Tuesday, 28 February 2017

Irish Soda Bread in Algiers!



There are times when memories from the past can be evoked so strongly by just one whiff of a smell, a lyric in a song, or a taste on the tongue, so much so that they are immediately transported back to that time and that place and the people with whom they associate it.

I had one of those moments during Ramadan last year when I got a figary (an Irish word for a notion, a whim or a sudden impulse) and decided to make Irish Soda Bread.  My siblings and I grew up on this bread made with brown flour and sour milk and my Mum baked it every second day of our lives.  Even when we all left home she still baked it for us when we visited and made enough for us to bring back to our own homes.  Funny thing about her bread though – I could have some for breakfast in her house in the morning, and have some more in my own home in England that very same evening…..and it just didn’t taste the same.  I thought it was my imagination, but then my eldest daughter also remarked on it. 

We ate it with butter, and soft boiled eggs for breakfast and Galtee cheese (an Irish processed cheese) or Irish cheddar cheese and mustard or tomatoes for tea (the evening meal in our house), but my favourite topping was stewed rhubarb.  One year my husband met me at the airport on my return from Ireland and was complaining about the weight of my bag ‘what on earth do you have in here?’  I waited until I got home to tell him that I had brought back Irish Soda bread and fresh rhubarb from the garden.  Many years later I tried not to laugh when his niece who lives in London asked her mother to bring her some vegetables from Algeria that they have in England, but that obviously just didn’t taste the same to her.

I had never attempted to make it here in Algeria because all I could find was white plain flour.  There wasn’t even self raising flour until recent years.  One friend did give me a grain which she said you could use as a flour but I wasn’t sure how to use it or in what quantities, and while I was procrastinating the moths got busy and suddenly a lot of my foot stuffs were full of worms and moths, so I had to do a complete clear out and went totally off the whole idea of using any flour that didn’t come in a sealed packet.

An Irish friend had given me the recipe for the bread that she had made here so I decided to try it one Ramadan night as a surprise for my children, and the memories came back with the smell emanating from the oven.  Memories of my Mum baking it, of long country walks on a cold Sunday afternoon followed by endless cups of tea and Irish Soda Bread, of my Mum after she moved to her new home and found the counter a little too high for her liking and improvising by standing on a block of polystyrene that had come as packaging in a box, whenever she baked it.  

The reaction from the eldest three children who would have been old enough to remember my Mum’s bread was all that I could have wished it to be – it was like being back in Ireland with ‘Granny’, and immediately they had to have a slice with cheddar cheese top.  One night later in Ramadan I made it again and served it for iftaar by popular request along with lham lahlouh, translated as ‘sweet meat’ and a traditional Ramadan dish in Algeria. It’s called sweet meat but more often than not it’s served without any meat, and often can be simply prunes, cooked with cinnamon, sugar and rosewater the way my children like it or as packed with dried fruit and nuts according to taste.   I remember the first time I saw this dish, it was three weeks after I had given birth to my second child, my son, and my sisters-in-law who were staying with us, had cooked a meal for some Algerian guests.  I came downstairs and peered into a saucepan on my cooker and saw what looked like a lump of chocolate in a sweet sauce.  What a shock I got when the chocolate turned out to be a lump of meat…in a sweet sauce.  It took a while for my poor confused taste buds to return to normal.  Serves me right for pilfering food in my own kitchen.

When we saw the Irish Soda Bread on the table along with the Algerian lham lahlou my youngest daughter remarked, ‘now that’s what I call a true merging of culures!’

And, in case you’re wondering how my Algerian husband feels about it, a few weeks after he returned from England (he was there all through Ramadan), I made it for him and served it up to him as a surprise, and he was impressed and very happy as he likes it with cheddar cheese on top.

