Naeem's Blog

that friends who go out of their way to tell you that they love you *for the sake of Allah* don't really love you??

It's like they're saying, 'Dude, I'm telling you I love you not because I'm gay or anything, but because I'm looking to score some good deeds. So don't sweat it - we cool.'

I just find the exercise of adding 'for the sake of Allah' after a powerful sentiment such as 'I love you' to be defensive and even a tad bit disingenuous.

Why add that last part? Why not simply say to the friend, 'hey bro, I love you'? Are you afraid your feelings will be interpreted in a homoerotic manner? Are the words 'I love you' trademarked for Valentine's Day paraphernalia? Are those three words to be uttered only between sexual lovers?

It's as if, by adding 'for Allah's sake', the statement is transformed from one bursting with deep spiritual affection into an indifferent, non-sentimental, business-like gesture. It becomes void of emotional investment. It becomes dry and mechanical - in the same we perform our acts of worship.

Sure, I know the various ahadith on the matter of loving one another purely for the sake of Allah. So, yes, we should all strive for creating bonds of love between each other, independent of worldly benefits and favors.

But c'mon people, such relationships aren't simply established by invoking a few words - they are born from sincere action and emotion.

So next time you feel the urge to tell your fellow Muslim that you love him/her, try it with just those three words and save the intention for where it belongs - in your heart.

The Caretaker
==========

Blurred by my tears, I looked up and saw a fuzzy image of him.

As I wiped my eyes, I couldn’t believe what I saw.

He was wearing the same white undershirt but with tight blue jeans and weird cowboy boots. The jeans had a large artificial rip above the left knee.

He had broad shoulders, well-defined arms, and what looked to be an admirably flat stomach. His hair was longer, oiled back and tied into a ponytail. His face was lined with a dirty stubble.

He looked like some washed-up Bollywood actor.

At the same time, he looked really beaten up and exhausted, as if he had ran a marathon. He had that same stench that was emanating from the rusted metal lining of the object in the dirt.

But his face really took me by surprise.

He’s got my face. Just a bit darker.

“Not darker, you moron. I’m the same shade as you. I haven’t for the life of me been able to get rid of your friggin’ dark skin.”

“Wha..wha..Who are YOU?” I stammered, unable to comprehend the situation.

“Let’s start with some ground rules, mmkay? First, no stupid questions.”

“What are YOU...I mean, what am I...no, wait, you are you and I am me. What the HELL is going on here?”

“I’ve had enough of your stupid soul-searching bulls***. Time to wrap it up bro. You’ve gone far enough.”

As he stood there looking down at me, he pulled out a box of cigarettes from his folded up sleeve and then a lighter from his pocket.

He lit his cigarette, put everything back, and looked up, squinting into the sun.

“I seriously never thought you’d get this far though. I must admit I’m very impressed.” He pointed at me, wagging his cigarette, firmly fixed between his middle and index fingers. “But you know, now I gotta kill you.”

“Wait, huh? You're gonna kill me?”

“Naaah, cuz that would be like suicide...haha. I just like f***in’ with your weak mind, you insecure little sh**,” he puffed in a deep breath and popped his lips as he blew out the smoke.

“Over the years, you’d come out here every so often”, waving his arms, flailing at the surrounding desert. “Wandering aimlessly, makin’ a damn fool of yourself. We’d all get a kick out of you. Very entertaining, really,” he chuckled.

We? Who is we?

“Hello? You think I work solo out here?”

This is all like some freaky scene from Superman 3, where good Superman faced off with evil Superman.

“I prefer the final scene in the Matrix where Neo and Agent Smith go toe to toe. And whats with you and the 80’s dude? You really need to get a grip and come join the rest of the world in the 21st century.”

He slowly walked around the edge, kicking some dirt back into the pit. I turned and followed his arrogant swagger, my gaze fixed on his every movement. I nonchalantly picked up the pick, not sure what this hyper-aggressive maniac was capable of.

He stopped on the opposite side, with the blinding sun now right over his head. I shaded my eyes with my free hand, squinting so I could continue looking up at him.

He took a smug puff and continued, “But you had to f*** it up didn’t you? You had to come out here with that stupid shovel and pick. Like some god-d*** super hero. You just couldn’t leave well enough alone.”

