who is the clarion fund?

As you’ve probably heard, a mysterious group called the Clarion Fund has been waging a propaganda war through the media, distributing millions of copies of the extremist DVD Obsession through paid advertisement supplements in major newspapers throughout swing states. The movie, in case you haven’t seen it, is a modern day Der Ewige Musselman, featuring high-value propapaganda tactics, quickly interspersed shots that clearly link through adjacentness Islam and Fascism, and lots of neocon talking heads debating the seriousness of the Muslim presence on earth and how best to deal with it (Mark Steyn’s “if you can’t outbreed ‘em, cull ‘em!” Final Solution seems to be a popular option). Here’s a sample cutscene:

• Shot one: Actors in pantomime Arab costume feast on Jewish babies while shaking their scimitars.
• Shot two: Overview of the Nuremburg Rally.
• Shot three: A fifteen minute solliloquay by Robert Spencer screaming through spittle-encrusted beard that Muslims are Nazis who eat babies.

It’s been a while since I’ve seen it so I may have made some of that up.

Regardless, coming this close to the US elections, where our neighbors to the south will carefully look over each candidate, evaluating individual policies for the good of their families and neighbors, and then vote for the white guy, the timing is suspect. So who’s doing it, anyway?

Hard to say. The Carion Fund sure ain’t saying. Their site doesn’t have much on it. They do list a 888-number (1-888-610-2221) for “general information and screening requests,” but when I called to see if they’d show it at my mosque they hung up on me. Their “Online Education” section just links to a site called radicalislam.org (naturally). There, you’ll find all kinds of fun facts, including:

• Fuelling Terror, which directly links fossil fuels to radical Islam and terror
• Sharia Law, which explains that your Muslim neighbors are really just waiting for the right opportunity to impose hand-amputatin’, woman-beatin’, dhimmi-bootin’ Sharia on you…so watch out!
• The Death Sentence for Converts, which kind of backs up Mark Steyn’s position that the only good Muslim’s a dead Muslim
• Where are all the Liberal Muslims? See above–they’re dead! Haha!
• Set America Free, a gripping Q&A on why America is currently dhimmified, and what you can do about it

And probably the most important one, which I’ll quote outright:

• Vote 2008: As the 2008 Presidential election approaches, the threat of radical Islam is the defining issue of the campaign. What are the positions of the Presidential candidates?

Wanna guess which side they’re on?

More fun stuff: The radicalislam.org site includes a link to Tell Your Story: Post your experiences with radical Islam, but alas, the link’s dead letter. I had a doozy for them too, about how this one time, I was riding a bus, and I saw these terrorist Arabs, and they were talking Muslim, and I snuck up behind them and knelt behind their seat and recorded their conversation on my cell phone, but then this LIEberal dhimmi feminazi who was sitting there got mad and accused me of taking upskirt photos and I got kicked off the bus even though its THEM who should be kicked off the bus!

But I’ve got hopes the link will be up again soon, and once it is, please feel free to share.

danny “crack” pipes: how muslims view b HUSSEIN o

In today’s Jerusalem Post, Daniel Pipes does his best to explain to us what the Muslim world thinks of Barack X Hussein al Obama–and, of course, the Jerusalem Post is exactly where you want to find incisive insight into the Muslim world, and who better to provide it than Daniel Pipes, champion of soft numbers and other stuff he pulls out of his ass.  Check it:

How do Muslims see Barack Obama? They have three choices: either as he presents himself, as one who has “never been a Muslim” and has “always been a Christian”; or as a fellow Muslim; or as an apostate from Islam.

That’s an awesome summary, but it seems to me there must, simply must, be a fourth choice: We Muslims view Barack Obama as the Presidential candidate least likely to kidnap us, send us to Gitmo, and rape us with a chemical light, as the Presidential candidate not so insane as to jump to war with Iran and Syria and murder further hundreds of thousands of our brothers and sisters in hopes of–what did we hope to achieve in Iraq again? well, whatever that was, but regrettably, as yet another Presidential candidate who will continue the Syriana policies of Ango American administrations since the turn of the last Century.

