The Arab Spring, a label for a series of revolutions which we hoped would prove more deciduous than seemingly-endless, has now outrun seasons to cross-over into Autumn.

Undoubtedly, the Middle East is portraying a bleak reflection of its current state of affairs. With despots toppling like a line of provoked dominoes, and economies of the major Middle Eastern hubs struggling to stay afloat, it’s only natural for not just the analysts, but the ordinary layman to want to step back and wonder why.

Why are oil-rich nations struggling to keep up economically? Why are the mighty Arab empires of yore, faltering in their political stance? Why socially, is the Middle East increasingly garnering unpopularity?

As with any great debate, a comparative analysis is in order – in this case, the dissection of the differences in the ideal Islamic form of governance with that of the administrations of modern Arabia.

The first ever Islamic form of governance, was the establishment of a Caliphate. Endorsed by the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) himself – not just as a Messenger, but as head of the nation and politician- this system of legislature established a reliable system of authority for the Muslim Ummah, operating under the tenets of Sharia law.

The Khulafa’ al Rashidun (the rightly guided leaders) who succeeded him were also politicians in their own right, but following the Sunnah. Abu Bakr, Umar Bin Al Khattab, Uthman bin Affan and Ali ibn Abi Talib, all ruled the Islamic empire under the flag of Tawhid, establishing a just administration, practising Ihsan (righteousness), propagating the betterment of good and providing a leadership with Ilm (knowledge) and Iman (belief).

According to an excerpt from Zafar Iqbal’s ‘An Islamic Perspective On Governance,’ what would best define the ideal Islamic government is the effective establishment of freedom, equality and justice, but all with an accountability to God.

So, while the tenets of freedom, equality and justice may be synonymous traits of both the Arab, as well as Western forms of government, it is the latter quality of accountability that plays the role of segregator between the secular and non-secular.

Accountability is a common denominator for all authority, sure enough – but it is the further clarification of ‘accountability to whom?’ that serves to distinguish the Islamic way of ruling from the Western establishment of legislation. That is, Tawhid.

This, in itself, would explain the results of a straying from said accountability. In the contemporary Arab world, a fair and just ruler turns tyrannical when he/she sheds the onus of responsibility to focus on the self. We can very well see the likeness of the Pharoah of Moses’ time to the now overthrown Firaouns of Tunisia, Egypt and Libya – all with political ploys driven by Machiavellian philosophy.

The great scholar, Ibn al-Qayyim wrote, in explanation of the reality that the actions of the servants become manifest in those placed in authority over them (and vice versa) “And it is not from the Divine wisdom that the evil-doers and the sinners are made to be ruled over [by anyone] except by one who is of their like.”

Having established the above, where or what can we pinpoint as the cause of the faltering supremacy of the Arab nations?

The first assumption being, the misconception that the Arab and Western worlds can co-exist with similar modes of governance.

Today’s Islamic and Arab states cannot be described as secular nor democratic governments. That they can be represented as nation states must also be ruled out. For there is only one Islamic nation: the “umma”.

According to Arab and Islamic ideology, the only entirely legitimate nation state is that comprising the entirety of the Islamic nation. The loyalty of a truly believing Muslim relates very much more to the ideal state which has yet to be created than to the state existing in reality.

Quite often, we stagger in the attempt to find common ground – a system with Sharia ‘intent’ that is also fair-seeming to the more liberal governments of the West – which only serves to compromise on a successful value system by leading to a misalignment between faith and jurisdiction.

Taking for instance, the four freedoms of the United States as representation for modern democracies, the freedom of worship component holds wide open the arms of secularism. Again, a mandate clearly not in tune with the original truisms of the Islamic state.

Having said that, it is incorrect to assume however, that religious tolerance has no place in a non-secular Islamic government. In fact the Prophet Mohammed (PBUH) himself has pre-emptively refuted the claim   “Beware!  Whoever is cruel and hard on a non-Muslim minority, or curtails their rights, or burdens them with more than they can bear, or takes anything from them against their free will; I (Prophet Muhammad) will complain against the person on the Day of Judgment.” (Abu Dawud)

Which brings us to the next assumption – the deterioration of Islamic brotherhood, and the lack of unity between Muslim states.

In contemporary times, the supremacy of a people is driven not by their strength of faith, but by economical and political gain – a glaring contrast to the sense of homogeneity reflected during the governments of early Islam.

A call to arms/political backing from one Islamic nation would be responded to unquestioned, without a lengthy contemplation of the diplomatic ties that bind them to their Western counter parts.