The flour I bought is made from oats of which there are two types in the natural health food shops.  One is more whole grain and the second is milled more finely to make a flour, and it’s this latter type that I use.  My recipe is as follows:

Ingredients:

3 cups of brown flour
1 cup of white flour
2 teaspoons of baking powder
1teaspoon bicarbonate of soda
1 teaspoon of salt
50gm or less of butter/margarine
2 eggs
1 cup and a little of buttermilk

Method:

The method is as Irish as Irish can be – mix the dry ingredients together, rub the butter in with your fingers until it resembles breadcrumbs and then add the wet ingredients until you get a very soft wet dough.  Shape it into a round, cut a line across the top in a plus sign that will make it easier to break apart in quarters once baked,  and plonk it on a greased baking tin in a preheated oven 180 C for half an hour.  Sláinte!





Monday, 27 February 2017

Shaikh Charfaoui (RA), Rouiba



It is an amazing fact of life that sometimes, there are people whom you’ve never met, and probably will never meet who, nevertheless, by virtue of something that they did or said, have a big impact on your life by making you stop and think deeply about a certain aspect of life.  Such was the case for me one day in July 2012 when my husband returned from a funeral.  Although I had never heard of Sheikh Charfaoui by name I was aware of his story.

He was a wealthy man who lived here in Algiers and who bought a plot of land on the outskirts of the town of Rouiba. On this land he built a mosque named Omar ibn Khattab, or nicknamed Khandahar Mosque because it was situated right in the middle of wasteland that reminded one of Afghanistan. He also built a Quranic school with a boarding house attached to the mosque. Many students from all over Algeria came to stay here throughout the years, to live and study, food and board completely free, provided by this man. He used to go to the kitchens daily to check that they were being properly fed mashallah. Many times we drove by and saw all the white camis’ flapping on the washing lines on the terrace over the boarding school, This man was not a scholar and didn’t claim to be extremely knowledgeable in the deen and yet, his funeral prayer was led by Shaikh Ferkous and attended by Shaikh Lazar and other shuyouk as well as students. In fact his funeral totally closed the town of Rouiba – it was virtually impossible to get in or out with all the traffic.

When I think of the impact this man had on so many, and the sadaqa jariya (continuous charity that benefits the deceased long after they have died) that he has provided, I am reminded of the hadith:

The Prophet (sal Allahu alaihi wa sallam) said, “Envy is permitted only in two cases: Of a man whom Allah gives wealth, and he disposes of it rightfully, and of a man whom Allah gives knowledge, and he applies and teaches it.” [Bukhari]

And yes, I felt envy for this man who had made the best of use of his wealth. People place so much importance on creating a legacy to leave behind, something by which people will remember them.  Yet, in the space of just a couple of generations people will not only have forgotten them but not know that they ever existed, and whatever legacy they left behind will have become useless, broken, or so familiar that nobody will notice it or even know of its original importance.  Such is life.  I loved my grandparents and have so many fond memories of them but none of my children or my nieces and nephews knew them, and once my generation has gone nobody will ever remember them.  So why oh why do we place so much more importantance on what we leave behind, when what is truly important is what we bring to the grave with us – our deeds and sadaqa jariya.  Every time someone prays in this mosque, or learns a hadith or an aya of the Qur’an, or any Islamic knowledge this man will receive a blessing for it inshallah.   Now…that’s what I call a legacy. 

But then we all have this opportunity to do the same with whatever little we have, as it’s not the size of the amount that we gift that is important but the intention behind it to please Allah.

I was not the only one inspired by his story – so too was my son who was 10 at the time and would have sold his mother if he thought he’d get anything for me!  When I told him the story he immediately took some money from his savings and contributed it to a mosque that was being built in our area.  Afterwards he was a little bit worried: ‘Mum, what if the money I gave goes to building the toilet or wudu areas, will I still get the reward for everyone who prays in that mosque?’, and I reassured him that it didn’t matter which part of the mosque his money went towards building, he would receive blessings every time people prayed in that mosque, and he was so happy.  One evening some time later he came home and told me that there was someone begging outside the mosque and he gave him all that was in his pocket which was only a few dinars, and he wanted to know if Allah would be pleased with him.  I told him that Allah would be pleased with him more than most, because he gave all he had.

