Agreeing with the far right:

Ahmad Baker

It was troubling to bring myself to the idea of listening to Steve Bannon’s lecture at the Oxford Union. I despise the guy, his harmful and dividing rhetoric, and his dangerous ideology. But one must admit that he is successful, he succeeded in putting Trump in the White House, despite all the odds he united the “deplorables” under common goals and got Trump elected. His thoughts and views are sought out by the far right and right groups in Europe (including the UK, we still part of that continent) and he provides them with advice, strategies and methodology to win elections.

Still I listened to his talk and the Q&A session, and it was not surprising to me that I agree with him, on a lot of stuff. But I mainly agree with Steve Bannon in his diagnosis to the problems we face in our societies, not the treatment, not his way of resolving these problems, or even addressing them.

In this country we have Theresa May, a robot who is supported by major media outlets and rich donors, and most of the British public feel sorry for her, but do not trust her. On the other hand, is Jeremy Corbyn, who has been consumed by internal fights and disruptions that showed what a week leader he is, but still he offers genuine politics that can improve our day to day lives.

Steve Bannon and Trump campaign saw Bernie Saunders as a real opponent who could easily defeated Trump, because like Trump he offers real alternative to the current political status, he was talking about the same problems Trump talked about, but providing different answers, the “deplorables” could trust him because he did not treat them with contempt.

That is what we need in this country, people who are willing to talk about the injustices in our communities, in details, and offer real solutions that do not just blame the immigrants. We need the likes of Corbyn and Saunders who do sympathise with the hardly pressed sections of the society, and willing to take money from the rich and invest it in our present to improve our future.

Extremism is on the rise, the far right is gaining more and more grounds and becoming normalised every day in the UK, because they are able to talk about the problems we face and offer a simple straight answer to most these problems: it is the OTHERs to blame. This simple answer is divisive, harmful, and clearly wrong; however, many people are buying into it because it is an answer, not any answer, it is an answer to their problems that they are living through ever day.

Steve Bannon says in this talk that to win those people, to win elections, you do not need Facebook and the massive media, you need to knock on people’s doors, talk to them, the ones you disagree as well as the one you agree with, sympathise with their concerns and offer them answers to their problems.

He is right and make a start by listening to his talk, do not fall for his white wash of the many things he or Trump said or did, but listen to his passion in addressing a congregation of students who most of them disagree with him, but he was willing to make the effort to reach out to them.

I am always astonished by this say which summarise our state of affairs  “Oh god I seek refuge in you from the laziness of the righteous and the perseverance of the wrong doer” (Omar bin Alkhattab). Yes, those who are right and honest and truthful hardly move, they are the silent majority. On the other hand, the wrongdoers, the liars, the narcissist the xenophobe racist scums are the ones with the loudest voice, taking part in every rally and campaign.

Footnotes on “to kill a mocking bird”

Say something Scout! I found myself shouting inside, but instead, she helped her aunty with serving the cakes and as if nothing has happened. Outraged by the miscarriage of justice and widespread racism, I expected an 8 year old to say or do something,  forgetting that she was a child.

Atticus said after the trial: they have done I t before and did it tonight, and they will do it again, and when they do- it seems only the children weep.  He was right, and instead of doing something, we wait for the children to do the right thing!

It feels strange writing about “to kill a mocking bird”, I heard and read so much about it that I had very high expectations when I picked it up, soon I was disappointed! More than a hundred pages through and  the story is moving in a very steady slow build up. Even the poetic expressions are not that great, only line I copied into my notes was from the first few pages describing the front gate of Raddley’s as “drunken gate”.

Things then suddenly peaked through the trial and the few nights before, I could not put the book down. As the trial concluded and Maycomb returned to it is “normal” live, the book pace returned to what it was before.  But with the benefit of hind insight, you know that underneath this slow unremarkable life there is so much brewing. It reminded me of a scene from 12 years a slave: Solomon was whipped and then was left in pain and misery  on the post while in the same shot you could see the children playing and workers picking the cotton in the fields.

And in Maycomb Alabama things were not the same, an innocent man died unjustly, his peers continued to live the same injustice, and many people realising the injustice and wanting to do something about it. Also in the same place, the people living on the far side of society, who thought they became hero for oppressing the already oppressed, soon realised that they are not wanted in the society,  only used for a purpose, only important once compared to other humans, but otherwise, they belong outside and once they played their role, they should (no choice) retrieve to their dungeons !

As I finished the book, I had an urge to read it again, that slow steady flow of life in Maycomb in the first 100 pages seems to be very relevant to understand life in the south, life in the thirties, and why people do what they do. The prejudice, racism, self-righteousness, ignorance are not the real problems, they are manifestations of much deeper rooted issues in that society and every society, and they are as relevant –if not more relevant as they were then.