It is a grave underestimation that a cumulative Arab league is incomparable to the powers of the West. With most Middle Eastern nations able to claim ownership to the world’s most sought after commodity, it shouldn’t come as any surprise that they fall on par (if not on top of) in terms of economic supremacy.

Whichever the cause may be, pinpointing and amending the shortcomings of the current Arab regimes is not with the intent of ‘world dominance’ of course, but rather an attempt at reviving (at least within the Arab nations) the Islamic governance rightly ordained by our Messenger (PBUH).

One which has clearly proven successful in the betterment of our Ummah – but only when enforced correctly.

As is the case with most Sri Lankan authors having spent a considerable period of time abroad, I expected Shehan Karunatilaka’s accent to have a pronounced Kiwi cadence and tinged with only a slight Sri Lankan nuance, considering the years he spent in New Zealand. But the reality was quite the contrary. Karunatilaka nevertheless gave the impression of a laid-back islander, basking in the aftermath of his novel, Chinaman: The Legend of Pradeep Mathew. His tone conjured coastal images of a beach veteran, lounging in his white linen shirt, batik sarong and rubber slippers. I very nearly reached out for a glass of coconut water myself.

Chinaman, its initial rendition when published in 2008, won Karunatilaka the Gratiaen Prize for Literature the same year. Two years later, and with the newer (and slimmer) edition now on the shelves, Chinaman is now finding itself in the midst of a renewed surge of popularity. With copies in most stores of the subcontinent falling short of demand, and with the announcement last month that the book has been shortlisted for the DSC Prize for South Asian Literature 2012, Karunatilaka’s novel seems to be succeeding in keeping up appearances as “the great Sri Lankan novel”.

The story revolves around the inebriated escapades of the protagonist WG Karunasena and his more self-controlled sidekick Ari Byrd, and the duo’s relentless quest to hunt down an understated (yet evasive) member of the ex-Sri Lankan cricket team, Pradeep Mathew, who they are convinced is the nation’s undeclared greatest cricketer. Through familial battles, conniving broadcasters, political agenda-ridden cricket boards and even a bout with the Tamil underworld, the book is not for the faint-hearted fan of the sport.

Speaking from his Singapore home, and juggling a nine-to-five career in advertising with his new-found title as an established author, Karunatilaka seems both awed and comforted withChinaman‘s success.

“When I first started researching and penning down Chinaman, I never assumed that it would sell outside of Sri Lanka, let alone the subcontinent. I didn’t even think it would be as well-received considering the genre specificity of the book.”

For unlike most south Asian works of literature, Chinaman veers clear of the more romanticised themes of war, colonialism and the modern societal framework, preferring instead to focus diligently on what Karunatilaka felt was a more relatable theme: cricket.

“Everyone wants to be the next Michael Ondaatje,” he says. “I just wanted to write about what I was most comfortable with, and at the same time about something that would appeal most.

“Of course I wasn’t thinking of the marketing involved in the book at the time. I just decided to risk that there would be enough of a niche of cricket fans to enjoy the read, although oddly enough, the best compliments I’ve received so far are from people who know nothing about the sport.”

This would probably explain, then, how accessible Karunatilaka has made the novel to even the most clueless about the game. By balancing narrative with a ball-by-ball introduction to cricket, the not-so-linear yet fluidly portrayed tale is delivered in a fashion very similar to the double-bounce delivery he describes: with one lob, a chapter on WG’s shenanigans, followed by a bounce of Cricket 101. Also artfully littered with sketched diagrams to aid this chronologically driven story, Chinamanleaves very little room for any layman to complain.

And although Chinaman considers itself a work of fiction, Karunatilaka makes every effort, either through impressively well-documented statistics or teasing invitations, to guess at the GLOB (Great Lankan Opening Batsman), to ensure that the reader walks away debating the intentionally blurred boundary lines of fact and fiction.

How intentional, then, is this amalgamation of real and surreal?

“The concept of a fictitious character residing in an existing written day and age was actually inspired through one of the works of New Zealand movie director Peter Jackson; Forgotten Silver - a mockumentary about the greatest filmmaker of all time.”

Karunatilaka was clearly well impressed. “Although the character was a farce, the entire series was packaged quite authentically. And while I mulled over in what context I could use to appeal to an Asian audience, cricket seemed to me the most sensible bet.”

But how much can the reader take away as fact, and how many pinches of salt must be metaphorically added to the rest?

“You’d be surprised at how much of the book is actually true, for even the more fantastical stories are snippets of what I’ve actually come across as part of my research for it. And although I did toy with the idea of passing off Chinaman as a work of non-fiction, I decided it would probably be best running with an element of mystery after all.”

