name: Naif Al-Mutawa
Art, the universal language of religion
03 February, 2008
All art is at once surface and symbol. Those that go beneath the surface do
so at their peril. Those who read the symbol do so at their peril. It is the
spectator, and not life, that art mirrors. - Oscar Wilde
Kuwait City - It is neither a secret nor a surprise that the first
manifestation of religion was in art form. Cave drawings and hieroglyphics
shine a light on the mind of early man seeking meaning in life. The abstract
pictorial representations were gradually solidified into idols and idolatry was
born. But when the Abrahamic tradition took centre stage, idolatry was
abolished throughout most of the world. Or was it?
Art is the only language that all humans share in common. Anyone can look at
art and tell you what they think it means. A word can be written in hundreds of
languages but each word only makes sense to those few of us who understand that
specific language. Even then, words within a language can have various meanings
based on the context.
Take the word iqra in Arabic. Iqra is credited as being the first word revealed
to the Prophet Muhammad in the Holy Qur'an. Ask most Arabs and they will tell
you that iqra means "read". They will also tell you that the Prophet
was illiterate. And when asked why God would order an illiterate man to read,
most will just shrug their shoulders. Why? Idolatry of the word iqra.
When people first communicated through the use of images, idols were - well,
idolised. As methods of communication improved, the written word - in the form
of holy books - often took the place of these idols. The more concrete the
interpretation of a word, the more the actual image of that word is being
idolised. Words communicate a depth and breadth of meaning that transcend the
sum of their letters. For example, it just so happens that the word iqra can
also be defined as "to spread", as in spreading a message or a
religion. In essence, then, a rigid interpretation of God's words by man is
nothing more than idol worship.
All Muslims believe that the Holy Qur'an is for all time and place. There are
some Muslims who believe that the Qur'an is alive and is as adaptable to
today's society as it was in the day of the Prophet. But then, there are some
Muslims who believe that there is only one interpretation of Islam, and like
George Bush's interpretation of democracy, we should export it in a
one-size-fits-all box throughout the world.
As a writer, I have had to negotiate abstract representations of my work with
various ministry officials in various countries. I have met with people whose
thoughts are so set in stone that they would make the mountains proud. It is a
real shame that censors are still the intellectual gatekeepers of the world,
the high priests of the idols we worship.
The human mind follows the same rules as the rest of nature. In all living
things, diversity is the key to success and losing diversity is equivalent to
certain death. For example, the less diverse the gene pool from which one
selects a mate, the more likely the offspring will be diseased. The human
intellect works in the same way: the less access to a variety of ideas, the
more "diseased" the intellect.
I grew up in a part of the world where George Orwell's Animal Farm was banned.
It was also banned in the former Soviet Union. The Kremlin banned it because as
a totalitarian regime, it did not want democratic messages to be spread within
its borders. The censors in the USSR chose to go beneath the surface of the
allegory, understand the message in the book and ban it accordingly. In my neck
of the desert, it was banned because there was a pig on the cover. Go figure.
The Holy Qur'an was revealed in an Arabia that was alive with the richness of
Jahiliya (pre-Islamic) period poetry. The miracle of the Qur'an was not only in
its message, but also in the complexity of the syntax used to communicate that
message. Its prose is unmatched in the history of the Arabic language. It is an
absolute shame that the Qur'an continues to be held hostage by those who favour
the idolatry of words over the depth of their meaning and the elasticity of the
human intellect.
___
* Dr. Naif Al-Mutawa is the creator of The 99, the internationally acclaimed
group of superheroes based on Islamic archetypes. For more information, please
visit www.the99.org.
This article is part of a series on freedom of expression written for the
Common Ground News Service.
Goodbye Mama Sabeeha
16 January, 2008
Children depend on routine. It comforts them,
gives them security. Weekends are the break
in routine for children, a sort of new
routine in itself, a change of pace all kids
look forward to. I grew up the most fortunate
of kids. My grandmother, Mama Sabeeha, was a
significant part of both my weeks and my
weekends.
As her neighbor, visiting her house when I was done with my schoolwork was a treat. I remember those days as if they were yesterday. I remember walking over to her house with a book that I wanted to read and sitting in her garden reading before the sun would set. Often times she would chase me indoors when she saw me squinting trying to squeeze the last drop of light from the sun to get another word or two in. If I were lucky I would sneak in a quick dinner at her house before going home and feigning hunger for a second dinner at my own home. It is funny how our definitions of luck change with age. Today I consider myself lucky if I am able to skip a meal.
I remember the myriad of times I stormed into her house crying because of the unfairness of the world. My father did this. My mother said that. Why did I have to do things I hated? My hair wasn't that long. My clothes weren't that tight. I wasn't that fat. Life was unfair. She would always listen and give me the best advice she could. Typically, she would calm me down, and remind me that no matter what, I had to listen to my parents. They knew better. It always seemed more reasonable when she said it. But she always listened. Even into my adult life.
Wednesday nights were Mama Sabeeha nights. Wednesday was weekend eve in Kuwait while I was growing up, I was allowed to take a book and spend the night at my grandmother's each week. She would allow me to stay up slightly longer than usual as long as I was reading. As her oldest grandchild, there weren't any contemporaries to take my attention from the pages I was glued to. Those nights always ended the same way. I would be allowed to sleep in her room with my book under my pillow. And when the lights were turned out I would call out "Good night Mama Sabeeha" before turning on my side. She always fell asleep before I did.
Wednesdays were the days I always looked forward to because I knew that I would be able to spend all Thursday morning reading.
