An Islamic Conscience: The Aga Khan and the Ishmailis

I wonder if you have heard of the Ismailis? Or the Aga Khan? If you are anything like me, perhaps the words evoke a vague recollection or something you feel you have heard of, or ought to have at least. My knowledge of Islam and certainly of the sects within, is hazy to say the least, but I was fascinated to learn more at the premiere of An Islamic Conscience: The Aga Khan and the Ismailis, a one-hour documentary film, the first of its kind, which showed in Leicester Square at the weekend.

The Aga Khan, a sixty-something, well-spoken white man, is the spiritual leader of the Ismailis, a small sect of Shia muslims, who number around 15 million worldwide. Historically they have been persecuted, and today they see their identity in the Islamic world as under threat. They are not fundamentalists but peacemakers, and their humanitarian work is to be admired. But if they're such an asset to the world why has no one heard of them? In the panel discussion following the film, one of the panel suggested his reasonings: good news doesn't sell newspapers.

Although I was left with many questions, the film was a great introduction into the delicate world of Islam and its relationship with the West. If you'd like to find out more, click on the link above or here to buy the DVD.

How then should we now live?

Travel is a huge privilege bestowed upon our generation like no other before. I think nothing of international flights in double-figures each year, soaking up cultures and people like the chamis leathers my dad used to dry the car with. From stiff and indifferent, my mind transforms, becoming supple and flexible. My mouth literally changes, wrapping itself around unfamiliar language and even more unfamiliar food. I can eat anything now, really, and this from the girl who used to almost vomit at the smell of fish.

Yet with great privilege, comes great responsibility, and the more I see of this world, the more I come to understand that all is not well. All is not well with the poor. All is not well with the environment. All is not well with the economy. All is not well with world politics. And after a time, it becomes hard to know what to do with that knowledge. I used to flit between guilt and indifference, until I realised that both were selfish in nature, and now I see that we all have our own choices to make, and our own paths to take. For some, their place is in living their life - bringing up children, seeing friends, loving their family, putting food on the table, and buying fairtrade, using the car less, buying green electricity. For others, their place is in politics. For others, in dialogue between communities, like a friend who volunteers in conflict resolution between different cultural groups in East London. All these actions are good and pure and right and will go a long way to starting us off on the journey towards all being well.

I don't know where it leaves you... it's not for me to tell you, or to say. But for me, on the journey past guilt and indifference, I hope to find a way I can make a difference, somehow, however small. Not to appease my conscience, but to live in a way that reflects what I have seen elsewhere. To know that my actions in some way take into account the misogyny I saw in Asia, the poverty in India, the indulgence in other cultures. I wish you well on your journey through to the place where you find some things, no matter how small, are well with the world.

Please

If you have a spare tenner and a free evening before 15th December, do go to see Rhinoceros at the Royal Court. Please, you won't be disappointed.

Sight

It's through others that we see ourselves, our true selves, goodness, truth, banality, ordinariness. All our faults and gorgeousness reflected in the gaze of another. In knowing others we can know ourselves.

We lose ourselves in loneliness
In loneliness we lose ourselves
The truth of the self, ever present
A lie. It is only through others that
We see ourselves
We see ourselves through others.

Mrs Lyser [After Mrs Krikorian]

That first time, when I saw her
I was transfixed -
as six-year-olds are prone to be -
In the same way that on seeing
a doll that time in Beatties, unable to get out
a squeal, I kissed it, so Daddy could see.
She stood in assembly, to the left. Upright, her body
taut against the climbing frame wall, her silver
hair a soft halo. She was old -
I knew that, old, yet progressive...
sometimes she wore trousers,
trousers, in 1985!
Once, I bought some awful made-in-Korea ornament
with my holiday money, and presented it to her,
sticking out my chest and standing up straight,
the way I thought one was supposed to
on these occasions.
And she took my soft child's body into
her arms and hugged me. The embrace
of a mother, as yet unfelt since.
And I knew, that first time, I knew,
I was transfixed. Over the shepherd's pie
that night announcing:
'I can't take my eyes off her.'
'I just can't take my eyes off her.'

First day at school

Today I went to the office. "Good for you," you're probably thinking, more than a hint of sarcasm in your tone. Let me clarify: today I went to the office for the first time in four months! That's sixteen weeks people! I've been gainfully self-employed for that time, discovering the art of freelance, getting up when I like and playing facebook scrabble without fear of dismissal. But all good things come to an end, and I find myself on a short contract with an old colleague at her new office. It felt odd, but strangely comforting... the busy tube journey, a signal failure at Kings Cross, a soy latte in a paper cup, a desk and a squeaky chair, girly-office-chat... I liked it. The time passed quickly and I was still the same person. Believe me, that was a relief.