Oh Allah have mercy on Shaikh Charfaoui, forgive him all his sins, make his grave wide and spacious and grant him Firdous. Oh and Allah…. Help me to stop wasting my time and make the most of the little time I have left on this earth by studying my deen, and doing good deeds for your pleasure, and preparing for my own time in the grave and my meeting with You.



Sunday, 26 February 2017

Out and about in Algiers

University of Algiers 3

Whenever people talk about the University of Algiers in the photo above invariably they ask 'is that the one that's shaped like a boat?'  My son doesn't attend this universtiy but instead a building behind it which belongs to another university - like so many things in Algeria, things are not always
what they seem!

An early morning start to University in Algiers




In November 2016 a huge sinkhole appeared on one of the busiest motorways in Algiers, where 3 cars fell in injuring 11 people.  More information can be found here . The above photo was taken by my son on his way to university on the same motorway a few days later – this road would normally be jam-packed with motorists but not on this day!  But credit where credit is due, the hole was filled in and the road repaired within a very short time!

A lovely park behind the above university


An evening view across the bay - the tall spire in the distance is the minaret of the new mosque
It's always lovely to find a little bit of home when you're out shopping

A lone fisherman in the twilight of the day

Meanwhile on a road around the corner from home:

Well...... I suppose....... that's one way of parking it.






Wednesday, 22 February 2017

A Mad Hatter's Tea Party in Algiers


As I have mentioned previously the English speaking ex-pat women in Algiers hold a monthly meeting on the first Saturday of every month.  I am reminded of an article I read some time ago that implied how inaccurately and discriminatory the word ‘ex-pat’, short for ‘Expatriate’ is used.  It refers to someone who lives outside their homeland, so that can mean anyone from anywhere living in a country that is foreign to them. Therefore it’s perfectly fine to say that those of us who are not Algerian and who live here are ex-pats.  But….how come then……in UK and Ireland we refer to some people from other countries (usually poorer than our own) as immigrants and not ex-pats.  Even in my own mind the word ‘ex-pats’ denoted to me, well off Europeans or Americans who go and live in another country, and not those people who come to Ireland and UK for a better standard of living, and yet we are all expatriates.  So I have had to readjust my way of thinking on the whole subject of expatriates.  Whew!  Not a bit like me to go off on a tangent is it????


ANYWAY……as I was saying before I rudely interrupted myself, the monthly meetings have been going strong for over 11 years now Alhamdullilah  I, myself, have only ever hosted one, 10 years ago (took me that long to get over it!!!), and it attracted quite a crowd despite the wailing and gnashing of teeth over the fact that we lived so far from everyone.  That meeting had men and women and children, because quite a few of the husbands who drove their wives to the house just hung around and my husband invited them in (despite his dire warnings to me that he was not available that day) and he and the other husbands had such a whale of a time they thought maybe they should set up their own meetings!  The following day neighbours came up to both him and my eldest daughter and congratulated her on her engagement.  After all….there couldn’t possibly be any other reason for a large group of women to congregate on an afternoon over coffee and cakes.

I had thought of holding it several times since then, when it seemed as if nobody else was able to host it, but always at the last minute someone would step up to the plate and I could breathe a huge sigh of relief.  But this time it didn’t look as if anyone was going to volunteer so I went ahead and, in a moment of temporary insanity, I invited everyone to my house.  It being January with the days so short, and knowing it was quite a distance for most people to travel, I wasn’t expecting much of a turnout – actually I had visions of it being just me and my two daughters sitting staring at each other and twiddling our thumbs.  However my friends who live in this area all rallied around and said they were coming anyway.  But then the number of women on the Facebook group interested in coming, started to grow at the same rate as my blood pressure, and then I started panicking about where I was going to put everyone. 