But let’s forgive that oversight.  Digging deeper, we find that ZOMG!!11! HUSSEIN X OBAMA IS A TRAITORous apostate infidel, and that the Muslims are going to get explodey should he become the next president:

BUT THIS excitement also has a dark side – suspicions that Obama is a traitor to his birth religion, an apostate (murtadd) from Islam. Al-Qaida has prominently featured Obama’s statement “I am not a Muslim” and one analyst, Shireen K. Burki of the University of Mary Washington, sees Obama as “bin Laden’s dream candidate.” Should he become US commander-in-chief, she believes, Al-Qaida would likely “exploit his background to argue that an apostate is leading the global war on terror… to galvanize sympathizers into action.”

Of course, the thought that Al Qaida might also exploit John McCain’s current profile as a greedy warmongering a**hole apparently doesn’t seem to rate mention.  Nor, indeed, does the Obama-is-Rushdie meme get much traction outside the neocon press, as Pipes himself notes:

Mainstream Muslims tend to tiptoe around this topic. An Egyptian supporter of Obama, Yasser Khalil, reports that many Muslims react “with bewilderment and curiosity” when Obama is described as a Muslim apostate; Josie Delap and Robert Lane Greene of the Economist even claim that the Obama-as-apostate theme “has been notably absent” among Arabic-language columnists and editorialists.

I guess it hasn’t occurred to Mr. Pipes that the claim is “notably absent” because most people in the Muslim world think it’s “incredibly stupid” and “really don’t care.” But, I’ll have to admit, I probably don’t have as firm a grasp on what Muslims want, hope, and believe as Daniel Pipes thinks he does.

that’s how it’s done

A little stale, but still.

Around 30 people gathered at the Islamic Foundation in Brno, south Moravia, May 5 for the screening of Fitna, a controversial new film by Dutch right-wing Deputy Geert Wilders.

The film starts off with the first lulling tones of the Arabian Dance from The Nutcracker ballet as a mock-up of a page from the Koran appears onscreen, along with an English translation of an excerpt from a verse: “Prepare for them whatever force and cavalry ye are able of gathering / to strike terror … into the hearts of the enemies, of Allah and your enemies.”

After several seconds, the Nutcracker music stops, replaced by news clips depicting the destruction of the events of Sept. 11, 2001. The remainder of the film follows a similar pattern, interweaving violence-oriented excerpts from the Koran with footage of terrorist attacks, beheadings and Islamic extremist rhetoric…

[T]he Islamic Foundation in Brno organized its own screening of Fitna.

“We wanted to illuminate the parts of the Koran that were left out of the movie,” said Brno Islamic Foundation Chairman Muneeb Hasan, an Iraqi immigrant who has lived in the Czech Republic for 23 years. “The film depicts Muslims as people who are rigid in their views, so we wanted to show that we are not afraid of criticism, that we are open to discussion.”

For Hasan, Fitna is particularly dangerous because it instills the idea of a link between Islam and terrorism into the audience’s subconscious. “The film alleges that Muslims lack the ability to live in peace with other cultures, that women have an inferior position in society than men,” he said. “It’s biased and xenophobic.”

That’s how you respond to speech you don’t like and you think is dangerous.  You engage it and show it for what it is.  Geert Wilder’s publicity stunt is a dismal failure, endorsements from Robert Spencer, Ayaan Hirsi Ali, Mel Phillips, and the rest of the xenophobic alphabet soup notwithstanding. Shaking fists at the Dutch government is stupid, not in the least because it shows a fundamental misunderstanding of what open societies are and do.

al attash

When you think about Hazrat Abbas (as), the son of Imam ‘Ali ibn Abi Talib (as) and brother of Imam Husayn (as), don’t blame yourself if you imagine someone of cartoonish proportions, a super hero. It’s the stories we hear about him, the legends we’ve built about this man. They’ve said if Husayn were the heart of ‘Ali, Abbas was his arms, his strength, his power. They’ve said that when enemies of justice and freedom heard Abbas’ name, they’d scatter: the turning point in any fight was the minute Abbas showed up. That’s Abbas, the legend.

