The story of the Brave Girl (Part 1)

I wrote this simple symbolic story for my dear friend who is undergoing the final painful stages of her dissertation. I was inspired by the book I am reading: Karen Armstrong’s ‘A short history of myth’. This is a very interesting book which reminds us that myth and story move us to do wonderful things, because they transcend us from the here and now, and allow us to imagine what might be.

 

There was once a brave girl who lived in a village at the foot of the Majestic Mountain. She was happy with her life and her daily routine. But she ardently yearned to explore beyond her village. In particular, she thought of the Majestic Mountain, and every day looked upon the Mountain with an aching in her soul. The brave girl never had the resolve to scale its heights, because her village folk had said, with good intentions in mind, that it was too precarious.

 

The girl was out one day picking her crops and she overheard a conversation between two elderly women ‘Yes my friend, the summit is too beautiful I hear. But what is even more spectacular is the fountain at the summit of the mountain, when, if drunk gives the drinker a sweet sublime knowledge. Some turn back before the summit, but a brave few have tasted the elixir’.

 

The brave girl felt an awesome stirring in a soul and ran back home to her father, and told him that she could not longer turn back from her calling. The father accepted his daughter’s wishes, and with a kiss on his cheek the daughter packed her meagre possessions in a faded cloth and made her way.

 

As she walked towards the mountains and scaled the first steps – she felt sheer merriment. The birds were wonderful to listen to – she had never noticed how joyful they were. The crickets chirruped and the squirrels nibbled and clawed the acorns. She was warmed by the honey toned sunlight through the branches, and felt a groundswell of well being in her belly that she had finally embarked on this long-awaited journey.

 

As she scaled the heights she became more and more tired. Her throat became parched and her knees ached. She rested from time to time and this rejuvenated her. She managed this routine for a few days. By the fourth day, she started to feel a growing heaviness in her limbs. She looked up and reminded herself there was perhaps only half a day’s climb left ‘Not long to go’ she muttered to herself. But as she got to the final step she gasped, and clutched her mouth – That wasn’t the last step, because the real  summit soared above her!

 

She fell on her knees and sobbed bitterly with her face in her hands. She chided herself for having undergone the immense journey and wept at her perceived folly. She started turning back back but suddenly remembered the words of the woman regarding how beautiful the summit was, and how sweet the water of knowledge. She slowly stood up, one feeble step at a time, and wiped her tears away….she continued.

 

The next few days her body started aching all over. Her clothes were torn and face scratched from tree branches and thick undergrowth. She cried to herself in pain, but yet she could no longer forget the woman’s words which she etched into her mind. And she reminded herself that she had yearned for this journey her whole life, and simply could not turn back. She imagined the sweetness of the water and the sublimeness of the knowledge. As it got colder and more intrepid her resolve became stronger and a fierceness set ablaze in her eyes.

 

The undergrowth became thicker and soon she could no longer see anything as grey clouds descended about the mountain. Her face became dry and emaciated. Her eyes became sunken and hair withered. Her legs and feet became lead. She fell, and with a feeble glimpse looked to see that she had reached her destination finally.

 

The brave girl stumbled onto the summit – How beautiful it was, more than she had ever imagined!  She limped to the fountain and savoured the cool, sweetness of the water. She felt enlightened as the sublime knowledge descended upon her. Her body started filling out into its former youthful glory. Her eyes sparkled, her parched mouth became moist, her hair thickened and her limbs stood firm. The painful struggle had all been worth it. She cried tears of joy and laughed in merriment. She could not wait to take her new found knowledge to her family and village-folk, who would savour and benefit from the knowledge for centuries to come. 

 

Reflections on activism

The thirst for social justice is etched in my bones, it runs hot in my veins, it is interwoven into my very fibres. Injustice chokes and reviles me. I am preoccupied by injustice. 

 

It was stories about my father which sealed my fate. He died when I was just 10 months old. He was a truly remarkable man; he was born into humble beginnings but he educated himself into no less than four degrees, yet never forgot the poverty into which was was born. He stood up for truth. He campaigned against political tyranny around him, even at the risk to his own personal well being and security. 

 

I was and continue to be inspired by stories of him.

 

We live in a world in which narratives around human rights apply to the world out there, leaving our consciousness to inadvertently play down human abuses at home. I realise that while there are pressing issues within the international arena, there is a real danger of being too preoccupied with it, and at the expense of grim issues within our neighbourhoods. This preoccupation is damaging to our psychological frame of mind – particularly our youth – who grow up with a sense of futility regarding the horrific stories  with which we are bombarded at every waking moment.

 

Muslims in particular are preoccupied with the international world. I worked in Tower Hamlets for two years. Alhamdulilah, there is so much to celebrate in that borough, particularly the rich diversity and the growing spiritual awaking. But yet it is entrenched in raw issues, such as perpetuating poverty and growing levels of drugs amongst youth. The truth is that top-down policies from central and local government are not enough to change a locality despite spiel to the contrary. Local governments are pumped with money, but despite their efforts, wholesale changes are not made, and can never be made. Change is a dynamic process and needs to come about from people themselves. 

 

My reflections are not at odds with Islam’s notion of an Ummah. We ought to care about Muslim suffering around the world, but yet we are also enjoined to care about the well being of our neighbours – from those of faith to none. I am particularly aware of how Muslims need to urgently step up to the challenges of British civil society. I am proud of the thriving London Muslim activist scene, but we need to be mindful that we are not satisfied merely with the attending of talks, events, conferences and demonstrations – thinking that it is enough in this crazy world we live in. Talks and events create awareness and buzz around an issue, but can sometimes achieve little by way of tangible outcomes on the ground.

 

There are many kinds of worthy activism, but I believe Community organising is one of the most potent methods of transforming our neighbourhoods. It is a particular method of bringing about social change and can be summed up as the building of broad-based alliances in order to build power in order to act for the common good. This building of power allows communities to negotiate tangible outcomes for themselves; poverty, safer streets, refugee rights and so forth. Britain’s primary broad-based alliance is London Citizens which brings together churches, mosques, schools, civil society institutions, and trade unions which campaign collectively on many worthy issues.

 

A basic foundation of community organising is people coming together face-to-face to learn about each others hopes, values, aspirations and day-to-day lived realities.  I am convinced that this aspect of community organising is particularly important for British Muslim society. The relationships built through community organising are more powerful than those through interfaith discussion –  while the latter is necessary and builds dialogue on theological matters, community organising allows us to humanise one another further through the discovering of common issues, at a time when Muslims are being increasingly vilified. What-is-more, knowing one another from those of faith to none, is a powerful way to tackle the fragmented society around us and particularly the spectre of the growing far-right. A community which knows each other also feels each other’s pain and gives a damn. And  acting together on those concerns is what really cements those relationships.

 

I started off this article with a story about myself and what motivates me as an activist – and this is precisely what community organising does – it invites us to share our stories. It allows us to know one another in a modern society which is fragmented and in too much of a hurry. 

 

How and with whom will you share your story?