Shadia: The benefits of Ramadan are truly endless

Refraining from food and water all day during Ramadan is not that bad.

That's because we still get to eat twice — just before sunrise and again after sunset.

There's "iftar," which is the breaking-of-the-fast meal at sunset. But there's also "suhoor," which is a light meal Muslims eat before sunrise to be able to withstand not eating during the day.

Right now, the fast starts at about 4:20 a.m. in Southern California. The time varies, depending on location.

In Islam, suhoor fall into the category of "sunna," which means it's recommended. Sunna in Arabic means "the way of something." In general, when Muslims say sunna, it means following the way of the prophet.

When I was little, a guy used to walk our street with a drum and a little song in the middle of the night to wake up people for suhoor. That happens throughout the Arab world.

Most, but not all, Muslims get up for suhoor. Some people's work schedules don't allow them to get up in the middle of the night to eat and then go back to sleep before going to work.

Some just were never used to waking up and don't do it.

I'm one of those people.

My mom never gets up for suhoor and never woke me or my sister up when we were little, and so I don't do suhoor. Besides, I'm not really a breakfast kind of person.

If I happen to get up before sunrise, I usually drink water. If I'm already up late, like on many weekends during non-Ramadan time with my friends, then I'll eat something.

In the Middle East, restaurants are open throughout the night during Ramadan. Restaurants along Brookhurst Street in Anaheim, a section of Little Arabia, are bustling during iftar and suhoor.

Ramadan is not about feasting in the middle of the night or spending money on a variety of foods, but these are cultural aspects of this month and they have been mixed with its spirituality. It is important to draw that distinction.

Like iftar, which is usually a joyous gathering between family, friends and neighbors, suhoor serves as a great bonding time with your closest family members.

Affad Shaikh, a Muslim American of Pakistani descent whom I know from the Council on American-Islamic Relations, left his Newport Beach apartment for the month to spend Ramadan with his family.

Affad, 29, recently quit his job and is attending law school. He's out for the summer, which presented the perfect opportunity to spend Ramadan with his parents and younger brother and sister in Palmdale for the first time in a few years.

The family's alarm clocks go off right at 3:30 a.m., the lights go on and all members of his household gather in the kitchen for fried or boiled eggs. Mom prepares Paratha, which is like Pakistani tortilla that Affad and his brother like to eat with honey and dad prefers with banana. Affad makes himself a protein shake.

When the food is ready, everyone sits together to eat, talk and laugh. Affad said they talk about the news, about their plans for the day. Because their dad leaves to work at 5:30 a.m., it's a great chance to spend time and talk with him in the morning.

"I definitely appreciate being with family for suhoor," he said.

Once the family is done eating, they get ready to pray Fajr, which is the first prayer of the day. They also read the Koran and then, Affad said, "I'm usually knocked out."

"During Ramadan, we're kind of forced to sit as a family because of the time constraints," he said. "It's very communal. You get to come together to do these things."

You see, the benefits of Ramadan are endless. It's not just about worshiping God, character building, giving to the needy and refraining from food. It's also about eating together. It's about community.

MONA SHADIA is a reporter for Times Community News. An Egyptian American, she was born and raised in Cairo and now lives in Orange County. Her column includes various questions and issues facing Muslims in America. Follow her on Twitter @MonaShadia.

Shadia: Refreshing my faith during Ramadan

Ramadan starts Thursday night (insert multiple happy faces here).
You would think that because I will be refraining from eating and drinking for about 15 hours a day for the next month, I would be dreading the arrival of Islam's holiest month.

You would think that because I'll be cutting down on my nights out with my friends, and, instead, devoting more of my time to praying and reexamining my priorities, I would be a little bummed out.

But when it comes to Ramadan, frankly, I can forget the food, the drinks, even the parties. There's just something about Ramadan that tingles my heart and brings me a sense of peace and comfort, even more so than praying five times a day, and more so than going to the mosque on any other day.

I don't know about everyone else, but when Ramadan is here, I sense calmness and kindness in the air. I'm usually also more careful, patient, focused and not quick to react to anything (the latter might be because I'm not eating and don't have as much energy).

But the energy I feel is inward, centered and strong. It gets me back to basics, to who I am and what I stand for.

I started fasting when I was 6 years old. And in the last few years, I started promising myself to make each Ramadan better than the one before it. I made that promise to myself when, by the end of two Ramadans ago, I felt I didn't do enough. Didn't pray enough, didn't commit enough. I regretted it and wished I had done more.

Ramadan falls on the ninth month of the Islamic calendar and is one of Islam's five pillars. The fast begins Friday.

Forgoing food and drink is not unique to Islam. Some Jews fast on Yom Kippur. Devout Catholics often give up certain foods during Lent, and other Christian denominations follow Jesus' teachings and fast for various periods of time in hopes that self-sacrifice will make them closer to God.

The Koran says that fasting was not only prescribed to us, but also to those who came before.

We fast for many reasons: With all of life's hassles, Ramadan is a chance to stop for a minute and renew your connection with God. It's also a way to change your habits, including eating, and it really leads to seeing things from a clearer perspective and remembering what matters most in life.

Fasting puts us in others' shoes, including those who are dying from starvation and injustice throughout the world. It's a chance to stand beside them, not just by refraining from eating, but by helping them in every way we can.

It's not like we're supposed to do that in Ramadan and then, once it's over, move on and go back to our old ways. Ramadan is a reminder of all the things we should be doing throughout the year and throughout our lives. It's a reminder and a chance for a new beginning.

I know that it's difficult for some to understand. Why starve yourself to do all of that? But Ramadan's fast is not about refraining from eating. This is just one aspect of it, and it's probably the easiest of all.

It's faith. And faith — just like love — is difficult to understand.

MONA SHADIA is a reporter for Times Community News. An Egyptian American, she was born and raised in Cairo and now lives in Orange County. Her column includes various questions and issues facing Muslims in America. Follow her on Twitter @MonaShadia.

Shadia: Loving dogs at a distance

If you've lived near a Muslim or a Middle Eastern family, or if you know one, then you've probably seen them act a little weird around dogs.

And there are probably few things funnier — or more perplexing — than seeing a full-grown Muslim run, or get visibly uncomfortable, when a dog rushes toward him.

I was that way for a while, and I'll get back to you on why.

But generally, there's a sense out there that Muslims or Islam have a bone to pick with dogs.

As usual, it's more complicated than that. It's quite the opposite, actually. Dogs are mentioned in a positive light in Islam.

There's a story that goes like this: A man was once in deep thirst while on the road. He eventually found a well of water, lowered himself into it, and fulfilled his thirst. On his way out, he found a dog with his tongue out in thirst. So the man went back to the well and scooped water with one of his shoes so the dog could drink. He did this until the dog's thirst was fulfilled.

We are taught that for that simple act of kindness toward the dog, God forgave all of the man's sins, and he was rewarded with paradise.

So why do some Muslims act weirdly around dogs or, in some well-documented instances — like taxi drivers or store owners refusing to give service to blind individuals because they have guide dogs — act in a cruel manner toward them?

It's a combination of two things.

Islam has four dominant schools of thought. Muslims usually follow one — or none.

Each school of thought is referred to by the name of a Muslim scholar who provided rulings on various issues based on analysis of the Koran and the Prophet Muhammad's life and statements. They range from being very conservative to being liberal on numerous questions.

Those scholars usually disagree and give different rulings on the same issues, but they're all nonetheless credible and highly respected by Muslims.

Two Islamic schools of thought, the Shaafi'i and Hanbali, contend that a dog's nasal area, which is often wet, is "najis," or impure, and that means if it touches you or your clothes, you must wash up before praying. It has nothing to do with the dog itself.

If you follow those opinions, you can still have a service dog, guard dog or even a dog as a pet, provided that you keep it mostly in the backyard, make sure it doesn't touch your prayer area, care for it and play with it.

Another school of thought, the Maliki, disagrees. According to Maliki, a dog's nasal area is not impure, and if it touches you, it's no big deal at all.

Some Muslims who follow the impurity opinion take it up a notch, often out of ignorance, and act as if the dog were a disease. They get uncomfortable, freak out or act unkindly when one comes near them and, of course, irresponsibly and unjustly cite Islam.

The other factor is that the places and countries that Middle Easterners come from sometimes negatively influence their reactions toward dogs. For me, the culture and some personal weirdness, not Islam, are what influence my reaction.

In the Middle East, dogs freely roam the streets. They're dirty and sometimes sick or vicious. In Egypt, you stay away from dogs; you don't make space for them in your bed. (I should note that when I went to Egypt in 2010, I didn't notice as many dogs on the streets.)

When we were little, my sister was chased by a dog on two different occasions. She got bitten once in the thigh and still has a round scar there.

I was petrified of dogs.

I also have hygiene issues and have always been this way. I wash my hands many times during the day. I sometimes get up in the middle of eating to wash my hands if I think they got too dirty, then I wash them again after I finish eating.

It's weird, I know.

So I don't like it when a dog's nasal area, especially a drooling one, touches me. I don't like it when I can smell the scent of any animal or when any animal touches me. If I were able to get past that hurdle, I would have a dog for a pet because I'm often characterized as a dog person and some of them are very cute.

It's not the dogs; it's me.

My friend Eric — who loves his dogs, kisses them and lets them (eww!) lick his face — once said, "Mona is not as scared of the dog hurting her as much as she's scared of it kissing her."