His face started to turn red, his anger visible as well as audible.

With his voice rising, “How long’s it been, huh!? Almost thirty years, right? Jesus, Naeem! Thirty f****in’ years and now you think you have some God-given right to come in here and start digging?! WHO...THE F***...ARE YOU?”

His last word ended with a loud scream, his veins visible on the side of his forehead and spit spraying from his mouth.

He took one last powerful puff, looked at his cigarette, and then flicked it at me. I looked down to see it land at my feet and when I looked up, I saw his dark silhouette lunging at me.

I immediately threw up the pick to fend him off as he simultaneously grabbed a hold of the handle. Both of us were standing face to face with our arms stretched above our heads, struggling for control of the pick.

“You naive fool! So weak, yet so persistent. When will you ever realize that you have no chance?” He pushed me back as he released the handle and flashed an evil grin with a sense of confident finality. And before I could react, he took a step and jumped into me, disappearing like some dreamy apparition.

I shook my head, blinked hard a few times to collect myself, and looked around. I was seated alone in my darkened living room, with the sounds of the arguing kids as well as my wife, who was busy trying to quiet the crying infant, piercing through the closed door.

I stood up, walked past my ringing cellphone towards the kitchen and decided to indulge myself with a serving of my wife’s deliciously decadent carrot cake – leaving that rusted, sullied container with its miserable contents and its crazy caretaker for another day, or maybe another year, or maybe never again.

Yeah, that would be so much more easier.
============

Part 1 - The Beginning
Part 2 - The Discovery
Part 3 - Memories
Part 4 - The Opening
Part 5 - The Caretaker

The Opening
=========

I awoke as soon as the morning sun hit my eyes. I sat up and looked around to orient myself. And then I noticed the footprints leading up to the pit. As I followed the trail into the pit, I noticed a bunch of bushes and rocks as well as most of the dirt was thrown back in.

Dammit! Who's the idiot sabotaging my efforts? If I find that bastard, I’ll give him a serious ass-whoopin’.

I wiped my face and with a renewed sense of commitment, I quickly removed all the rubbish and returned to the gas pipe. As soon as I opened up the hole again, the voices returned. This time, I didn’t run away, but forced myself to listen.

Is someone inside there calling for help? But the voice sounds just like mine?

Not only was the voice my own, but those exact words were mine as well! Words uttered in anger. Some with envy. Some with disdain. Others with an all-out hatred and venom that can only be described as hideous.

Broken hearts and broken promises. Principles overcome by desires. Convictions overruled by passions.

The intense, biting pain caused by the memories and the circumstances of these words caused an extreme heaviness inside me. I felt a sense of disgrace and humiliation that I had never felt before. I simultaneously felt a need to turn back and run away.

But I yearned to see what this container was and what other mysterious powers it had. With a rage curiously building up inside me, I quickly whacked at the tiny pin-sized hole to make it bigger.

All the while, the voices were getting louder and louder.

I need to get inside and see what the hell is going on. Keep pushing yourself. No time for rest.

True to my word, I didn’t stop this time around. I kept at the metal object, oblivious to the pain in my shoulder and the calluses on my hands. And then suddenly, when I burst open a hole the size of my fist, a filthy pus started uncontrollably gushing out. I jumped back and covered my face to protect myself from the splashing grime.

Once the pressure let up, I noticed that the slime was a thick yellowish pus mixed in with dirty brown blood and had an unbelievably disgusting smell. Unable to control myself, I jumped out of the pit and let out a stream of vomit next to the piles of dirt.

I turned around and as the sickening mixture continued to slowly flow out and spill into the pit, I noticed a bunch of thick index card-sized booklets floating around.

I felt so disgusted by the smell of the pus, I wanted to just bury the whole mess and pretend it never happened. But the voice inside me continued to badger me to continue my mission.

So I unbelievably jumped back in, with the pus coming past my ankles and bent down to carefully pick up one of the booklets, caring not an iota of the filthy slime getting all over my hands and clothes.

I began leafing through its wet, heavy pages. I could make out some of the illustrations in the book and what I saw caused me to drop the book and let out a childish scream.

It couldn’t be! I must be imagining.

It was full of images with no text. And to my horror, I recognized every single image.