As Karunatilaka gets cracking on his next book (“strictly no cricket,” he says), he also anxiously awaits the verdict announcing the winner of the DSC Prize on January 21.

“It’s great to be in the running, of course, even though the award is relatively new. And as the only Sri Lankan on the shortlist, this recognition serves to not only garner more interest in the book itself, but also on Sri Lankan literature as a whole.”

Her blue, batik kaftan.

Anyone already familiar with the home-grown Sri Lankan garment, will know that tie-dye batik is our definitive design. The kaleidoscopic print has been stained onto shirts, sarongs, umbrellas even, and pushed into the arms of gullible, pink-faced tourists and the fashionably inept.

Funnily enough, you won’t find many Colombo residents willing to profess their undyeing (sorry, that was terrible) affection for our staple print – unless of course it’s been branded as designer beachwear by one of the local opportunists.For the poor man’s kaftan is not in the least about vogue.

So in establishing the batik kaftan at the bottom of the fashion charts, and taking into consideration the equation which states that style is inversely proportionate to comfort, one can only conclude that this humble cotton robe must be the Mary Jane of the clothing industry.

A kaftan’s worth however, can only truly be measured by its wearability.

A brand new piece straight off the rack is of no comfort value until washed several times, beaten out of its starchiness and worn about a few rounds, before it can be finally deemed worthy of its being.

Mind you though, that this respectable line of attire doesn’t condone shabbiness, or likening itself to an unrecognisable piece of rag.

So when Ummi so very generously parted with one of her used pieces, I received a kaftan that was, as a certain fabled golden-haired porridge thief would ascertain, just right.

And then what a salve it is, to a body just been released from the prison of merciless denims and synthetic garb! A slip on so comfortable, it’s near euphoric. Possessing the powers that has its wearer nearer to a state of nirvana than any psychedelic drug will ever deliver. It’s the manna of the textile world, the uniform of those truly at ease.

Clearly I’ve grown far too attached to this magical weave of fabric, but at the end of a longs day’s work (+ commute), just the thought of it waiting dried, and ready is enough to ease any knots in my muscles, release the heavy-thoughts from my mind space, and on a cloud of fluffy comfort, transport me to a zone, the zone, where I’m at my most relaxed, and subsequently most productive.

And with that ever-so-slightly exaggerated dedication to this beauteous garment, and after a spot of online banter with an acquaintance, I would like to ring in the official re-branding of this little web space of mine. Exuent Chronicles of A TestTube, enter The Kaftan Writer.

The Chronicles Of A TestTube, after more than 3 years of meritorious servitude, will have to retire, I’m afraid. Along with that phase of my life that actually did revolve around lab coats, the Sciences and test tubes (the very inspiration behind the moniker in the first place), these 4 dear words too, will have to be lovingly folded and stored away with the rest of fond memories.

The Kaftan Writer, with the slight Agatha Christie’esque ring to it, I’d like to hope, will inshaAllah herald in with all humility, this new phase where I take my writing more seriously. Yet more comfortably.

Like the classic Kaftan, this blog aims to be bolder, yet accommodating. Spacious, yet structured. Beaten down, yet fresh with renewed servitude.

But more than anything else, it promises an attempt (I can guarantee no sureties) at bringing literary pleasure to both, the writer and reader.

Wishing only good kaftans your way,

The Kaftan Writer  

Up until just two years ago, I have only known a Sri Lanka at war. And it was possibly just over a decade ago when I came about to comprehending that we were in fact, at war with ourselves.

Having recently just returned from yet another visit to my ‘island of birth’, I found it quite upsetting to witness for oneself a country more divided than ever before. The post-war optimism of the previous year seemed to have fizzled into a general state of discontent; divided between the fight for supremacy in national identity, and the undecidedness in satisfaction over the way the country is being run.

More dispiriting (and within a much shorter time frame) than a two-decade-long civil war it appears, is an election deemed inconsequential and the loss of repute under global condescension.

“Oh, what do you know about National identity?” I’ve been scorned at far too many a time whenever attempting to bring up the discourse.

Fair enough.

Having resided in the Middle East for the past 23 years, returning to said country of origin for just a couple of months every year doesn’t  exactly entitle me to a microphone and podium to rile up an audience who’ve stayed put long enough to allow those metaphorical roots to very nearly take on a literal texture.

So having been booed off every forum debating the topic National Identity, am I, and the estimated 2 million Sri Lankans living abroad, to resign ourselves to the topic of Inter-National Identity?

