Names and Faces, Hearts and Minds: Salim

I have never been good at fasting. Maybe it comes from being a fat kid, but self-control has never been my strong suit. My blood sugar gets low, my hands get shaky, and I start to obsess about what I’m going to eat next. I’m not proud of this, but I tend to politely check out when preachers talk about fasting in church.

As you may know, during the holy month of Ramadan, Muslims fast from dawn to dusk. They take a small meal in the morning and in the evening, but for the most part, they don’t eat during the day. Now, I’ve heard that this is much harder to do when somebody is living in Philadelphia versus when they are living in the Middle East. For one thing, Philadelphia has more daylight hours during Ramadan than many countries in the Middle East do. More than that, however, there is a positive social pressure in the Middle East that affirms fasting during Ramadan. It’s easier to fast when everybody else around you is doing it. When your classmate is eating a cheesesteak in front of you, that’s much tougher.

Salim is a friend of mine and former student. He is from Yemen, a country in the Middle East. He’s a stocky guy with a thin beard and a sharp intellect. When you meet Salim, you can tell he’s the kind of guy who thinks about the things that he says before he says them (this is another quality I lack). I met Salim while I was teaching TOEFL English at a university in Philadelphia. During the time I taught him, it was my first experience interacting with Muslim students during the month of Ramadan. I wasn’t really sure what to expect. I mean, I know I have trouble going to class on an empty stomach; how could I expect my students to do this for a month?

Some students were quite sluggish (I don’t blame them), but not Salim. This guy already was academically gifted, even before Ramadan--he was definitely had the best English of anybody in the class--and if I didn’t see him stay in the classroom during lunch, I wouldn’t have known he was fasting. He wasn’t lethargic, and he seemed as alert and attentive as he was before the holy month. Not only did his performance not suffer during Ramadan, he was consistent to his beliefs and his principles, and he followed those principles even when it was hard--with Philly’s long days and predominantly non-Muslim culture. I read somewhere that real integrity means that you are the same person, even when nobody is watching, and I believe that this describes Salim excellently.

As such, I thought Salim would be a great first interview for Names and Faces, Hearts and Minds. For more information on this project, see the blurb at the end of this blog entry.

Below are Salim’s answers. Enjoy!  

1. What do you want people to know about Yemen?

Yemen has always been a good place for all people. Jews, Christians and Muslims live alongside with each other in great coexistence for centuries. Yemen is a rich country in terms of its history, heritage and its old civilizations.

2. What's one useful word in Yemeni Arabic you would like people to know? What does it mean?

“Mocha” is the name of an old port in Yemen where the first kinds of coffee were exported.

3. How and why did you get to the US? What challenges did you have to face in coming here?

I am here to pursue my education to contribute, later, in shaping Yemen to be a better place. The biggest challenge I encountered was integrating into American culture and society.

4. What do you miss about Yemen?

I really miss my family and friends (back home), since I have been in the US for two years.

5. What you like about living in the US?

The thing I admire most about the US is its diversity. I have friends from different parts from around the globe.

6. What thing is most important to you? Why?

It is important to me to be surrounded by good friends who help and support you during your life’s journey.

7. What do you value most? Why?

What I value most is being a human, regardless of one's race, gender, religion or language. This is because we are all one.

8. What is your favorite food? Describe it for people who may be unfamiliar.

My favorite Yemeni food is Mandi; it is rice with meat (lamb or chicken) which is cooked in a sort of tandoori.

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This is the first installment in Names and Faces, Hearts and Minds, a project in which I interview people from countries affected by Trump’s travel ban. Early last week, passport holders from Yemen, Syria, Sudan, Libya, Iraq, Iran and Somalia were prohibited entry to the United States until the government can devise an “extreme vetting” system for immigrants from these countries. While

it is not being called a Muslim ban, the president has said that Christian refugees will be granted visa priority (making it a de facto ban on Muslims from these countries). At the time of this writing, a federal judge has declared a temporary pause on the enforcement of this ban, saying it causes immigrants and refugees irreparable harm to be deported back to conflict zones in their home country. Passport holders from these countries already in the United States (like Salim) are hesitant to return home for fear they won’t be let back in the US.

Names and Faces, Hearts and Minds seeks to personalize people affected by this event (and other marginalized immigrants). It is my hope that if we see people as individuals and not as a faceless enemy, we can make the world a better place. If you know anybody who is interested in being interviewed for this project, please get in touch with me via private Facebook message or email at mandarinshifu@gmail.com. Thanks!

Finally, I passionately believe in dialogue. I do not believe in Facebook flame wars. If you want to continue the conversation, please do so in a respectful manner. Rather than have an extended conversation on one of our walls, I would much rather give you a call, send you a Skype message or meet you for coffee. This is a better use of both of our time.    