With chills and goosebumps, I picked it up again and with an indescribable pain shooting from my stomach to my lungs, I forced myself to look at the images.

Second and third glances. Magazines. Movies. All images I wish I had never set my sight upon. Gazes of indulgence, of jealousy, of spite, of disgust – all cast by me.

Then there were the images of the eyes.

Eyes of disappointment by the father whose expectations I never lived up to.
Eyes of pain bore by the mother who should never have had to suffer such indignities.
Eyes of a broken heart by the one woman whose heart I vowed never to break.
Countless pairs of eyes, some with anger, some with hurt, many with overflowing tears.

And there were images of me, images of mockery, images of contempt, images of conceit, images of fury, images of ugly. All images I had so desperately tried to distance myself from.

How could it be? How did they get in here?

With my mind reeling, I continued to flip through the booklet and I continued to relive the brutal memories. My breathing had accelerated and I felt as though I was going to pass out.

What in the world is this deeply buried object, out in the middle of nowhere, that is uncovering my most ugliest of memories. I thought I had buried them deep into the recesses of...my heart...

Wait...it couldn’t be...oh God...

My legs began to tremble, unable to hold up my weight, until they buckled and I fell to my knees. Looking at the booklet, my hands were shaking uncontrollably, until the realization came around once more.

No! No! No! It can’t be! Nooooooo! I screamed and buried my face into my hands, sobbing hysterically...

“Uhmm, excuse me. Am I interrupting, Naeem bhai?”
==========

Part 1 - The Beginning
Part 2 - The Discovery
Part 3 - Memories
Part 4 - The Opening
Part 5 - The Caretaker

Memories
=======

Where is that stupid hole? I really can’t stand these moving sands in the desert. They make it so difficult to backtrack my steps.

Ah, here it is.

Huh!? What the hell?!

Who put all these rocks back into my pit? Definitely not the work of the winds. Been gone for 5 days, but surely no one else would come all the way out here.

That’s it, I’m staying here this time around until the job is done.

I picked up the shovel and resumed the arduous task of getting back to the metallic object in the ground. The winds had picked up and the sand was flying right into my eyes and mouth. I pulled my shirt over my head and blindly returned to the shoveling.

Oh wow, this shirt smells nice. I wonder what kind of fabric softener was used. Does that stuff really soften the fabric or just give it a nice smell? That guy in the pharmacy had some really nice smelling Oud. Best Oud shop is in Mecca right across from the Haram. I can’t understand what people see in Obama.

Focus!

I finally reached the buried, metallic object. I threw the shovel to the side and picked up the pick. With a deep breath, I drove the pick into the object. With a tiny spark, I saw a thick flake of the metal chip off the top. As soon as I picked up the chunk, with its reeking smell, this strong wistful feeling overcame me.

Thoughts that had long exited my memory banks came flooding back. I was instantly transported to a nostalgic dimension. But the thoughts that overcame me were extremely ugly and extremely painful.

I quickly threw the piece to the side.

What was that all about?! Am I going crazy out here in this isolation?

I paced around inside the hole, holding my head in my hands, wondering what I was doing. I brushed aside my apprehensions and without thinking, turned to pick up the piece again. This time I didn’t let go, letting the stream of memories flow unabated.

Promises, broken without remorse. Insults, hurled without consideration. Condescension, treachery, arrogance, insincerity. So much pain - inflicted upon others, upon myself.

They kept pouring into my conscience, one ugly memory after another.

Aaagghh! All these hideous thoughts!

I flung the metal piece onto the pile of dirt and immediately fell to my knees, more out of emotional exhaustion than physical, struggling to catch my breath.

What the hell was *THAT*? Where did all those memories come from?

After a momentary pause to recollect my thoughts, my urge to dig mysteriously returned, overcoming my urge to flee. I grabbed the pick and struck the object again and another piece came off. I continued chipping away the top metallic layer of rust, until I heard a hissing sound coming from a small hole I had managed to pierce.

Oh crap, this is some sort of gas pipe and I just busted a hole into it. But the hissing sound stopped and it was replaced by voices.

Voices? Naah, that can’t be voices. Must be imagining things again.

But it was a voice. And not just any voice, but MY voice!

Freaked out, I leapt out of the pit and jumped behind the pile of dirt. I sat still, slowly peeking at the pit, trying to control my heavy breathing.

