Sexual Mores in Islam

The following is an abstract of the chief points in relations between the sexes in Islam, as provided to the author by a friend and Islamic scholar. Much is familiar from the Christian tradition; not all.
      Firstly, polyandry—women taking more than one husband—was prohibited by Islam. Women are given rights, particularly married women.
      Monogamous marriage is the norm and highly recommended, and asceticism (pretended celibacy), although not banned is strongly discouraged.
      Marriage is only permissible with females who have reached maturity (historically, even in the case of slaves who had converted from paganism). Marriage with Christians or Jews (or indeed slaves) has always been allowed. Consent to marriage here was absolutely necessary and dowry always proceeds from the male to the female.
      When there is divorce (highly regrettable), alimony - called mutaá - is given to the divorced women and maintenance for the children.
      Sex is graced with light introductory prayers and cleanliness. Women's needs are underlined. One cannot marry two sisters, nor have two women on the bed. One could not talk about sex with wife or husband with others. Sex during menstruation is forbidden, as well as what was called minor sodomy (rear entry); homosexuality and lesbianism are both forbidden. (Some of the informant's own vocabulary and phrasing here retained.)
      Islam was the first religion in history that reduced the number of wives from an unlimited number, to a much lesser figure; and even then this conditioned by utmost regard for fair-play and women's consent. (As above: informant's phrasing.)
Only a wife can masturbate her husband and vice versa.
      Fornication and adultery are obstacles to spiritual advancement and, like sodomy and homosexuality, highly forbidden. Masturbation in some circumstances may be unavoidable, but it must never become pathological or a substitute for marriage. (Ditto.)
      After an appeal for a general survey on the subject, these were the matters offered by the informant. Shortly the author intends to read the relevant verses of the Qur'an and Haddith, in the best available translation, in order to try to seize any particular nuance in the wording. This much as a preliminary note for himself as much as for the reader of these pages.

Adolescent Sin'pore

This is going to sound like a likely story. The author can imagine a half dozen readers known to him raising their eye-brows while reading the following lines. Ah yes! My my, they will think.
         Young fellow in a pale lime, light green school uniform boards the No. 170 on Rochor Road this afternoon. Tousled hair, black-rimmed glasses, average label bag like a satchel. Sixteen one would have guessed. That was the thing: such a uniform on a junior student, in Preppy Singapore, one would not necessarily bat an eye possibly. Short-sleeved shirt, slacks both in the colour; shoes unsighted. Light lime green pastel such as in adulthood one almost never spies on either men or women. A kind of jinxed colour. The fairies in Midsummer Night's Dream a director might dress in such costume. When the lad was asked whether the school had a particular name for the colour he professed himself not very sure; in the end hesitantly offering "turquoise". (Gilding the lily; though of course turquoise would have been almost equally bizarre for a boy's school uniform.) For an old High School teacher the age and year level was the pertinent point. Was the lad Junior High? Another uncertainty in designation. In fact seventeen years of age; and at Tampines Junior College the same was worn by students sitting their O-levels—their final year of High School. Puberty some years back in the case of this lad. Almost of an age for military service, licensed killing in other parts of the world. Here he sat in clean lime green, ear-phones plugged, excluding the drab interior of the drab No. 170 and all the racket of the road-side construction. The young scamp was headed for prime real estate: Bukit Timah — Tin Hill; Billionaires Row if daddy was top of the pile. Unlikely in this case. Tampines was a fair way out in the north-east, not so far from Geylang Serai. No tie was something perhaps. Endured the grilling with perfect equanimity. Nice lad. Indeed fired off a question of his own in the short space between stops. What do they possibly imagine they are grooming here on the equator?
         Front page chief item today of the newspaper notice of an educational reconfiguration which will take the emphasis away from content-based, examination assessed learning and realign for VUCA — the volatile, uncertain, complex, ambiguous—in order to prepare the young for contemporary challenges. One can only hold one's breath.