Photo Credits: picture of Salim by Salim Bin Ghouth, picture of Mandi from Mandi recipe on recipesaresimple.com  

Be There

It is 8:11 AM. I am eating a bagel with hummus on it. This is less because we have no cream cheese in the house, and more because hummus, as it is widely known, is God's most perfect food. I am drinking a cup of coffee, and Isabelle sits in her bouncy seat below me, trying to impale a plush toy monkey with her foot. I suspect the child has a future in soccer or martial arts, as she enjoys kicking things with such gusto that I have learned to not sit her on my lap within kicking reach of sensitive areas of the male anatomy.

Isabelle is very active in the morning. This rainy Sunday is no exception. The only way I am able to steal time to write this blog entry is if I bounce the child with my foot, while eating my bagel and drinking my coffee and typing. Now, I hate being interrupted (the irony of my choosing to become a high school teacher--AKA professional interuptee-- is not lost), but the slowness of the process does have its advantages. It forces me to process, to think about what I'm saying, which is the point of blogging in the first place--a very cheap form of therapy.

There's a verse, I forget which, where God calls Moses up to the mountain to talk to him. Moses answers and goes. The Hebrew text says literally that God called Moses, and Moses "was there." Maybe I'm reading into it, but it seems that Moses took time to be only there, and God honored that. He made a choice to be present at the mountain. He decided to "be there" and God answered Him. As we enter the Sabbath today, please don't forget that God loves you, even when all you are doing is to exist. Please don't forget that so much is lost when we forget to live in the moment, to "be there" with God and those we love. And above all, please don't forget that bagels and hummus are fantastically delicious. Seriously, you should try this. I highly recommend it.

Hayah Shem (Be there).

Daniel

The Passenger, Part 1

Hey Guys,

This is a story I wrote. I'm not sure how long it will be, but if you like and want to see more of Mel and company, leave a comment!

Daniel

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The office is full of Skymall products, the kind of thing no human should spend money on. There is a shelf full of torso-length undergarments in the corner (They were still in the package: apparently underwear that reaches from your armpits to your thighs is a classic case of buyer’s remorse). On top of the underwear shelf perches a bouncy ball with a smiley face sporting a racially-inappropriate Mexican mustache. There is a segway scooter, a quesadilla maker and a cake decorating kit strewn about the room. To my knowledge, Melchizedek Martin has never made a cake in his life.

In between the airline paraphernalia, there are grammar books galore. On the table in front of me, there is A Guide to Ancient Sanskrit. Stacked to the right of my chair, there is a six volume overview of the intricacies of the Attic Greek verb. On the shelf behind Mel’s head rests such chestnuts as Classical Chinese for Dopes and Gersenius’ Concise Guide to Hebrew Grammar. The concise grammar is sixteen volumes.

In Melcizedek’s self-proclaimed dungeon, there are no windows. Besides a small cot in the corner, the only places to sit are a small chair where Mr. Martin and I sit. My interviewer is wearing a suit from a thrift shop. It has holes in the elbow and a stain above the forearm. Despite the fact the Melchizedek Martin literally wrote the book on the first known extraterrestrial language (Martin’s Field Guide to Passengerian--a measly two volumes), despite the pools of money this feat has rewarded him with, despite all the that, it has been before the Arrival since Melchizedek Martin has bought a new shirt, and longer still since he has washed the one he now wears.

“Thanks for agreeing to this interview, Mr. Martin,” I say.

“Please, call me Melchizedek,” he says, as if he was cutting me a break, as if Martin was much harder to pronounce than Melchizedek.

I am unsure where to begin. Interviews are hard to start in general. So, tell me about your life and everything that matters to you. Talk about a broad question. Melchizedek Martin is even worse: So, the Aliens say anything cool lately? I clear my throat, telegraphing my intent to begin. “You have been called the ‘the father of xenolinguistics.’ What exactly is ‘xenolinguistics?’

“Xenolinguistics is the study of systems of formalized meaning by entities of extraterrestrial origin.”

“So, it’s the study of extraterrestrial languages?”

“Not exactly. If one human society meets another, we think about language in much the same way. One person points at a dog and says their word for it in English. Another person says the word in Chinese. Masang Voilà, we learned a word.” He sniffles as he speaks, as if he has a cold, as if his congestion makes his point for him.

“However, there are all sorts of presuppositions about words that aliens might not share.” He gets up from his chair and paces around the room, dancing around the random ecclectica of meaningless objects: trivia made manifest in things. “Humans have a rough word-to-word correspondence for each thing. Passengiarian is very different. Different equipment. Different hardware.”

I look down at my notes. “You made that distinction in your book, didn’t you? Oral and Phernomonal Passengerian?”

He looks at me then, as if his eyes are taking a long drag of optical cigarette smoke. He sighs then--like an old man blowing a smoke ring. It’s long enough to make me uncomfortable, and I begin to wonder if I have something in my teeth.