Abbas, the human being–and what a human being!–is in Karbala. His tiny army has left everything on the field–nothing’s left for tomorrow, because this is Ashura, this is every day, there is no tomorrow. He is conflicted, pacing, anxious. From the start, he’s wanted to be out there with his brothers; he’s asked for permission (he, the commander) from Imam Husayn (as) to go, and he’s tried to go, and the army on the other side, the forces of Umar ibn Sa’ad and Ibn Ziyad, and Yazid, that son of slaves–they don’t want him to go, and he knows it.

But there’s something for him here within the camp, a greater need, and it’s for him to know. Bibi Sakeena (as), this tender child, daughter of the Imam, prescious comfort, she needs him because his massive presence comforts her. He hears her: “Al Attash! Al Attash!” It’s the thirst, and it’s killing everything here. Umar ibn Sa’ad’s blocked access to the river and they haven’t had water for days. They’re all about to die. But the little girl’s voice tears Hazrat Abbas in half.

It’s time for action. He grabs the water skin and his ‘Alam (standard) and heads to the river. The guards, frightened, scatter predictably. He reaches the water of the Euphrates and cups it in his hand–he’s so close–but doesn’t drink it. He can’t drink before Sakeena.

He rushes back. Umar ibn Sa’ad calls out his men, many weaklings against one strong man, and they rush at him. We’ve all heard the stories, and if we haven’t, it’s sadly predictable: they take Abbas’ arms, stab at him, knock him down. It’s terrifying, gory, and sad. I can’t think about it.

But the pain doesn’t mean anything to a man with a pure heart. What kills him is seeing the waterskin pierced by arrows, Sakeena’s water, Sakeena’s hope, mixing with his blood and the sand at Karbala. O, Abbas. I’m so sorry.

The Imam comes to him and holds the head of his friend, his brother, with care. Abbas has given the Imam everything he could ever hope for. Abbas has devoted his entire life, even his death, to the service of his Imam, his master, his mawla. Imam wants one more thing. Can this Abbas, this helper and devotee, who has his whole life called Husayn “master:” can this Abbas now call him brother?

patience

Zaynab bint Ali ibn Abi Talib marches from the hot sands of Karbala to Kufa, her head naked to the hot sun, pushed along the road and through the streets by foul men too stupid to realise what they’re doing, or too weak to care. She’s raw and abused by these men, but her concern isn’t for herself–the little ones, the girls, they need her now. She can’t concern herself with her own grief. Muhammad and Aun, her two young sons, their lives thrown onto the plain with their uncles. Hazrat Abbas (as), the strong, who when they were smaller would teach them swordplay. Imam Husayn (as), the son of a Lion, himself a Lion, his life and those of all his companions taken for pride and dunya, stripped of dignity by men without shame. They’re all behind her now, and the ones who need her are right here.

Sakina needs her. The little Sakina, may God comfort her and give her peace, needs Zaynab’s strength. And Imam Zayn al-Abidin (as), he’s still weak with sickness. And the others too. The brutes torment them as they march toward Kufa.

What would you do? What do you do when you’re stuck in traffic? You curse. What do you do when the fellow in front of you at the ATM takes too long? You grumble under your breath. What do you do when a co-worker frustrates you, doesn’t seem to get it? You lose your cool, you backbite, you ridicule. Maybe not all the time, but you do. “Why am I surrounded by idiots?” you might say. “Why me?” Who doesn’t? And that’s hardship?