There is nothing like hosting an event in your home to get all those long overdue jobs and tasks done – I highly recommend it!  I had 6 days in which to prepare, so I sat with my list and organised and prioritised and worked my butt off and nagged my head off, so that when the day came I was so looking forward to seeing everyone.  I prayed to Allah that He would bless the meeting and the sisters with a safe journey…..next time I will be more specific in my dua and ask Him to bless them with a short journey also!

It does make things so much easier when you don’t have to provide the food (although of course I did bake for the event), only the hot and cold drinks.  I have hosted events in our home for Algerians and I found them far more stressful due to the fact that I always feel a little out of my depth and am never sure of all the etiquettes, the unspoken do’s and don’ts.  But when it comes to a monthly meeting anything goes as nobody cares very much about what’s served with what and in what cup or plate, as the women’s first priority is to meet up with each other and catch up, get new ideas and maybe get some things off their chest and, in the process, perhaps find ways and means of coping with the problems of living here in Algeria.

I moved the kitchen chairs into the living room, pushed the kitchen table into a corner, brought some extra chairs into the courtyard to make an outdoor extra seating space (Alhamdulliah the day was dry and not too cold), and prepared flasks of hot water, milk and coffee. My friends who lived locally also were very supportive providing me with extra mugs, flasks and even a coffee table barakallahu fihunna.  At one stage the living room was practically empty and the kitchen was standing room only with a whole group standing around chatting – I should have known that would be the most popular area with it being near the food and drinks!

Over 30 women and young girls turned up covering 11 different nationalities, and, although I had little time or opportunity to sit down and chat with anyone, I was able to catch up with some.  It was wonderful for me to see groups of women and girls sitting around chatting and laughing, and I felt truly grateful to Allah for the wonderful community of sisters here in Algeria, and for the opportunity to facilitate this get-together.  One of them had brought a talk by Muhammad Mukhtar Ash-Shinqitee  entitled The Goodly Life and you can find it here.   The Islamic talk has brought many benefits to the meetings – the first and foremost is the blessings as promised in the following hadith:

Abu Hurairah and Abu Sa`id Al-Khudri (May Allah be pleased with them) reported: The Messenger of Allah (sallallaahu ’alayhi wa sallam) said, “When a group of people assemble for the remembrance of Allah, the angels surround them (with their wings), (Allah’s) mercy envelops them, Sakinah, or tranquillity descends upon them and Allah makes a mention of them before those who are near Him.”
[Muslim].

They have been good reminders to us all, Islamic tips on how to cope with life here as a foreigner in Algeria, and usually they bring everyone at the meeting together in a unified group for a brief discussion which adds a feeling of community to the meeting.

Among the guests, three of them had been to the original meeting in my home 10 years ago, and one of them, who had been a young girl then and was now a married woman with her own child, gave a wonderful feeling of continuity.  It does help a lot that only children under the age of two and girls over the age of 10 are allowed, and we had 3 toddlers and a baby who were as good as gold Allahibarek. 

We had asked the sisters to please park their cars on the road perpendicular to our road in order not to inconvenience our neighbours so when my husband returned from work and saw no cars parked outside our house he assumed everyone had gone home, until my youngest told him ‘go and have a look at the hall at the bottom of the stairs’ – wall to wall footwear!  And that was after two thirds of the guests had gone! The neighbours never blinked an eye at the comings and goings on that day, proof that after 10 years they have become accustomed to our odd gatherings (‘odd’ referring to both the gatherings and the guests).

And that temporary insanity I mentioned at the beginning of this post?  I think it may be more permanent than I thought because I’d be happy to host another meeting again……soon…….especially during the summer months when the days are longer.

And the day after the meeting we had one of the side benefits of hosting a monthly meeting, a Queen Antoinette Day – anyone hungry?  Let them eat cake!


