Tag Archives: marriage

Dawah By Dong*

In this title I am talking about the men who are intent on spreading Islam with their man-parts, by dating and eventually converting poor, misguided women in the West.

I hesitated to write this post, despite my passion on the subject, because I, myself, was involved with a Muslim man when I converted to Islam. I’ve mentioned this before and am mentioning it again in the interest of full disclosure. I didn’t convert for this man, however, as evidenced by the fact that I rejected his marriage proposals, broke up with him soon after converting, and moved out of state to escape him, my family, and my old life in order to re-discover myself in my new, chosen, identity.  I had also been bumping up against, discovering, and delving into Islam for four years before this relationship so the brother was not my first introduction to the religion. InshAllah he will get reward though because he did help me cross that final threshold.

I also hesitated because I anticipate that this will be, possibly, an offensive topic for many out there because I very rarely, and I mean rarely, meet women who converted on their own, without being in a relationship, or already being married to a Muslim man. I identify myself as someone who came into Islam by myself, although in fact I do wallow in a gray area between due to this relationship. I can neither disregard nor completely credit the contribution of this brother for my being Muslim. But I generally count the two years between my conversion and my marriage as sufficient to identify myself as someone who came into Islam without being married to a Muslim man. You may disagree with that as you wish.

Many, many converts cannot say the same thing though, and I fear that I will marginalize or degrade their decision to convert by what I want to say in this post. I do not mean to. There is nothing to say that your Islam is less valuable because you married your husband before, or soon after, you converted.

My object of disdain is the Muslim man who dates easy, empty-headed women and then uses the leverage of “I can’t marry you because you’re not Muslim” to break it off when the poor girl gets too clingy. And who justifies his rutting around by saying that he believes she is interested in Islam and he wants to guide her. But then uses aforementioned excuse to break it off when he tires of shagging her.

And there are men who date women who aren’t even interested in Islam and then, when both are invested in the relationship, put pressure on their girlfriends to convert because he won’t marry, and make babies with, a non-Muslim. This is a very sad and unfortunate situation because the women are forced to choose between losing the man that they love or converting to a religion they don’t believe in.

I would be surprised if you, the reader (assuming that you are Muslim and you travel in Muslim circles,)  had never known of, or heard of, a situation where this had happened. The woman breaks down and “converts,” the man marries her, they pop out a few kids and 10 years down the road the woman is miserably unhappy with being a Muslim, covering, and dealing with the expectations so they divorce. It’s a bitter divorce, and of course she leaves Islam, and a year later the kids are going to Friday prayer with dad and Sunday school with mom.

This is why dawah by dong is fatally flawed even though it is the primary method by which many women convert.

Obviously I am ignoring the simple fact that offering his man-parts to ‘ze ladies’ is haraam. I’m ignoring it simply because they do.

I don’t know how many times I’ve seen Muslim men with non-Muslim women. And very, very, very few of them plan on marrying these women. They’re just playing around until they save enough plata to bag a virgin from their home country. The kufar women are simply for getting his rocks off before then. Sometimes the man is afraid enough of Allah that he marries the chick Islamically so that the sexy-times are not a sin, but the final outcome is the same.

Raise your hand if you’re a non-Muslim and you’ve heard that Muslim men are skeezes? Heck, raise your hand if you’re Muslim and you’ve heard, or seen, that Muslim men are skeezes?

*raises hand*

But behind this are a number, a large number, of women who met their husbands at work/school, became romantically involved, learned about Islam, converted, married, spawned, and are living happily ever after as content Muslimahs. MashAllah.

But oh, oh, how many failures there are. How many men there are who use it as an excuse. Even as an excuse to marry a SECOND wife. To “help” some woman who is thinking about converting, or recently converted, stay on the path.

Because God knows that we women aren’t strong enough to keep a religion without a man around to remind us.

And what a noble cause this gentleman is embarking on: saving the converts of the world, four women at  a time.

Spreading the good word of Islam with his “sword.”

Enough.

Islam is beautiful enough to spread without blackmailing a woman into it.

Women are competent enough to discover how to be a good Muslim without a man to teach her.

And if you are interested in Islam, contact a local mosque. Or go ahead and ask that dreamy-eyed brown boy in your organic chem class about Islam but don’t, do not, absolutely do not tie YOUR Islam to him or anyone else.

Make it your own. And then marry him.

But this method of spreading Islam needs to stop.

Though I doubt it ever will.

