In a general 3-stage guide, Prophet Muhammad (peace and blessings upon him) advised his followers on how to treat their children in accordance to their age group.
"From birth to the age of seven, play with them; to teach them thereafter, until the age of 14; and to be their friend throughout the teenage years, until they reach 21."
To any parent, these guidelines are extremely wide and have many dimensions of interpretation, yet they come with undeniable wisdom and allow us to develop our parenting skills with relentless care and sensitivity.
Zooming in on the second age-group of children, the one he (peace upon him) relates to as the "learning age group" of 7-14, any parent would know that children this age learn quickly, absorb new lessons effectively and are able to rationalise on what they have learned.
Children this age look up intently for role models and tend to find comfort in the parent that shares the same gender. Parents in turn should pay alot of attention to these eager minds and nosy parkers because this is the right age to start teaching children right from wrong.
From age 14 onwards, children tend to grow into the wonky hormonal stage of puberty and teenage years and from then on, communicating with your child takes on a whole new meaning.
When Prophet Muhammad (peace and blessings upon him) talked about teaching children, he did not only mean sitting down and looking over homework. Learning at this stage can stand is a daily activity for a child.
Bare in mind then, however conscientious we are at "teaching" our children, there is also the danger of them learning lessons subconsciously from our own carelessness.
Once upon a time, when I was in that age bracket of 7-14, (it was not that long ago really, lol), we had an opportunity to live in Brussles, Belgium. My siblings and I attended an International School, comprising mostly of European students, mainly British.
Being a Muslim family living in the West, the hunt for halal food was inevitable, and the one place in Brussels that Islamically slaughtered chicken and meat was available was in a place called Midi Market.
Midi Market was represented the home for the Morrocan community in Brussels. You would really feel different upon entering the marketplace. It was like standing on the border of Morroco, if you like, though I have never had the pleasure of visiting that country. There were no Belgian people there, just Morrocans and more Morrocans.
Unfortunately, there was a general sentiment amongst the locals, as well as other inhabitants in Belgium that these Moroccan people were really not that nice. Many Malaysians had encounters with them, the youth mostly, asking for money and mostly causing problems on public transportations. Many were also known to pick-pocket. One of my dad's friends had his coat spat on when he refused their requests for loose change.
No, Morrocans were not nice. This was what I was told, over and over again, through a series of many stories.
After a while, my siblings and I never ventured out to Midi market with my parents for their weekly groceries. Too many Morrocans, they would warn, as they drove across the city to the only place halal meat was available.
I would lie if I said I did not agree with them at the time. A few years later during my wonky teenage years I was waiting for a friend during a shopping spree and a Morrocan teenager came up to me. He asked for money, so I said "no." Then he asked again, and I persisted "no." Then he said I had a nice winter jacket and he had nothing to eat. I plonked in some coins into his cup but before I heard them jingle against the plastic, three other guys were advancing towards me, palms outstretch for change. I fled the scene.
After I nearly killed my friend for making me wait for so long I saw my Morrocan buddy chain-smoking at the corner of the street. I concluded he was an idiot.
That incident just fortified my dislike for the Morrocan community living in Brussles. To me, they were all trouble makers.
A couple of wonky years later, in an undisputed peculiar twist of fate and faith, I decided to wear the hijab. That is a different story all together. I was not living in Belgium, but had moved back to my home-country to study.
My family remained in Brussles and I would visit them during my study breaks.
Things were definitely different the moment I entered the country dressed as I was. I now looked like a Muslim.
Walking down the street malls a few years before, I would have never attracted attention - so I was Asian and short, no big deal. With my headscarf however, it was very differnt.
Women would hang on to their handbags and pull them around acorss their chests. Their husbands / boyfriends / friends would tell them to, yelling "hang on to your bag! Hang on to your purse!" And so they did. I would also notice how their pupils would make an indefinite turn to keep me in the corner of their sight, and no matter much shorter I was compared to them, it was actually possible.
Mothers would pull their kids out of the way... or in fact pull them out of my way... and then pull their bags out of my reach.
People would definitely stare and then pretend not to stare, and then stare again, palms around their valuables.
For many moments thereon, I felt like how it would have to felt to be a Morrocan from Midi market. The ones who were marginalised by everyone, except Muslims when their freezers ran dry of halal meat. But even that did not stop them from spreading the nasty stories about the one or two not very nice teenagers on the local tram.
I also realised that I had been taught during my years of learning that anyone who looked vaguely Morrocan was either a loose-change beggar or a pick-pocketer. I had been taught that Morrocans were just not very nice people. Now I was one of them.
The final embellishment came from someone still dawdling in the learning age group - my little brother. He said to me, "Maria, you look like an Islamic terrorist." Did I conclude that he was an idiot. Maybe, at that time, but now, years later I realise that he had been taught to think that way too.
"All mankind is from Adam and Eve. An Arab has no superiority over a non-Arab, nor does a non-Arab have any superiority over an Arab; also a white has no superiority over a black, nor does a black have any superiority over a white except by piety and good action."
(Prophet Muhammad's (pbuh) farewell sermon).
You can't help to reflect that Prophet Muhammad (peace and blessings upon him) warned us against racism during his time as Prophet - he even reminded his followers to eradicate racial discrimination during his farewell sermon.
Unfortunately, as much as Muslims are being discriminated against by non-Muslims who are educated by mainstream media, this hate crime exists within Muslim societies of our own. To make matters worse, children, young children, have their ears peeled open and listen to our laments of "other Muslims" of "other ethnicities" with such distaste.
You can't get enough of a certain hierarchy within the Muslim world. Purple Muslims are better than Blue Muslims. Blue Muslims are smarter than Orange Muslims. Orange Muslims are more beautiful than Pink Muslims. Pink Muslims build better Masjids than Green Muslims. The lists goes on, and we are passing on that very same list to the next Muslim generation - that eager mind and nosy parker listening intently as you and your spouse complain about the Brown Muslim family living down the street.
I'm sure there were sour apples in one of the million baskets in Midi market. I had a run in with one of them, a memory that will stick with me forever. What I do not want forever though, is the lesson I learned of Morrocan people so horridly stereotyped that every Muslim would be known as thief or a scoundrel... let alone an Islamic terrorist.
Now that I am way above the age of consent in any country and addicted to the Internet - mostly for work - I find Midi markets everywhere, in every nook and cranny. In fact, I visit them all the time. I interact with them and I learn from them every single day.
I have met Muslim sisters who have reverted to the beautiful faith through their wonderful Morrocan husbands. I have learned how these families manage themselves and live in accordance to Islamic creed. I have met Morrocan brothers and sisters so steadfast in their faith, that any Muslim - Blue, Yellor or Magenta - would pause in awe, and say Masha'Allah.
Maybe that is something we would like to pass on to our eager minds and nosy parkers.
I feel horrible for the Morrocans who live in Brussels mostly because I had such a negative perception on all of them, even though there were many sweet apples in the baskets at Midi market.
With enough problems on our plates, Muslims need to hold steadfast together. This will not only stengthen the present ummah that is grappling dangerously with diversity and constant change with different Muslim societal infrastructures - it is also necessary for our children.
They learn from us every day and it is their right to be taught right from wrong - whether consciously or carelessly.
And hold fast, all together, by the rope which Allah (stretches out for you), and be not divided among yourselves; and remember with gratitude Allah's favour on you; for ye were enemies and He joined your hearts in love, so that by His Grace, ye became brethren; and ye were on the brink of the pit of Fire, and He saved you from it. Thus doth Allah make His Signs clear to you: That ye may be guided. (Al `Imran 3: 103)