I’ve officially gone off the deep end. I’m reliving memories and hearing voices all while digging a pit. What the hell am I thinking?

I turned around, leaned my back against the mound, legs sprawled, and stared out to the open desert, struggling to make sense of what just happened. The cool breeze of the crisp evening helped to alleviate my worries.

As I sat there, the weight of my eyelids overcame me.
============

Part 1 - The Beginning
Part 2 - The Discovery
Part 3 - Memories
Part 4 - The Opening
Part 5 - The Caretaker

THE DISCOVERY
=============

PING!

What the hell did I just hit?!

The sound was more than a shovel hitting a hard rock. In fact, it was much too high-pitched to be a rock. I tapped it with the shovel a few more times. More ringing sounds, almost like metal-on-metal.

I tried to get underneath it by poking the shovel to either side, but nothing. This sucker is big. It was too big to dig up with the shovel.

I looked around and noticed that I was about waist deep into the hole. I purposely had dug it in the shape of a square – didn’t want it rectangular, looking like a grave – that would be too morbid. I got down on my knees and started clearing away the dirt to get a better idea of its size.

It was two weeks since I last came out and I thought I had gotten over the urge to dig. I thought the voice wouldn’t return. But last night it did and here I am.

After wandering around for hours looking for the pile of dirt from my last trip out here, I had finally found the spot.

Seems like the desert wind blew some of the dirt right back into the hole. But how did some of the shrubs and bigger rocks also make it back in there? Odd.

As I lowered myself to the ground, I was immediately awestruck by the serenity of the desert.

It wasn’t this peaceful last time or maybe I’m just more in tune with my surroundings. The sun does seem more crisper and the wind is a bit more biting. Not sure what’s changed.

At first, I was a bit leery of getting down on all fours. If I lost sight of the area around me, anyone could come up from behind. My apprehension slowly faded as I used my hands to clear out the dirt away from the huge object in the ground. I was becoming more intrigued by it and less concerned about my surroundings.

It was massive. It stretched the entire width and length of the pit. The object could have been a huge pipe or some old container. I was able to chip away some sharp pieces of metal with my fingernail. The metallic rust had this odious stench unlike anything I had smelled before.

I grabbed the pick I had brought this time around and figured I could try and poke a hole into it. I stood up, cocked the pick back over my head and wailed away. A resounding TWANG followed and the pick forcefully bounced right back at me.

Aaawwgghhh! That hurt like a...

I clenched my teeth trying to regain my composure after that body-rattling smash. Once I gathered my senses, I smelled the aroma of fresh bread brought in by a sudden desert breeze and realized how hungry I was.

Man, I’m famished. I’ll come back tomorrow and finish up.
==========

Part 1 - The Beginning
Part 2 - The Discovery
Part 3 - Memories
Part 4 - The Opening
Part 5 - The Caretaker

THE BEGINNING
=============

The voice had told me to find a desolate spot far outside the city. It had to be away from the people, away from the traffic, away from the noise. I needed quiet it told me.

Stupid sedimentary life has made walking such a long distance such a pain and it’s even harder with this heavy shovel.

I'd been following the power lines for the past hour or so.

These huge towers are amazing. Like those funny looking insects, praying mantis I think they’re called, lined up through the stretching desert. But what are those red balls attached to the power lines for? Never quite figured that out. They remind me of those spongy red kickballs. Yeah, kickball was fun, especially in the 4th grade. That Patrick could really kick the ball hard and he wasn’t even that big. If I could have kicked that hard, I would have been so popular.

Focus!

Where am I going? Should I stop here? Nope, let me see if I can get even further out, away from the distractions. Is that even possible? It’s already pretty calm out here.

In fact, this silence is seriously annoying. It’s just so quiet and I really can’t stand it. Never understood what ‘deafening silence’ meant until now. I guess I’ve gotten so used to having that background noise, the kids, the cars, the TV. This silence is really driving me crazy.

I vented out a loud scream and nothing. Not a peep. The vast, open desert simply absorbed the sound.

OK, this is freaky.

I continued trudging along until I found the spot. Not sure how I knew, but it seemed to be right. I surveyed the area and noticed some scrawny bushes and a few scattered rocks. All I heard was the faint whistling of the wind blowing across my ears.