To our fellow country-(wo)men, it is unfathomable how one has the nerve to claim to have anything to do with a passport, the origin of where you’ve spent less than half of your lifetime. The catch-22 being that on the other hand, the country where you’ve actually been reared fails to wholly accept any native tongue other than their own.

Only an expatriate can comprehend how one can pledge allegiance to two, very different flags. Many a pseudo-Australian with humbler island roots for example, will still vouch for the boys in royal blue when it comes to sport. Near veterans of the UK can be completely immersed in the politics of the land, yet still prefer a cuppa of highland Dilmah over a Twinings Earl Grey at tea time.

I personally, can whinge about the numerous ‘gifts’ I’ve been forced to pay off the Grama Sevaka just to speed up the process of registering my National ID card, and at the same time gripe over the  wasta that only the Emirati locals can acquire to magically make a speeding ticket disappear. Concurrently, I was able to celebrate the end of a two-decade-long war with the same intensity I mourned the passing of a founding Emir.

It seems to be that the principal cause of this so-called (international) identity crisis stems from the need for acceptance. Which is not so different really, from what is brewing nationally.

For now, at a time where the country seems more divided than it ever was before the conflict, we’re forced to pick yet another side. Only this time we’re not singling out the victors, we’re squabbling over who gets to play the victimized underdog.

Are you with us; the misunderstood Sinhalese, the forgotten Muslims or the beguiled Tamils? Whose battle scars are more prominent? Whose war wounds need the most stitches?

It’s a shame though, that we haven’t looked up from our own scars long enough to realize that we are all damaged, that we’re all reeling. But more importantly, that we’re all recovering. Whether within the country, or without.

For those residing in Sri Lanka have as much cleaning up to do, as the unofficial ambassadors representing overseas.

Fighting for acceptance in the constitution is a right, fair enough. But when we teeter off topic to flaunt our losses in a perverse attempt at one-upmanship, it’s time we concede to the fact that we’re actually dependant on the other to hold the dustpan in place to be able sweep the debris in.

Picking sides is not necessarily the mandate for a resolution, when sometimes acknowledgment of being part of a collective is the greater step. The term diaspora is littered about so often of late, that it’s proving more detrimental to the well-being of the country than the actual rubbish tips themselves.

So at the risk of concluding in a very similar fashion to a certain ex-skipper’s oratory performance, I’d just like to tie up any stray tangents by affirming that there is absolutely no deterioration of intent in pledging fidelity to a multitude of (let alone two) sides – as long as you’re never completely turning your back to either one of them.

But hey, what do I know right? I’m only watching from without.

The convenience of the gadget, the eco-friendliness of the investment – yes, yes I’ve heard the argument. The same debate I’ve lobbed back and forth enough times to generate enough electricity to power one of those darned things.

Up until very recently, I chose to shield my eyes from the news that there might actually be some truth in the rumours of the ailing paperbacks. That hard cover collectibles are penning their wills in preparation for retreat in the face of the advancing army of invincible technology.

But eventually I did have to remove those blinders. Taking a peek first, when I found the majority of the members of my book club reading off those un-aesthetic nuisances. Then forcibly separating bottom eyelid from upper, when all around me my favourite book stores started closing up shop.

Clearly, I’m bitter.

The Kindle/Nook/Sony Reader/iPad? They’re too easy.

Far be it for an e-Reader reader (?) to pore over physical shelves deciding what novel would best suit his/her commute. You can correct the font type and size to your pleasing, adjust the lighting to soothe those fatigued “baby blues,” and with just a couple of double-taps here, in under half-a-minute you’ve found out not just the meaning of that one word that had you grappling with the rest of the sentence – but 20 different synonyms sponsored by an online thesaurus to boot!

At the risk of sounding even more of a pensioner, I ask, where’s the challenge in that?

The onset of the e-age brings with it a glorified cushiness that negates the sentiment in achievement post-effort. The very phenomenon that has me worried my children will fall prey to, possibly never acquiring the life skills that come with owning an authentic, honest-to-goodness, 3-dimensional book.

Having to brave the entire novel despite that odd paper cut or two, serving as war wounds for the many leaves you’ve turned. The tactfulness one has to master in dealing with a close friend who’s just misplaced the title you lent him weeks ago. Learning to overcome the disappointment in being turned out of a store that stocks all the world and everything in it, except for the one title you’re after. The great discomfort in attempting to enjoy a book lent out by that finicky breed of collector – you know, the sort that replaces beautiful hard back cover sheets for newspaper, and pales at the sight of a single dog-eared page.  And of course, the downright disgust in being sorely letdown by a story that came highly recommended.