All Hazrat Zainab has left is sabr. Karbala’s behind her, and Medina, home, is so far away. The anger and grief is inside her. Of course it is–she’s extraordinary, but she’s also human. She knows, more than any one of them, what’s happening here. She’ll tell Yazid, the son of slaves, “My Husayn has been killed and the partisans of Satan are taking us to the fools so that they may get their reward for insulting God.” But that’s not until Sham, Damascus, the court of Yazid, that son of slaves. Not yet. For now, just the dust and the heat, putting one tender foot in front of the other.

you can turn back…

What went through Hurr’s mind when he took that first intrepid step 1400 years ago, when he turned away from Ibn Ziyad and Yazid and put one foot in front of the other toward the way of Karbala and the Imam? It’s hard enough to do the right thing at the best of times, but try and imagine yourself in Hurr’s shoes, having draped yourself in the guilt and sin of expedience, having weighed yourself down with deeds serving dunya. Not just that, but Hurr’s a soldier–that’s treason he’s doing, which must wrack his brain and tear him apart, although it’s treason against evil. His heart guides him, though, not his mind. Your mind tells you–or that whisperer–”Why turn back now? It’s too late. Don’t worry: I’ll keep you company in the fire.” But your heart can always turn back to God.

Look at his joy as he joins the Imam. He’s the first on the battlefield, the first to fight for him. He knows this isn’t a real fight. It’s a turkey shoot, the most graphic and one of the first of a long line of turkey shoots in Iraq. He knows it’s hopeless, but he puts himself in front of the Imam, because that’s what turning toward the Good means–when Injustice hunts Beauty and Truth, sometimes your only weapon is yourself.

My grandfather was a smoker–by some accounts, a smoking entusiast–all his life. I never met the man because he passed away the year before I was born, but my father told me stories of how, when he was snowed in during winters and couldn’t replenish his tobacco supplies, he’d cut the ends of spent cigarettes and harvest the tobacco, rolling it into fresh papers. When the papers were used up, he’d use newsprint. And when the tobacco was truly in the vapours, he’d look in the cracks of the floor.

Just before my grandfather died of lukeimia, he called my father to see him. My father hadn’t seen him in some time, and when he went to his hospital room, he was shocked–this man, always severe, was once a picture of masculinity, clothed in wirey muscle. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen anyone in the final stages of lukeimia, but you can imagine a shell, a waif–hardly anything left. My father tells me he was taken aback. His father tells him, “Hey you, come here!.” He gets close. “I’ve got something I need to tell you.” Closer still. “I’ve just quit smoking. I’ve never felt better in my life.”

It’s not too late to do the right thing. Turning towards the good is always best. If I had to pick a hero from Karbala, someone I wanted to be, I might pick Hazrat Abbas (as)–what strength!–or Bibi Zainab (as)–what eloquence! But I’d be better off setting my sights on Hurr.

the heart of muslim

Note: The theme of this post is poached almost entirely from Dr. Akber Mithani’s lecture on the night of 3 Muharram 1429.

In the 60th year of the Hijra, 680 CE, Imam Husayn ibn Ali (as) dispatched Hazrat Muslim ibn Aqeel, his cousin and trusted friend, to Kufa in modern-day Iraq to investigate the circumstances of its people, who had pledged him allegiance through a series of letters he had received while in Medina. Hazrat Muslim and his two sons left Medina in Husayn’s service, and arrived to a Kufan public eager to receive Husayn as their Imam, their Mawla, their Caliph. Thousands of Kufans implored Hazrat Muslim to send Husayn without delay, and he did his duty and sent for him.

Yazid, the son of slaves, the usurper, heard about Kufa, and immediately sent the governer of Basrah, Ibn Ziyad, to secure the unrest he saw unfolding there. Ibn Ziyad therefore fulfilled his role as another cog in the machine, another strongman, supported by thieves and foreigners, airlifted into power in Iraq to knock some heads about. And in perfect strongman fashion, Ibn Ziyad informed the people of Kufa that what Yazid willed for them was compliance, not insurrection. Hazrat Muslim, after having dispatched Imam Husayn, once the bringer of hope for Kufa, was hunted for money and fame in the service of Yazid–and the transformation of the people of Kufa was a singular moment, a breath, a turning away, and it set into motion the machine of history.