So if you see a Muslim or a Middle Easterner act weirdly around a dog, remember that it's probably complicated. If you see a Muslim act unkindly toward a dog and give you the "Islam says" excuse to justify it, know that it's probably ignorance.

Tell them the story about the man who went to heaven for helping a dog. Tell them what the Islamic schools of thought say and how their differing opinions still have nothing against dogs. That'll give them something to think about.

MONA SHADIA is a reporter for Times Community News. An Egyptian American, she was born and raised in Cairo and now lives in Orange County. Her column includes various questions and issues facing Muslims in America. Follow her on Twitter @MonaShadia.

Shadia: Five prayers a day is harder than it looks

I struggle to fulfill my commitment to five daily prayers.

It's not something that I'm proud to admit because praying brings out the best in me.

Like eating and drinking to nourish your body, praying five times a day feeds your soul, connects you to God and helps you stay on track.

The exact hour and minute of each prayer may vary, but in general, Muslims pray in the morning, around noon, in the afternoon, at sunset and in the evening. Each prayer is about five minutes or less.

For as long as I can remember, I prayed. Uncle Beautiful must have taught me back in Egypt, though I have to admit, I don't really remember because I was always surrounded by people in constant prostration to God.

In Egypt, you get up in the morning and there's someone praying. You decide to take a nap and when you get up, someone else is praying. You're in school or hanging out on the balcony and you hear the call to prayer and pray.

When I moved to the United States, I gave up praying.

But it wasn't long before I started to pray again. There was a boy I liked in high school. One day we were talking, and he asked what religion I practiced. When I told him, his response was that his Christian beliefs were the real and only way to God and heaven.

When our conversation ended, I went straight to pray.

That's exactly how it happened. I haven't stopped praying since, and I credit that boy for getting me to pray again. (There's a reason why schmucks come into your life.)

I think that part of me worried that I was outside my comfort zone in a new country, and praying reminded me of who I am and what I believe.

When I say I haven't stopped praying since, I should note that I sometimes did not meet all five prayers.

I prayed whenever it was convenient. So instead of five times a day, for years I prayed in the morning, when I got up, and in the evening, before I went to sleep.

I decided last summer that I couldn't pray just twice a day and that I needed to make the effort to do all five.

So I did. I would pray in the morning, as usual. Then I would pray the noon and afternoon prayers after I got home from work. Then I would pray the sunset and evening prayers at their regular times if I was home. But I would sometimes pray in the morning, then the rest all together at night, if I was working late or had plans after work.

Though I felt proud of fulfilling all five prayers, I was soon overwhelmed with praying all four together. I decided in December that to make it easier and correct, I would have to pray on time. I would get up early to fulfill the first prayer. I started keeping a rug, head cover and baggy sweat pants in my desk at work to wear while I pray. You must dress modestly while praying and women must cover their hair.

I told my editors that I would be praying at work and that it wouldn't take away from my work, and they had no problem with it.

I also stopped wearing makeup to work so that when I wash my face, I wouldn't look like such a hot mess.

Yeah. Washing your face with clean water is part of what you do before praying. It's called ablution, "wudou" in Arabic.

At the beginning, I would go to the restroom, do my wudou and wonder what people would think when they walked in and saw me drenching my face, neck, arms and feet with water.

I would go to one of our empty rooms in the office to pray, and while doing so, I wondered what someone would do or say if they walked in on me.

I haven't been caught yet.

Still, there are times when I miss my ritual because I'm busy with a story or simply because I don't want to stop what I'm doing to do something else.

I scold myself when I miss.

Praying is simple.

It makes me feel better and makes me a better person. It doesn't take long. So why can't I easily fulfill each prayer?

I'm not sure what the answer is.

But what I know is that I always return to praying. And I always will.

MONA SHADIA is a reporter for Times Community News. An Egyptian American, she was born and raised in Cairo and now lives in Orange County. Her column includes various questions and issues facing Muslims in America. Follow her on Twitter @MonaShadia.

Shadia: From 50 prayers a day to five

This might hurt. But once it's over, we'll all feel better.

Jerusalem, the blessed city, the witness to heaven's miracles, the center of faith, hope and despair, is not just important to Jews and Christians.

It is significant to Muslims as well.

Muslims just celebrated the anniversary of the Prophet Muhammad's Night Journey and Ascension from Mecca to Jerusalem to heaven on June 17, which this year was the 27th day of the Islamic lunar calendar month, Rajab.

You almost don't want to believe it. I mean, how could you go from Mecca in Saudi Arabia, to Jerusalem to the seventh heaven and back to Mecca in one night?

But like the miraculous crossing of the sea by Moses and the birth of Jesus to the Virgin Mary, this story was also one of the first I learned about as a child.

The prophet had just lost his most beloved wife, Khadija, and his uncle, Abu Talib, who raised him and protected him, and had been enduring the cruelty and physical attacks of those who didn't believe him when God took him on the journey of the Isra and Mi'raj.

He led a prayer with the prophets of Islam, where the Dome of the Rock mosque, inside Haram al Sharif (or the Noble Sanctuary) in the Old City, now stands. Jerusalem is repeatedly referred to in the Koran as the sacred and blessed land. It is also the direction in which early Muslims used to pray.

That changed later when Muslims were instructed to pray toward Mecca, the same direction we believe Abraham used to pray.

After leading the prayer in Jerusalem during the Night Journey and Ascension, the prophet ascended from that point to heaven and came back with instructions for Muslims to pray five times a day. He couldn't have gotten to heaven from anywhere else.

With him at almost every step of the way was the angel Gabriel.

In the first heaven, the prophet met Adam.

In the second, he met Jesus and John the Baptist.

In the third, he met Joseph

In the fourth, he met Idris (Enoch).

In the fifth, he saw Aaron.

In the sixth, he saw Moses.

And in the seventh, he met our patriarch, Abraham.

The prophet was welcomed by Adam, Jesus, John the Baptist, Joseph, Idris, Aaron and Moses as their brother, and by Abraham as his son, and a deputy of God. (It's right about here in the story when I get goosebumps all over.)

This is where it becomes clear that our religion's root doesn't start with Muhammad, but begins with Adam and goes on from Abraham to Jesus and beyond. Dishonoring or disrespecting one of them is like disrespecting all of them.

OK. Back to the prophet's Night Journey and Ascension.

The prophet then continued on to what's called the Lote-Tree of the Farthest Limit, and it was then when Gabriel told him he'd have to go it alone.

There, the prophet spoke directly to God. He commanded him to instruct Muslims to pray 50 times a day. That's 50!

The prophet didn't question it.

But on his way back, Moses saved the day (he's famous for that).

He told Muhammad to go back and request that the number be decreased, that the burden is too high, that he'd experienced human nature with the Children of Israel, and 50 is just too much, and it isn't going to work.

The prophet went back and the number was lowered to 45. Moses again told him to return and request that the number be decreased.

The number was again lowered, but not by much, to 40.

Moses continued to send him back until the daily prayer was lowered from 50 to five.

At that point, Moses still wanted to send him back, but Muhammad told him he was too embarrassed to go again, and the number remained at five.

I would like to officially thank Moses for intervening to lower the number of daily prayers from 50 to five. Keeping up with five is tough enough.

Every single command given to Muslims came from heaven to Muhammad on earth through the angel Gabriel. But when it came to prayers, the prophet was ascended to heaven to retrieve it directly.

Praying is a Muslim's direct link to God. It's difficult to forget about God, to lie, steal, cheat or hurt when you're constantly going back for five times a day to connect with him, to thank him and ask for his strength.

It is like food for the soul. (I hear that eating small meals several times a day is a good way to stay healthy and keep your metabolism going.)

So when you see a Muslim praying, remember this story. Remember that more likely than not, that Muslim is feeding his or her soul.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm late for my second prayer.

MONA SHADIA is a reporter for Times Community News. An Egyptian American, she was born and raised in Cairo and now lives in Orange County. Her column includes various questions and issues facing Muslims in America. Follow her on Twitter @MonaShadia.

Shadia: A play on perceptions

Surprise, surprise.

I took a Jew to a mosque and no one got hurt.

My friend Meesh and I attended the celebration of the King Fahad-Templ Emanuel Fellowship in Los Angeles, where a group of Jews and Muslims partnered up for a few months and shared stories, food and traditions in hopes of melting down the misconceptions and myths we sometimes believe about each other.

"A Night to Inspire" was held at King Fahad Mosque and attracted Jews, Muslims and anyone else who was interested in the work of Newground, a nonprofit that works to foster relations between the two faiths.

Meesh, a Jew, and I, a Muslim, were curious about the fellowship and the experiences of those who participated. I also thought we should show them how a Jew and a Muslim form a lasting bond in real life.

Because the event was held at a mosque, the email instructed women to dress modestly and, preferably, cover their hair.

Like a hawk, I was on top of things (or so I thought). I brought head covers for Meesh and myself, wore a long skirt, put on my long cardigan and hijab in the car and waited for Meesh. On the phone, Meesh told me she was dressed like an Orthodox Jew going to temple. Perfect, I told her.

Meesh is a conservative Jew.

I was fixing my hijab when Meesh entered the mosque for the first time in her life. Because she's my friend, it was humbling for me to watch it happen. I felt excited and proud — though, rest assured, I'm not interested in converting Meesh to Islam.

(I'm not sure I'd like her as much if she were Muslim ... OK, stop gasping. I'm only kidding.)