Sure, there’s that list of paperback pros being flaunted about in the faces of e-Reader devotees, that dedicate poetry to that musty’ish smell that comes with owning a non-battery operated variant of the same. The more comforting warmth of a late night read you’ve fallen asleep with, as opposed to the electronic heat of a gadget over-used. The empty satisfaction in being able to hoard 3000+ titles in one device, as opposed to the warm and fuzzy sense of achievement in a towering physical bookcase. And don’t even get me started on the aesthetic appeal of public libraries.

Call me a sadist, but having weighed out both the boons and banes of the now vintage mode of perusal; far more than the petals, I believe I’m going to miss the thorns. For it’s not just the joys of reading in its true form that appeals, it’s the many challenges that come with it that is to be truly missed.

I boldly confess to all of the above, knowing fair well that I myself am prone to caving any minute now. There are a few eBooks on my desktop I’ve accumulated over the years, but haven’t touched (virtually) for fear of tipping over the fence completely. Devious discounts on Kindles (and the titles they support) have me nearing the end of the plank, prodded on by the e-devil’s pitchfork.

Hypocritical, I know.

But I suppose we can rest assured in that, although what we’re witnessing here may be the looming expiration of the good ol’ paperback, it most definitely is not the complete demise of reading. For the very same reason that the quiet replacement of the classic fountain pen with a QWERTY keyboard never diluted the will to write.

Although some may argue that that the love for reading too, is leafing through pamphlets for old people’s homes, I’d like to take comfort in knowing that as long as we’re still churning out novels, newspapers and restaurant menus even (in whatever form they may be), this love affair -albeit taking a new course- has some spark in it yet.

So consider this a eulogy, a toast from a glass of non-alcoholic bubbly if you will.

Here’s to the Paperback. May your legacy live long, and the memories never falter.

Rest In Peace.

There’s this joke I heard the other day where this Sri Lankan chap at a little ‘teh kadey’ was found drinking his hot beverage from a saucer. When asked why he wouldn’t just use the correct crockery, he replied rather dejectedly: “Can’t machang. The Indians took the cup.”

Okay. So it came out lame on paper. Must be one of those ‘you had to be there’ sort of humour.

So this is my World Cup post. Every sub-continental blogger has already posted theirs, so before the hype dies –which I really doubt it will anytime soon, since the 2^nd most populated country just happened to cinch the title this time- I too want my few rupees in.

We had subscribed to the sports channel specially for the Tournament. “But what if we don’t even qualify? It’ll be a waste no?” To which, the man of the house was fervently dismissed by his blinded-by-potential-glory daughter and wife. “Of course we will qualify. Don’t talk rubbish!”

So we subscribed.

And we made it to Quarters. We bulldozed our way to the Semis, and even scraped through to our place in the Deciders.

Suddenly my ‘I *heart* my team Sri Lanka’ T-shirt didn’t seem so lame anymore, and I could risk a potential zit break-out by dedicating my face to the team in paint. I’d ask forgiveness later for the abuses I’d hurl at the TV screen, and my tonsils would recover from the decibel level of said abuse.

Let’s just say we came in second.

Our ‘office boy’ claimed the match was fixed. Fingers were pointed at our looker of a skipper, for a multitude of bad-decisions. Facebook statuses (stati?) from SriLankan fans were a relentless stream of frustration. But that was then.

A couple of hours after watching the Cup being paraded about in non-SriLankan hands, and a few more hours of breaking down the match, and eventually the tournament, ball-by-ball, the bitterness packed up and left all our living rooms, sports bars and match-viewing venues.

It started to sink in that we had made it the furthest of all, and that that in itself was something to celebrate. Our ‘bois’ had done their best, and perhaps this just wasn’t our time. So we slept on it, preparing to face the music by the Indian supporters the next day.

Ironically, the saving grace that spared us Sri Lankans living abroad from the guillotine of the post-match rub ins, was the very skipper and team that lost us the match.

Captain’s gracious speech the night before seemed to have pulled harder at the heart sinews of his non-countrymen than of his own. Images of our team shaking hands and patting backs of the opposition seemingly genuinely, were spattered in places where blown-up images of the winning team couldn’t fit. As a result, directly as well as subliminally, making the ‘nyah nyah’ that much harder to do.

We underestimate the good fortune in being represented by a honcho who can eloquently field provocatory questions even better than his teammates did the ball in the second innings. And as importantly, by a batch of 11 that aren’t outwardly bitter.