Library-bound

Working at home has its distinct advantages - getting up late, lounging around in my pyjamas 'til noon and the undeniable luxury of being able to make 'important' 'phone calls whilst clutching a cup of tea and reclining on the sofa. Unfortunately, this state hasn't been all that conducive to actually getting much real work done. So, in an attempt to be organised and efficient, Jules + laptop + heavy bag full of paper have made the University library their home of late. All good, all good. It's toasty warm, fairly quiet and I seem to take on motivation by osmosis from all the hard-working language students, burying their sweet unwashed heads into fusty books. My desk of choice is on the fourth floor, the window is floor to ceiling and overlooks crunchy orange and yellow trees. All good, all good.

- untitled -

Sometimes, when you call
and your voice is gently
desperate, and I see your eyes,
dull grey and empty.

Sometimes, if we sit
and don't talk - not in silence,
just a sea of thoughts - and
I feel your mind drift slowly away.

Sometimes when I'm sad,
and you intonate your hands to
say you're with me...

And especially today,
especially today.

Before

He used to love her, he knew that, but over time his love eroded with each misdemeanor until all that remained was a hazy recollection of affection and comfort. Like finding a childhood toy in the attic and on turning it over, seeing that it has been eaten by mice, no stuffing, no flesh remaining.

The light at 4pm, in winter

On the concrete blankness of the riverbank, they walk or wheel like dust floats in a shaft of sunlight. Crisp enough for coats, the air eats fingers and toes through merciless merino wool and polyester. A man in a yellow waterproof jacket swigs brandy from a hip flask, unseen by mothers with overprotected children. A mine artist, absolving reality with silver lycra fights off an increasing shiver, and the light... the light at 4pm in winter makes all ok with the world.w

Sloaney Maloney

The Kings Road is one of those institutions. It conjures up feelings of glamour and slightly-pretentious fun ... the roaring success of a new play at the Royal Court, a good steak eaten slowly at a pavement table at Oriel, a naughty trip to The General Trading Company. Yes, there are a good deal of the Chelsea twin-set brigade there on an average afternon, but there's normality too, a coffee in Pret and a t-shirt purchase at Zara. That's the Chelsea I know and love.

Today I just-so-happened to have some errands to do, a couple of gifts, a birthday and an American-esque baby-shower, so I put in my ipod and got the tube to Sloane Square. Within half an hour, I had amassed a not-insubstantial mass of gaily-wrapped packages dangling precariously from each arm. Not unusual, I thought. It's a road with shops on and people go there to, er..., shop. Yet as I wandered through a few stores en route to Waitrose for some eggs, I began to notice, well, sense, that something strange was happening when I walked in the door of these emporiums. Shop assistants said hello. I was addressed as 'Madam'. People asked if I was looking for 'anything in particular'. If I'd had a free wrist, it would have been drenched in Chanel at the perfume counter in Peter Jones. To top it all, a very camp ginger guy in the White Company asked me to feel a cushion, 'Go on,' he enthused, 'they're soft as cashmere!' I declined and left, my packages cutting into my forearm with each indignant step. Money shouldn't buy favour, but it seems that in Chelsea at 4pm in Winter, it's exactly what it does.

Au Revoir Parapluie

He dances as freely and gently as reeds stirring in the early-morning breeze. His frame supple, his skeleton, it seems, is without edges. There’s no shape these legs and arms cannot mirror, cannot claim for their own. I sit entranced for an undefined amount of time. However long it is isn’t enough. On leaving I remark to a friend that I could go right back in and watch the show again. Rarely am I transfixed so wholly, so intimately… grace and strength and beauty and delicacy and love and fear and ugliness combine to create a surreal exposition. Dance, magic, comedy, mine, drama, acrobatics… just gorgeous.

‘Au Revoir Parapluie’ with James Thiérrée is playing at Sadler’s Wells until 10 November.

Romeo & Juliet at the Royal Opera House

Highly recommended, if a little clompy in places.

Birthday

Well here I am again, one year older and wondering wistfully what the 29th year of my life will feel like. Someone asked me the other day, 'If you could be any age again, what age would you want to be?' Without hesitation I replied, 'The age I am now.' I'm glad. I have some regrets, but I wouldn't want to go back, no way. The future is where we're heading and I want to be living now.