I wanted to make sure Meesh had the best and most welcoming time at the mosque. I had no doubts she would, but to be honest, I was a little anxious because I know our people can be a bit too critical at times.

I didn't like it when, the minute she walked in, someone asked her to take off her shoes. (She wasn't even in the prayer hall yet. You see what I'm talking about now?) And I felt really annoyed when a young woman offered to get her a longer skirt to pull over her already Orthodox-acceptable one (the skirt stopped below her knees).

Meesh later told me that she asked if her skirt was too short, which led the woman to offer a longer one.

We stood in the restroom for a few minutes, chatting and laughing about nothing and covering our hair. Meesh, who is Persian, was about to tie the hijab the way Orthodox Jewish women often do it in America when she decided to do it the way many Middle Eastern women do.

And that confused people. Because Meesh looks Middle Eastern, there were those who weren't sure if she was Muslim or Jewish, and she enjoyed watching the uncertain looks on some faces.

Two fellowship members — a Muslim and a Jew who were assigned to each other for the duration of the fellowship — spoke of their experience.

When the Jewish fellow was speaking about his experience, Meesh seemed critical of him and at least once whispered, "That's not true" to something he said.

She later said, "I identify with his emphasis on Judaism as a cultural and a national identity, but I also feared that the tone of his statement would lead to a perception that faith and God does not play as important a role in Judaism."

I didn't get that perception.

At one point, the Muslim woman spoke about an experience she had after9/11when a group of people harassed her on a train. In describing the incident, she repeatedly stressed that there are bad people in the world, which I perceived as a veiled statement about Jews. I know that wasn't her intention, but given the many misconceptions some of us already have about each other, I was afraid it would lead to that understanding.

Meesh didn't think the woman was equating her bad experience with Jews and wasn't at all offended.

We were at an event that fosters relations between Jews and Muslims. The two obviously didn't share many misconceptions about the other's faith.

We found ourselves analyzing why we were critical of our own people.

Is it because we're just weird?

You might think so. But, the truth is it's because religion is very personal and very individualistic.

Each Muslim and Jew is not alike. The way I view God and interpret Islam is personal to me. The way Meesh views God and identifies with Judaism is also personal to her.

And because we care about our faiths, we wanted it presented in the perfect light — our standard of perfect, that is.

Lessons? We as humans shouldn't be judging one another. And on a larger scale, we certainly shouldn't be judging others' path in life.

Next, Meesh is taking me to a temple.

Should I be worried?

MONA SHADIA is a reporter for Times Community News. An Egyptian American, she was born and raised in Cairo and now lives in Orange County. Her column includes various questions and issues facing Muslims in America. Follow her on Twitter @MonaShadia.

Shadia: Your heart and actions matter, not your appearance

A group of people once brought a drunk man to the Prophet Muhammad, thinking that because alcohol is forbidden he would react harshly.

Instead, the prophet questioned their judgmental behavior and criticism, telling them that he knew the man loved him and God.

I'm telling you this because a few weeks ago I had a conversation with a local imam on what determines faith.

I told him that I believe Islam teaches that faith is between one person and God, that a person's appearance to outsiders doesn't determine his or her level of devotion.

I told him that not covering my hair, for example, doesn't make me less Muslim.

His response was that I should reconsider my position on the hijab, that, basically, my credibility and social standing are likely to be elevated if I start covering my hair.

I'm pretty sure I was rolling my eyes.

Here we go again, I thought.

My Uncle Beautiful first got me to cover my hair when I was about 6 years old. He couldn't get my strong-willed mom, Shadia, to do it. And so my sister and I walked fully covered in public next to our mom, while her hair flowed freely.

I despised the hijab and fought hard against wearing it.

I lost that battle.

But I got to choose for myself when I came to America.

My mom now covers her hair — her choice.

My sister, Marwa, and I don't — our choice.

Things between me and Uncle Beautiful are now fine, though it wasn't easy to get here. I'm comfortable with my choice of not covering.

But over time, and honestly because I'm probably more sensitive to the hijab, I've grown frustrated with many in my community who have collectively created this perception that somehow you're better, more faithful and more pious if you cover your locks.

That, I believe, is what led my uncle to make sure I covered. He believed then (as he does now) that a Muslim woman is commanded by God to cover her hair and dress modestly, but he mainly worried about the perception people would have had of me.

This is why he fought with my mom over it — not out of cruelty, but out of love, strange as it might sound.

Imam Yassir Fazaga, religious leader of the Orange County Islamic Foundation in Mission Viejo, said there is a difference between religious mandates and the value a society places on public expressions of those mandates.

Covering is one of the few visual expressions for Islamic women, Fazaga said. The same goes for faithful Muslim men, who often have beards.

These displays in Islam are similar to wearing crosses in Christianity, Fazaga said.

People in our culture have attached the hijab or beards to certain meanings: that the person is more pious or faithful.

But, ultimately, what you do on the surface shouldn't determine your faith or lack thereof, Fazaga said.

It is about what's in your heart.

You might think I'm being too critical of my community, but it is because I love my community that I challenge some of its members' unwillingness to sometimes see beyond the surface — hence, the imam who thinks simply covering my hair will get people to think highly of me.

It is because I love my uncle that I challenge him to accept that it's fine to disagree on the routes, even though we're seeking the same destination.

I believe wholeheartedly that Islam forbids people from judging others from the surface, and it is because of examples like the one about the drunk man I mentioned earlier.

The prophet also once said that God "does not look at your appearance or wealth, but rather He looks at your hearts and actions."

It dawns on me that the tendency to judge people based on their appearance or path in life isn't specific to Muslims.

We all do it and, in turn, we are all responsible for the rift it has created in our society, from the day-to-day pressures we place on women's appearances to religious groups that argue they're better than their counterparts or that ultimately their path to God is the only correct one.

If God is capable of giving you a unique mind, look and heart, is He not capable of understanding that uniqueness?

MONA SHADIA is a reporter for Times Community News. An Egyptian American, she was born and raised in Cairo and now lives in Orange County. Her column includes various questions and issues facing Muslims in America. Follow her on Twitter @MonaShadia.

Shadia: Standing alongside Syrians, if only in spirit

When I was growing up in Cairo, there was a rumor that the Egyptian secret service placed an informant in every neighborhood who knew every little move you made, your family history and what you said about the government.

Just one bad word about the regime, and you'd be snatched from your bed, never to be seen again.

Though I was young and didn't understand politics, the idea of an informant scared me.

I didn't really want to believe this rumor — unconfirmed as it was — about my neighbors, who were good and kind people.

There was a man whom people thought was the informant. He had a day job — a presumed cover, of course — but I heard he had a top position in the government.

And then there was an incident when a young man from my street disappeared. Neighbors said he was taken to prison and might never come back. He did came back, though, only different. He wasn't as social or as passionate, just changed.

Now that I'm older and understand more about how the Middle East works, I doubt that man in my neighborhood was the informant. Informants by definition do not easily stand out. They could be your teacher, your neighbor, even your brother.

Dictators use fear and retaliation to control the population. Systematic arrests, imprisonment, torture and execution crush citizens' spirits, keeping them silent. But usually just the idea that a neighbor could rat you out to the government was enough to keep people in check.

This idea that you can sit in a coffee shop with your friends and criticize your government or president, as we do here, was nonexistent where I grew up.

I thought things were bad in Egypt before the Arab Spring — that is, until I learned more about what is happening in Syria.

Not only has the Syrian government monitored its citizens for the last 40 years, the Assad regime controls every aspect of people's lives, from arts and entertainment to social norms and politics. It's not really a government; it's a mafia-like system, where torture and execution are common.

People are thought of as property. That's true of everyone, including women and children.

When I think of the way I felt about the informant, the man who disappeared for years, the torture in Syria and the ongoing killing of innocent children, it's clear why Arabs rarely have tried to rebel en masse until now.

That so many of them rose up at once is nothing short of a miracle from God above.

According to the Syrian American Council, more than 15,000 Syrians have been killed since the Syrian revolt that began in March. Among the dead are an estimated 1,000 children, 1,000 women and 600 people who died during torture.

Yet Syrians are continuing to risk their lives for ideals we sometimes take for granted: freedom, dignity, justice.

You might not be able to stop the injustice in Syria, but you may support its victims by staying aware, speaking out against human rights abuses and standing alongside them in spirit.

When you think of them, think of the life and freedom you would want for yourself, your family, friends and children. And remember, the Founding Fathers and their followers once fought for the freedom you have today.

MONA SHADIA is a reporter for Times Community News. An Egyptian American, she was born and raised in Cairo and now lives in Orange County. Her column includes various questions and issues facing Muslims in America. Follow her on Twitter @MonaShadia.

Shadia: Dreams are coming true in Egypt

Something amazing is happening.

Something I only dreamed about and thought it would always remain a dream.

For the first time in Egypt's thousands of years of existence — a history marked with glory and failures — its citizens are deciding who should lead them as president.

I used to think I'd see peace between the Palestinians and Israelis before I saw the birth of democracy in Egypt.

It wasn't because I didn't think Egyptians weren't capable. I knew all along that my people were brave, that they could break away from the shackles of dictatorship, that they knew they deserved better. I just felt that Egyptians were too kind, too forgiving, too accepting — even too thankful — of their conditions to demand something better.

When Egyptians took to Tahrir Square, I wasn't shocked, but excitement and pride took over my entire being. When Mubarak stepped down, I cried with relief.