How do these tiny shrubs get enough water to survive? Must be a source of water underneath feeding these plants. That irrigation system setup on Abujee’s farm back in Pakistan sure was cool. I wonder if I could ever live on a farm.

Aaaghh! Focus!

Putting the shovel to the side, I started clearing out the shrubs and kicking aside the bigger rocks.

Haven’t really dug much in my over-urbanized life, but I know that digging is made easier when the ground is cleared away.

Damn it! Stupid bushes have some really sharp thorns. I need some gardening gloves. Great! I got a splinter stuck right between my thumb and index finger. At least it didn’t go all the way in.

Having cleared out enough space to start digging, I picked up the shovel and struck the ground. The first blow reverberated through my entire upper body.

Stupid ground isn’t soft at all. No rain has visited these solid grounds for months, maybe even years. (Deep sigh) This is gonna be a long day.

Instead of throwing aside heaps of dirt at a time, I was stuck chipping away at the ground. With the noon sun beating down on my feeble body, I kept at it for several hours, but with a slow, deliberate pace. I paused when my salty sweat trickled into the sides of my mouth.

Spit that nasty sweat out, you disgusting bum. Isn’t piss and perspiration made of the same substance? Note to self: Don’t drink your own sweat. Don’t I have more important things to do? This’ll seriously take so much time. Speaking of which, what time is it anyway? The sun’s gotten a bit dull and the heat is beginning to wane. Must be around 3 or 4pm. That’s when I normally come home from work and play with the kids. Kids can be so difficult to raise. How did my parents happen to get it so right with me? After all, I never did drugs or sex, so I must be on the right path. Right?

Focus!

Hours passed before I finally reached some soft earth. Now we’re talkin’. With sweat dripping off the tip of my nose, I finally hit a groove. I even had the proper form: ‘bend at the knees not the back,’ they always say. A respectable mound of dirt was building up by my side.

Then at one point, the dirt started to feel heavier. And I wasn’t just getting tired. It really was getting heavier. Like it was more dense. Sure, my shoulders were aching and the muscles in my arms were burning, but how could the dirt just get heavier?

Should I stop here? What exactly am I digging for? Nah, I must keep going. I need to do this. Besides, it wouldn’t hurt my fat ass to get some exercise every once in a while.

So with my shirt soaked with sweat and my gym pants starting to stick to my legs, I plugged away at the dirt.

And then all of a sudden, my extreme fatigue completely overwhelmed me. Not just physically, but also mentally. I became convinced that all this was an exercise in futility. I looked up and noticed the setting sun.

Oh well, it’s getting dark and I’m not ready to stay the night out in the middle of nowhere. I guess I’ll come back some other time to finish the dig.
==============

Part 1 - The Beginning
Part 2 - The Discovery
Part 3 - Memories
Part 4 - The Opening
Part 5 - The Caretaker

We have become estranged – from our neighbors, from our friends, from our families, and worst of all from our Creator and Sustainer (swt). All because we have become estranged from our very own selves.

As members of a scientific age, we hypothesize, analyze, and synthesize the Outer. But as humans, we remain oblivious to our Inner.

We surround ourselves with recreational noise so as to avoid the silence of our souls. We dull our senses by entering delusional states of social inebriation in order to evade this most fundamental of truths – the truth of who we are.

We plunge ourselves into the depths of the oceans searching for the most amazing creations of Allah, while failing to scratch the surface of the single most amazing creation of Allah, our hearts.

We have become masters of the known universe, while remaining slaves to our lower selves.

And that is why we have falsely convinced ourselves that happiness is found in laughing, eating, shopping, and playing, while disregarding those who abstain (from laughing, eating, shopping, and playing) as being aloof from the world. In reality, we are the ones who are aloof – aloof from our own selves.

Maybe because the journey to know oneself is not a simple one. It involves serious reflection and contemplation. It requires coming face to face with an ugliness we have subconsciously buried deep into the recesses of our hearts. It is painful and brutal to acknowledge.

But this endeavor to dig deep down and push aside years of waste and clutter and discover hidden realities and horrible truths is vital to fulfilling our purpose in life – attaining a true state of submission (‘Uboodiyah) to the One (swt).