The Other Singapore — Hype and Guff

The opener said it all:
         "On a starry night at the SingTel Singapore Grand Prix, one man glittered above it all...."
         Page one shared with the Bo Xilai verdict and In Brief foreign worker crushed to death and the Hong Kong typhoon.
         In almost one hundred and twenty weeks in Singapore there could not have been more than twenty-five or thirty stars visible through the period. Impossible it has been more. One evening there appeared four or five, two or three in one quarter and some time afterward a sharp-eye at the table pointed out another pasted up in the opposite direction. From long habit, each evening the night sky is scanned here for what little it can offer. The rapid half hour of dusk produces an impressive sky-show occasionally—a range of mostly soft pastels low on the horizon jostling with galleons of blue-grey. Some evenings an Islamic moon and star stand in the west at forty-five degrees as if on request above the Khadijah Mosque up the road. Eighteen months ago young Mintham—Pure Heart in Vietnamese—had remarked on the empty sky in Singapore.
         The drivel continued: ".... David Beckham made a surprise appearance and lent some stardust to the Paddock area and former Thai PM Thaksin Shinawatra.... Pop star Rihanna rocked the Padang.... Canadian heart-throb Justin.... " Certainly more stars on the ground than above gracing the best F1 production on the Planet.
         Last night Kuching Richard was watching the broadcast on the TV in front of the dining table directly outside the room, volume down. Somehow word has got out about the Westerner's impatience with noise and television. Poor Richard addicted to the day-time soaps, sleep ruined by years of shift-work. The same Carpmael house had been inspected eighteen months before and passed over because of the blaring televisions in the common rooms. $S1100 utilities and wifi included, kitchen, fridge, washing machine was a good deal for a furnished room that size in such a location—about $800 per month cheaper than Four Chain View Hotel. Rather than the F1 a plate of fruit Beechoo offered at the usual Labu Labi table last night. Bee had found duku (Malay; in Chinese it is known as chiki or chiku) at a greengrocer in Marine Parade. About the size of a young fig, light brown in colour, thin skin, soft sweet white segments with small seeds. Ahead Bee promised mata kuching; (Cat's eye in Malay), another fruit named for its outer glitter—almost certainly never tasted by the stars on the red carpet near the finish line last night.
        When it turned its hand to big-note arias the Straits Times invariably achieved unintended parody. Only on the day following was there mention of the coincidence on September 22 of World Car-Free Day. Bernie and the local promoters had achieved a media black-out for race day.

NB. Greengrocer Mr. Lim at his Haig Road stall has delivered corrections on the fruits. The ones offered by Bee on the Sunday night sat in a tray on Mr. Lim's shelf, properly called duku langsat, according to the fruiterer. Chiku was something entirely different. And Mr. Lim suggested mata kuching, available here in the time of his boyhood when his old dad peddled fruit on the island in his trishaw, can no longer be found in present-day Singapore. What the Marine Parade stall-holder offers will be longnan—similar, but not the same as cat's eye.

Art and Judging Art

Three times in the last eight years here kids have won Singapore's richest art prize, The Singapore Painting Prize: in 2005 a sixteen year old student at National Junior College; 2010 an eighteen year old from toffy Raffles Institution "snagged the top prize" (signature Straits Times pizzazz in art, sport and general news columns alike); and most recently last year’s seventeen year old, in what was his first attempt at oils. Red faces among the judges, the Board of the local bank that sponsors the prize, among the art community generally. Rules have been modified for next year's competition, as they were two years earlier to exclude the usual cat-among-the-pigeons, photography, when "painting" was stipulated. One established artist who won a few years ago was quoted in the report today commenting "junior college students who have one solid piece of work".... will no longer be permitted to embarrass all the stakeholders in future, she meant. Judging art hazardous at the best of times. In the steamy heat of the dog-eat-dog (and man-eat-dog not so long ago) turbo-capitalist dynastic democracy of Singapore—recently seeking to get in on the soft-power gravy-train—much harder still alack the day!

NB. Disclosure: recently long-listed for an important Australian literary prize, the author fears the judges there concerned have hesitated at the final hurdle. The ABR Jolley Prize.