When the first-ever presidential debate between the top two candidates was playing on Egyptian television two weeks ago — with people hovering over it in homes and hookah cafes like they do for soccer games — I was jumping in my chair at the office. And now, as they stand in miles-long lines to vote, my heart is beating with joy.

But then there are those Negative Nancys out there who say democracy in Egypt and the Arab world isn't gonna happen, because, you know, it's already been a year and a half and democracy and order hasn't taken over Egypt yet.

For those who think democracy happens overnight, that it's not a tedious and frustrating process, that each of its steps doesn't take hard work, failure, sweat and sacrifice, let me remind you of America's road to democracy.

Not every American wanted independence from the British. There wasn't just one unified military, but several groups, each with its own mission and agenda.

Even after independence, there were many failures leading up to the writing of the Constitution. And it took many fights and long nights to get it done for the majority of Americans to agree we should be the United States of America. Why would it be any different somewhere else?

But, of course, uncertainty is looming. That pathetic uncertainly! Always hanging around, taunting me, bursting my bubble!

I listened to the founder and president of theWashington, D.C.-based Arab American Institute, James Zogby, speak Thursday at the World Affairs Council of Orange County about Arab voices and what they're saying to us.

Zogby, an internationally acclaimed author and commentator, was critical of the U.S. government's attitude toward the Arab world, of how Americans place Arabs in one box and how Washington traditionally refuses to acknowledge its mistakes or learn from them.

But he said hope is on the horizon.

When I asked him what he predicted would happen in Egypt and how it would impact the rest of the Arab nations, he said something that made me smile and instilled more pride in my native Egypt. He said when Egyptians revolted, it was like a great play making it onto Broadway.

Great plays don't start on Broadway, Zogby said. They start somewhere else, like Connecticut. But then if they reach Broadway, you know they've made it onto the world's stage, bound for a lasting impact.

Tunisia, which started the Arab Spring, is like Connecticut, he said. But Egypt — Egypt is Broadway!

When Zogby compared Egypt to Broadway, I started picturing Broadway, its beauty, timelessness, drama and greatness, and how Egypt and its uprising resemble it in many ways. Then I got back to listening to Zogby's answer.

Zogby said we know for a fact that whoever gets elected president is not going to have the same power Mubarak had, and we don't know exactly how things will unfold, but that is in itself exciting.

Zogby didn't seem to worry about the kind of government Egypt will end up with as much as he worries about its economy. He said a public-private partnership to get Egyptians back on their feet is the way to go.

You must wonder what I think should be the role of Islam in a democratic Egypt. Like America's values, which are based on the traditions of the Abrahamic (mainly Christian) faiths, Egypt's principles should be based on Islamic values.

As far as I'm concerned, no government should tell me how to worship or who to worship. Faith and modesty don't come from the government, but from within. Egyptians will eventually catch up with that, but it takes time.

There's been a lot of talk about the status of Copts in the new Egypt, with some arguing that their rights will be minimized, but I refuse to think of them as a minority. In fact, I didn't know what minority meant until I came to the United States.

Egypt's Copts are not a minority — they are Egyptians. They should never feel threatened in their own home, and if they do, then shame on all the Egyptian Muslims for letting it happen.

Egyptians are a diverse group of people, but they are united in demand of a government that will let them live a dignified, free life. They are united for an Egypt filled with opportunities for their children and the generations to come, and if this next government doesn't give Egyptians what they want, I bet you they'll be back to Tahrir Square — because once you're on Broadway, there's no stepping down.

MONA SHADIA is a reporter for Times Community News. An Egyptian American, she was born and raised in Cairo and now lives in Orange County. Her column includes various questions and issues facing Muslims in America. Follow her on Twitter @MonaShadia.

Shadia: Pakistani women work for peace

Last week in Irvine, I met real-life superwomen.

They manage to stay under the radar of extremists and have found a magical way to moderate, even eliminate, radicalism in some parts of their communities.

Amn-O-Nisa, or Women for Peace, is an organization made up of professional Pakistani women — lawyers, journalists, teachers — who come from different regions and are working to chip away at radicalism from its roots.

Eleven of the women were in Irvine last week at the home of Anila Ali, founder of the American Muslim Women's Empowerment Council, as part of a tour sponsored by the U.S. Embassy in Pakistan. The women were invited to Irvine by the council and the Irvine Pakistani Parents Assn.

Ali invited me to meet the women after I spoke at the council's second annual conference in Buena Park last month.

The women's visit to the United States included face time with members of Congress and officials from Homeland Security, with whom they shared their mission and expressed dissent for drone attacks — a tactic they said increases radicalism and in turn makes their job more difficult, according to Chairwoman Mossarat Qadeem.

"There was silence and nodding" to the group's concerns about drone attacks, Qadeem said.

Before the group moved on from Washington, D.C., to continue its tour, Secretary of State Hillary Clinton requested a meet-and-greet with the members.

Clinton expressed her support and respect for the group's work and mission, Qadeem said.

"Hillary Clinton said, 'I wanted to tell you in person I'm impressed by your mission,'" Qadeem said. "For us, it was quite encouraging."

But it is how they fight radicalism that is truly impressive.

The women use the Koran and the Prophet Muhammad's prophetic traditions, called Hadith, to reshape people's understanding of Islam.

They do it by getting the most important figures in the Middle East on their side: the mothers.

Qadeem said the mothers are the ones who suffer the most, and they're the ones who first notice signs of changes in their sons.

"We use the same Koranic verses, but with the true interpretation to sensitize them," she said.

It's difficult for some to imagine how the Koran and the Hadith can be used to de-radicalize extremists, so I asked the women to give me concrete examples.

"It's simple," Qadeem said. "The first word of the Koran is Iqra, meaning 'read.'"

There's also a Hadith where the prophet commands Muslims, men and women, to seek knowledge and education wherever they are, she said.

It comes down to education and educating young Muslims about the facts of Islam.

"When you look at the prophet's life, I don't know what has gone wrong with those people who commit violence in the name of Islam," Qadeem said.

The goals is to create a society that's intolerant to violence, a society where an extremist has no harbor.

Qadeem said they keep a low profile and are always careful about their word choice. The women, for example, never use the word peace, but the word tolerance.

Qadeem said a lot of people there don't recognize that extremism is not a normal situation. When you say peace, she said, they tell you they're peaceful.

I was so impressed by the women. I spoke with Huma Chughtai, a lawyer by training, and Naziha Syed Ali, a journalist who produced a documentary on education in the classroom.

Ali said textbooks are often riddled with inaccurate information about Islam in relation to the two other Abrahamic faiths.

It seems like a long road ahead, but to me they are real-life super heroes. Draped in their saris and traditional Pakistani costumes, they walked together with a sense of confidence and humbleness.

This is how a real difference is made — not by force, but by true leaders who are selfless, who are willing to put their lives in danger for the sake of humanity and for the sake of peace.

I was inspired by them, and I couldn't help but feel compelled to always work toward making a positive difference in my community and society. After all, it is what Islam teaches. And I felt proud to be a woman.

MONA SHADIA is a reporter for Times Community News. An Egyptian American, she was born and raised in Cairo and now lives in Orange County. Her column includes various questions and issues facing Muslims in America. Follow her on Twitter @MonaShadia.

Shadia: God means love in Islam too

There are so many lies that get circulated online about Islam that are sometimes printed and repeated as if they're facts.

Some of them really amuse me, especially the one about how Muslims believe in the "Moon God, Allah." We know Allah is Arabic for God.

But the Moon God? Who is he? I've been a Muslim for 28 years and have never heard of him. If my community has been withholding a lunar deity from me, it's about time it fesses up!

Some of the lies point to ignorance, like the notion that Muslims believe in a different God than the Jews and Christians, or that Muslims are supposed to lie to and kill "infidels."

Did I ever tell you about my "infidel" friend of 11 years? I haven't killed him yet.

And some claims are mind-boggling, like the idea that the Muslims' God is not a loving God. Let me tell you, as in Christianity, he is indeed a loving God because he's the same God.

Once, while attending community college, I received one of those emails listing all the reasons Muslims and Islam are evil.

At the time, I had been looking for a topic for my English class paper and when I saw that email, I knew exactly what I was going to write about. Very convenient.

Needless to say, that paper didn't stop the mass emails, but it was hailed by my English professor, who gave me an A and said everyone should read it. Take that.

I basically fought those lies with facts using the Koran; prophetic traditions, called Hadith; and stories of Islam's prophets from Abraham to Muhammad.

I remember pausing when I came across the part of the email that read something like this: Muslims' God is not loving; none of his 99 names means love.

In Islam, God has 99 names. The names describe God's characteristics. Among them are the merciful, the protector, the gentle, the honorer, the first, the last, the guide, the grateful, the forgiving and Al Wadood, which means the loving.

I looked up what love means in the dictionary to remind myself. It means, among other things, feelings of devotion, mercy, compassion and kindness.

Muslims begin everything they do, whether it's work, eating, writing, speaking or reading the Koran, with the words, "In the name of God, the merciful, the mercy-giver."

How is one merciful, forgiving and compassionate but not loving?

There are numerous verses and words in the Koran associating God with love and describing the many ways he loves his people. They include describing God as one who loves those who are patient, kind, just, compassionate and merciful toward others.

And there are probably dozens, if not hundreds, of Hadith describing God's love and tendency to forgive his servants out of compassion and mercy for them.

