Fitna Patrol: A Short Story

Mom pointed a flour powdered finger over my shoulder to the book I was reading aloud and told me to: "Read that part again!" I heard the smile in her voice and quickly scanned the page with my eyes, searching for what she had found so entertaining. "Oh."

"Just read it!"

"Malik ibn Rabi'ah Al-Saa'idi narrated: We were sitting with the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) when an Ansari* man came and asked, "O Messenger of Allah, is there anything left from my birr (goodness) to my parents that I should present to them after their death?" The Prophet - peace be upon him - said, "Yes, four things: Pray and ask forgiveness for them. Fulfill their pledges. Be kind to their friends, and maintain the ties of kinship that come from only their direction. That is what is left from your birr to them after their death."*

"So you still owe me even after I die." My mom called out from the pantry.

"Sure, why not? I am your perfect daughter forever and ever, haha."

"Oh please! Its easy sucking up to me, massaging my feet once in a while, washing dishes, all that sort of easy stuff. Now, are you really going to pay off all my debts when I die? And, oh horrors, how are you going to be nice to my friends when even now you run off every time they come over?

"Debts, yes. Remember I plan to marry a rich old man -"

"...Who dies after like two weeks, yeah yeah, well then it's all just dandy! I am almost forty, I should be dead by sixty, so I have twenty years to run up a mile long bill which you will faithfully pay off."

"On what? Groceries?" My mom enjoyed shopping for groceries probably more than teenage girls enjoy shopping for clothes.

"No, fancy clothes and stuff like that."

"Why? You'd have to part with your sweats, are you sure you want that?" giving her famous sweats a dramatic admiring glance.

"Dont worry. I'll find something to have a spree on. What I want to know is how you're going to deal with my friends."

"I'll throw gifts on their doorsteps and run."

"Which reminds me, Salwa is coming over in a few."

Don't groan. Don't groan. Look happy. "Thats nice. I better get started on my homework." I headed up to my room but called out obediently, "Call me if you need my help!" and quietly whispered to myself, "pleassssse dont call me."

My mom has a heart the size of Texas. That a wonderful thing to have, but unfortunately she also does not have the ability to use the two most useful letters given to man, "n-o". Here's a riddle. A big heart plus an inability to say no to anyone, equals? Getting walked over more than a antique persian rug. So my mom has dozens of friends, women who literally suck everything my mom has to offer; her time, cake and tea being the first three things in demand.

They all have a nasty habit of dropping by unexpectedly, and in the most inconvenient times, dinner time or ten o'clock at night being their specialties. They'll come, sit around, complain about their husbands, drink tea and leave only around midnight, and only after my dad (who hates them all) loudly clears his throat numerous times from his office. Then all you see is a flurry of giggles and flashes of hijabs, which finally ceases as the door slams shut, leaving my mom smiling sheepishly, and crumpled napkins scattered all over the living room floor like a mini snowstorm just blew in.

Don't get me wrong. My mom's friends are respectable, kind women, each with half a dozen kids of her own. But when it comes to be annoying, they can do miracles. However, due to my mom's naive nature, dad and I constantly have to filter mom's "friend collection" from the oddballs. And there was quite a few, like Zulaykha, who stalked dad and vowed to be his second wife. Mom always thought she was kidding and brushed it off but even though I was young then and didn't know whether she meant it or not, I didnt care; her "joking" grossed me out. It was only when dad discovered love letters in his shoes that he firmly told mom to either break it off with her or prepare herself to have a co-wife, that mom stopped seeing her.

Then there was Mona. Mona is a long story.

Mona was like Zulaykha, but instead of being infatuated with my dad, she was infatuated with me. Not only would she hound me about my friends, college, plans, suitors, etc, but she also believed in earnest she was responsible for making sure I never got into "trouble". Her methods of keeping me out of "trouble", or what she disturbingly called "fitna", were wonderously aggravating.

Take for example the time I was going to umrah with my uncle Malik, who is my age. When she heard of our plans, she told my mother that she had gone a few years back and the umrah travel guides were three handsome young men. My mom innocently asked, "But there will be men in the group anyway, so whats the big deal?".

Mona, with a horrified expression, gasped,"But three young men who will be around your daughter for a whole month and you know girls, they are so sentimental when they're parents aren't around... and so much fitna! You dont want your daughter coming home married to one of those men, do you?!"

My mom smiled patiently, "Why not? I am sure they are good men, or else they wouldn't be doing such a job..." and only when she saw the sour look in Mona's eye did she hastily add,"Anyway, her uncle is going with her."

Mona looked even more horrified. "Why not!?!! They are all from India, or Bangla- whatever! One of those places where all the people are so dark and stinky. And besides, her uncle is the same age as her. He will be busy enough checking out the girls!"

Dark and stinky? Wasn't this a bit contradictory to the previous "handsome men?" What was she trying to get at?

I had sat through the whole conversation politely enough but the last thing she had said blew me off. "My mom is half Indian. Her mother was Indian." I said with a icey smile.

Mona's face, flamed with a passion kindled by God knows what, froze. "Well, the women from there are different than the men." She finally stuttered lamely.

My mom wisely changed the subject and only until later that night at the dinner table did she bring it up to dad. I remember distinctly how his face flared a brilliant red as he shouted, "Who the heck is that nosy old goose to go around telling us that our daughter is soppy enough to run off with some guy just because her parents aren't with her? These people are so perverted and they think everyone is like them. Run off, my foot!" That closed that subject forever, and I went with my uncle two weeks later, had a remarkable time and both of us came home a month later, glowing with eman and positively unmarried. After that incident dad teased me forever with, "my daughter is so cool she has her own personal "fitna patrol".