I’d flay the skin off my son if I ever caught him doing this, although I would support him giving a Quran, advice, or the number to the local masjid to the pretty young thing who approached him in organic chem.

But I’d make sure she wanted Islam for herself before I consented to a marriage.

Brothers, be responsible.

Ladies, be smart.

And please forgive me if I have offended anyone, it wasn’t my intention. I just had to get this off of my chest.

 

 

*I apologize for such a crude way of putting it, but its apt.

 

Addendum: There are many good, righteous brothers who seek to marry converts because they like the idea that a woman, who was interested in Islam, became a Muslim and they want the reward of helping her learn Islam. Sometimes they help a woman, who has approached them with questions, and the relationship becomes romantic before she converts and after she does they then marry. This situation, from my experience, is the majority of the cases of how women convert to Islam. Its close to the line but doesn’t cross it, and may Allah bless them.

My husband married me after I had been Muslim for 2 years and he is happy to say this whenever anyone asks. Alhumdulillah.

Birthday Poem for My Husband

Usually I would post this on my writing blog but this is something I want to be very public.

A Birthday Poem for My Husband

I never knew
you didn’t know
my deepest thoughts;
you seem so close.
Like a piece of you
beats inside of me
next to my heart,
like a single being.
I never knew
you couldn’t feel
how thankful I
felt to be with you.

But I am.

And I do
love you.

Hello Sweat Glands, It’s Been Awhile

1.) The day after I blog about how fabutastic spring in Egypt was it turns hot. Like hot, hot. Hot enough for me to walk around going ‘holy crap! its hot!’ However in reality it is only 1/10 of how hot it gets here in the summer. The weird thing about Egypt weather, that I’ve noticed at least, is that the weather changes in the middle of the night. Over the past month or so everytime the weather warmed up I noticed it at about midnight to 2 am. Its so odd to walk outside and think to yourself ‘is it really hotter now than it was at 4 pm?’

the cat just farted and it was horrible. i need to stop letting her lick my roz-bi-laban bowl.

Last night after I finished blogging and got ready for bed I passed by the window and felt the warmer than it was during the day air blow past me. I woke up this morning afternoon covered in sweat. Yummy. It just reminds me that I seriously need to be out of here before summer really kicks in because otherwise I might lose whatever weak hold I still have on my sanity. Let me repeat that: weak hold.

Unfortunately Mr. MM is really not fully on board the USA-train; yesterday he brought up the idea, once again, of staying here. He likes to switch up the reasons but this last one was the pig flu and the craptacular economy. He reasoned that neither of us are going to find jobs and we might die. (BTW I believe he was maybe probably kidding.) Just a few days ago he told me that one of his aunts was so desperate to keep him in Egypt that she offered to fund an English Education business for me. All mine; I’d manage and teach if I wanted to. The only thing is that I am not a business person and I am not interested in building a business (unless its selling FABULOUS clothes for Muslimahs in the States) and I am even less interested in staying here.

Things I would need to stay here:

  • A nice flat thats fully air-conditioned and that I don’t have to worry I’m going to be kicked out of.
  • A car.
  • A maid. (We usually have that now but the last one up and disappeared.)
  • I don’t have to work if I don’t want to. (I technically have that as well but any money I bring in gives us a good cushion.)

Life is Egypt is possible to get used to. If you so choose of course. Its like deciding that living with a schizophrenic roommate is do-able when in reality getting a new roommate would be so much better.

Two hours ago we had a goat going bat-sh*t outside our window.

Read that again, please.

A goat.

My first thought was: ‘is one of our neighbors having a sacrifice or did a goat just wander into our garden?’

And I live in a place WHERE BOTH THINGS ARE PROBABLE.

Sure I can get used to tantrum-throwing farm animals, but do I want to?

To be honest I have softened my viewpoint of Egypt. I think by now that I have been so thoroughly bitten (quite literally over a million times by mosquitoes but thats not what I mean) by the Egypt-bug that I can never ever leave Egypt completely. The thought makes me homesick. Also I must admit that Egypt, Cairo especially, is such a fount of insanity-derived creative juice that I can’t not write. It drives me to writing; its my muse, so to speak.

But do I want to stay here now? No. Do I like the idea of coming back when Mr. MM has an American law degree and the ability to bring down big bucks? Definitely.