One Hadith describes God as "gentle and loves gentleness. He gives to those displaying gentleness what he does not give to those displaying violence."

A woman was once running in despair, looking for her small child, whom she lost for a few seconds in the market. When she found him, she ran to him with tears of joy, hugging and kissing him as if he had been lost for ages. When the Prophet Muhammad saw her, he told those around him that God's love for his servants is much stronger than that woman's love for her child.

It's hard to imagine, but I believe it. Muslims are taught from a young age about God's love for his people.

I do get why some may think that for Muslims, God is not loving. But that's just not the case. God is loving, but not all people are.

MONA SHADIA is a reporter for Times Community News. An Egyptian American, she was born and raised in Cairo and now lives in Orange County. Her column includes various questions and issues facing Muslims in America. Follow her on Twitter @MonaShadia.

Shadia: Islam's influence on the Founding Fathers

Even though I wasn't born or raised here, there's a reason I feel at home in America.

America's principles align with Islam's teachings. In fact, America's principles are not just based on Judeo-Christian values, but Judeo-Christian-Islamic values. After all, the three religions share the same father, Abraham, and the same God.

After some research and a chat with a friend, who shared with me the work of a few authors and scholars, I'm convinced that this relationship and compatibility between Islam and America is not a coincidence.

It is because America's forefathers were influenced by Islam itself.

Hear me out.

There's no doubt that when the Founding Fathers were forming the Constitution, they relied heavily on thinkers like John Locke.

Thomas Jefferson, the main author of the Declaration of Independence, used the terms "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness," which were taken directly from Locke's "Second Treatise of Civil Government," according to a comparative religion paper written by Zulfiqar Ali Shah, an Islamic scholar.

Locke's ideas were used to form the Constitution and heavily influenced figures like Thomas Paine, James Madison, Benjamin Franklin and John Adams.

You probably knew all of that. Locke was one of the political philosophers I studied in graduate school, and I often thought his ideas on human rights were in line with Islam's.

But what I didn't know is that Locke got many of his ideas from Islam and was often accused of being a Muslim by others, according to Shah. Apparently, accusing your opponents of being Muslim is not a new thing (ahem!).

Locke, as well as Jefferson, owned a copy of the Koran. Jefferson was the first president to host a Ramadan Iftar dinner at the White House, and, while campaigning for religious freedom in Virginia, he demanded that people recognize the religious rights of the "Mohamadan," the Jews and the "Pagan," according to a Library of Congress article by James H. Hutson, chief of the Manuscript Division.

Muslims were also part of this country from its inception.

"Readers may be surprised to learn that there may have been hundreds, perhaps thousands, of Muslims in the United States in 1776 — imported as slaves from areas of Africa where Islam flourished," Hutson wrote. "Although there is no evidence that the Founders were aware of the religious convictions of their bondsmen, it is clear that the Founding Fathers thought about the relationship of Islam to the new nation and were prepared to make a place for it in the republic."

Did you know that there's a statue of the Prophet Muhammad in the Supreme Court? It has been there for many years and no one is up in arms over it.

TheCouncil on American-Islamic Relations (CAIR), however, petitioned the court to remove the statue in 1997. The organization argued that the statue's depiction of the prophet with a sword was not accurate, that Islam — fearing idol worship — discourages its followers from portraying prophets in photos or any other artistic forms. CAIR also said that pamphlets about the prophet handed out to tourists were inaccurate, according to an article in Mental Floss.

Then-Chief Justice William Rehnquist denied CAIR's request, saying the sword is depicted as a symbol of justice and that the statue wasn't intended for idol worship but to recognize the prophet "as an important figure in the history of law," according to Mental Floss.

Rehnquist, however, said he would ensure that the pamphlets would be corrected.
So how do Islam's principles align with America's?

The answer is they both call for a just system that suggests democracy.

The Koran never specifies which kind of a government people should establish, but lists certain principles and values that must be followed. These include the right to protection of life, human dignity, family, religion, education and property from harm or abuse in a system that is just to all, regardless of faith.

This is basically the definition of — wait for it — Sharia, Islam's code of ethics, conduct and belief.

Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyyah, one of Islam's early leading scholars, said, "The foundation of the Shariah is wisdom and the safeguarding of people's interests in this world and the next. In its entirety it is justice, mercy and wisdom. Every rule which transforms justice to tyranny, mercy to its opposite, the good to the evil, and wisdom to triviality does not belong to the Shariah."

Most Islamic scholars agree that Islam demands justice to be at the heart of any society, and it's evident in how the prophet conducted his affairs and forged treaties with what Muslims call the People of the Book: Jews and Christians.

The Koran is clear on the issue of diversity and states that it is part of God's divine wisdom. I'd be pretty bored if everyone looked like me, thought like me, believed like me and acted like me.

And this is why America's system closely resembles that of what God intended.

It is why this is my home.

MONA SHADIA is a reporter for Times Community News. An Egyptian American, she was born and raised in Cairo and now lives in Orange County. Her column includes various questions and issues facing Muslims in America. Follow her on Twitter @MonaShadia.

Shadia: Islam for enlightenment, liberation

There's been a storm of controversy in the Arab and Muslim community over a recent Foreign Policy magazine article.

The essay, "Why Do They Hate Us?", outlines the atrocities many Arab women suffer at the hands of men. In short, the writer posits that Arab men hate women.

That writer isn't me, though we share the same first name (Mona) and native and adopted (Egypt, the U.S.) countries. Her name is Mona Eltahawy.

As if we needed it, this article divided the Arab and Muslim-American community into two groups: those who hailed Eltahawy for her courage, and those who admonished her for being yet another writer appealing to Western sensibilities with a subjective, narrow, emotionally gripping list of atrocities directed toward women by Arab, Muslim men.

And then there's me, hanging out somewhere in the middle, playing devil's advocate.
On the one hand, I know what it's like to be in Eltahawy's position.

My mom was married off by my grandmother to a man 22 years her senior, a man she couldn't stand and never loved. He beat her, even as she carried me in the womb, and generally humiliated and embarrassed her until she divorced him in the Egyptian courts — not an easy thing to do in that era. I remain proud of her for breaking free.

Growing up, my uncles helped raise me. One, who regular readers know as "Uncle Beautiful," hit and emotionally abused me. He once punched me in the face, dislocating the bone above my left eyebrow. He also once beat me so hard that it was difficult for me to move afterward. And he sometimes allowed the neighbors' kids to watch as he hit me.

After moving to America, I spent a decade not speaking with him.

Like Eltahawy, I too can recite a list of tragedies and injustices toward Arab women, but I also have good memories of my uncle teaching, encouraging, believing in, empowering and defending me. As cruel as his hand could be, he took pride in my achievements, and, to this day, cheers me on in my career and in life.

He made it his responsibility to protect me. He enriched my life with books and stories. He served as a role model with his honest way of life and work ethics.

Does he hate me?

I don't think so.

Is he a product of a collective, cultural ignorance that allowed him to both beat and praise me, to be compassionate and decent, to be emotionally and physically cruel?

I am leaning that way.

Yes, the Arab culture is misogynistic, but the picture isn't as grim as Eltahawy makes it sound. There are bad men, but great ones as well. And there are many great women who have been working for decades to advance women's rights and have made a lot of progress, though it has come slowly.

Her article does nothing other than, once again, put the burden, albeit indirectly, on the West, suggesting that Occidental values are all that can save these ignorant, undemocratic cultures.

I think solutions can and should be found within the Middle East.

The fact is, women have been mistreated by men of all religions and cultures for thousands of years. Remember: America needed its own women's movement — and it wasn't that long ago.

Manhood in many Arab countries is often measured by how insensitive you are and your ability to control the fairer sex.

The problem is not Islam, as some so easily and conveniently believe. It is the result of many factors, including colonialism and subsequent dictatorships and authoritarian regimes that have created an extreme culture in every aspect of life, not just when it comes to women.

When all you're concerned about is where and how you're going to feed yourself and family each day, and how to stay off corrupt leaders' and dictators' radar, being good to women, children, animals or men, for that matter, is not a priority.

And certainly, looking up your religion's teachings and history is nowhere on the list. It's not as black and white as Eltahawy makes it sound.

Not every Arab or Muslim man hates his wife. And they don't hate their mothers, sisters, daughters, granddaughters or nieces.

Instead of feeding the appetites of two opposing sides, why not find a way to educate men and women and make a real difference? Like Martin Luther King, who used religion to bring God-given rights to blacks, why not use religion — Islam, in this case — to empower the women of the Middle East and create a culture where women and men are working together for a better world?

We all know that the Torah and the Bible can and have been used to commit great injustices, and we also know that they can be used to bring people freedom, wisdom, compassion and enlightenment as well. It's the same story with the Koran and Islam.

The problem is a lot of Muslims are ignorant of the true teachings of their faith, which frowns upon the mistreatment of women.

None of Islam's greatest figures and stories existed without a woman. From Abraham to Muhammad, strong, empowered women were always at the heart of their existence.

More than 1,400 years ago, a 40-year-old businesswoman proposed marriage to her employee, a man 15 years her junior. He accepted. And she became his first wife — and boss.

That man was the Prophet Muhammad. They lived together for 25 years until she died.

Women, during the prophet's companions' time, voted, served in the military, gave to the mosques, worked and supported their husbands.