And thus, I was very much intrigued by the classifications of the nafs as detailed by Sh.Mokhtar Moghraoui. If you have the time, please listen and internalize his words. Otherwise, I provided below a quick summary of four types of nafs that we need to ponder over.

We can take the first step in discovering the true nature of our nafs by reflecting on what brings us happiness and contentment:

First, there is the bahimi nafs, the cattle-like nafs. Like cows and chickens, this nafs finds ultimate happiness in consuming food, drink, sleep, and sex. Its life revolves around such types of activities. Parties and outings are organized with the sole purpose of indulging in these desires.

Furthermore, a society is created in which the pursuit of this type of happiness is institutionalized and all sorts of products and gadgets are invented to facilitate the consumption thereof. The rat race of life that we find ourselves in during the work week culminates in the culture of ‘the weekend’, where food, drink, sleep, and sex are pursued incessantly.

Admittedly, it is only natural that we have bahimi instincts to eat and drink. But if these desires overtake our desire to submit to Allah (swt), we have an imbalance.

Then there is the subu’ee nafs, the predatory nafs. In addition to the basal desires of food, sleep, and sex, this hyena-like nafs finds pleasure in coveting the goods of others. This nafs takes part in attacking, usurping, stealing, and killing. Self-satisfaction for this type of individual is found in accruing wealth, especially at the expense of others.

Thirdly, there is the shaytaani nafs, the devilish nafs. This type seeks to mischievously plot and scheme in creating evil and causing harm to others. This nafs desires to lord over others and become an object of worship. The greedy amassing of property has left this nafs wanting more, so it seeks to subdue and control and manipulate others – like the Shaytaan himself. Additionally, this nafs finds satisfaction in enhancing and strengthening the lower qualities and vices of the previous two types of nafs.

Finally, there is the malaaiki nafs, the angelic nafs. This nafs finds its greatest pleasure in nearness to its Creator. It aspires to become closer to Allah (swt) by detaching itself from all other forms of attachment. It is nourished by and satisfied with Divine guidance and Prophetic example.

We all have qualities of each type of nafs and to the extent we actualize and nourish each nafs, that is our true nature. We may cultivate cattle-like and predatory-like practices so much that it so thoroughly dominates our angelic inspirations that we become unrecognizable monsters.

While every individual has the capacity for predatory or devilish deeds, it is only when we have consistently acted upon and even developed and nurtured these covetous and evil inclinations, that we have forsaken our angelic potentials and created a most detestable inner image.

So the question remains, only for you to answer, only for you to know: What type of nafs have you allowed to dominate your heart and soul? And if you don't know, do you have the inner fortitude to commence this journey of discovering the truth?

The ship floats in the vast ocean of water, surrounded by crashing waves, effortlessly bouncing one way or the other. The ship remains at the surface of the deep ocean because it never allows the water to enter.

Similarly, let your heart be as a ship floating in the ocean of this world. Verily you have been created to live in the world. And so, the world will come crashing against your heart, trying to topple it over, trying to rip it apart – but remain steadfast and never, ever let it enter into your heart, knowing full well that if you allow the dunya to enter your heart, it will sink.

(Not sure who to attribute this to, as I heard it in a lecture some time ago. I think he said it was from Rumi. Suffice it to say, these powerful words are not my own.)

It all started with my Saudi co-worker telling me how his wife reminds him of a GMC Suburban.

Odd, I thought to myself, I never considered it a compliment to describe one's wife as an oversized SUV, but hey, different folks, different strokes.

He continued by explaining the odyssey of his marriage, which began as it does for many youth - in need of money. But since the Shariah compliant banks don't offer straight up cash loans, he had to take a popular, alternative route.

He went to a dealership and financed the Suburban (valued at around 100,000 riyals) over a 5 year payment period. He explained how outside the dealership there are individuals with 'bags of money' waiting to buy your newly purchased vehicle (of course at a discounted rate).

The dealer sold the car, the middle man made his pretty profit, and best of all, my friend got the cash he needed to help him get married. Perfect!

Not really, I thought. Although each transaction is permissible in Islam, the entire transaction wreaks of a straight-up money for money loan (read: Riba) with the commodity (in this case the Suburban) thrown in as a mere formality.

But wait, it gets even better.