I like the idea of being a pampered housewife, ok whats another word I can use? Housewife implies things like cleaning, which are quite prominantly not in my fantasies. Ok, being a pampered writer who may or may not teach a class or two at the AUC but has all the time in the world to haunt coffee shops and write. I could do that. I’m not even high-maintenance so pampered doesn’t mean spiffy clothes and italian leather purses. But I would need a nanny. Hm… Mr. MM may not like that.

Anyways, I can iron those details out later.

I lost my train of thought, where was I?

Oh yes, Egypt. I could live here again, but in much different circumstances. Egypt is a place where it is hard to be anything less than rich. In most places money makes things easier but lets be honest: middle-class in the west is a-ok. Most people in Egypt scrape by at the level of poverty or below. Mr. MM and I are middle-class here, but for me middle-class Masri-style is a big step down from middle-class ala americani. Its hard.

So to come back here it would have to be with money and a good amount of it. Thankfully the exchange rate is pretty good so we wouldn’t have to have that much.

And what about life here? Yea, its tough. In fact things are snow-balling here (ok not literally, did I mention that its really hot?) in terms of living condition and social harmony. Everyone is feeling the pinch of poverty, unemployment, corruption, the disintigration of respect and social morality, and loss of love for your fellow man. A month or so ago I finally realized what it was exactly: they have nothing left to lose.

Mr. MM and I were driving to Alex and a young man literally stepped off of the curb and into oncoming traffic as if he didn’t care if he got hit. Not exactly suicidal but without a thought of the consequences. To everyone in Egypt who reads my blog: watch the people on the roads. They have nothing left to lose.

Young men heckle and harrass because once they finish their almost meaningless education in schools that don’t care about them and with teachers who take bribes or have a personal vendetta against them they only face a future of probable unemployment and no hope for marriage for at least another ten years. They have nothing left to lose.

Women walking down the streets in the hot sun with small children while carrying the weight-equivalent of another two small children on their heads decide to cross a free-way, dragging said small children behind them, dodging cars and making people slam on their breaks, when in reality there is a pedestrian bridge a matter of 1/5 mile up the road all because they have nothing to lose. Ok, maybe a couple of children. But they’re almost starving, unable to imagine how they’re going to feed themselves and their children for the next three days. They have nothing left to lose and so extending the effort it would take to carry their things and children that far just to cross safely doesn’t add up for them.

If things continue this way here I imagine that Egypt will crumble in ten years. Maybe less.

Egypt was a beatiful, safe, peaceful country 35 years ago. Fifty years ago Cairo is said to have rivaled Paris for beauty. I have hope that Egypt will be that way again someday. But not now.

Thanks Mubarak. Just putting that out there.

Did I mention its getting hot? I sure hope Mr. MM doesn’t decide that he can’t leave Egypt. I’d really be lonely without him. On the upside I have told him that if we are here in the summer I’m moving to Alex.

He thinks I’m kidding.

I’m not.

Perfect Proposals

So I got sucked into something from the Today show about perfect/crazy marriage proposals and have been reading about different wacky things the guys did to make the moment special.

The truth is that with Mr. MM and I there wasn’t an exact point of proposal for us, and I feel a little sorry for that. But really, only a little because its not that big of a deal for me. In fact, I think that the closest thing that we do have for a proposal is something very unique: I kind of proposed to him.

There are two points of proposal, I think. The first was before I went to Egypt for my best friend Saaso’s wedding, Saaso also being the one who originally introduced us. Mr. MM and I had been online friends for roughly a year and him being serious about religion and me being serious about not being in an online “relationship” (and religion too) we were strictly platonic. But there was definite attraction on a physical, spiritual, and intellectual level. The closer I got to traveling to Egypt, and the more I thought about the possiblity of meeting up with him, the more nervous and butterfly-stomachey I got. When I evaluated my reasons for being all sweaty-palmed I realized that I had a crush on him and I had no idea what to do, so I called Saaso.

When I confessed to her my deep, dark secret she laughed at me. LAUGHED. Apparently Mr. MM had written to her about five weeks before that to tell her that he really liked me, planned to meet me, but planned to do it all halal and with pure intentions, and then swore her to secrecy. Armed with this knowledge I met him online that night and cornered him on his intentions towards me. He answered caught of guard: Marriage of course.

Not really a proposal, but hey I’m grasping at straws. The second one is better.

