The decision to do an Aalima course wasn't entirely my own.
I was in the initial stages of memorizing the Quraan, but without much gusto. I
attended afternoon madressa that was conducted from a house in Mayfair. The house, a semi much like ours,
was purchased with the intention of building a fully-fledged Islamic institution
in the near future.
At the time though, there was just one class running, from
what looked like the bedroom of the house. Except for that lone room, the other
rooms were barren, nothing to show for a home that once was.
During break we were allowed to go out in the back garden.
There, in the midst of weeds and an overgrown tumble of plants, was a giant
peach tree. Indented into the ground as if asserting ownership. It bore fruit,
despite not being watered, and often, in our eagerness, we’d eat the peaches
without waiting for them to ripen. Green peaches, raw and yet, still tasty to
our child-like selves.
There were at least five other girls, excluding Miya and I,
and I would often catch drifts of their conversational whispers during class.
They were in high school and much of which was discussed included the name of
some boy or another. I tried to associate with them, futile attempts at trying
to fit in, at trying to appease the masses, none of which worked in my favour.
Our Appa, Appa Khadira, was a buxom woman whose layers of
fat carved itself into the very fabric of her black abaya. Her dull monotone
matched her ever existing tiredness and gave the impression of a much older
woman, when, in fact, she was twenty five at the time.
We were often reprimanded when we’d involuntarily burst into
fits of laughter by her two year old daughter, Nusaybah, ‘Watts so fun-nee huh?
Watts so fun-nee?’ she’d screech, which only heightened our laughing spell.
Appa Khadira was the one who told Mama that I would be
better off doing an Aalima course. My memory wasn’t apt, she had said, making
it seem as if though there was nothing to an Aalima course except as a remedy for
delinquency, or the unimpressionable
I knew that I would
not be allowed to school further than Grade seven. I was neither affronted by
this nor did I negate Appa Khadira’s opine. Sometimes I wish I had said
something, that I had stood up for myself, but I remained silent. It was all I
knew, I thought I was too young to make decisions based on my own standpoint,
that I had no inkling as to what I wanted from life, or expected of it.
I wanted to be a medical practitioner, specializing in
surgery, I knew that much. But I also knew that my dreams weren’t going to
materialize and that for now, I would have to journey on the road that life had
chosen for me, in anticipation of all that was to come.
It was decided, I would attend a madressa that was not far
from home, to become an Aalima. A woman well versed in the knowledge of Islam.
I spent my last months of my school year responding to
questions of ‘So which school will you be going to next year?’ with, ‘I’m not
going to high-school, I’m actually doing an Aalima course.’ Often, I would have
to explain what an Aalima course entailed and with time the lack of dejection
in my voice was evident, my parents decision becoming my own.
The universe, I believed, was largely like an empty canvas.
The drawing I sketched, the colours that I chose to bring to life and the
effort I put in, would portray a vision that was either alive with potential or
as lacking as a dreary winter’s morning.
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