I do not know what Harper Lee’s politics are? I don’t know who she thought has the power to change things? Or who’s duty is it to change things? But she managed to use the children to illustrate all sections of society, because children are innocent, not yet morally corrupt, or because they see things in a less complicated way than adults. The bottom line is that children’s passion and honesty should guide us to the truth.

Last month the children in the UK took action on the street about Global Warming, last year after the shooting in Parkland the children in America took the lead in taking actions, and this month as the adults are failing to do anything meaningful  about knife crime, the children might do something about it. Every time we fail in our duty towards our fellow humans, we see the children weep and we do nothing.

Harper Lee succeeded in telling a great story in a great way, and I have enjoyed reading it specially on the many occasions when the children do not do what you want them to do, when the great magnificent things you want to happen, do not happen. One thing in particular I found astonishing the book, is how the most scary evil thing in the story was the most righteous.

There is so much more to say about this very interesting story, but I don’t want to ruin it for you, once you read it, we can talk about it ;)

Ahmad Baker

 

الموقعين عن رب العالمين

عن الحلال والحرام والفتوى..
صنّف ابن القيم رحمه الله كتاب في الفقه وأصوله سمّاه إعلام الموقعين عن رب العالمين. والمقصد واضح: حين تفتي فأنت توقّع بالنيابة عن الله، يعني بلغة العصر المتحدث الرسمي عن ربنا! إدراك هذا المعنى يجعل الكثيرون ينأوون عن نفسهم هذا الثقل، لكن الحقيقة أننا نجد الكثيرين يتسابقون ليتلقبوا بهذا الإسم.
شخصيا ولقبل بضع سنوات، ما كنت لأجرؤ على التعليق على علمائنا، فالعلماء لحومهم مسمومة كما يقال. لكن مع انحطاط المستوى، وما انكشف من الكثير منهم وانهم ليسوا سوى ورقة التين التي يستر بها الحكام عوراتهم، او يمسحوا بها مؤخراتهم، أجد نفسي اصطدم مع الكثير من الفتاوى عقائديا ومعتقديا وفهما وقبولا.
استثارني أحد الأصدقاء حين وضع فتوى للشيخ صالح الفوزان عن تحريم بناء دور العبادة لغير المسلمين في بلاد المسلمين، فسألته عن رأيه هو في الأمر، كونه مثلي يعيش في بلد يسمح لنا بمطلق الحرية بممارسة شعائرنا. الجواب كان انه لا مكان للقناعة الشخصية في مسائل الحلال والحرام، وهو منطق كنت أؤمن به لوقت قريب، فأتيته بقول لنفس العلامة يُحرّم فيه قيادة المرأة للسيارة، وسألته هل تتبع قول العالم، هل هذا في نفس منطق الحلال والحرام ام لا؟

الفوزان وغيره، نصّبوا انفسهم كموقعين عن رب العالمين - من عجيب اللغة العربية ان نصّاب هي صيغة المبالغة ل نَصبَ - واتبع قولهم كثير من البشر. وهؤلاء حرّموا اشياء كثيره حرمت البسطاء من كثير مما منحنا الله، فالتصوير كان حرام حتى ان البعض ليس لديهم سوى صورة الجواز او الهوية، إلى ان بدأت الفضائيات وإذ بهم لا يمانعون ان تنتشر صورهم أينما حلّوا. والتعامل مع الاجنبي حرام إلا اذا كان لمحاربة دولة شقيقة، والخروج على هذا الحاكم حرام جمعا، لكن واجب الخروج على ذاك. نتف الحواجب حرام نصا، ولكن قتل آلاف الأبرياء فهو لمصلحة رب الدولة فلا بأس.

وأذكر هنا نص قرأته للقرضاوي من بحث قدمه في بداية العقد الماضي عن شراء البيوت في الغرب عن طريق البنوك. فذكر الشيخ فتوى قديمة له حرّم فيها هذا الأمر، واستطرد انه بعد ان كبر ورأى كيف ان من أخذ بقوله شقّت عليه الحياة، وان من لم يأخذ بقوله اصبح يعيش في بيت يملكه ويورثه لأولاده من بعده. والقرضاوي غيّر فتواه،لكن من اخذ بها وهو في الثلاثين من عمره، لن تنفعه الفتوى الجديدة حين بلغ الستين وهو لا يزال يسكن بالأجرة.