Sure, a certain T.Dilshan could really benefit from clocking up a few aggression management hours, but other than that, we can take pride in that our ‘blues of royal hue’ projected an image of sportsmanship that is very difficult to resent.

Most of us are already aware (albeit reluctantly) that Cricket, like any other sport with government stroked boards, is as corrupt as Hades. Yes, every one. Money is involved in places we’d rather not think about, and transactions for causes unknown are so slick it’s invisible to the naïve’s eyes. For those who still refuse to believe this, brother please.

Knowing this, more of an onus on any national team’s back, is not just the duty of playing it clean, but more importantly, appearing to play clean.

To deliver the impression that their cork and willow wielded battle is solely for their people, and that anything less is blameworthy on no one but themselves. In doing this, team Pakistan made for those few games of glory, the damaging scandals of those 3 ex-player’s irrelevant. India, in winning the cup brought on par the same people in the box seats, with those watching through a shared neighbourhood TV.

If Sri Lanka had come out on top, the bosses in parliament seats would’ve been able to get away with that foxy little fuel hike, and if the Aussies had won yet again, well. The continent would’ve probably just yawned at the monotony of it all.

So, you know what folks?

I don’t mind so much having to drink from that saucer. As long as the tea, like the game, is just as sweet.

Congratulations to the tri-colour nation for their deserving victory. Even more so, for embedding such delirious euphoria in their countryfolk, and at the same time serving to just have our boys fast in hunger for next time.

On having been asked to come up with creative Dubai themed movie titles (the best out of which would win the pair of tickets), UAE residents took to Twitter and launched -what can only be called- an avalanche of pun-laced innuendos under the hashtag  #DubaiMovies.

The result was too darn hilarious not to share, so I’ve listed out a few of the best below:

-          Karamageddon

-          Breaking Fast at Tiffany’s

-          The Deported

-          You’ve got BBM

-          Magic Planet of The Apes

-          Catch Me If You Khandoura

-          The Mankhoolian Candidate

-          No Sex & The City

-          Hattatouille

-          10 Things I Hate About Du

-          There’s Something About Fathima

-          Alice in DubaiLand

-          Gone With The DustStorm

-          Al Arbaab (The GodFather)

-          Saving Expat Ryan

-          Clock Tower Orange

-          How To Train A Falcon

-          CasaBlankCheque

-          Save The Last BellyDance

-          Gran Cinema

-          Mashreq Millionaire

-          I Know What You Did Last Summer Surprises

-          Hotel Ramada

-          Sleepless In Satwa

-          Crouching Salik, Hidden Camera

-          Scott Pilgrim Vs. Dubai World

-          The Sheikh Of The Rings – The Two Burjs

-          BrokeBack SandDune

-          27 Abayas

-          Bend It Like Ismael Matter

-         Eternal Sunshine (.)

Well I thought it was hilarious anyway.

Anyone else care to add their 2 cents…scratch that…2 fils in?

A certain prominent member of higher authority has very recently (and publicly) called for a systematized curbing in the number of non-Arab expatriates in a bid to ‘preserve’ the UAE’s national identity. He went on to attempt to justify his statement by labeling said expats as a threat to the identity, culture and heritage of the nation.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but since when is fortifying a certain national identity (wherever you choose to apply it) brought about by a mass grouping of nationals and a region-wide purging of anyone claiming allegiance otherwise? Instead, this proposition serves only to highlight a possible weakness of said identity, in having to resort to a measure such as this in order to regain foothold.

Rather than driving residents away from what is in fact a beautiful culture, contrarily should it not be made fair-seeming instead? Any identity, let alone a national one, is not propagated solely by strength of numbers, but a cultivation of patriotism so strong that it can embrace any outward influence and prevail with its own individuality at the same time.

What is with this sudden concern over dying cultures anyway? First we blamed the French for being Xenophobic, then the Swedes for being prejudiced, and of course the Americans solely because we love to bash them. But can we really afford to preach?

It’s a shame that a majority of readers will walk away after having heard of said persona’s proposition, with a great sense of resentment towards a country that has played host to most for many a year. Even more pitiful is that many will be quick to formulate the assumption that the opinion of this one man is representative of every single Khandoura-clad individual that walks the sand-laced streets of the Emirates.

For the problem with living in a nation as culturally diverse as the UAE, is the frequency with which fingers are prone to point. As opposed to our respective motherlands, we’re put in a ‘situation’ that has us dealing with a system of co-existence that involves working, mingling and possibly living with people from a completely different country, and subsequently, culture.