A feisty young woman wouldn't take no for an answer from the prophet. His second wife, Aisha, would question and challenge him to give her logical and reasonable answers. He would feed her with his own hands, help her with household chores and speak publicly of his love for her.

He died in her arms.

She delivered and shared with the Muslim community many of the prophet's traditions on marriage, family, children, women's rights and men's duties for women, and even held classes to teach the prophet's companions. This has made her, a woman, one of the most important figures of Islam.

These facts and many more should serve as a foundation to educate and empower every Muslim woman.
The revolutions happening across the Middle East are a good opportunity for women to liberate themselves if they use Islam for enlightenment and as a liberating tool, as it was intended to be.

Atrocities, such as the ones Eltahawy has listed, are less likely to happen in a society full of empowered women and educated men.

It's likely to take many years.

It took a decade for my relationship with Uncle Beautiful to change. We still sometimes disagree, but our disagreements are never contentious. They're respectful, and Islam is at the heart of our growth.

For Uncle Beautiful, evolving came as a result of his devotion to his faith and his desire to let it enlighten him. But not everyone is like Uncle Beautiful. And if change comes to gender roles in the Arab world, that's how it may have to happen — one enlightened man, and woman, at a time.

MONA SHADIA is a reporter for Times Community News. An Egyptian American, she was born and raised in Cairo and now lives in Orange County. Her column includes various questions and issues facing Muslims in America. Follow her on Twitter @MonaShadia.

Shadia: Passover a common belief for both Muslims, Jews

By now, you know that I'm a Muslim who mingles with Jews.

But the other day, I took it a step further and attended a Passover Seder at my friend Jazy's home. Seder is a ritual feast that marks the beginning of Passover.

Seder means order. The feast consists of various specific foods, prayers and the retelling of the story of the Prophet Moses (who is also a prophet in Islam) who liberated the Israelites from ancient Egypt's brutal Pharaoh.

Yes, even though I'm Egyptian and very proud of my country, its history and civilization, I know that Pharaoh was no good.

And that's why we believe God sent Moses to save the people of Israel from his brutality. We believe Pharaoh wanted to kill the newborn boys of Israel.

We believe Moses, as a child, was saved by a member of the Pharaoh household, where he was raised by Pharaoh's wife. Unlike Pharaoh, who wouldn't believe in God, we believe his wife was a woman of faith.

We also believe the story of Passover, which is when Moses was able to cross the sea with the people of Israel. And we believe God handed him the Torah.

If you're starting to question whether I'm really Muslim or Jewish, let me clarify: I am Muslim.

We just share the same stories. The story of Moses is one of the first stories I learned as a child. Uncle Beautiful taught it to me.

But why do we share the same stories?

I asked my favorite imam, Waleed Basyouni, who lives in Texas, that question. He is a frequent guest speaker, nationally and internationally. He is also a member of the Assembly of Muslim Jurists in America-Fatwa and Research Committee, and an advisor to numerous Islamic societies around the U.S.

Basyouni told me the answer is simple: We share the same God. Duh.

"It shows that our book wouldn't contradict the other books because they come from the same source," Basyouni said.

And the reason the Quran retells the story of Moses and others is because Moses has rights over us as Muslims, and the stories allow us to recognize other people's struggles.

"It teaches us that we should never be the oppressor in our lives," Basyouni said.

Even though Seder is traditionally held on the first night of Passover, the one I attended was just a day before the last night.

Jazy wanted to bring together some of her Jewish and non-Jewish friends to share in this ritual.
It was a potluck-style Seder.

Wherever there's a potluck situation going on anywhere, I make my specialty, baklava, or — and this happens most of the time — I ask my mom to make an amazing dish called "macarona bashamel." Yes, bashamel is a French word, but we've taken it. My mom, Shadia, makes bashamel sauce from scratch.

But Jazy kept saying to make sure that whatever I brought didn't have meat mixed with dairy. "Kosher rules," she kept saying.

The dish I wanted to bring has meat, eggs, flower and milk. I didn't think that was going to work, so I brought something else after hanging out at the grocery store for a while. "Is this kosher?" I asked myself. "No, it's not. Well, maybe it is."

I was the only Muslim at Seder, but no one could tell. (Talk about successfully infiltrating a group.)

Even though there were many people I hadn't met before that night, there were several who were close to me. I felt at home with my good friends Jazy, Babak, Josh, Becky and Farahnaz.

As it got late, only a few of us remained. My friends and I starting talking about our religions, and we began exchanging what we were taught about the prophets Abraham and Moses. It was comforting how our stories were pretty much the same.

Then Jazy, with her lawyer smartness, asked a question: If we believe in the story of Passover, why don't we Muslims celebrate it?

I mean, it would make sense.

I didn't have an answer, but said I'd ask.

In fact, we do.

When the Prophet Muhammad migrated to the city of Medina and learned that the Jews celebrated Passover, he asked them why, Basyouni said.

When they told him, the prophet said in this case Muslims must celebrate it as well, because Moses has rights over us, Basyouni said.

The prophet then began fasting on that day, the day of Ashora, and ordered all Muslims to fast as well.

Ashora is the 10th day of the first month of the Muslim lunar calendar, and it's different from the Ashora celebrated by Shiites.

My mom and Uncle Beautiful are among the Muslims I know who fast on that day each year.
And now that I know, I too will start fasting in commemoration of Moses' success over Pharaoh, and in sisterhood and brotherhood with my Jewish friends.

MONA SHADIA is a reporter for Times Community News. An Egyptian American, she was born and raised in Cairo and now lives in Orange County. Her column includes various questions and issues facing Muslims in America. Follow her on Twitter @MonaShadia.

Shadia: Play shows us all sides of the conflict

The Palestinian-Israeli conflict was one of the first crises I knew about growing up.

And if you're Middle Eastern, Muslim or Jewish, the conflict is probably one of those things you can't escape.
I would love to be able to tell you exactly what I think. But I won't.

Instead I'll tell you this: I've studied it extensively, read about it, written grad school papers about it and know each side. There are more than just two.

I encourage you to set your emotions aside and find a good, objective source to read about each side. Then make up your own mind.

When I heard about a play in Los Angeles regarding the Palestinian-Israeli conflict, I was hesitant to watch it or write about it at all. But several people told me it was a good show.

I thought using "Sarah's War" to write about the conflict would be a way to address it without making it about politics.

The play, produced by Freedom Theatre West, is about a 23-year-old American woman who decides to join the International Solidarity Movement in the Palestinian Territories. She first goes to her uncle, who's Jewish, to ask for monetary support, but he passionately refuses, cites rocket attacks on Israelis and tells her to go to medical school or find another way to make a positive difference in the world.

She goes anyway.

Sarah's story is not fictional. There was a woman named Rachel Corrie who once decided to join the International Solidarity Movement in the Palestinian Territories.

In Gaza, Sarah faces Israelis, who view her as a terrorist sympathizer, and Palestinians, who believe she's a spy.

And that's where I noticed the great service this play is doing for audiences, and also for those who might see only one side of the conflict.

One character is an Israeli Defense Forces soldier who wants to be a teacher and feels conflicted about serving, but has also lost his father in a suicide bombing. His friend, a religious Jew, warns him not to enlist and tells him that once in, there's no going back.

He tries to get approval to serve in a less sensitive area, but that request is turned down by his superior, who tells him his options are very limited and they include military prison.

Then there's Sarah, who's tormented over the 8-year-old Palestinian girl and many others like her who get killed by the Israeli military, the bulldozers that keep taking down Palestinian homes and, of course, the olive trees.

There's also the young Palestinian woman who doesn't understand why Sarah would risk her life and tells her that over there, they're like ghosts whose lives don't matter to the outside world.

There are Sarah's parents who have to deal with what happened to her.

There's the elderly Palestinian woman who wants to help, but trembles in fear when the bombs start.
There are also those, from each side, who are used to everything as is.

It was hard for me not to sympathize with each one of those characters. I know that each one of them lives.
It's why this conflict is not a matter of black and white.

But I do think there is a way to solve it, if we put our emotions aside, don't use the conflict for political gain and start understanding that those in the middle of it, on each side, are human beings who deserve a home and deserve to live without fear.

I have a picture on my Facebook with a Palestinian boy and an Israeli boy walking shoulder to shoulder.
A few years ago, I tagged my friends and wrote this under the photo:

"I've tagged my friends in this picture because I believe that in all of us there's hope for peace between the Israelis and the Palestinians. Hope that a Palestinian can walk shoulder to shoulder with an Israeli. Hope that their children will live a peaceful life full of sharing and friendship. A long life. A deserving life. A life where they can dream under the falling stars and fulfill their dreams. I'm optimistic and I believe I will see it happening in my lifetime. I hope all of you believe, too."

MONA SHADIA is a reporter for Times Community News. An Egyptian American, she was born and raised in Cairo and now lives in Orange County. Her column includes various questions and issues facing Muslims in America. Follow her on Twitter @MonaShadia.

Shadia: Passionate music where Middle East meets the West

Music runs through my blood like the Nile River runs through Egypt.

And if you know anything about Middle Easterners, Egyptians especially, you know we love our music.

My mom, Shadia, loves the songs and music of Egypt's oldest legends — Oum Kalthoum, Abdel Halim Hafez and Nagat, among many others. Use YouTube to find videos of Abdel Halim Hafez when you get a chance. You won't understand a word, but you'll love it anyway.

Some of my favorite singers died long before I was born, but I and many others love them because their music transcends the ages.