Fast forward to six weeks on of being in Egypt. Mr. MM and I had spent a lot of mostly chaperoned but always in public time together getting to know each other face to face. I had met his mom, dad, and other family, and felt that we were at a do or die moment. On June 29th at about 11 PM at night we- Mr. MM, myself, his dad, dad’s wife, his sister, and I think someone else- were all packed together into his dad’s car (masry-style ya’ll, you know the clown car routine) drinking cane juice outside of the juice shop. I turned to Mr. MM, who was mid-cane juice gulp, and asked, “We’re getting married right? I mean, do you feel like you want to marry me?” (I knew the answer to THAT of course) and he said, “*swallow* Yes, of course,” and went back to drinking. I said, “Ok, why don’t we get married on the 4th of July?” to which he choked on his juice and coughing said, “Thats like 4 days away!”

But we did it anyway. I mean come on, admit that its cool, we’ll have fireworks on every anniversary and the day off of work. It can’t get better than that.

How’s that for a marriage proposal eh?

Nothin’ like being stuffed into a car with too many people, on a mind-numbingly hot night, drinking fresh-squeezed cane juice in (I think) crowded Nasr City (or Ghamra I can’t remember), and being given four days to plan a wedding.

Maybe I should write into the Today show.

Getting All Religious Up In Here

A fabulous Canadian convert living in Abu Dhabi, Aalia, just posted about a few random things and whether men are allowed to beat their wives in Islam.

People like to say that “in the west people don’t know about Islam” and “non-Muslims are so ignorant about Islam.” Yea, thats true. But I gotta tell ya there’s a whole helluva (pun intended ya’ll) lot of MUSLIMS from MUSLIM COUNTRIES who are ignorant about their religion.

I have blogged countless times about separating culture from religion because what I see being practised a lot of times is cultural teachings that have no ground in the truth of Islam.

Wife beating is one of them.

Can you find Muslim men who beat their wives? Oh yeah.

Can you find Christian men who beat their wives? Absolutely.

Can you find men from every country on earth who beat their wives? In droves, people, huge droves.

I’ll lay it down for those of you who don’t know:

Islam does not condone wife-beating

(any of you who know me personal -hint: family- should know that I would never have joined a religion that condoned it nor would I stick around for it.)

My homegirl Aalia laid it out in a way that I couldn’t have said better so I will cut & paste (with her permission):

It is not generally permitted to hit one’s wife, and the overwhelming instances of hitting that take place in marriages are not only HARAAM (sinful) but entails abuse, wrongdoing (dhulm), and going away from the example of the Messenger of Allah [Prophet Mohamed] (sallalahu `alayhi wa salaama), who often instructed his companions (may Allah be pleased with them all) not to hit their wives, and who said, when he heard about men who hit their wives, “The best of you are the best to your spouses, and I am the best of you to their spouse.” The wives of the Prophet, including A’isha (Allah be pleased with her), relate that he never hit any of his wives.

Narrated Mu’awiyah al-Qushayri: “I went to the Apostle of Allah [Prophet Mohamed](sallalahu `alayhi wa salaama) and asked him: What do you say (command) about our wives? He replied: Give them food what you have for yourself, and clothe them by which you clothe yourself, and do not beat them, and do not revile them. (Sunan Abu-Dawud, Book 11, Marriage (Kitab Al-Nikah), Number 2139)”

Another example of what the Messenger of Allah [Prophet Mohamed] (sallalahu `alayhi wa salaama) said, “Could any of you beat his wife as he would beat a slave, and then lie with her in the evening?”

So, there. If a Christian guy beats his wife in America, is it because he’s Christian? Or because he’s a wife-beating asshole?

If a guy who claims to be Muslim beats his wife, is it because he’s Muslim? Or a wife-beating asshole?

I Am

I am an American and I am Muslim. I am no less American for being Muslim and I am no less Muslim for being American. I tell this to all the ignorant Americans who call me unpatriotic and I tell this to all the ignorant Muslims who consider me tainted.

I am a Muslim woman and I am not oppressed. My voice is heard and I speak out loudly.

I cover my head but my head is not bowed. I do not quake at my husband’s voice nor do I fear his hand nor do I quiet my words in fear of his anger.

I am a Muslim woman and I am not less.

I am Muslim and I am not less.

Not less educated, not less worthy, not less questioning, not less proud, not less patriotic, not less strong, and no less willing to fight for my rights, the rights of my people- ALL of my people-, and my right to fight.

I am.

Along a Ramadan

Warning: long post ahead, you might want to break it up into chapters or something.

Baby’s First Middle-Eastern Ramadan

I was very excited to be in Egypt for Ramadan, I thought that being in a predominately Muslim country would make Ramadan somehow better and more meaningful. A ‘sea of difference’ one might say. And while in many ways Ramadan here is so much more than Ramadan in the west in some cases it is actually less.