There are some banks here in Saudi that are using steel as the commodity in order to give out loans. It's the same as the example of the Suburban, except that man standing outside the parking lot with the money is taken out of the equation. The bank conveniently replaces him, ending up as both the seller and the buyer, all in order to allow you to get a halal cash loan.

Here's how their magic works: You walk into the bank needing say 50,000 riyals. The bank sells you 50,000 worth of steel for 60,000 over 5 years. Then they buy it back from you for 50,000. You walk out of the bank with 50,000 in hand and a debt of 60,000 to be paid over 5 years.

In fact, my friend told me that the steel actually does exist, in some warehouse outside Riyadh, in order to comply with the Shariah board's requirement. Someone he knows actually wanted to go out to see the steel in order to verify the 'validity' of the transaction and sure enough, the warehouse was there, full of steel. Some worker over there actually laughed how no one has ever come to visit the premises since its creation several years ago.

But I digress.

Now I'll be the first to admit that there are few topics as daunting, complex, and mysterious as Islamic finance - astrophysics and female psychology are two that immediately come to mind. But even I can understand that one of the fundamental principles of Islamic finance is that money can't be made from money. The Islamic economic system is a commodity-based system - transactions are based on buying and selling goods, not buying and selling money.

How in the world can these people convince themselves that they're partaking in a halal transaction?

In the end, I shake my head and think how fitting that a society that has made a sham of Islamic morality, has done the same to Islamic economics.

So is it just me or does anyone else see the eerie similarities between the actions described above and the actions of Bani Israel when they left their fishing nets out on the Sabbath, and returned the next day in order to collect the fish?

Both adhered to the letter of the law, while flaunting the spirit of the law.

===========

UPDATE: I did some more research and found that Saudi scholars have not sanctioned the second type of transaction, where the bank sells the commodity and then buys it back. However, they have approved of the first example (where the SUV is sold to a guy outside the bank).

Nonetheless, many banks in KSA perform both types of transaction, banking (pun intended) on the customer's ignorance of the fatwa details.

That being said, I still find it extremely questionable that I can walk into a bank, finance some steel (or rice or whatever) that everyone knows I will never use, and then walk out and sell it for straight up cash. Although it complies with all the Shariah requirements, it reminds me of the saying: If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck...

for agreeing with the sentiments expressed by this feminist (h/t Yursil) who admitted that her life-long ambition of being a 'free' woman has proven fruitless and now believes that happiness can be found in cooking, cleaning, and childrearing?

Here are her own words:

"I want love and children but they are nowhere to be seen. I feel like a UN inspector sent in to Iraq only to find that there never were any weapons of mass destruction. I was led to believe that women could “have it all” and, more to the point, that we wanted it all. To that end I have spent 20 years ruthlessly pursuing my dreams - to be a successful playwright. I have sacrificed all my womanly duties and laid it all at the altar of a career. And was it worth it? The answer has to be a resounding no."

Do check out her entire piece - its definitely worth it. It takes a courageous person to look back on one's highest aspirations and claim them to be empty. I have much respect for her (and a bit of remorse as well).

However, I wanted to use this opportunity to talk about the oft-forgotten male perspective in this issue.

So just as Ms. Lewis had the courage to share an extremely politically incorrect truth, I will muster up similar courage do the same by letting you all in on a secret:

(Deep breath)

Men like their women to stay at home.

There. I said it. Congratulations are in order.

For too long men have supported their working, strong-minded women, saying all the right things ('Absolutely, go ahead and pursue your PhD. We'll just send little Johnny to daycare'). Men have given in to their wives seeking employment in hopes of (too often unnecessarily) raising their combined standard of living ('I agree honey. That new house we want can only be paid for if you go out and work').

But the reality is that men would much rather prefer their women to stay home and care for the children and cook dinner and greet them when they return from a long day at work.

Ladies, if you believe your DH when he tells you otherwise, then you'll probably believe me when I tell you that the Tooth Fairy has a crush on Santa - well, maybe not a real crush, it's more like puppy love.

I've experienced both sides of the fence and I can say without a doubt that life was so much better when my wife was at home. For all parties involved - me, her, and the kids.