And I credit my mom for exposing me, though maybe accidentally, to great music.

For some outsiders, the Middle East offers nothing but trouble, dictatorships, extremism, oppression and war, but the Middle East I know has much more: great entertainment and food, rich history and cultures, kind and sincere people.

I love Western music, too. One of my favorite hobbies, aside from shopping, is singing. I sing in both Arabic and English.

But I've always thought of Western and Middle Eastern music as totally separate, not for mixing.

Until just two Saturdays ago, when I experienced something amazing at the Segerstrom Center for the Arts in Costa Mesa. It left me a changed person, mesmerized and more hopeful than ever about the world in which we live in.

Yes, a few hours of music did that to me.

But it wasn't just any music — it was the perfect merging of the Middle East and West.

When my friend and colleague Bradley Zint, who writes the "Classically Trained" column for Times Community News, told me that this year's American Composers Festival put on by the Pacific Symphony is celebrating Nowruz, the Persian New Year, I told him I already wrote about Nowruz in one of my columns and that I didn't plan on writing about it again in the near future.

Brad insisted I check it out. He said it would be a shame if I didn't attend this one-of-a-kind festival and write about it.

I decided to attend with my friend Lauren Williams, who covers courts and crime for the Daily Pilot. Brad was right. It would've been a shame to miss it.

The four-day music festival debuted a new work by American composer Richard Danielpour, a New Yorker of Persian and Jewish ancestry. His "Toward a Season of Peace" is a seven-movement oratorio in Hebrew, Farsi, Arabic, Aramaic and English. It was sung by soprano Hila Plitmann and the Pacific Chorale. The piece was conducted by Pacific Symphony Music Director Carl St.Clair.

The festival also featured "Kodaly: Dances of Galanta," conducted by Farhad Mechkat, who was once the principal conductor of the Tehran Symphony Orchestra, and the Shams Ensemble, a traditional Sufi and classical Persian music group. The festival was presented in collaboration with Farhang Foundation, which works to celebrate and promote the study and research of Iranian art and culture.

When Shams Ensemble began playing, I found myself being transformed to a world far away, a world where Shahrazad was telling one of her stories as people gathered around her to listen while the Shams played in the background.

But I also wondered why St.Clair was standing there quietly.

Then he started raising his arms and the orchestra followed, playing along with Shams.

Lauren and I looked at each other at the same moment and said, "Wow!"

"It was really special to hear these ancient instruments used with such passion accompanied with a full orchestra," Lauren later said. "I would have thought the traditional Persian instruments wouldn't blend together with the orchestral ones, but they added this depth and cultural richness that was incredible."

It really was incredible; my heart was beating with the music. And it dawned on me: If our music could be mixed so flawlessly, why do some of us tend to focus on our differences instead of our commonality?

Before that night, I had never experienced something so eye-opening, so passionate like the Middle East and sincere like the West.

You should be jealous, oh so jealous, if you didn't experience it.

MONA SHADIA is a reporter for Times Community News. An Egyptian American, she was born and raised in Cairo and now lives in Orange County. Her column includes various questions and issues facing Muslims in America. Follow her on Twitter @MonaShadia.

Shadia: There will be 'Love, Inshallah'

For Middle Easterners, reputation is everything.

And while I embrace a lot of my culture's characteristics, this is one of those things I don't care for as much.

For me, reputation is important, but being real about what you feel, think or experience is more important than what someone might think of you for it.

But for my mom, grandma, aunt and uncles — and pretty much most of the Middle Easterners who come before me and my generation — it's about what others think of you.

My mom, Shadia, and I have this conversation a lot.

It usually goes like this: "Who cares what people think?!"

"I don't care what people think; you just have to consider the consequences," my mom usually responds.

"Really? Hmm."

Though modesty is one of the characteristics of a good Muslim, I think modesty and the need to reserve one's reputation are often confused. And this obsession over reputation and the refusal to speak up publicly about valid issues never provides a forum for finding solutions.

I've noticed that the more sheltered or rural the society tends to be, the more its members care about their reputation. I think it's because sometimes they believe it's all they have. And a lot of times, that's actually the case.

Enter the young-and-upcoming, educated Middle Eastern generation, especially the one growing up in America and Westernized nations, and clashes between the young and old are inevitable.

I say this because there are times when certain issues like dating, romance, love and all sort of things that come with it, are often considered taboo. Talking about them is almost nonexistent in our community, and not talking about them leaves a huge void and many unsolved problems.

A few weeks ago, my friends Michelle Samani (Meesh), Jasmine Duel (Jazy) and I decided to visit a place our mothers — I know mine for sure — wouldn't approve of: A bookstore on Sunset Boulevard.

No, silly. The issue isn't that we were at a bookstore. It's what was going on there: a book reading of "Love, Inshallah." Inshallah means "God willing," and it's something Muslims say a lot because everything happens by the will of God.

The book is an anthology of 25 stories by Muslim women who shatter the glass ceiling of stereotypes with their experiences. It's a collection of the "secret love lives of American Muslim women."

Some of the writers were there reading parts of their stories. The place was packed with people, and I have to be honest when I say that, as some of the racier parts were being read, I felt a bit self-conscious of my surroundings.

I bought the book. Don't tell my mother.

Those secrets include a lesbian who was married to a man and struggling to fit in her community (she ended up asking for a divorce), co-wives (the thought makes me cringe), converts to Islam, finding a husband, being Shia or Sunni, and not conforming to the Islamic ideals when it comes to dating.

The thing is, those issues have to be addressed at some point, and because our elders and community leaders aren't doing much about it, you're going to have books like "Love, Inshallah." (At least one story was a bit too explicit, though, and I don't know if that was really needed.)

Jazy, who is Jewish-Persian, Meesh and I have had many talks about what it's like to be Middle Eastern when it comes to dating. When I once said that I feel my pool is too small because I'm Muslim in America, Jazy — who, like Meesh, is a lawyer — put me in my place.

"Excuse me! Your pool has 1.5 billion people in it," she said. "My pool has, like, 12 million. I have a little Jacuzzi; you have a whole ocean."

Point taken, Jazy.

MONA SHADIA is a reporter for Times Community News. An Egyptian American, she was born and raised in Cairo and now lives in Orange County. Her column includes various questions and issues facing Muslims in America. Follow her on Twitter @MonaShadia.

Shadia: Celebrating Persian new year in CdM

'Twas the night before the last Wednesday of the year — pretty much Tuesday, bear with me.

It was a night when families and friends gather 'round the fire, sharing food, drinks and desserts, welcoming in the new year with open arms, happy thoughts and warm wishes.

They sing and dance. And they jump over the fire, which is believed to inhale away the yellow color of illness and sadness and replace it with the red color of flames, which symbolizes health and wellness in all aspects.

Sounds ancient and non-Western, doesn't it?

It is.

And it all went down Tuesday night at Corona del Mar State Beach, and I was in the middle of it. And judging from the City Council's Tuesday decision to remove the storied fire rings, it could be the last celebration I attend in CdM.

Chaharshanbeh Soori, or the Festival of Fire, is an ancient Persian tradition that dates to the Zoroastrian era. The festival takes place the night (Tuesday) before the last Wednesday of the year — that's how they say it — leading to Norooz, which is the beginning of the Persian spring new year. Yes, it's a bit complicated, as Middle Easterners can be (ahem).

This year, Norooz begins around 10 p.m. Monday.

Tuesday is the first day of the spring new year, and the celebration goes on for 13 days. Chaharshanbeh Soori, as it was explained to me by friends, allows Persians the chance to prepare for the new year, letting go of all the bad and welcoming the good. It's a cultural holiday, and all Persians celebrate it, regardless of their religious affiliation.

Persian families roll out what's called Sofreh Haft Seen, a dining room table full of seven items that start with the letter 'C' in Farsi. Some of those items are Persian rice and whitefish, coins, garlic and sprouts.

Although I've been to Norooz picnics and celebrations in the past, this was my first Chaharshanbeh Soori.

The council's decision marked the end of the Mashadi family and friends' 22-year-long tradition of celebrating Chaharshanbeh Soori at Corona del Mar State Beach.

I parked next to Morteza Mashadi and his brother, Majid, their respective wives and children. I watched as they greeted friends and pulled wood and pots of food out of their car. I decided, "They seem nice. I'll talk to them."

I know Farsi, so I greeted them that way. "Saalom (Hi)," I said. "Cheetori? (How are you?)" — and that's all I needed to start the conversation.

I introduced myself and told them it was my first Chaharshanbeh Soori, and as we walked together closer to the beach, there were other family members and friends doing the same thing: starting fires, sitting around it and greeting each other.

I talked to the wives of the brothers, Samira and Katauon. The latter asked me if I was married or if I have a Persian boyfriend because of the necklace I wore (I don't), and they told me more about their tradition. None of that was surprising. I'm Egyptian, and I understand our kind of women.

I originally planned on walking around and talking to more people, but the Mashadi family made me feel at home.

"Sit, Mona, sit," Morteza said.

I "Taarof'ed" a little. "No, thank you. I'm OK standing," I replied.

"Come on, sit," Majid said. I Taarof'ed some more.

"I'm really OK. I sat all day today at the office."

"Sit, Mona," Morteza said again.

I sat.

What is "Taarof," you ask? I'll tell you.