الكلام في هذا الشأن يطول، وأعلم ان البعض يقول لا تتبع عثرات العلماء، واعلم أيضاً ان البعض يقول عليك نفسك، واعلم ايضا ان البعض يقول من اجتهد واخطا فله أجر، وإلى ما في ذلك من اقوال مشابهة.

انا لن اخذ بأي من هذه الأقوال، فالخطأ له عواقب، بعضها بسيط وغالبها وخيمة. فالخطأ في فتوى التصوير ليس عاقبته كالخطأ في فتوى الاستعانة بالأجنبي في القتال، والخطأ في فتوى علامة الطهارة من الدورة ليس كالخطأ في تحريم قيادة المرأة للسيارة. عثرات العلماء تقتل وتشرّد، فداعش استندت في مرجعياتها إلى فتاوى، وكذلك الحشد الشعبي، من مقتل عثمان بن عفان رضي الله عنه إلى الآن والقتل يحدث بالفتوى، ودون ذلك كثير، ومثله اكثر. ونفسي مرتبطة بملايين البشر الذين يشاركونني هذه الأرض ويأخذون بأقوال هؤلاء، ويتعاملون في حياتهم اليومية كأفراد، كمنظمات، وحتى كدول بفتاوى لعلماء، وكل ذلك يمسني، ويمس كل من أعرف.

الان نحن أمام مفترق مهم، كيف نتعامل مع الفتوى؟ هل هي رأي شخصي لفلان؟ طبعاً لا. هل هي علم له قواعده وضوابطه؟ نعم.
ان اخطأ المهني في ممارسة مهنته عليه تحمل النتائج، وان أعطى الشيخ فتوى فعليه وزرها، في الدنيا والآخرة.

إذا، الفتوى، علم، ولكن كيف نتعامل مع العلوم؟ وهل كل العلوم لها نفس الدرجة من المصداقية والمرجعية؟ معلوم ان غالب العلوم الطبيعية، المبنية على البحوث الميدانية والمخبرية، تتغير فيها الحقائق والمسلمات، فهل يجب علينا التعامل بهذا المنطق مع العلوم الشرعية؟
لا اعرف الجواب... لكن،لن أخذ بقول عالم (فتوى) بالقول عن هذا حرام، وكنت اقف دائما متعجبا من اقوال الإمام أحمد بن حنبل في كثير من مسائله حين يقول عن شيء “لا يعجبني" و عند تلاميذه هو حرام، إلا انه لم يقلها، وعند ابو حنيفة الواجب وهو عند تلاميذه فرض!
يعني، بالمختصر، كلمة حرام وحلال كلمة كبيرة، ان افرط العلماء في استخدامها، فلا تفرط في اتباعهم.

الإشتياق للماضي..

(عن القراءة الخاطئة للتاريخ، والحنين إلى الوهم القابع في ثناياه)

عشت في صغري في قرية في ضواحي دمشق، كانت قطعة من الجنة، بساطة الناس، طيبتهم، وجمال الطبيعة، نهر نسبح فيه، شجر المشمش والجوز يملأ المكان، الثلج في الشتاء، والشمس في الصيف، نعم كانت الجنة. ومما يزيد من نعيم الجنة أننا في عطلة المدارس نحمل حقائبنا ونرتحل إلى بيتنا في عاليه، بالقرب من بيروت. فيلا واسعة تتوسط تلة ليس فيها إلا بيتنا وبيت ابو كميل في اعلى التلة..

صورة من الماضي، جميلة؟ نعم. حقيقية ؟نعم. لكنها ليست الحقيقة ،بل جزء مختار بعناية. فنحن غادرنا سوريا مرغمين، ونحن قد خسرنا بيتنا في لبنان، وخسرنا أشياء اخرى كثيرة..

درسنا في المراحل المدرسية المختلفة الكثير عن أمجاد المشرق، عن الخلافة الراشدة،الدولة الأموية والعباسية، عن الناصر صلاح الدين، وكنا ننظر إلى الواقع المرير الذي نحياه ونشتاق إلى تلك الأمجاد، نسرح في خيالنا وامانينا إلى العصور الذهبية التي عاشها أجدادنا.

كانت أول صدمة لي حين استوعبت ان الشيعة غير الشيوعية (ولم اتعلم ذلك من المدرسة)، وأن المسلمين فرق وطوائف متناحرة، وأن في تاريخنا حروب داخلية مات فيها الكثير من الصحابة والرعيل الأول من بناة الأمجاد التي درسنا عنها! عرفت حينها اننا لم ندرس التاريخ، وإنما درسنا عن فصول مختارة بعناية من التاريخ لتوصيل فكرة أصبحنا كلنا ضحية لها.