It’s not just afore-mentioned high positioned individual that is quick to single out a particular ethnicity in deference to another though. In everyday conversation we ourselves are quick to blame an entire nationality for a shortcoming of maybe only one of their kind. Too eager are we to pedestal one over the other, and equally eager to have another labeled scum. I believe I might have mentioned previously that we seem to function better with a hierarchy mapped out, and appear to love the occasional indulgence in derogatory banter.

Say we are to stick with the stereotype. In that case, Emiratis are arrogant and intolerant beings with a penchant for luxe handbags. Sure there’s always the black sheep that ruins it for the rest of us, but I for one have had the opportunity to get to know a lovely bunch of (no, not coconuts) Emiratis who genuinely work hard for a living, enjoy the occasional south Indian Thali or two, and treat their house-help like one of their own – all that while being ferociously patriotic at the same time.

Similarly, a large number of non-local residents have over time learned to become almost as patriotic to the quatro-coloured flag as their Emirati cohabiters, while maintaining a steady link to their homelands as well. They too deck their cars flashily for National Day, and rub their bellies satisfactorily after a few good servings of Mandi.

‘Emiratis are arrogant, Indians are too loud and Egyptians are stubborn,’ are among few of many similitudes we are quick to pass around.  It’s disgusting, arrogant and downright petty. The worst part being that most of us don’t even realize that we are at least subliminally transmitting this message of intolerance to our children.

Any excuse to ensure that the prison-guard’s spotlight of condescension is aimed at anyone but us – any assurance at all of an elevated position on that flotilla of oneupman-ship.

So though the outwardly proposed marginalization has come as quite the shock to most of us- with the shadow of xenophobia now a defined silhouette -it’s about time we take a good look at our own set of underlying prejudices.

For as much as I hate to admit it, I’m pretty darn sure at some point along the line and on more than one occasion, I’ve been unfairly judgemental.

And that is not my national identity.

There’s been a lot of anti-Muslim propaganda of late, some in forms more ludicrous than upsetting. And every time I’ve wanted to pen down a few words, but refrained; thinking that this being an extremely fragile subject, I should handle it with a bit more thought – preferring instead to not let my angst get the better of me.

As it turns out though, all that I’ve wanted to convey, has been summed up most gracefully on exactly this day some 1400 years ago – by none other than the man himself. Our Prophet Muhammad (Peace Be Upon Him).

Standing on Mount Arafat in plain view of all his followers, he delivered this last sermon:

“O People, lend me an attentive ear, for I know not whether after this year I shall ever be amongst you again. Therefore listen to what I am saying very carefully and take these words to those who could not be present here today.

O People, just as you regard this month, this day, this city as Sacred, so regard the life and property of every Muslim as a sacred trust. Return the goods entrusted to you to their rightful owners. Hurt no one so that no one may hurt you. Remember that you will indeed meet your Lord, and that he will indeed reckon your deeds. Allah has forbidden you to take usury (interest), therefore all interest obligations shall henceforth be waived. Your capital is yours to keep. You will neither inflict nor suffer any inequity. Allah has judged that there shall be no interest and that all the interest due to Abbas ibn ‘Abd’al Muttalib [the Prophet's uncle] be waived.

Beware of Satan, for the safety of your religion. He has lost all hope of that he will be able to lead you astray in big things, so beware of following him in small things.

O People, it is true that you have certain rights with regard to your women but they also have rights over you. Remember that you have taken them as your wives only under Allah’s trust and with His permission. If they abide by your right, then to them belongs the right to be fed and clothed in kindness. Do treat your women well and be kind to them for they are your partners and committed helpers. And it is your right that they do not make friends with anyone of whom you do not approve, as well as never to be unchaste. O People, listen to me in earnest, worship Allah, say your five daily prayers, fast during the month of Ramadhan, and give your wealth in Zakat. Perform Hajj if you can afford to.

All mankind is from Adam and Eve, an Arab has no superiority over a non-Arab nor a non-Arab has any superiority over an Arab; also a white has no superiority over a black nor a black has any superiority over a white – except by piety and good action. Learn that every Muslim is a brother to every Muslim and that the Muslims constitute one brotherhood. Nothing shall be legitimate to a Muslim which belongs to a fellow Muslim unless it was given freely and willingly. Do not therefore do injustice to yourselves. Remember one day you will meet Allah and answer your deeds. So beware: do not stray from the path of righteousness after I am gone.

O People, no prophet or apostle will come after me, and no new faith will be born. Reason well, therefore, O People, and understand my words which I convey to you. I leave behind me two things, the Qur’an and my Sunnah and if you follow these you will never go astray.