Tuesday, 31 January 2017

My mother-in-law's funeral Part 2

We had the loan of a neighbour’s car so I was able to drive home in the evening with the kids and leave my husband there.  The neighbour across the hall opened her home for all the cooking and general refreshments to be served with the help of another neighbour, my husband’s cousins’ wives, his nephews’ wives and, of course, my two daughters.  I went home the first night and baked cakes to serve with coffee.  The funeral usually goes on for three days with a meal provided for everyone on the third day. I think his mother would have been pleased at the turnout and at the fact that everyone was fed  - she had left money specifically for this purpose and I can’t help wondering if this was as a result of my husband and his brother teasing her in the past and saying they weren’t going to feed anyone at her funeral.  She was aghast and asked what about those who came long distances…to which they asked how did she know they would come to her funeral, and she replied that of course people would come!  To her way of thinking she had never harmed anyone so of course they would all come.  Then she asked them what they would do with the money instead….to which they answered they would buy a car!  It’s a wonder she didn’t drop dead there and then with the shock……but they were only joking with her.  Still I can’t help wonder if she decided if something was worth doing….do it yourself! The family received so many gifts of food – packets of coffee and sugar being a favourite but also chickens (of the dead variety!), croissants and other assorted cakes etc. etc. that my sister-in-law could have opened a shop after the funeral.

My youngest stayed the second night and the girls stayed the night after.  Like funerals in Ireland, and, probably the world over, it reunited people who hadn’t seen each other in a long time as well as brought the family closer together – a night or two after the funeral all the siblings stayed together for the night, which was a first in a very, very long time and which they all enjoyed …especially without any spouses! 


Stories of the burial that emerged afterwards made me realise why my husband fits into our family so well – his family is just as barmy as ours!  Another little old lady in the neighbourhood had died the previous night and she also was buried on the same day, at the same time in the same graveyard.  One of my sons didn’t realise he was at the wrong funeral until the crowd of people he was with noticed it.  and then he went off to find the right one!  One of his cousins did one better – he was actually inside the grave helping to bury the old lady when he looked up and realised  he didn’t recognise anyone…..so he got out and went in search of the right one!  I asked my eldest daughter how could anyone let a complete stranger into the grave of their loved one….and she said ‘he’s an akhina (meaning ‘brother’ alluding to a practising man usually wearing the Islamic dress of camis and sporting a beard) – people assume THEY always know what they are doing’!!!!!!    My husband  got caught up in traffic so my eldest son and one of his cousins were the only family at the graveyard with his grandmother, so my husband rang him and told him to go ahead and bury her, and not to delay on his account.....which nearly gave my son a heart attack especially as the cousin he was with didn’t know his a@&e from his elbow!  But the rest of the family soon caught up and the burial went ahead.  She was buried in the graveyard on the hill opposite her home….on the other side of the hill, and seemingly it’s quite steep where her grave is.  The women went the next morning to visit the grave and one of my sisters-in-law came home absolutely disgusted with the site saying that her mother had specified she wanted to be buried in another part of the graveyard, and instead her son and grandsons had just ‘flung’ her into the side of a cliff!  She said she didn’t care if in Islam it says that only men can perform the actual burial, she didn’t want any of her male relations to bury her – her daughters were the only ones she trusted to do it for her.  One of the neignbours tried to mollify her by saying, ‘at least she has a nice view of the sea’…..a comment she will never live down I think!

My mother-in-law's funeral Part 1

The day I had dreaded for so long had finally come, the day my mother-in-law left this world.   I had dreaded it because I knew that once she was gone I had lost the one person in my husband’s family who was totally, without question,’ in my corner’, I dreaded it for my husband and his brothers and sisters’ sake in losing their Mum, and for my children in losing their grandmother.  I also dreaded it because Algerian funerals are often huge and my mother-in-law’s home is tiny and the funerals go on for days, so I was anxious about the combination of claustrophobia and exhaustion I anticipated was ahead of me.

