A Photographic Lie

I've been a bad, bad photographer today. I took overexposed pictures, I didn't change my ISO and white balance as necessary, I didn't carry my camera in its bag, and ultimately, I took a picture of a policeman's motorcycle and lied profusely about it.

So, what happened was, I went to the hospital earlier today with my friends to visit Sheri who gave birth to the most precious baby girl. After much fussing over baby, we went downstairs to the baqalah next door to buy some stuff. Right outside the store, Sharifa and I, caught up in a photographer's frenzy, noticed this beautiful golden door that had lots of potential. In a burst of misplaced bravado, I bullied her into taking pictures of it with me.



Before you proceed on murdering this photo with your comments, let me assure you that wasn't the worst part.

Across this door was a small police station. It had windows that were tinted and closed. Parked outside it was a motorcycle with the cop radio on, so that I knew the policeman was somewhere nearby. But because I'm such a hippo, I proceeded to take pictures of the motorcycle. They were nice pictures, taken with excellent settings, at a very profound angle. They would have garnered lots of photo comments and smiley faces on my deviantart.

As I was getting ready to run, however, the window opened and out came the policeman's head. He attacked me with an onslaught of brisk Arabic accusations, pointing wildly at my camera. I shook my head in feign miscomprehension. Let me tell you something, that delete button? It has never been pressed as fast as I did when I was deleting the pictures I took of his motorcycle. I am actually proud of myself, for at least mastering the art of deleting pictures. So I walk over to him to prove that I am a good liar, and that Wallahi, no pictures of motorcycle in my camera, only baby and Filipino nurses. I had to go through 200 pictures with him, clutching my camera like mad (I think I left a few scratches on screen, I was clutching it like a maniac) because he wanted to take it and look through it himself. My short life as a photographer flashed before my eyes, and I could see the JUArtists shaking their heads in disdain and disapproval. With renewed determination, I clutched some more, and lied some even more. Idiot was pressing all kinds of buttons on my camera, saying I hid the pictures somewhere, and in the process, changed all my settings. After he got tired of looking at the pictures of nurses, he let go of the camera, and warned me that I could be under investigation for taking pictures. I think I also heard him say that my pictures were overexposed, but I can’t be too sure, I was too shaken to look through my English-Arabic Dictionary.

As I walked away, my friends soothing me and assuring me he had no right to do that and that my pictures were perfectly exposed, I couldn’t help but think of how much we suffer for art. What price beauty? What price profound angles? Mokhtar once said that photographers in Saudi Arabia are so restricted and constrained, but it only makes them more creative and more aware of the little things, little details that they ARE allowed to photograph. It took today for me to realize how true that is. We are the oppressed. We are the muted voices. We are the social pariahs.

I suffered for art.

I am shaken, but not quite stirred. Because at least, I was able to share Mikayla Angelina Soares’ baby pictures to that po-po, and he was given the golden opportunity to look at a baby so beautiful, so full of life, that I’m sure as he rode that ugly motorcycle, he pondered the splendour of existence and the true meaning of humanity. Idiot. I hope he buys a camera and never learns how to adjust his settings.

Ode to My Family

When we were younger, one of my father's template sermons was the one about studying hard and striving to be successful so as not to grow up to be "servants" of much wealthier uncles, aunts, and/or cousins. This was something we scoffed at; nonsense, we said. I now see the wisdom behind this motivational technique (one that, in my opinion, didn't work). By "servant" I mean "errand boy", someone who is asked to do any number of menial jobs around the house, a social pariah, useless, therefore, pushed around. As a result of the stigma my father has put on this particular kind of servitude to relatives, I fear it above all. I resent all my relatives who ask favours of me, be it something as simple as handing over something, to bigger favours. I’m always fuming inside, indignant, “do they think I am some kind of a slave?”

Is it arrogance on my part?

***

My cousin Kaka Cody passed away Eid morning at about 7am, Jeddah time. I felt a momentary shock, as per usual, but the moment passed so quickly it was almost not worth acknowledging. This could be an indication that I handle shock very well, or it could be a warning sign that sometime in the future, I will break down mightily and... I don’t know, lose it big-time.