قبل بضع سنوات غردت الصحافية ديمة الخطيب:" بصراحة أصبحت أشك في كل كتب التاريخ وكل ما تعلمناه عن الماضي. لأني أرى الحاضر وأرى ما يُكتب عنه من أكاذيب، فما بالك بما كتب عن عصور ولّت؟"
تعلُّم التاريخ ليس سهلا، فكل كتاب هو عبارة عن مختارات جمعها الكاتب لينقل لنا تاريخ تلك الحقبة، بعضها علمي بحت، وغالبها تسوده الشوائب، بقصد أو غير قصد، فدراسة التاريخ ليست تجربة مخبرية عملية، بل سرد لوقائع نقلها رواة وسجلها كتّاب بشر، مثلنا، لهم انحيازاتهم، خوفهم، اطماعهم، ورغباتهم. ربما أكثر جملة قرأتها تُظهر زيف التاريخ هو مقولة وينستون تشرتشل: التاريخ سيكون لطيفا معي، لاني انا من سيكتبه.

من هنا تبدأ العقدة تزداد، فأنت تقف أمام تاريخ يمتد لأربعة عشر قرناً، كل حقبة كتبها المتنصرون، الكثير تم حذفه، تغييره، او اهماله، ومع ذلك هناك كم هائل من القتامة والظلم والاستبداد يملأ هذا التاريخ. وعلى ضفاف الحاضر، هناك أجيال تعيش وتحلم بالامجاد القديمة، وترفض ان تتقبل اي انتقاص او انتقاد لهذه الأمجاد، بل تُخوّن من لا يؤمن معها بهذه الأساطير ولأوهام.

طبعاً من الجحف اغفال ان في الأربعة عشر قرنا كان هناك أوقات عز وحضارة، أوقات علم وأدب، أوقات انتصارات وفتوحات، نعم كل ذلك موجود وأكثر، لكنها أربعة عشر قرناً. لذلك ربما ما علينا فعله عند الحديث عن التاريخ هو الإشارة إلى المرحلة التاريخية، تحديد بدايتها ونهايتها، تعريف ما المقصود أو المراد بالمثال، ثم استخدامه. أما ان نشير إلى الدولة العباسية مثلاً وكيف ان عاصمتها بغداد كانت حاضنة العلم وحاضرة العالم، فهذا سخف، لأنها استمرت لقرون طويلة، أولها لم تكن بغداد موجودة، وجُلّها كانت الدولة متشتتة، تنهاشها الدول الأخرى والخلافة كانت شكلية وسيطرة الخليفة لا تتجاوز قصره (وفي كثير من الأحيان لم يك له سيطرة على قصره).

نعم، نعيش واقع مرير، حكامنا واعلامنا فاجرون وفاشلون،يحكمنا الجهل والتخلف وتقتات علينا الأمم الأخرى ويضحك علينا القاصي والداني. نعم، ولكن هذا ما كنا عليه غالب العصور الفائتة، ولربما ان خُيّرت في أي حقبة زمنية أريد أن أعيش، لربما اخترت زماننا هذا على الرغم مما فيه، ليس لقتامة الماضي وحسب، لكن للأمل في المستقبل (وطبعا عشان عنا وا فاي).

We save lives

"I am busy saving lives"

Few days ago, I was standing in the middle of a very busy A&E with a matron and a consultant, discussing the issues and safety in the department at the time.
A man, in his late sixties, approached us with his wife walking behind, a big smile on his face, holding a box of chocolates and a card, he handed them over to us and said: early November I was brought to A&E and when I arrived here my heart stopped, I almost died. I could hear the tears in his voice, his wife held his hand as he gathered his strength and continued: but you saved my life, without you and what you did I wouldn't be here, I wouldn't be alive, he paused for a second or two and said: thank you for saving my life..

We thanked him for the card and the nice words, and as he walked away I said to my colleagues: that is what we do, we often forget that because of the pressures and strains, but that is what we do ; we save lives and we are bloody good at it.

Whenever my friends text me to go out or do something and if I am at work I often reply "I am busy saving lives", I don't say I'm working, because I'm not just working, I am saving lives.

I am part of a big family : Barts Health, that I am proud to belong to. Part of a great institution : the NHS that I am proud to work for. Part of a noble profession : Nursing, that I have always been proud to be. And in nursing, in Barts Health and in the NHS: We save lives, day and night, that's what we do, it's a job, but not "just a job", so what do you do for living?