Men are babies and need that element of comfort and support that their counterparts provide upon their return from work. Men are also providers and there is a great feeling of cosmic balance when the man feels that he is fulfilling his obligation of providing for the family - that his work is enabling his partner to fulfill her obligations of raising the children and caring for the house. Both partners playing their roles in ensuring domestic harmony.

There is an unimaginable sense of peace and tranquility when the man comes home to a wife who has been protected from having to scramble for her daily sustenance. The wife may not always be refreshed and smiling (due to the serious responsibilities of the home), but she has been spared the ugliness of the outside world.

Yeah, I know. That does come off as a bit sexist and condescending. But does that reflect poorly on me or on our society that looks down on a man for wanting to provide for and protect his family?

While its obviously ludicrous how the self-appointed leader of the Pakistani Taliban, Baitullah Mehsud, claimed responsibility for the shooting spree that killed 13 in New York, it does bring up the interesting question: For how many other terrorist incidents have people like him falsely taken credit?

FWIW, the FBI has dismissed Mehsud's claim.

Basically it's the practice of provoking terrorist groups into action, for the purpose of allowing the 'tickler' to respond with great force in cracking down on the 'tickled'. And that's where initiatives such as the Proactive, Preemptive Operations Group (P2OG) come into play. A 2002 LA Times article describes this US Intelligence Agency:

"Among other things, this body would launch secret operations aimed at "stimulating reactions" among terrorists and states possessing weapons of mass destruction—that is, for instance, prodding terrorist cells into action and exposing themselves to "quick-response" attacks by U.S. forces.

Such tactics would hold "states/sub-state actors accountable" and "signal to harboring states that their sovereignty will be at risk", the briefing paper declares"

Stimulating reactions?? Interesting how that's exactly what the CIA Chief admitted to being the purpose of the drone attacks in North Pakistan that are regularly massacring civilians and enraging the locals.

And clearly it served its purpose with the recent spate of terrorist attacks in Pakistan and the surprisingly convenient threat by Baitullah Mehsud of an impending attack on Washington DC.

It goes without saying that Pakistan's "sovereignty will be at risk" if ever an attack were to be carried out on American soil. Heck, who needs an actual attack when the mere threat of an attack has proven to be quite sufficient? (lookup Iraq in case you've forgotten)

This same tactic of terrorist-tickling is used by the Israelis when things get too quiet and the need arises to justify their $3billion annual aid from the US. An assassination here or a bombing there and Voila!, instant Palestinian reaction immediately followed by jet fighters and tanks, a PR campaign demonizing the blood thirsty Palestinians, and even more restrictive economic embargoes.

Similar tactics were found to be taking place in Iraq where it didn't take much to incite sectarian violence between Sunnis and Shias. Once tickled, these groups consisting of freedom fighters and terrorists alike provided the fodder for America increasing their presence in the region.

Chris Floyd breaks down the nuts and bolts of such pernicious actions even better:

"In other words – and let's say this plainly, clearly and soberly, so that no one can mistake the intention of Rumsfeld's plan – the United States government is planning to use "cover and deception" and secret military operations to provoke murderous terrorist attacks on innocent people. Let's say it again: Donald Rumsfeld, Dick Cheney, George W. Bush and the other members of the unelected regime in Washington plan to deliberately foment the murder of innocent people – your family, your friends, your lovers, you – in order to further their geopolitical ambitions.

For P2OG is not designed solely to flush out terrorists and bring them to justice – a laudable goal in itself, although the Rumsfeld way of combating terrorism by causing it is pure moral lunacy... No, it seems the Pee-Twos have bigger fish to fry. Once they have sparked terrorists into action – by killing their family members? luring them with loot? fueling them with drugs? plying them with jihad propaganda? messing with their mamas? or with agents provocateurs, perhaps, who infiltrate groups then plan and direct the attacks themselves? – they can then take measures against the "states/sub-state actors accountable" for "harboring" the Rumsfeld-roused gangs. What kind of measures exactly? Well, the classified Pentagon program puts it this way: "Their sovereignty will be at risk."

The Pee-Twos will thus come in handy whenever the Regime hankers to add a little oil-laden real estate or a new military base to the Empire's burgeoning portfolio. Just find a nest of violent malcontents, stir 'em with a stick, and presto: instant "justification" for whatever level of intervention/conquest/rapine you might desire. "