A new kind of life

A new kind of life, no more 9 to 5, no more endless checking of email, plane journeys across skies and time zones, my life flat-packed into a suitcase on wheels. Just me, in England, with a laptop and some words to play with each week. I eat better, sleep better. I think I am better, company I mean. The stress has gone and though I lie awake wondering where it's all heading, in the here and now I'm happy, the happiest I've been in years.

Ni hao

Every week I sit in a small hot room with an ever-decreasing group of other students. We make an eclectic mix, yet there's a subtle affinity, a tied-togetherness. A sixty-something woman helps a young girl, whispering encouragement through the cloud of fear. We're learning Mandarin, each new sound an assault to our eyes and ears. We stare through pages of twisted black strokes, unfamiliar grammar, logical nonsense. My mouth turns and spits shh zuuu faaa sheng, with little idea what it's saying.... The room gets hotter. I'm uncomfortable and check the clock. An hour left. Sigh. Then out of the blue, there's a sentence on the board that I can read... each little drawing - the lady with the crane, the house with the jade inside, the one that looks like a lily, and I understand. It's like gold dust falling abundantly from the sky, unannounced and gorgeous. I want to jump up and shout 'I get it! I get it!' But, fortunately for everyone else, I restrain.

My eureka moment doesn't last, next week I'll be back to incomprehension and frantic checking of vocabulary behind lao shu's back.

Grateful Friday

On a crisp autumn Friday with a nip in the cooling air, I pull my collar around my neck and am grateful for:

1. Crunchy leaves of yellow and orange and a pink-ish colour en route to the tube.

2. The thought of Christmas. I love Christmas! Darkness with twinkly lights and a stiff breeze... a gingerbread latte in a red cup from Starbucks, mince pies, and maybe, just maybe, some homemade chutney.

3. The age I am now. Someone asked me which age I would be if I could go back to any age so far. I answered straight away, 'The age I am now'. That can only be a good thing.

4. Ni jiao shen ma ming zi? Or in other words, 'What's your name?' in Mandarin. I've started learning and while it's insanely difficult and tedious and I can't say half the sounds, there's the occasional triumph when I actually learn something.

5. Lots of theatre and art to look forward to. Au Revoir Parapluie at Saddler's Wells, Jewels at the Royal Opera House and hopefully, if I pray really hard, The Masque of the Red Death in a warehouse in Wapping. Just lush.

Damp Soup

We sit, side by side on pale wooden benches facing a window. Soft rain is pouring down the glass, loosening grey dust and forming it into ugly streaks. My eye fixes on a grey droplet and I watch as it falls slowly, blown by a sporadic wind, to the ground. You have your arm around me, and the dampness from your coat is seeping into my jumper. I ask you to take it off. You acquiesce. A waiter brings two steaming bowls of ramen noodles to the table, and we start to eat. You begin with the soup, I with the noodles. You would never agree with me on that one.

We’re silent, damp and silent. I think of my mother, how she dislikes noodles, forcing us to cook rice for her in a separate pan. I’m alone with my thoughts when you begin to speak. I don’t catch the first few words, so faint is your voice through the clatter of the noodle shop. Turning to face you I see you are agitated. Your cheeks are red and your won’t make eye contact. ‘What’s wrong?’ ‘Nothing, don’t worry. I mean, it’s nothing major, but I’ve decided to take the scholarship. I know we’d agreed but I can’t deny what a good opportunity it is for me. I might never be able to do this again in my whole life…’ You trail off. I look down into my bowl and the greasy film on top of the soup turns my stomach. Something in your tone tells me that this is non-negotiable, your mind is made up. I pick up my bag from under the table, hurriedly throw my coat on my shoulder and leave. Stepping out onto the street I walk decisively without destination, aiming to lose myself in the mess of umbrellas and rain coats. I walk four blocks before I allow myself to cry. In a doorway, without restraint, the tears fall, soft rain.

Barcelona in the autumn half-light

Poached

Gingerly I step into a deep white bath while an eager-faced woman looks on. I'm not prudish, and by the looks of things neither is she. In broken Spanish I agree with her questions and, she carefully adds a cup of yellowy oil to the warm water. A few seconds later she's gone, replaced by a ferocious noise as a tumult of bubbles crack the surface of the bath. I lie there, trying to aclimatize myself to the strangeness of being poached, like a big pink salmon in a fish kettle. I'd like to say I enjoyed it, but I didn't. I tried to, really, but all I could muster was a resigned indifference and some very pink skin. Man was I glad when my Spanish friend returned.

'Te gusta?'
'Claro que si!'

I'm such a good liar in a foreign language.