All those who listen to me shall pass on my words to others and those to others again; and may the last ones understand my words better than those who listen to me directly. Be my witness, O Allah, that I have conveyed Your message to Your people.”

Equality, charity, brotherhood and most importantly, peace. Take it from the man who preached it.

I can’t imagine why you’d look anywhere else.

EID MUBARAK!

I try not to re-post on the blog what I’ve contributed elsewhere, but this little piece here has (as some call it) ‘sentimental value.’

So here’s to the Emirate I truly grew up in, dedicated to the kids who grew up with me.

Last week I decided I deserved a break; an escape of sorts where I could unwind, and forget about all the clutter that is work and societal duty. So, wanting to make a weekend out of it, I packed up two days worth of bare essentials and headed eastwards towards the idyllic Emirate of Fujairah; I couldn’t think of anyplace better.

Just an hour and a half’s drive from Sharjah / Dubai (or more if you take the scenic route), Fujairah is the one Emirate that UAE residents are starting to see as the perfect weekend getaway. It’s not too flashy, nor too rustic. Quiet enough to get you that well-deserved dose of R&R, but not too disconnected for you to get thoroughly bored.

So whether you’ve planned for a bout of relaxation or a boost of adrenaline, here’s a checklist I’ve prepared for every tourist/visitor headed that way:

-          Visit the Friday Market – Technically it’s only the Friday Market by name, having started out as such. But now as a result of its ever-growing popularity, the stalls of this little bazaar en route to Fujairah are now open daily to the public.

Known more for it’s cheap yet durable selection of carpets and rugs, you’ll also find seemingly endless stalls of fresh fruit, pottery and plant nurseries.

Take your haggling skills with you though; and you might want to pick up a cob of roasted corn to last you through the stopover.

-          A drive through the city – This won’t take very long at all, but what’s interesting to note is that the roundabouts of Fujairah tell a story. Take the straight road in and you’ll notice that the traditional Arabic perfume bottle, the Bukhoor, and the coffee pot set, are all in reality exposing the visitor to the 3-steps of Khaleeji hospitality.

Also (since you’re driving about anyway), it wouldn’t hurt to head towards Khorfakkan for a lunchtime picnic on the corniche, or in the direction of Kalba for a quick visit to the mangroves.

-          Swim with the fishes – Fujairah is a coastal Emirate, so you won’t have to travel very far for a dip into the Indian Ocean. In addition to a leisurely face-off with the waves, many of the hotels offer scuba-diving lessons/sessions which entitle you to a fabulous view of the underwater world.

-          Head for the hills – If you don’t already own one, rent or even borrow (the author will not take responsibility for any mishap that may follow as a result of this suggestion) a friend’s four-wheel-drive, and head for the hills. Literally.

The Fujairah Mountains might seem intimidating, but there are popular routes that are trek-friendly. And towards the end of the year, the many Wadis located snug amongst the mounts serve for quite a popular haunt for a little mid-climb dip.

-          Check out the Bullfight – Yes, I said bullfight.

This age-old tradition has much to my relief stood the test of time. Never having been advertised or commercialized, enthusiasts and participants of this weekly bovine face-off gather every Friday afternoon at a sandy lot opposite the Fujairah corniche.

From the waving of the first flag it’s one round after another of pairs of these four-legged champs fighting it out in tune to the excited egging-on from the sidelines.

It’s a thrilling spectacle from start to finish, and a highly-recommended must-see for a taste of classic Arabian tradition.

-          Get a feel of the heritage - On the way out, make it a point to visit the many forts of Fujairah. Also the Bidyah mosque (reportedly the oldest mosque in the Emirates at a buff 580yrs old) is the perfect stop for your culture fix.

Now that it’s been officially registered a heritage sight however, you might have to stand in line with a bunch of snap-happy tourists. You’ll come to realize though, that the wait was worth it after all.

Since the decade and a half I moved out of the place, progress seems to have caught up pretty quickly with Fujairah.

The one sole traffic light that used to be required of the city has now spawned what seems to be half a dozen more. What used to be a city with a maximum of 6-story buildings is now a potential metropolis with towers aimed at the sky.

What’s comforting however, is that this little township’s still got soul.

For from a high enough vantage from pretty much anywhere in the city you can still catch a glimpse of the mountains in the distance – sending out a message that appears to be aimed to reassure.

In my opinion Fujairah still is (and always will be) the ideal reprieve from the madness that’s taken over us city slickers.  Shame you can’t get too comfortable though; there’s real life to get back to after all.