As it turns out it was a learning curve for me, and an honour to share in the grieving process of the family, and in helping out when and where I could.  The most difficult funeral is the one you can’t attend.  I wasn’t able to be at my father’s, mother’s, aunt’s and nephew’s funerals, and as a result the grieving process was more difficult for me and definitely more lonely.  To see your loved one in his or her final lifeless state is shocking, but also the beginning of the acceptance that they are gone.  The tears that flow freely, do so along with those around you who also loved this person, and nobody tries to stop you or to comfort you, because we are all in the same stage of shock, and so these tears do their work of gently healing your pain of loss, although it never feels like it at the time.  Returning home months after my Dad, Mum and Aunt had died meant that I felt that shock and absence then….when the rest of my family had moved on further down the road of grief and acceptance.  It means that you are totally out of step with the rest of your loved ones, bursting into tears at the most unexpected and embarrassing moments.

I discovered that, apart from some very basic, religious differences, funerals in my husband’s family are not that much different to those of my own in Ireland.  Maybe this is because both cultures are rooted in the belief that this life is just a passing through, and nothing is more certain than death, after which there is an afterlife.  I cannot speak for my own generation but I know that both of my parents believed in trying to live a good life as much as possible, that there was a better life to be had after death, and that, although it was not something to look forward to, at the same time it was something accepted, prepared for and freely talked about.

In Ireland people are usually buried the next day if their body is released early enough or the day after.  Sometimes the funeral is delayed to allow for someone to travel back from abroad but usually the funeral takes place as soon as possible.  My Mum and Dad were both buried two days after they passed away with people coming to the house to visit, some bringing various edibles such as scones, sandwiches, cakes etc – something that can be served with a cup of tea or coffee.  Then on the day of the funeral the family usually prepares a light meal such as sandwiches and soup primarily for those who had to travel long distances for the funeral, and this meal is usually done through a pub with a room set aside to cater for the mourners.  People tell stories about the loved one who has just gone, and there is a lot of laughter among the tears.  My own family seem to have its own unique, quirky take on funerals, often with hysterically funny results, but which would seem strange and unfeeling to outsiders……until I heard some of the stories after my mother-in-law’s funeral.  I then realised why my husband fits into my family so well  - he comes from the same kind of quirky, off kilter family as me!

When we arrived at my mother-in-law’s home she was laid out on blankets and sheets on the floor and totally covered, with my sisters-in-law, my husband’s aunt and neighbours, all women, sitting around.  Every time someone came in they moved the sheet off of her face so they could kiss her.  Obviously it was a very emotional time, but it was also a very calm and serene time, a time of waiting with nothing to do but pray for her soul.  We all had to move into the bedroom at one stage while the female doctor (in full hijab mashAllah) came in with a policeman to pronounce the death and issue a death certificate, and then the women started to clear the third room in the tiny apartment in preparation for the washing of my mother-in-law’s body.  Three women from the neighbourhood, whose job it is to do this, came and started making preparations to pray Dhuhr.  Soon after, the long table, with a slight slant towards a plug hole at one end, was manoeuvred with great difficulty into the room.  Basins of water were brought in with an empty one placed beneath the hole in the table.  Three large pieces of cloth were removed from their packaging and opened out and then rolled up lengthways and put to one side.   Rubbish bags, two large bath towels along with smaller towels, face cloths, floor cloths, shower gel and perfume were all accumulated, and my daughter pounded some camphor, or as we used to call them, moth balls,  into a fine powder.  Then my mother-in-law’s body was gently brought in and placed on the table, the family said their goodbyes and left the room and then the door was gently and firmly closed.

My eldest had already asked if she could be present while they washed her grandmother’s body, and then one of the ladies turned to me and asked if I’d like to stay.  I hadn’t considered it possible, but when I thought about it I felt that this was an opportunity I could not pass up for so many good reasons.  There is a hadith that states that the Prophet Muhammad (SAWS) said ‘"He who washes a Muslim and conceals what he sees (i.e. bad odors, appearance, and anything loathsome), Allah grants him forgiveness forty times (or for forty major sins)’.  This was the last thing I could do for my mother-in-law and, as such I felt it a privilege and honour to do it.  I knew it would make my husband happy and I thought it was so nice that there were three people in the room who knew her well and loved her who could help in preparing her for her final journey, so my daughters and I stayed and helped, just a little. 