Hazrat Muslim is alone for days in the streets of Kufa. His heart is heavy because he knows his cousin has already left, is marching toward Karbala and what happens there. On the outskirts of town, he finds a house and knocks on the door–hoping for what, I don’t know. What’s left to hope for in times like this? And he finds kindness, a lover of God in the form of a mother. She quenches his thirst, but he cries for the Imam. This mother feels for Muslim, as any mother feels for any son. And that is the last good person Hazrat Muslim finds in Kufa, the last person he will know that is capable of seeing feelingly with a pure heart full of real love, love for God, the protection of what is right and rejection of what is wrong.

Her son sees with eyes guided by a heart consumed with something else–our hearts can hold only one infatuation at a time–and he hurries to Ibn Ziyad, to dunya for a little bit of money, and for that money he sells Hazrat Muslim. Ibn Ziyad catches Muslim and summarily executes him, lopping off his head, the standard M.O. of terrorists. Before he is killed, Hazrat Muslim has three last wishes. Look at this man, look at the purity of this man’s heart:

1. He knew he owed a debt, so he requested his sword and armour be sold to pay that debt.
2. He requested a proper burial so that he would face the House of God.
3. He requested Ibn Ziyad to send word to Imam Husain (as) to turn back to Medina.

His heart desires only to fulfill his obligations to God. Ibn Ziyad grants his first wish, but disregards the rest: Hazrat Muslim’s headless body is dragged through the streets of Kufa tied to a donkey. His head is mounted at the gates of the city, as if to warn the people: “This is the end of the path of God. Obey Yazid, and save your skin!”

The moment in Hazrat Muslim’s story that captures me more than any other–more than the moment of his death, or the last precious last minutes he spent with the Imam, or the elation or the betrayal of the Kufans, is that brief moment when a son who loves dunya makes a commitment to sell the Good for particles of gold. What drives that man? It’s not greed–greed is a means to an end, it’s an emotional tool we use to turn the most expedient thing, the most profitable thing, into the right thing. It’s not ambition or arrogance either–all of these are merely tools we use with our minds to explain the world to us in a way that benefits us. What drove this mother’s son to sell Hazrat Muslim was the absence of God in his heart.

In the Supplication of Kumayl, Imam Ali (as), Husayn’s father, tells God of his real fear of the Fire. It’s not torment or physical pain. It’s the absence of God. Astaghfirullah. Conversely, the drive he feels toward Paradise isn’t for the streams and the meadows and little bunches of grapes, it’s for nearness to God. Subhanallah.

Now think about why we pray, and fast, and give in charity. We’re like children–we do it for the promise of Paradise and the avoidance of the Fire, to gain reward and avoid punishment. Prayer and fasting and charity aren’t highways to Heaven. They’re conduits to seek nearness to God. We think of reward as Paradise–reward is being near to God. We think of punishment as the Fire–punishment is separation from God. If only we knew.

This mother’s son, who sold Hazrat Muslim to the sons of slaves for dunya, turned away. That’s what turning away does to you. You take this life, in which you can be anything you want to be–a scholar, a doctor, a soldier, a carpenter–this precious gift from God, you take your potential, you take your nafs, and you practically give it away. Even worse, you sell it for a little bit of money. You might as well be an assassin or a whore.

my only armour is lamentation

It’s 1 Muharram tonight. I can feel its crescent. I haven’t been a Shi’a all my life, but sometimes it seems that way. In Muharram, sometimes it feels like everyone’s a Shi’a. But maybe nobody is. Nobody owns Karbala.

I had a phone call today from a newspaper reporter (I’d told him earlier about Muharram being the first month of the Islamic calendar and the special significance it held for Shi’as.) He asked about what we do. I told him about the lectures we hold–in our centre, a guest speaker usually delivers 10 to 12 sequential lectures on a common theme–and the recitation of the histories, and of course the matham and the mournful poetry. But it’s impossible to describe Muharram, at least not effectively, without making it seem like a bunch of rituals to commemorate a tragic moment of history. It’s more than that. Muharram isn’t a vehicle for rituals or religious performance art, any more than it’s a vehicle for partisan history lessons. Muharram is a process. Put yourself into it. I can’t tell you what you’ll be when you come out of it. It probably looks something like this:

O' Thou!
  Whose Name is a remedy
  and Whose remembrance is cure
  and obedience to Whom makes one
    self sufficient;
  Have mercy on one
    whose only asset is hope
    and whose only armour is lamentation!