I knocked on the door

Little girl at the door 

By Harriet Halhed

A great painting that when I first saw at Canterbury museum I fell in love with, bought a small replica and put it in my room, no one could see what I saw in the painting and I didn't have the words to explain it.. Today, it came to my mind and I managed to write this :

 

 

I knocked on the door, not because it was my door

I knocked on the door, not because I knew what was behind it

I knocked on the door, not because I was looking for adventures

I knocked on the door, not because I wanted to walk through it

I knocked on the door, not because I knock on every door

I knocked on the door, not because I do not like closed doors

I knocked on the door because I felt I need to knock on the door, every knock hurts, waiting behind the door hurt, the chance of the door opening hurts, the questions of what to do when the door opens hurt. But I- selfish me- felt that I need to knock on the door, because what I felt when I knocked was- in the moment- bigger than the thoughts that followed.

I knocked on the door, and the door never opened...

Why I write

Why I write

Why writing

Inside me, between the blood vessels, the muscles, the thick layers of fat, there is a magical creature I call it human.

Science tells me that light reflected from a leave will land on my retina, sends a signal to the brain and it will recognise it. But the magical human inside will see the sun softly touching the leaves, transforming a dead branch into a green one, through it I see, recognise and understand summer, trees, life and death.

I come to know life through my senses, and every time I sense new or even old experiences whether hearing, seeing, or whatever, a little something sticks with the magical creature inside, and suddenly a volcano erupts. I find the words boiling in a big cauldron inside my heart trying to jump out, some escape and travel with my blood looking for an exit: they first go to my throat wanting to be shouted out, but I hold them back, I remain silent. They then rush to my fingers to fall on the paper, I could feel the heat as I write them, as they slowly travel from my hand to the pen to the paper. The bubbling continues and my memories and emotions start to unravel, every second of my life wants to squeeze a word out, even the moments I didn't live but imagined living are sending their share.

I start writing stuff down while inside I could feel the words boiling, jumping, running, crashing into each other forming more words, more thoughts, more joy, more pain. The words race and fight trying to reach my finger tips and escape the mortal hell inside to the promised land on the paper, and become immortal.

Eventually the volcano calms down and I start looking at the new born words on the paper, my words, my feelings brought to life before me. The pain is great, 

though the reward is greater, 

like giving birth, 

we have to go through labour.

Few minutes will pass and suddenly I start to hate my words, my new-born, my writing, because I could see the human inside through these wrords. Sad, weak, lonely , dark, angry, and often frustrated, mostly misunderstood and usually miserable, all of that was inside and now I am looking at it., at him, at me.

When I was a teenager I used to hide my words from the world, happy of my produce, but also ashamed of it at the same time. I would keep the paper for few days and before anyone finds it I would burn it, burn the cradle of the newly born words and watch my feelings dying with it. I was sad that I couldn't keep my words, could not share it with the world, joyful that I was more powerful than my feelings, more alive than my dead words. The smoke would go up, 

the letters, 

words,

 sentences, 

meanings, 

feelings, 

all become thin air, 

taking flight from the boundaries of my paper, 

the limits of my world, 

to go anywhere, 

everywhere 

in the world.

Years later, I stopped the burning, could not stop writing.. 

More years passed, more writing, more words burning, not the paper, but me.

Ahmad Baker 

2013

The bench stories - last story

The bench story 3

This bench has been a constant feature in my daily routine, and the people sharing it through the seasons and years have shared parts of their lives with me, some is real life, most are things I imagined.

Many people I have seen growing old, loosing companions and probably dying as I passed them on my daily life journey. There was also some that I have seen setting on the bench as lovers, then having new members running around them sharing the joys of the bench. There was a lady I passed so many times when she was a pregnant woman seeking some rest on this bench, later she was a mother with a baby, then two children visiting the bench.

So many stories I could share about the people shared the bench, but I never had a chance to find the story behind the bench itself and in who's memory it came to existence. One day, out of months and years of rushing through life I decided to make the time to know the bench. I arrived there with one purpose only, to sit on it and spend time feeling it and watching people, like me, rushing to pass it and pass the people sitting on it.

It was not special, nor magical, it was just an old wooden bench, uncomfortable to sit on unless you are really tired, and there was many people tired of life and living who needed that short rest. I looked at the engraved metal piece reading: in memory of, but it was rusty and very old, the name of the person it meant to remember, to glorify has fallen off. I looked around, underneath, everywhere to find, but it has gone, as the memory of the person, and the bench, me, the people shared it, and the people passed it are destined to same fate, oblivion.

Quickly I was tired of life, and tired of sitting on the bench, tired of watching life going by and tired of trying to find the unknown. I wanted to use my imagination to create a story for the person behind the bench, the memories they wanted us to remember, but I could not. Instead I felt it was my name that was missing, and my life has ended with no trace but a bench on the side of the park watching other lives making their own memories.