Valentine's Day

( I began writing this in February, then lost the whole thing during what I call a Valentine's Day Massacre Google, Control V Oh Dear Deleted my article mis-hap. My family celebrated Valentine's Day with an early morning screech and sob from me, cursing the computer and my lack of technical expertise- and life in general. But so much time has gone by that I managed to tie the whole thing in with the month of Rabi Al Awal) I switch around a bit but hey you're used to it by now)

Our anniversary falls in the month of December so we were still newly-weds when our first Valentine's Day rolled around. My husband had spent a couple of years in Saudi Arabia prior to moving to the U.S.- just enough time for him to become what I affectionately termed a "Recovering Wahabbi" He refused to celebrate birthdays, anniversaries, Mawlids, eschewed joint Quran readings and Dhikrs. So celebrating Valentine's Day was going to be a bit of a leap. His logic was flawless. Why celebrate something as abstract as "love" and "appreciation" within a socially constructed 24 hour time frame. Love should be a constant celebration. I was not going to argue with that. He was certainly generous, lavishing gifts, care and attention on me. I had no complaints- initially.

Then as the years went by and I became overwhelmed with being an at-home Mom of 2 toddler boys and running a home with little in the way of a support system. Needlesss to say, I became quite short-tempered. Anything would set me off. The media will convince even the most discerning consumer that they need a product. The PR for Valentine's Day begins somewhere around the day after Christmas.

"Do you know what she wants for Valentine's Day?"
"Don't leave it to the last minute"
"Don't disappoint your sweety.."

Somehow you are made to feel like you are missing out or are deprived.

I finally cracked. It was the evening of February 13th in a particularly difficult year of navigating dishes, diapers and colic. As soon as my husband came home from work, I grabbed him by the collar of his white dress shirt and gave the following polite request:

"Get me a gift. Tomorrow. Not today, Not the day after. Got it?


He did get it. A beautiful lavender-colored silk blouse, as I recall. I had never done anything so obviously mercenary and discovered that asking for a gift and receiving one spontaneously are such different experiences. However, let's say - I got over it!

Shamelessly materialistic person that I am, I became happy to accept small tokens- chocolate, flowers, an evening out every Valentine's Day over the next few years. I had sold my soul for a box of Godiva truffles.

Recently I watched a You-tube lecture of a well-known Islamic speaker talking about Love of the Prophet Muhammad, Peace Be Upon Him. He became quite emotional talking about what real love is, how it is not the superficial thing we see on television around Valentine's Day. He explained how that was a mockery of the feelings we should have for our Prophet, our parents, our loved ones. I would not disagree with that.

Real love. How DO we define it? Poets from Byron to the Black Eyed Peas have tried but still not quite nailed it.

My mother just spent a few weeks with us. Someone had recommended the book: Aisha Mother of the Believers by Kamran Pasha and Mum was eager to have something to read to while away the daytime hours when I would be at the office. Mum became gripped by it, said she was being daily transported into Arabia 1400s.

But one day when I came home from work, she asked me to return the book to its owner. I was surprised and asked why. She said something about not knowing if it was all right to write about the Seerah in this way- these details about the Prophet and his wives etc. It was disturbing her, profoundly.

" Why would a person even need to read this book? "She asked, rather upset.
" To understand the events of the Seerah so that you can feel even more love for the Prophet." I responded, rather disappointed. I thought she was far too open-minded for these kinds of objections.

Mum gave me a look that I did not immediately comprehend.


During her time here, she had made some good friends, aunties who hold weekly Dhikr and lunch gatherings and she was glad to have been included into this circle. We decided to reciprocate and hold such a get together at our house and were excited that it was co-inciding with the Islamic month of Rabi Al Awal- the month of the Prophet's birth. In many Muslim countries, this is a time when people get together to sing songs of praise for the Prophet. Mawlid or Milad- it means celebration. Throughout my youth, my mother and her friends would gather around a book of Urdu nasheeds. I still remember the cover of the book, it had a red background and had a picture of the Masjid Al Nabawi. The book had been so well used that the cover had come almost all the way off.

Well anyway, we were continuing a long line of these Milad al Nabis. Most of the guests had arrived. We had all read some Quran, some Dhikr beads sending Peace on the Prophet. We would end with a few Urdu nasheeds, a collective prayer and then a delicious biriani lunch! One of the guests arrived a little late. She was trying to slip in, unnoticed but it would be difficult for her to blend in. She was rather tall and impeccably dressed in a crisp white silk shalwar kameez and a thin string of pearls. There was also a subtle waft of Chanel Number 5 coming from her direction. The singing began. Let me explain. This not the work of professional artists. Sometimes, there is not perfect harmony or tunefulness. But it is always heartfelt and sincere. Then there is that Urdu poetry. I am fluent in the language but do not really understand poetry. I think I get the gist of it. But contemplate the fanciful imagery of some of these songs.

"Doolhah banna hamhara Nabi" ( Our Prophet has become a bride-groom today)
"Bibi Aemana key Phool" ( The flower of Aamena")


Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a head bobbing up and down next to me. It was the lady in white. I was surprised to see that tears were falling down on her immacualte silk outfit. As I looked around most of the ladies present were either crying or very close to it. It reminded me of the gatherings of my youth.

My mother and her friends would half sing, half cry these songs of praise.

It suddenly hit me! These ladies have an intense love for the Prophet- just like the You-tube scholar was advocating. I really believe that those who are raised in the East have an over-powering but pure kind of love for him that we in the West have somehow lost. I don't want to imply that Westerners are sophisticated and Easterners are simple. After all, these poems have COME from the East. It's just a different approach. Maybe it's all that exposure to such deeply emotional poetry that has seeped into their consciousness, become inter-woven into the fabric of their lives.

Do we then need the knowledge of the Seerah to access it and therefore feel the love?

Knowledge won’t hurt. But sometimes I wonder if our intellectualism can be a burden, a barrier?For me to feel love for the Prophet, I have to acquire all kinds of prior knowledge of the Seerah, struggle through Martin Lings, watch the PBS "Muhammad" DVD, make an attempt to understand the Hadith ("Was this an AUTHENTIC Hadeeth?" "What was the chain?) and so on. I think our parents were raised in a time and place where the Seerah was running through their veins. These beautiful stories were their lullabies, their bed-time stories, the last thing they heard at night.


Suddenly I understood the look my mother had given me that day when she returned the Kamran Pasha book. Silly me, I wanted to teach my mother about love for the Prophet. She was trying to convey that she had all the love and more than I would ever understand.

I think we are all capable of it but arrive at it from different methods.

Back to February 14th

Last Valentine's Day, I was in Walgreens for a very unromantic milk run and I saw that it was a hive of activity. (Mostly men) lined up at the counter purchasing various last minute cards or gifts. Then I saw an older Pakistani gentleman, shuffling along, holding a card that was covered in pink and purple hearts. He was making his way towards the checkout area with a sheepish smile on his face. For some reason, it warmed my heart. Uncle loves Aunty and doesn't care who knows it. Trust me, Aunty won't care about crass consumerism on this particular day.

So Happy Hallmark Borderline Bidaa Pagan Celebration just gimme the Godiva Chocolates and I'll be on my way Day!!

(As I had originally predicted, Mum actually ended up requesting the Kamran Pasha book for her journey home-
"There are some details about the Seerah I want to understand and it is transporting me into another world" she had said)