Source: The Supplication of Kumayl

Ya, Husayn!

probably more dangerous…

I just fielded two comments on my post about the murder of Sis. Aqsa Parvez. Pretty standard fare, really, and they mimic the majority of what finds its way into my inbox from abdiel.ca. The first begged me not to hide the truth, called me appalling (and Muslim, which would seem to be redundant from this person’s perspective–I’m just guessing here, but I’d say that’s accurate), and then told me hijab was “legitimate subjects [sic] when discussing a religiously motivated murder.” Maybe that’s true. Definately irrelevant. The author of the second, and this is much more common, appeared not to have read the article at all. That’s okay, really. I can’t force people to read or listen before they write or speak. It’s just that if a person chooses not to, that person looks a bit foolish.

No matter, though, because this person left me a real gem, probably without even realising it. This person says: [Islam is] as silly an idea as any other religion (though probably more dangerous).” The first part is woefully uninformed and unenlightening–it’s a throwaway, because if a person thinks religion itself is merely “silly,” then that person is, de facto taking himself or herself out of the discussion. It’s a throwaway statement.

But the second part tweaked my interest: “probably more dangerous.” I’m sure the thought behind that statement was in the explodey-go-boom-muahaha-evil vein. Again, pretty standard stuff. But Islam is dangerous, much more so than the people who claim to commit mass murder in its name could even pretend to understand. Certainly more dangerous than the author of that comment knows. Islam, like any other iconoclastic movement, has behind its texts and processes and dogma and people an uncompromising premise that is, of itself, enormously dangerous:

La ilaha illa lah.

A primal rhythm, a simple truth. There is no God but God. Allahu Akbar. God is great. That’s the breath that fills our lungs, and the blood that courses through our veins–if we only knew it.

So to whom or to what is that dangerous?

Yeah, it’s dangerous to Moloch and Mammon and Baal and all the other spirits, and to the little wooden idols that don’t do anything for you. It’s dangerous to all that stuff priests and witches put in peoples’ heads to liberate them from their dollars. That’s true.

But it’s dangerous to the guy who wants to sell you that car you can’t afford. It’s dangerous to the guy who tells you you won’t get anywhere without it, or without the Armani suit and the gold watch, that nobody wants a loser who can’t afford $50 underwear, who can’t afford to drink French tapwater out of a bottle. It’s dangerous to the people who line their pockets feeding on you, reeling you in with lies and empty promises, who whisper in both your ears, who yell at you to get more and better stuff, who tell you it’s them you’re working for, it’s for the stuff, all that junk you don’t need–they lie to you when they tell you that you do. And we all buy it. Me too. Who doesn’t?

It’s dangerous to the men and women who collect your taxes, because it, more than any constitution or charter, puts them on notice, whether or not they realise it.

It’s dangerous to today’s priests and witches, to the charlatans who tell you the purpose of religion is to dictate how much skin women can cover up or how long men can grow their beards, or about how Islam is something that happened 1400 years ago. It’s dangerous to anyone who tells you self-righteousness is a reasonable facsimile for taqwa.

All of these people put something between you and God–money, sex, power, control. Sometimes they do what they do for the noblest of intentions, but that’s an exception, not a rule. At any rate, at some point, they lost the beat, they forgot to listen to that noble sound, that breath.

It’s God who is greatest. Allahu Akbar. La illaha illa lah. And that’s the beginning and the end.

‘Eid Mubarak, everybody. May you know peace.

aqsa – a dirge

I am extremely angry.

I’m mostly angry that there’s a dead teenager out there, a young girl named Aqsa Parvez who was murdered, almost certainly by someone in her own house, who was the victim of domestic violence, which is a crime that is the worst possible crime in the world.