I find that Ramadan here has become in many ways a cultural tradition rather than a sincere test of religious endurance; it is not culturally acceptable to not fast so I find that I see people fasting out of peer pressure and societal expectation. To me thats not Ramadan.

I’m used to Ramadans where I am the only person in my family/office/classroom fasting and that if I drink water or eat anything no one would even notice except God. To me this makes it a much more personal expression of faith, and of course much tougher. I have found, to my chagrin, that Ramadan here has become commercialized not so much unlike Christmas or Lent. It makes the experience empty for me: who am I really fasting for? God? Or society?

Christians and foreigners (most of whom also happen to be Christian) complain about being judged for not fasting, for attempting to order food in the middle of the day, and for not miraculously becoming more modest during this holy month. So, how many people here are fasting because the rest of their family is and to not fast would mean ridicule and ostracism?

This is indicative of Islam as a whole here as well: how many women wear the scarf only because their dad wouldn’t let them out of the house otherwise? When Islam is chosen and embraced outside of and maybe even against societal norms it becomes something more than just the status quo.

So, despite the lights, the canons, the festive nature of breaking the fast, I feel this Ramadan is hollow. Yes, I’ve missed close to no days of fasting (compared to the past Ramadans where I would have missed at least five days before the last ten of the month) and yes, its so much more fun when you are in a group of people or when I celebrate another day of fasting with my husband. But it feels rote, routine, expected not exceptional. In this way less than my lonely Ramadans of the past.

On the first day of Ramadan my true love gave to me…*

* you know you’re going to be singing that song for a least one day *cackle glee snort cackle*

The first day of Ramadan was exciting. In spite of knowing it was coming, the night before it quite literally surprised me when I found that Ramadan would begin the next day. Then again as I get older I find dates kind of sneak up on me anyways. Dear God, is it seriously my birthday? It was just December a minute ago…

Hubby and I did some last minute Ramadan shopping in grocery stores that were almost completely wiped out. Goodness people, do you grow four stomachs in Ramadan? I couldn’t find salt for a week! Lesson learned: stockpile necessities prior to all Ramadans.

When we returned to the building we stopped by Downstairs Uncle to wish him and his three girls (whom I will call Star, Breeze, and Brooke after very rough translations of the meaning of their names) a happy Ramadan. I may or may not have mentioned before that DU is very rich (may God bless him by even more because he deserves every dime) and his three girls are very high society. In Egypt, well ok in pretty much all the world, high society people marry other high society people so Brooke, the middle daughter, is engaged to marry the son of the owner of one of the biggest restaurant chains in Egypt. DU and the girls had been invited to take the first suhoor in the original restaurant location and so we were invited along as well.

It being one in the morning already we just stayed up until it was time to leave and we were all driven to Nasr City. The restaurant was packed to the gills with people of all walks of life. There was an exciting moment of speculation when pretty much all the men in the restaurant, servers and cooks included, all rushed to one corner where, I was told later, a famous player from the biggest soccer team in Egypt, Ahly, was taking his pre-fast meal. The poor guy, he was just trying to get his grub on. Anyways, I felt halfway famous sitting and eating with the family that owned the famous restaurant where famous people ate, six degrees of separation and all that jazz, and the food is really good. We rolled ourselves back towards the car, took our leave of Brooke’s betrothed, who is a very sweet young man, and headed home. With our expanded waist-lines we almost didn’t all fit but we made it eventually just as the call to prayer, and the breaking moment of Ramadan, rang out.

We slept off our food comas, poor Mr MM went to work after a scant three hours of sleep, and afterwards I set about getting ready for the first iftar. Traditionally the first iftar is always taken as a large family group so we packed up and headed out to Warraq to take dinner with Mr MM’s brother.

One of my absolute favorite things about Ramadan is that, especially for the first week, the roads in Cairo right after the maghrib call to prayer and signal to break your fast become eerily empty. Everyone is at home stuffing their faces and much too busy to be wreaking havoc with Cairo traffic. Mr MM and I, having left late that first day, sailed through the streets like ghosts, marveling at the beauty of the roads when no one else was on them. It was probably one of my more favorite moments in Egypt, when the city is at peace.

We ate dinner with his brother’s family and my niece and nephews introduced me to their new baby chickens who were heartbreakingly adorable. As we were getting ready to leave we were told about a party at one of Mr MM’s aunt’s house for the Seventh Day celebrations of their new baby granddaughter. So off went went back to Nasr City again to join in the festivities.