Taarof is a Middle Eastern tradition that is difficult for Westerners to understand. It also exists in Egyptian and all Arab cultures. I asked my mom what you call it in Arabic, and the closest thing we could come up with is "Ozoom." Growing up, you watch your mothers and fathers, uncles, aunts and friends do it. And you just do it, too.

Basically, say you're at a restaurant and you're getting ready to pay for your meal, and the owner says, "Don't worry about it. This is your restaurant." If you didn't know better, you'd say, "Oh, OK. thank you." Then you walk away.

Word to the wise: Don't walk away. Because in reality, the owner isn't serious about you walking away without paying. It's the nice thing to do, aka Taarof/Ozoom.

I wasn't serious about not sitting down, but I was Taarofing. And because I'm Americanized, and I don't have the patience to go back and forth, I sat after the third request.

Taarof/Ozoom can take a while.

You should see my mom and aunt Taaroofing/Ozooming each other at a restaurant when it's time to pay the bill. This doesn't always mean that the person Taarofing you isn't serious about it. It's just a thing we do.

OK, back to Chaharshanbeh Soori. There were foods like soup, tea and nuts, and also music, dancing, and crossing and jumping over the fire. I did it too.

But the family had to turn off the music at the request of Newport Beach police officers, who said no one is allowed to play music. The officers were nice, though, and they even spoke in Farsi.

But before the music was turned off, Morteza said, "Show us your skills, Mona!" I Taarof'ed, of course. What did you expect?

Then I shimmied my shoulders with the other women to the music.

A friend of the family said, "Are you sure you're not Persian? There's some Persian there."

In fact, I'm Persian. An honorary Persian.

Muslims don't believe in past lives, but I kind of do a little (shhhh!). I was Shahrazad in my past life. I still tell stories in this life.

Norooz Mubarak. Or, to translate, have a blessed Norooz.

MONA SHADIA is a reporter for the Huntington Beach Independent. An Egyptian American, she was born and raised in Cairo and now lives in Orange County. Her column includes various questions and issues facing Muslims in America. Follow her on Twitter @MonaShadia.

Shadia: Extremists don't speak for everyone

A variety of things enrage me about some so-called Muslims.

Sometimes those things are so atrocious that I can't fathom how these people (or governments) count themselves as Muslim.

You might know what I'm talking about.

It's the violent protests over the Koran burnings.

It's the burning of churches and death threats over newspaper caricatures of the Prophet Muhammad.

It's the laughable lawsuits like the one filed against an Egyptian businessman for posting a picture on Twitter of Mickey Mouse and Minnie Mouse with a beard and a head cover.

It's a popular Egyptian actor getting jailed for defaming Islam.

It's so-called "honor killings."

And most loathsome of all: deforming and burning women's faces with acid.

If I were to reach out to the people who commit such acts, I would say: Go find another copy of the Koran. Open it up. Read what it says.

And then I would ask, Why don't you follow what it says? For once.

I would then tell them that killing innocents is impermissible in Islam, despite what some of these "Muslims" claim.

These acts are detested in God's eyes, not encouraged by him or the Koran.

Keep reading, I would say.

The Koran will tell you that God's punishment for unjust and criminal activities is so grave, escaping them is impossible.

But to the non-Muslims, I would say something else:

First of all, some of those who act this way can't even read. It's sad. But it's the reality.

I can see why each of these incidents come off like more of the same from these "crazy 'mooslems' out there."

I can see why it gives the impression that all Muslims subscribe to this behavior.

But they are not all the same, and, most important, these are the behaviors of a minority, an uneducated, knee-deep-in-their-ignorance kind of minority.
And I'm here to tell you they do not represent my religion.

Not all of the 1.6 billion-and-counting Muslims behaved the same way when burned copies of the Koran turned up at an American military base.

The protests were not really about the burning of the Koran, many Afghanis have said in interviews.

Maruf Hotak, a 60-year-old Afghan who joined the protests in Kabul, was quoted in the New York Times saying, "This is not just about dishonoring the Koran; it is about disrespecting our dead and killing our children."

By "disrespecting our dead," Hotak was talking about the pictures of American soldiers urinating on dead bodies.

"They always admit their mistakes," he told the New York Times. "They burn our Koran and then they apologize. You can't just disrespect our holy book and kill our innocent children and make a small apology."

What about the other incidents, you ask? The ones that admittedly embarrass me, the kind of attacks on women that fill my eyes with tears and leave me feeling helpless?

Hussam Ayloush, executive director of the Greater Los Angeles chapter of theCouncil on American-Islamic Relations, said you can divide these incidents into three categories.

First are the ones with political, rather than religious, undertones, such as the reaction to the recent Koran burning. Ayloush said going after the people in Afghanistan who are upset about the Koran burning is like beating up the victim twice.

"I agree the response to such incidents should be nonviolent, civilized and Islamic," he said. "But it's morally difficult for me to repeatedly tell the victim 'stop being angry' when we are not even considering the injustice done to them and their country as a result of our occupation and military actions there."

The second involves incidents that are culturally or personally driven. The horrific acts of "honor" killing and acid attacks on women have nothing to do with Islam and everything to do with an attempt by the perpetrators to protect the "honor" of these individuals' tribes and families.

Growing up in Cairo, I heard stories and even saw old movies depicting how some families, Muslim and Christian alike, practiced honor killing in some rural areas of Egypt. The stories to me were foreign and unreal, like something right out of Shahrazad's tales. But horrific.

The third is crazies who turn a joke or an unintended offense into a death threat or a court case.

While all look to be like the same, painting them with the same broad brush and blaming Islam is unfair.

At the end of the day, it comes down to the level of education. The reason I and most Muslims would never react the same way to Koran burning, caricatures of the prophet in newspapers or Twitter pictures of Muslim Disney characters is because we're educated.

But we are fortunate here. When a people's access to information is confined, when their communication skills are restricted to shouting and screaming, what they do will always be limited.

But what they do, whether the result of ignorance or pure craziness, has nothing to do with Islam. They do not speak or act on behalf of my Prophet or my God.

MONA SHADIA is a reporter for the Huntington Beach Independent. An Egyptian American, she was born and raised in Cairo and now lives in Orange County. Her column includes various questions and issues facing Muslims in America. Follow her on Twitter @MonaShadia.

Shadia: No pajamas on this red carpet

I regard Oscar Sunday with the same importance as a national or even a religious holiday (sue me).

Instead of a get-together over a good meal with family and friends, a visit to the mosque to pray and offer thanks to God, my routine is much simpler: I talk to no one.

I forget about all the troubles in the world. I try to squeeze in my daily prayer during the commercial breaks. I start gluing myself to the television at about noon or before, and I stay in my pajamas.

For me, Oscar Sunday is not about the awards, it's about the fashion, the glamour and the beauty.

So it's natural for me to gravitate toward the glamour, the beauty and the lavishness on the red carpet.

I've been this way since I was a little girl, and sometimes fought my mom when she refused to buy me high heels (what's wrong with a 10-year-old wearing heels?).

So when Mariam Khosravani, founder of the Iranian American Women Foundation in Orange County, invited me to attend a red-carpet-like Oscar-viewing party that was held to support the movie "A Separation" at a restaurant in Irvine, and in hopes of it getting the award, I right away told her thanks, but no thanks (I said it in nicer words).

There's no way I could attend, I thought. That would break my ritual of talking to no one, gluing myself to the television and staying in my pajamas.

But then, as Oscar Sunday got closer and after writing a story about the event, I decided, why not?

It would be good to watch it with a group of beautiful Middle Eastern women, and I would get to do one of my favorite things: dress up. I hesitantly told Mariam over the phone that I would attend. She was very happy to hear that I changed my mind.

I sat in my pajamas in front of the TV until I could no longer and had to get ready. Hoping not to miss any of the big arrivals, I made a few runs to the television as I got ready.

I went with my mom, and when we got there, there was a red carpet, a small one, and photographers (paparazzi) taking pictures outside of the restaurant.

I posed for a picture with my mom and, after saying hello to Mariam and a few other women, I put my glasses on and stood in front of a TV at the restaurant, trying to listen and watch.

The presentation for the foreign language film category was early on in the show. When "A Separation" got the Oscar, jubilation took over the entire restaurant. People were proud. I was proud.

This was a big moment for the Middle East.

Mariam took my hand and ran across the room with me. We watched together as the writer and producer of the film, Asghar Farhadi, accepted the Oscar for his country for the first time in history.

His speech was emotional and underscored the struggle his people have been facing for many years.

"At this time, many Iranians all over the world are watching us and I imagine them to be very happy," he said during the acceptance speech. "They are happy not just because of an important award or a film or filmmaker, but because at the time when talk of war, intimidation and aggression is exchanged between politicians, the name of their country, Iran, is spoken here through her glorious culture, a rich and ancient culture that has been hidden under the heavy dust of politics.

"I proudly offer this award to the people of my country, a people who respect all cultures and civilizations and despise hostility and resentment."

It was a proud and historic moment, one that proved that the art of storytelling and the emotions and struggles all human beings experience are ever more powerful than politics.

I'm glad I witnessed this moment with a group of Iranian women. I'm glad I celebrated with them.

But I did record the red carpet coverage and the show (thank God for DVR), and I'll be gluing myself to the TV, sitting in my pajamas, talking to no one this weekend as I watch.

MONA SHADIA is a reporter for the Huntington Beach Independent. An Egyptian American, she was born and raised in Cairo and now lives in Orange County. Her column includes various questions and issues facing Muslims in America. Follow her on Twitter @MonaShadia.