“Have you ever considered becoming one of them, Daniel?”

“Mr. Martin, I think my Passengerian status is hardly relevant to this interview…”

“I was… indisposed during the Arrival, but I went back and watched to news clips. It’s all online now anyway. The Youtube is a wonderful thing.”

“Mr. Martin, back to Passengerian…”

“They thought it was a fungal infection at first. The fungus would take over the face, and then the extremities, crawling like a neon squirrel down the body.”

Of course I knew this, although I wouldn’t have put it quite so colorfully: alien fungus landed on Earth and arranged a timeshare in the brains of a quarter of the human population. This was hard to miss.

“They say it’s voluntary, that no Passenger bonds with a human against their will, that each colony is a symbiote, not a parasite. Unfortunately, that is incorrect.”

Melchizedek Martin, a Body Snatcher! I’m not a Passenger yet, though not through lack of trying. Getting a Passenger these days is difficult. That said, any cursory reader of my blog would know how I felt about the aliens. My last entry equated the Body Snatcher sect with “climate change deniers and those who believe the earth is flat.”

“Mr. Martin, I… I…. that’s quite a claim. In order to print that on my blog, I’m going to need some proof. Passengers have eliminated disease. The average lifespan--Humans and Passengers--is thirty years longer since the Arrival. Some would say that our entry into intergalactic society ushered in a golden age.”

“Daniel, my boy, let me tell you a story...”

As he speaks, I grab my pen again and begin to write. What follows is the account of Melchizedek Martin’s translation of the Passengerian language. Everything below are Mr. Martin’s words, as exactly quoted as my poor note-taking skills allow. I have tried to let Mr. Martin’s words speak for themselves, even when they offend my sensibilities or intergalactic norms of political correctness.

My only request, as I begin this narrative, is that you consider this tale as a whole before you judge Melchizedek Martin. His contributions to Earth’s understanding of its place in the universe are unparalleled, even if Mr. Martin himself would have difficulty seeing what they are.  

Masang Ii’llio Arnor’erai

“Peace between Passengers and Men for All Time”

Daniel

Four Things I Understand About Christmas Now That I Have a Child

Due to the birth of, objectively, the cutest baby in the world, Christmas kind of snuck up on us this year. That isn’t to say, I haven’t had time to consider the Advent mystery though; if anything, having Izzy has totally changed how I see Christmas. Below are four things I learned taking care of my newborn this Advent.

1. Newborns cannot do anything. They cannot feed themselves. They cannot find shelter. They are completely dependent versions of the human species. They cannot clean up their own poo. The Creator of the Universe, on the other hand, can do whatever He wants. He thinks, and the world springs into being; He sneezes, and stars explode. Of all the people God could have incarnated Himself as, He chose to become a newborn?

2. Before Isabelle was born, we spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about where she would sleep. By my count, we have four different beds/bouncy seats/cribs for her to sleep in. Let’s not even talk about all the thought that goes into how she sleeps: Are there too many blankets? How do I swaddle her? Is she too warm? Is she too cold? The Almighty, in His efforts to explore the human condition from the inside, chose to sleep in a box from which animals eat. I’m worried about taking my kid out to a shopping mall for fear of the germs; Jesus slept in a stable.

3. If I were the immortal Creator God and I wanted to become an infant, I would have not have chosen first-century Jerusalem in which to be born. Think about it: Jesus was born in territory occupied by a ruthless dictatorship. Some people think the Romans taxed Jews as high as 90% in the first century. He had no civil rights to speak of, but more than that, the sheer amount of baby equipment that Americans “need” was not available to Mary. She certainly was not given baby gear at a baby shower. (Heck, if it were me, I would have chosen 21st century Sweden for the incarnation: they get a year of parental leave and a box of baby supplies paid for by the state).

4. While we are on the subject of rights, let’s talk about the rights of children in the first century (or lack thereof). In 21st century America, everybody is your best friend when you walk around with a baby. When I go into a store with Izzy, people open the door for us. They make goo-goo noises. They ask how old she is and how Suzanne is feeling. Seeing a baby puts everybody in a great mood. Few people realize that the notion of children being special is a relatively new idea. During Jesus’ time, the head of the household could disown their children, sell them into slavery or kill them. If a head of the household didn’t want a child, that child was put outside--exposed--to be abandoned to the elements. Our Savior, due to the unusual circumstances of His birth, would have been considered illegitimate. If Joseph weren’t such a good guy, Jesus wouldn’t have made it to his first birthday.

If I were writing the Nativity story, I could not have written a story more likely to result in the death of the baby in question. Yet, not only did Jesus survive, but He grew up to save the world. It is a wonder that Jesus made it, and that wonder is what we celebrate this Christmas. Merry Christmas!

