kesengalan mache dah berjangkit kt aku...papehalpon...aku tergerak ati nak post something. nothing big, just an essay from one of our Muslim brother...without further a due...

Below is an award-wining story written by a
Muslim brother, for a
nationwide essay competition in Canada.



A few months before I was born, my dad met a
stranger who was new to
our small town. From the beginning, Dad was
fascinated with this
enchanting newcomer, and soon invited him to live
with our family. The stranger
was quickly accepted and was around to welcome
me into the world a few
monthslater.

As I grew up, I never questioned his place in our
family. In my young mind,
each member had a special niche. My brother,
Bilal, five years my senior,
was my example. Fatimah, my younger sister,
gave me an opportunity to play
big brother and develop the art of teasing. My
parents were complementary
instructors - Mom taught me to love the word of
Allah, and Dad taught
me to obey it.

But the stranger was our storyteller. He could
weave the most fascinating
tales. Adventures, mysteries, and comedies were
daily conversations. He
could hold our whole family spell-bound for hours
each evening. If I wanted
to know about politics, history, or science, he
knew it.

He knew about the past, understood the present,
and seemingly could predict
the future. The pictures he could draw were so life
like that I would often
laugh or cry as I listened. He was like a friend to
the whole family. He
took Dad, Bilal, and me to our first major league
baseball game. He was
always encouraging us to see the movies and he
even made arrangements to
introduce us to several movie stars.

The stranger was an incessant talker. Dad didn't
seem to mind but sometimes
Mom would quietly get up while the rest of us were
enthralled with one of his stories of faraway places,
go to her room, and read her Quran and pray.I
wonder now if she ever prayed that the stranger
would leave.You see, my dad ruled our household
with certain moral convictions. But this stranger
never felt an obligation to honor them. Profanity, for
example, was not allowed in our house-not for
some of us, from our friends,or adults.

Our longtime visitor, however, used occasional four
letter words that turned my ears and made Dad
squirm. To my knowledge, the stranger was never
confronted. My dad was a teetotaler who didn't
permit alcohol in his home,as good Muslims
should. But the stranger felt like we needed
exposure and enlightened us to other ways of life.
He offered us beer and other alcoholic beverages
often. He made cigarettes look tasty, cigars
manly, and pipes distinguished. He talked freely
(probably too much, too freely)
about sex. His comments were sometimes
blatant, sometimes suggestive, and
generally embarrassing. I know now that the
stranger influenced my early
concepts of the man-woman relationship.

As I look back, I believe it was the grace of Allah
that the stranger did not influence us more. Time
after time, he opposed the values of my parents.

Yet, he was seldom rebuked and never asked to
leave. More than thirty years
have passed since the stranger moved in with the
young family on Wangee
Road. He is not nearly so intriguing to my Dad as
he was in those early
years. But if I were to walk into my parents den
today, you would still see
him sitting over in a corner, waiting for someone to
listen to him talk and
watch him draw his pictures.

His name you ask?

We called him TV.


hm...stranger,yes?