I’m also angry at Irshad Manji, who jockies Aqsa’s untimely death into a screed against women who choose to wear hijab. Her article on the subject made me feel like I needed a shower. Is this how cheap we are now, that the death of a teenager is food for our own social agenda? In her war against people who like traditions, Sister Irshad sees her own reflection everywhere:

In Berlin earlier this year, a group of young Muslim women — not a hijabi among them! — approached me to express gratitude that I’d posted an Islamic defense of inter-faith marriage.

Congratulations, Sister Irshad. You’ve managed to insinuate the accomplishments of Project Ijtihad© into an article about a dead teenager, something that any other reasonable person would imagine to be so ingratiatingly self-serving as to induce projectile vomiting. Very brave of you.

(Interesting to note that the prime example of Islamofascist extremism, Muslim Girl Magazine that she herself links to, features not one, but two sisters on its front page not wearing a head scarf. What that’s worth, I don’t know, except that it goes to show Sister Irshad’s not that big on self-editing.)

Natasha Fatah asks, Who will speak for Aqsa Parvez?

Irshad Manji just did. And apparently, Natasha Fatah is about to–and I really wish she wouldn’t. Here’s what she says:

The Middle Eastern head covering has become the most significant icon for Islam in the West, which is unfortunate, since 90 per cent of Muslim women in this country don’t wear one. By extension, they get dismissed as not being authentic Muslims.

The CBC’s own Little Mosque on the Prairie plays into this stereotype by showing every prominent Muslim woman in a hijab. This superficial measurement of Muslim-ness has become so prevalent that a small but increasing number of families are pushing it on their daughters.

Sister Natasha makes up facts–90% of Canadian Muslim women don’t wear hijab? Sister Natasha either lies or blunders–Little Mosque on the Prairie features one regular female Muslim character, Sara, who doesn’t wear hijab. In the flashback episode this season, Aamar’s mother doesn’t wear hijab. Neither did any of the women Aamar’s mother brought for him. For crying out loud, Babar’s wife didn’t wear hijab. It’s okay not to watch the show, but it’s probably best not to talk about it if you haven’t because you end up sounding retarded. But who’s counting? The stakes are high enough, the goal noble enough, that truth (or truthiness) won’t get in the way of Sister Natasha’s effort to demonstrate that it’s the hijab that killed Aqsa

Big Daddy Tarek jumps in on this indictment of a piece of cloth. Not disturbed by the fact that he’s never right about anything, Uncle Tarek uses the death of Aqsa to screech that it’s all Iran and Saudi Arabia’s fault. And Uncle Tarek’s not scared to get his hands dirty. This brave warrior in the battle against headscarves is even willing throw down against little girls:

Little wonder then, that Canadian girls walk away from sports tournaments rather than remove their hijabs.

It can’t possibly be the case, can it Uncle Tarek, that Canadian girls believe that forcing them to remove their headscarves, a style of dress they believe is religiously mandated, is obscene? Could it possibly be the case, Uncle Tarek, that your opinion of them, and what they should do, is beyond irrelevant? Could it also be the case that even bringing that up demonstrates such a willing politicization of a teenager’s death that any reasonable human being’s natural reaction should be utter revulsion, followed by a sinister feeling in the pit of one’s guts, a desire to cuff the author of such muck, just once but very very hard, for being such a turd? I’m no expert, but I say yes.

Enough! Here’s what we know of Aqsa Parvez’ death: Aqsa Parvez had problems at home stemming from intergenerational and, probably to some degree, cross-cultural conflicts, which made her distinct from other Canadian kids in exactly zero ways. She was killed in her home, something so mind-shatteringly evil there is nothing normal about it. Nothing normal for Muslims, or South Asians, or fathers and daughters–nothing normal for anyone. Analyzing it as if it falls into some pattern or other is fruitless. Worse yet, scrambling over Aqsa Parvez’ prone dead body, wrenching off this bit or that, stabbing at it with your flag to lay claim to it, to claim that its ultimate sacrifice is a sacrifice for this just cause, the obliteration of the hijab or the destruction of the myth of multiculturalism or the war against tradition, is disgusting.

That’s enough. She was just a kid. And you’re vultures, all of you.