I remember one morning in particular when she invited me down to the basement of her house. She led me straight to the wall opposite the stairs we had come down. And as we turned to the right, there was a wall full of books. I had seen those books before but they had no meaning to me. That day she told me they were my mother's books and that she had been an avid reader as a child as well, just like me! The books that were empty pages on a wall became my new treasure trove. I began flipping through them as she smiled and turned away. While my attention was on the books, she went back up the stairs into her bedroom, leaving me alone. I told her years later that that little moment was a very important event in my relationship with reading.
My grandmother had been ill for quite some time. She had a dialysis routine that tied her to the hospital on a regular schedule. But each Thursday, no matter how she felt, she invited everyone to her table. Mama Sabeeha lived her life that the ethic of Islam rests on generosity. And she was as generous of heart as she was of purse to all those, family and strangers, who came to her table.
I always considered it my Thursday mission to make her laugh at least once during my visit. I knew that if I ran out of my best material, I could always get her with my backup strategy of asking if we were having the same old Thursday chicken again (a day reserved for fish for as long as I can remember.) That joke never tired her. She always laughed. And I choose to believe she meant it each time.
Last summer my parents flew to Beirut while violence again raged there on the heels of yet another assassination. My grandmother was hospitalized at the time and was clearly worried about them. I told her that my father decided to go to Beirut because the flights to Baghdad were all sold out. She laughed so loud that her blood pressure shot up and I made my quiet escape. I smiled, kissed her forehead and said my goodbye. Mission accomplished.
Mama Sabeeha passed away on Saturday, January 12th. She left behind 8 children, 30 grandchildren and 23 great-grandchildren all of whose lives she had become a central part of and all of whom love her very much. On that sad Saturday, history repeated itself for me when again, without a word, and while my attention was elsewhere, my dear grandmother again went upstairs leaving me alone with my books. She has fallen asleep before me, before all of us.
Today is my first Wednesday without her. There will be no book to share. Tomorrow there will be no fish. But I will think of her more than ever.
Good night Mama Sabeeha.
Goodbye Mama.
As her neighbor, visiting her house when I was done with my schoolwork was a treat. I remember those days as if they were yesterday. I remember walking over to her house with a book that I wanted to read and sitting in her garden reading before the sun would set. Often times she would chase me indoors when she saw me squinting trying to squeeze the last drop of light from the sun to get another word or two in. If I were lucky I would sneak in a quick dinner at her house before going home and feigning hunger for a second dinner at my own home. It is funny how our definitions of luck change with age. Today I consider myself lucky if I am able to skip a meal.
I remember the myriad of times I stormed into her house crying because of the unfairness of the world. My father did this. My mother said that. Why did I have to do things I hated? My hair wasn't that long. My clothes weren't that tight. I wasn't that fat. Life was unfair. She would always listen and give me the best advice she could. Typically, she would calm me down, and remind me that no matter what, I had to listen to my parents. They knew better. It always seemed more reasonable when she said it. But she always listened. Even into my adult life.
Wednesday nights were Mama Sabeeha nights. Wednesday was weekend eve in Kuwait while I was growing up, I was allowed to take a book and spend the night at my grandmother's each week. She would allow me to stay up slightly longer than usual as long as I was reading. As her oldest grandchild, there weren't any contemporaries to take my attention from the pages I was glued to. Those nights always ended the same way. I would be allowed to sleep in her room with my book under my pillow. And when the lights were turned out I would call out "Good night Mama Sabeeha" before turning on my side. She always fell asleep before I did.
Wednesdays were the days I always looked forward to because I knew that I would be able to spend all Thursday morning reading.
I remember one morning in particular when she invited me down to the basement of her house. She led me straight to the wall opposite the stairs we had come down. And as we turned to the right, there was a wall full of books. I had seen those books before but they had no meaning to me. That day she told me they were my mother's books and that she had been an avid reader as a child as well, just like me! The books that were empty pages on a wall became my new treasure trove. I began flipping through them as she smiled and turned away. While my attention was on the books, she went back up the stairs into her bedroom, leaving me alone. I told her years later that that little moment was a very important event in my relationship with reading.
My grandmother had been ill for quite some time. She had a dialysis routine that tied her to the hospital on a regular schedule. But each Thursday, no matter how she felt, she invited everyone to her table. Mama Sabeeha lived her life that the ethic of Islam rests on generosity. And she was as generous of heart as she was of purse to all those, family and strangers, who came to her table.
I always considered it my Thursday mission to make her laugh at least once during my visit. I knew that if I ran out of my best material, I could always get her with my backup strategy of asking if we were having the same old Thursday chicken again (a day reserved for fish for as long as I can remember.) That joke never tired her. She always laughed. And I choose to believe she meant it each time.
Last summer my parents flew to Beirut while violence again raged there on the heels of yet another assassination. My grandmother was hospitalized at the time and was clearly worried about them. I told her that my father decided to go to Beirut because the flights to Baghdad were all sold out. She laughed so loud that her blood pressure shot up and I made my quiet escape. I smiled, kissed her forehead and said my goodbye. Mission accomplished.
Mama Sabeeha passed away on Saturday, January 12th. She left behind 8 children, 30 grandchildren and 23 great-grandchildren all of whose lives she had become a central part of and all of whom love her very much. On that sad Saturday, history repeated itself for me when again, without a word, and while my attention was elsewhere, my dear grandmother again went upstairs leaving me alone with my books. She has fallen asleep before me, before all of us.
Today is my first Wednesday without her. There will be no book to share. Tomorrow there will be no fish. But I will think of her more than ever.
Good night Mama Sabeeha.
Goodbye Mama.
Congratulations!
13 January, 2008
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