I never knew Kaka Cody very well. He was, to me, one of our many well-off relatives. When we were younger, we would go to Riyadh and visit him in his home. We loved his IKEA furniture and his surround sound system. He was, like most of our relatives from our father’s family, an articulate man, always conversing with us as if we were adults. He was a chain-smoker, too, I remember, he was never without a cigarette. He was always very casual, an approachable adult, very rare. We knew he and my father were inseparable when they were growing up, even though they were cousin and uncle.

My father was devastated. He stayed in bed most of the day. I can only imagine how he must've felt. It must be a complete shock for him, and quite scary as well, because he and Kaka Cody are exactly the same age. I imagine he must’ve thought he would still see him sometime in the future, perhaps when they’re both much, much older, retired maybe, reminiscing the past, playing chess. He must’ve been thinking how much he wants to do for him and his family now that he has passed on, the way we all do when we think of our very close friends. It must crush him the thought that he isn’t capable of doing anything, being so far away from HIS own family, being financially unstable, and being so disconnected from everyone else who knew Kaka Cody as well as he did.

It’s sad, and at the same time, quite fortunate that it takes death to reunite a family. People are suddenly very forgiving of each other, and reminiscing better times has always softened people towards one another. We spent our Eid morning, as did all our Tamano relatives, in collective mourning, sitting solemnly in my Mom’s living room. We had a quiet breakfast, after which we sat around in groups, teenagers together, 20-somethings together, in-laws together, listening to my father tell stories of our cousin, who was well-loved, who was a very kind soul. In some ways, it was a celebration – of family ties that bind us together, of a decent man / father / son / brother’s passing, and ultimately, of life.

Pilgrimage

Having had about 15 years of experience performing Umrah, I have made some observations.

** Never underestimate the strength of old lady pilgrims. They have big, calloused hands, the better to push you with. Encountering one, which is a huge possibility, constitutes an 80-year-old lady manhandling and roughhousing you, and you not being able to do anything about it.

** Wear extra thick socks to cushion the blow of stepping on date cores/seeds, especially if you're going to perform your Umrah around Maghreb time.

** No, it is NOT a mosh pit, NOT an extreme sport, and NOT Amazing Race, no matter how much you have convinced yourself that it kinda is. So concentrate on praying, not winning or yelling "Unbelievable!" at rude people.

** I'm a Bring-Your-Own-Scissors kind of girl, so it always annoys me when I reach the end of my Umrah - and I'm this close to finally sitting down and resting my over-flexed calves - and I can't get a move on because my scissors are being passed on from one family to the next, cutting hair by the fistfuls. It's extremely humbling to be reminded of patience and generosity. What's the harm in lending scissors? We tend to forget.

** We tend to forget that we're there for: worship. So let's keep the cussing at zero. Don't cuss out the female security who always shove you in attempts to keep the crowding at a minimum. They're just doing their job. I repeat, resist the urge to cuss. Not even in spelling. (Oooh, that bee-eye-tee-see-etch!)

** The biggest fear of all pilgrims is to get lost, to break away from their group never to be found again. This is where the Universal Green Light comes in. Everyone goes to the green light if they're lost. Can't find your way? Green Light. Looking for someone? Green Light. Not sure where to start your Tawaf? Green Light.

** Get that tune out of your head! Sometimes, the whole experience of Umrah is so exhilarating that one wants to break into song. Make Du'a instead; pray.

Outside of these observations...

I am humbled by the magnificence of Al-Haram, by the unity of the Muslim Ummah in prayer.

I am amazed by the extent of human generosity.

I am overwhelmed by the power of faith and prayer.

I am humbled by Allah's might.

*****

It's good when a group of friends party and have fun together. Even better when they pray together.

May Allah accept our prayers, may He bless us, and guide us to the right path.

Ameen!

Ramadan Kareem, errbody!