The women were very gentle and respectful and did everything without once exposing the body, which was covered with a large table cloth – the kind that has one waterproof side.  As everything that is done in that room is something to be kept private and not discussed I will not give any details of the cleaning of her body per se.    But the following is the ritual as found on an internet search:

Firstly, the body should be carefully laid on its back on a washing table. A large towel should be placed over the 'awrah (private parts, between the navel and the knee) of the deceased. Next, the clothing of the deceased should be removed, cutting whatever is not easy to slide off. The joints should be loosened, and slight pressure may be applied to the abdomen to expel any impurities that are close to exiting. The private parts of the deceased should be washed very well. A rag or cloth should be used to wash the body and the washing should begin with the places on the side of the body washed during wudu' (ablution). After completing the wudu, the hair should be thoroughly washed. Any tied or braided hair should be undone. Next, the body should be washed a minimum of three times and the water should have some cleaning agent in it, such as soap or disinfectant. The final washing should have some perfume in it, such as camphor or the like. The body should then be dried and the hair combed. In the case of a woman, if possible, her hair should be arranged in three plaits – one on either side of her head and one on top. The body is now ready for shrouding. 

The women explained that camphor mixed with the last wash enables the body to dry more efficiently. We lifted her body and the three white rolled up cloths were unrolled beneath her so that she lay in the center, with the waterproof cover still covering her.  Then without removing this cover the top white cloth was taken from one side and wrapped around her body, and then wrapped with the other side.  The top of this cloth was left as a covering that framed her face loosely in case any of her male relatives wanted to see her before she was buried when it would then be closed. Once her body was decently covered the waterproof cover was removed from beneath it. Then the second cloth was wrapped from the second side and so on.  As we were doing this one of the women reminded me that in Algeria when a baby is born and for some months afterwards it is wrapped similarly in a blanket - what we call swaddling, and I thought of how my mother-in-law had come full circle.  Then it is tied with plain white ties, at the top and bottom and in the middle and, if necessary with two extra ties.  Then they covered the body with a green cloth with gold Arabic writing on it, but this is only to cover her while she is still in the house and is removed when they bring the body to the mosque. 

My grandmother died in our home when I was the same age as my youngest, around 14, and a neighbourhood nurse (who incidentally became my brother’s mother-in-law) came in and cleaned her body in preparation for the burial, and, to this day the smell of Johnson’s Baby Powder brings me right back to that day.   In the same way I think the smell of camphor will always remind me of the day my mother-in-law passed away.  They brought her body back into the living room but this time they made sure that nobody cried on her or that anyone unclean touched her…she was now ready for her final journey.  I went and sat in the tiny kitchen as my feet had become numb from sitting on them.


The men then came and took her on the wooden pallet out the door and it was the saddest thing for me to see my husband and his nephews carry her out to the mosque.  A lovely English friend of mine came to keep me company while the men prayed Asr prayer and then the funeral prayer and then went to the graveyard, and it meant a lot to me to have someone with whom I could communicate on an effortless basis at such an emotional time.

Sunday, 29 January 2017

Memories of summer



On hot summer mornings, sitting on the beach watching the sea and drinking my morning coffee I said to my husband that it was memories of moments such as these that would keep me going through the winter months.  And so, here we are on a cold and very wet January morning, and I’m remembering those precious moments at the beach during the summer.



In recent years Ramadan has taken over a lot of the summer, coming as it has done right in the middle so the weeks preceding it have been spent in preparation, and the couple of weeks after in making up for missed days of fasting, and fasting optional extra days. In 2016 it took up most of the month of June and the beginning of the month of July with the most of the rest of that month spent on fasting for one reason or another, so summer for us really didn’t start until August.


