and yet an eerie
reminder of how small we are in this big big world and yet how connected we all
are.
People
held one another. People cried. People struggled to let go, including my mom,
who had a hard time releasing that lantern and even walking away. Instead she
slowly inched her way backwards, keeping an eye on that lantern for Syria. We stood
there for an hour, watching the sea of orange grow, reminders of how many
fallen souls were being remembered. Soldiers. Lovers. Mothers. Sisters. Best friends.
Refugees. Sick patients. Children.
My
mother put it perfectly, it was like Hajj (though I’ve never been—only experienced
U’mrah). The gathering of so many people for one cause, one purpose, in unity,
under such a spiritual venture, that
was our route to God this Ramadan. Yes, we may not have been abstaining from
food and in a mosque all night long for Taraweeh Prayers but we were finding
God nonetheless.
We
were also finding ourselves and finding each other, and really that was the
greatest gift I could receive this Ramadan.