Manna Max Tribute Post

Dearly Beloved,

I'm reading this book on creative writing. One of the exercises in the book asks you to write a short story describing a regular routine. For this exercise, I decided to describe Manna Max, my cell group from Shanghai. I had the privilege of co-leading this group, along with the inestimable CC Lau, for three of the seven years I lived in the City Above the Sea. Maximites, consider this a shout out.
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Cell group was on Saturdays, promptly at 3:30. What that meant is that it usually started around 4:00ish. In our cell group, eating was elevated to a highly religious experience: chocolate-covered pretzels, pandan cake, green tea kit-kats from Japan-- I still associate these tastes with the presence of the Almighty. People would complain that they gained weight in our cell group, but that would never stop them from enjoying the snacks; food was our love language at Manna Max and we loved each other very well.

Worship was first on the agenda. Throughout my tenure as cell group leader, guitar players were precious comodities in the cell group ecosystem. Our group was spoiled; we had several guitar players who would lead us in worship. Other groups would joke about sending their members over to poach our guitar players, we had so many. Even when we didn't have anybody to lead worship, another member would set up a playlist on itunes. Even the non-musical could lead, and their heart was always in it.

Next was "Word." For our weekly Bible study, somebody would use DVD workbooks smuggled from overseas or we would discuss a chapter of Scripture with questions the leader would prepare. I never could handle silences well. During this time, I suspect I was "that guy" who talked too much during Bible Study. And some people would talk, but others would just listen. The listeners' silence would contribute; didn't most music need rests just as much as it needed the notes?

After the Word was dinner, whereby one person would undertake the near alchemical task of choosing a place to eat. Person A would suggest a place. Person B would remind us that person C didn't eat spicy food/was allergic to peanuts/was on a budget. Person B would then suggest another place, when Person D would remind us that this place would only fit five people/gave somebody they knew diarrhea/was too far away. Then, Person E would eventually suggest another place, and so on. Cat herding would have been easier.

When we eventually would come to a consensus, we would undertake a feast the likes of which epic heroes would envy. We would often order delivery to Yang's apartment, and it would sometimes take two delivery guys to carry all the food we ate. When the food arrived, we would chat and eat and play music late. At some point, somebody would bring out wine and cheese, we would all have a glass or two and watch movies or play Mahjong until long after the subway closed. It was a celebration, every Saturday; it was how I imagine heaven to be like.

The Return of the Blog: Fatherhood Rocks!

I really like being a dad.

I realized that a few weeks ago when my wife and I had our first child. (If you haven't talked to me in so long that you didn't realize that A. I was married and B. we have a child, my apologies. Both of these conditions were untrue the last time I blogged anything. My perennial inability to keep in touch is not your fault but mine).

Throughout the first three weeks of fatherhood, I'm processing my new definition of 'clean.' Pre-children, I would consider a shirt caked in another creature's spit-up to be dirty and in need of a wash. Post-children, I would still consider this shirt dirty, but perhaps not as urgently dirty as as I would in my childless days. "Sleep" is another word undergoing substantial definition renovation. Before kids, a good night of sleep would be eight continuous hours of rest. After kids, a good night of sleep would be six non-continuous hours of sleep and two cups of coffee (Full disclosure: except for a few growth spurts, we are enormously lucky with Isabelle. I have heard horror stories from other friends, and it could be MUCH worse).   

And, strangely enough, I don't mind such things. When I spoke to my male friends during pregnancy, I found that men, on the whole, were much more likely to focus on the privations of child-rearing. You won't get sleep. You'll be covered in the child's bodily fluids. Did I mention the lack of sleep? My wife found the opposite to be true: women were much more likely to discuss the joys of having a baby. You'll never love somebody more. Your whole life will be wrapped around your little girl's finger, etc. I started to envy the positive view of child-rearing that women in our culture have. If we are going to bring this child into the world, we might as well enjoy it.

Maybe I'm just in the honeymoon period right now, but it's important to remember that my child is going to poop and cry, regardless of my attitude. My child is going to disrupt my schedule with a diaper change, regardless of my to-do list. Heck, a diaper change interrupted this blog post. It's important I don't miss the forest for the feces (see what I did there, haha), and choose to have a good attitude about the rearing of children. I can chose to appreciate the daddy-daughter diaper dates that I spend with Isabelle. I can chose to enjoy every minute with this little bundle of joy. That is more fun anyhow.

Daniel  

(Another yet fuller disclosure: Very reasonable people could say, "That's easy for you to say, Daniel. you aren't breastfeeding every two hours." Very true. So far, child-rearing is definitely more draining for my wife. Due to my lamentable lack of homegrown milk-producing equipment, she's the one who needs to feed the child. I try to stay up with her as much as I can, but I don't always hear Izzy like a mother can. Often, by the time I get up, she's mostly done feeding and changing her. My wife is Supermom and a Rock Star, rolled into one. End of story).