If one has never been to a Seventh Day celebration, its a trip. Its kind of like a baby shower/baptism/riotous party all rolled into one. It was also my first time to meet a lot of Mr MM’s (large) extended family and I was the center of a lot of attention. At one point I was surrounded by fifteen people with at least three if not four of them loudly speaking to me in Arabic all at the same time alternately trying to convince me to not listen to what the other person is saying and to answer random questions. Considering I only understood maybe two out of every twenty words I had absolutely no idea what was going on. My mother in law, God bless her, did her best to brow-beat my admirers into submission, but it really just added to the noise. One aunt convinced me that the flat was hers and took me on a tour with another group of four people in tow along with us, still trying to convince me of mostly untrue information. It turned out later that the flat wasn’t even hers (she was tricking me) and most of the people who claimed rooms as being their own didn’t even live there. It was all done in laughter and fun of course, but I didn’t particularly care what house belonged to who and actually even who was who because I’m terrible with names and to this day still can’t tell most of them apart. Deposited breathlessly back onto the couch from off of which I had been lifted for the tour, I spent a lot of the evening trying to find my husband in the crowd and being chased by random cousins who wanted to tell me some funny story about some one I didn’t really know. It was great fun, and definitely a crash course in the Arabic language.

But the real celebration started when they brought out the baby girl. Everyone was handed ribbon-festooned candles to light and hold onto, even very young children (safety not being on the top of the list in Egypt) and the lights were turned out. The grandmother (I think) of the baby came first with a metal pestle and mortar which she banged on and rang in cacophonous melody while the women zaghrouted and the newborn was carried out in a delightfully overly-decorated monstrosity of a bassinet (sold specifically for Seventh Day celebrations). Everyone stood in circle while the grandmother alternately banged on the mortar with the pestle, right next to the baby’s head, and setting that down picked up the bassinet and shook, rattled, and rolled the baby inside to that she would stay awake. It was a testament to the sleeping ability of newborns that even through the extremely loud racket of the mortar being pounded on right next to her head the baby would actually go back to sleep in between periods of being violently jostled. Once she was shaken to satisfaction she was set on the floor and the new mom was invited to jump over the bassinet a set number of times. A few other over-zealous members of the family also took the leap and then the mom picked up the baby and, lead by the pestle-banging grandmother, we all followed her out of the apartment, down the stairs to the main entryway and then circled the mom and baby, with our candles, singing some sort of traditional song. I mumbled because I had absolutely no idea what was going on let along the words to the song. Once that was over everyone trooped back up the stairs, children young (too young) and old were given fireworks to go play with unsupervised and everyone sat around talking.

After the baby-shaking climax of the evening people began trickling out and we eventually followed suit. Getting back into the car and heading home we found that it was pretty much only a matter of two hours before it was time to eat suhoor so we stayed up again and then slept after fajr.

The Arab Way

I have also found that fasting is so much easier if you do it the traditional Arab way: stay up all night, sleep all day. Fasting is easy when you’re asleep. Of course I feel that this isn’t quite as pure as actually being awake while fasting, staying up all night is more of a necessity for me than a choice. Ever since I came here I haven’t gone to bed much before one in the morning most days, so when it comes down to it, staying up an extra two hours is much more logical then barely falling asleep and having to wake up and prepare the suhoor while in a zombie-like state. This could also be the reason that I haven’t missed as many fasts as I usually did during Ramadan. I certainly can’t break my fast in my sleep, and by the time I wake up theres no use for breaking it so close to sunset anyways.

Yes, I agree that this isn’t the “real” way to fast, so please refrain from telling me off in my comments section. I just haven’t figured out how, short of depriving myself of sleep, I could do it. Believe me when I say I was working hard on trying to get Mr MM’s and my sleep schedule to an eleven o’clock bedtime, but I hadn’t succeeded by the beginning of Ramadan.

So, here we are in the vital last ten days of Ramadan. Its been a mixed one, sometimes good, sometimes bad, but most certainly different from any Ramadan I’ve ever been through before.

I also must say that Ramadan rocks so much more when you have a spouse.

I hope everyone’s Ramadan has been a blessed one and Eid Kareem ya’ll!

frantic love

sometimes he is so peaceful and quiet when he is sleeping that I have to stay a moment just to make sure he is still breathing.

how can one person fill me so completely that if I ever lost him I might actually cease to exist?