Bad thing is, mom always thanked her for her advice, and so the horrible scrutiny continued. When the long awaited Six Flags amusement park finally opened, she hurriedly came to us the day after its opening, bemoaning: all that corruption! everyone walking around in bathing suits and for what? Fifty dollars? I dont think so! My mom passionately thanked her for her "sisterly advice and consideration".

While we piously bought her word, she bought a seasons pass to the park. When we found out, mom only smiled meekly and said, "well, we learn from this that humans are very weak creatures. She went once, and could not keep away from it. Thank God we were saved from that!"

Mom and her learning. Every time something bad happened to mom, she always gave me that "well, I learned from this, that..." talk. It's great to have a positive, optimistic attitude, but mom just chose to scatter her "pearls of wisdom" at the most inappropriate times.

Mona was dedicated to the job. She would literally find out each activity I was going to and go "check it out" before I did, so she could "warn" my mother and I of potential dangers lurking in that certain place.

Dad and I plotted on how to rid of this self-appointed fitna-patrol of mine. The chance finally came last summer.

Summer, a time of weddings and for Mona, a time of fitna. oOOOoooOOooo....fitna! Lotsssss of fitna! Mom, Dad and I do not go to mixed weddings, and we do not go to weddings where music is going to be played. The day you are born, the first day you go to school, the day you graduate, the day you marry...those are all days that mark a new, significant change in life. Why the heck start one of those days with disobeying Allah? Everyone knew our "singular" behaviour, and if they were going to have a mixed wedding or a wedding with music, they would ask us to come early before any of the "fitna" started. So we usually went to weddings for a mere forty minutes, (never did get around to the cake...humph) or if we were lucky we got to stay through the whole thing.

Mona didn't like that. She thought we shouldn't go at all, or else we would be encouraging them in their "fitna". "But," my mom protested, "while we are there they turn off the music and they segregate, so instead of having that the whole time, if we come they only do it some of the time. Many times we persuaded them to keep it nice and Islamic like that."

Mona vehmently disagreed, and it wasn't later until we found out why.

My good friend's sister was getting married. She thought a wedding couldn't be fun unless it was mixed and music was blaring, so again we were stuck with an invitation to a forty minute wedding. Mona called up that afternoon. " 'Ello? " I said, picking up the reciever.

"Alooo!" She crooned.

"Yeah, salaamu alikum."

"Wa alikum asalaam. Did you hear how today is Tasneem's wedding?"

"Yes." (no duh, the only reason why you're invited is because you're the brides sister's friend's mother's friend, remember?)

"When are we going to get to go to your wedding?"

I knew that was coming. She beat the death out of that question by asking it each time she talked to me. "When God wills." I replied drily.

"Well," she said, her voice made heavy with authority, "I spoke to your mom earlier today just to make sure y'all are not going. She agreed not to go and I am sure you'll agree with her decision."

My temper flared. A million comebacks settled on the edge of my tounge, only waiting for the order to catapult themselves through the receiver. I swallowed. I had had my suspiciouns and now I had a plan.

"Sure. We won't be going." I replied nonchalantly.

Her voice perked, she began to praise me, saying what a smart-

"Uh, I have to go now."

"Okay! Salaam honey!"

Honey crummy bummy, blah blah blah. Like you mean any of it.

I called up Tasneem and told her we wouldn't be able to make it, and congratulated her and wished her a happy day and a blessed life. I called up mom (who was out having the time of her life grocery shopping) and told her to be home by four, because we were definitely going to that wedding and I certainly had no intention to obey Ms. Mona's orders of staying home. She agreed and we were able to get there right on time.

Classical music greeted us as we walked into the hotel, a sure sign that the bride had not graced the guests with her presence yet. Mom seemed nervous, I had told her my plan and now was the time to put this woman in her place for once and for all. We walked into the ballroom where the guests were slowly streaming in, each family taking their own table. There were little girls in big dresses twirling around, the brats who are present at all weddings (despite the perspicuous NO KIDS PLEASE), whose faces vary but actions always remain the same; bratty girls who never fail to tramp all over the bride's dress and train and shriek enough to make you wish you never came.

There were a few people "slow dancing" on the floor, something which looks extremely silly coming from Arab people, who can't do a proper native dance, let alone a dance they've learned from movies like Pride and Prejudice and that sort.

And ooo la la! There was our dear friend Mona, her hair modestly covered with a triangular clothe and her wiry figure attired in a black skirt suit which looked like it was clinging on to her body for dear life. As she danced, her body slowly moving to and fro and her eyes closed and lips set in a solemn expression, she somehow looked a great deal more preposterous than anyone else. I looked at mom, my heart jumping with smug satisfaction, and waited to be rewarded with an incensed, betrayed look from her. I even entertained the fantastical idea that she would walk up and say something especially sharp and cutting to Mona. But no, mom proved me wrong yet again. Her eyes looked like apple halves, round and white with black glittering pupils in the middle, opening and shutting with surprise. Her mouth began as a small O and opened wider, stretching all over her face, and suddenly: ha!ha!ha!ha!ha! Everyone turned to look at us. The bratty girls all looked at each other. Mona looked down at her hands. "Mom, mom!" I hissed. She only bent her head lower in laughter. I firmly grasped her hand, leading her away, her laughter trailing all the way to the car.

"You know habibti, we learn from this that you can betrayed, lied and cheated by someone who claims to be your friend, but the best thing to do is just to laugh it off," mom said as soon as she could speak, wiping the tears off the corner of her eyes. For once, I agreed.








*Ahmad, Abu Dawood, and Ibn Maajah
*The Ansari's were the Muslims who were from Medinah. The Muhajireen were the Muslims who migrated from Mecca to Medinah.

- posted by Taymiyyah @ 1:47 PM |||