Tuesday, February 13, 2018

shaking old memories lose

Last week, the ghadat opened a memory box that I had almost forgotten. While its made me pretty sad, I can't help and marvel at how far I have come.

The memory box was a little sketchy, in that it plays bits and pieces that overlap and blur and still cut like knives.

So poor.

When I tell people that I grew up poor and still have that mentality, I don't think they understood. Not that I ever explained it.

But after my dad has his toe amputated for gangrene. we didn't have much money. I remember exchanging cool drink bottles for cash for veggies to cook.

So poor, that when I was in agony because of teeth issues, the thing I remember was it was cheaper to extract than fix (fix meant multiple visits - that we couldn't afford.)

So poor that I cleaned my cousins house for money (she was a year younger than me)

look at me, Ms Digital Marketer with her own car, and poor person metality and look at how far you've come.

I never want to forget again.

I remain under a dark cloud, and the melancholy remains.

Friday, February 9, 2018

Gadat, Memories and Wishes

Last night was a tough, beautiful night.

I am attending ISR2018 International Spiritual Retreat in Macassar Cape Town hosted by the Mahabbah Foundation.
And last night marked the start of the retreat itself. And as per tradition, we have a Mass Ratibul Hadad locally known as a Gadat,which was so beautifully heartchingly recited.

I come from Johannesburg, and much to peoples surprise here in Cape Town. I grew up with it, literally, my father had his own Jamaah and there isn't a memory of mine, where gadat didn't feature.

Sundays and Thursdays were almost always for gadats, (which when all you wanted to do, was watch some TV and chill) but we did it.

The recitation last night was like a kick in the gut. It created such a sense of longing of my father and my mother who have passed away. Using the same lagoo (melody) I closed my eyes and pictured my father and uncles sitting in the lounge facing the congregation and leading us while we jikr'd with rhythm.

My childhood is pierced with these verses, to see My dad leading, my beautiful mother, Aunty Goula, and Uncle Manna and Uncle Ismail (Pa) and the laughter and loud recitation from the men and women of my family.

How I LONGED to open my eyes and see him there, one leg folded with his suede jacket and grey Kufiya. I sobbed and felt fresh despair, that I would never see my parents again.  I ached and wished I was 16 again, when they were all still with us. I made dua for their Akhira but all I wanted was to be transported back, to see them all one more time.

The gadat and the duas and the memories it evoked; leave me feeling a little tender today.