All the world and his mother came to visit Algeria during the month of last August, or at least, so it seemed, and quite a few of them came to visit us.  So it was a very busy month, as, in addition to catching up with friends whom I hadn’t seen in a long while, we also had a guest staying for a while, the son of a friend staying for a few weeks and the son of another friend came for the day a few times.  The summer seemed to go by in a blur of preparing meals, washing up, brushing the sand out of the house, rinsing and hanging out swimwear and towels, and preparing cakes and tea and coffee.


But whenever we got the chance my husband and I went off to the beach around 8.00 in the morning with our flask of coffee, towels and deck chairs and whoever of our children wanted to come with us.  Often it was just the two of us and we bought lovely hot, soft croissants on the way and had a leisurely breakfast after a stimulating swim.  Our favourite beach is about a 20 minute car ride from home, and early as it was, we were never the first there, but the crowds only started to come as we were leaving.


I love the sea, and never get tired of it.  I only learnt to swim when I was 30 and so swimming is still very much a novelty to me.  A friend of mine from work and her sister volunteered to teach me to swim in the public swimming pool in Old Street, London and I went twice with them.  The first time, one of the sisters put her hand underneath me to support me in order to teach me to float, so I closed my eyes and tried, only to find myself falling, falling, falling, to what seemed to me down to the bottom of the pool – I couldn’t tell you for sure as I had my eyes tightly clenched shut.  As I lay there I thought to myself, ‘they will come and save me any minute now, they won’t let me drown’, but after a few minutes when it became apparent that nobody was going to come to my rescue, I started to flail around in the water and sure enough one of the sisters came to my aid.  When I asked her what took her so long she said that I was just calmly floating on the top of the water……upside down, and she thought I was enjoying myself!!!!  Then she showed me how to move forward in the water using the movement of my arms and legs, but somehow, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t move forward because……I kept swimming backwards, which of course, elicited various comments about the ‘backward’ Irish.  The following week when we returned to the pool I didn’t want to get in as I was absolutely convinced the water level of the pool was higher than previously.  This time, when I did get in the water I learnt the rudiments of keeping afloat and moving about in the water without totally disgracing myself.

Soon after we travelled to Algeria and I couldn’t wait to try out my new swimming skills only to find that swimming in the sea was a whole new ball game.  I insisted on putting on adult arm bands, to which my husband strongly objected on the grounds that I was probably the only adult on the whole coastline between Tunisia and Morroco that was wearing them.  I told him he was just thinking of the insurance payout he would receive if I drowned, to which he replied that it would cost him the whole amount to ship my body back to England!  Who said romance is dead.  Eventually I took my courage in my hands and went into the sea without the arm bands and gained some confidence.

I didn’t swim again in the sea after I became Muslim until we had been living in Algeria a few years and we went to a beach that was very stony and the sea was rough, not a good combination for an inept swimmer like myself.  I had lost any little confidence in my swimming ability and when I couldn’t keep my balance on the sea bed I clung to my eldest daughter’s arm for dear life, until she told me, in no uncertain terms, that she didn’t want to lose permanent use of her limb.  It didn’t help that I was weak from laughing.

Where the boys go swimming

Now I love going into the sea, but only when the sea is not too rough, because many is the time when I found myself, despite all my best efforts, being carried down along the beach, with my husband standing on the beach beckoning me to come back….as if I had any choice in the matter.  Once or twice I had to ask him to come in and get me because, no matter how I tried, I just could not move back up the beach, and of course, it didn’t help matters much that I was laughing my head off.  But in he came and brought me back up along the sea bed and acted as my anchor while I swam…..much the same as he does in life may Allah bless him.

Another place the boys love to swim
All of my children swim like fish Allahibarek, and the two youngest spent the summer in the sea.  They went off with their friends to a place where it is so rocky that only boys and men go to swim as there is no opportunity for gently walking slowly into the sea until you get accustomed to it which is the way most women like to get into the sea, but instead they have to dive straight in from rocks.  My youngest son spent most of his summer fishing for octopus….with a spear.  Throughout the summer he caught about 40 kilos and sold it all to our neighbour next door whose son has a restaurant, so I was very grateful that I didn’t have to cringe every time he returned with his catch.