                                                                               (Straits Times Life section C2, 19 Sept. 2013)

Seizure

Slow-stepping evening westward looking out from the usual post in the half hour either side of 7. The usual salmon pink band low through the trees was caught the other day reproduced in a night-scape at a "social enterprise" gallery on one of the floors at Bras Basah Complex. (An successful local artist had established the space in order to promote serious art to a public in need of guidance, the manager had explained.) 

Rarely does the salmon appear before 7, sometimes preceded by apricot and faint rose-pinks. Invariably, maximum effect was achieved when the blue-greys pressed from the sides in distinct larger forms of their own. Always low and thin the colour bands stretch, something to do with the equator no doubt; here there was nothing like the high blushes of the same tone one gets down on the great Southern land. 

Through the creeping half hour the pavement trees loom large, their dark, textured trunks and branches stark emanations, as if newly arrived from elsewhere.. 

In that light the Paya Lebar Post Office appears as a newly berthed ship, descended from the air rather than any uncharted waters in that particular clearing; perhaps one of those unexplained ancient structures from the religion of a lost civilisation, of which there is no knowledge, Borobudur and the like. (The region here holds a good number.) 

This was an alien presence in the midst of mysterious remnant forest, first contact strongly suggested. An early nineties inspiration, fifteen or twenty years behind the examples of the forerunners elsewhere on the globe, the Paya Lebar P. O. One of the numerous “iconic” structures across the city-scape. 

Daylight hours, with the greater volume of traffic and its road-noise, with the punishing heat and the greys of the structure's cladding merging with the sky, the Post Office loses much of its sinister effect. 

 

The brief passage of dusk gives a small inkling of the past prior to the recent headlong leap of the three short decades. Central and Hyde Parks would no doubt provide similar momentary escapes from the worst outrages of modernity.

On the ground there last night looking out in the usual half-narcotic state, the attention was distracted by the show the Deaf was putting on in the corner beside Mr. Yahya's music racks. Two tables holding near a dozen old men, with the Kalimantan regular among them taking advantage of the fried pisang and teh.

On occasion a dozen & half or more surround the little showman and gather all their pleasure of the afternoon from the routine he delivers. What delight the little chap offers, what a hole filled by his masterly performance. 

Remember Reader, not a drop of alcohol here. Neither have this generation of men been captured by pictures and noise from electric boxes. Reading matter was rare for men of action, forest-dwellers previously, living in sprawling families under atap roofs. Fridays after the mosque the chaps all in their best attire, slow dance Malay Lounge from the speakers of Angel's Department Store next door to Labu Labi. 

Mr. Yahya—John the Baptist in the Christian tradition, equally recognised as an early Prophet by Muslims—aka Angel—puts it on especially Fridays for the lads, even though he himself, Mr. Yahya, never sits among this particular contingent in their flat-caps, cowboy shirts and shiny cow-horn belt-buckles. (Nor are any of these fellows any kind of customers of Mr. Yahya of course.) 

One can easily hear the Balkan accordion re-arrangement, Esma Redžepova’s plaintive gypsy love-blight, in place of the modulated Malay. 

A short while later the unmistakeable March on the Drina in yet another of the numerous half-hidden echoes of the other lost world suggested here on the equator. 

The old men in the audience are all well into their seventies and more than one tipped beyond. All except the grey-haired old Queen-type in his Malay bright blouse, walking-stick and lubricious lips. Almost certainly some of the tightly screwed flat-caps covered egg-bald pates that would be embarrassing to reveal to all and sundry; the mullets behind were always kept in perfect trim and glistening dark coal. Most are clean-shaven, when the more devout give themselves the thin wispy beards that the Prophet recommended in order to distinguish genders. Tees and shorts eschewed in this smart group. Virtually all the shirts were long-sleeved; shoes and not sandals or flip-flops. 

Invariably smokers, dazzling large stones set in their rings when fingers rise to lips. One infrequent member carries a rock that stands a clear inch from his knuckle—$14,000 worth one chap declared; another that same evening whispered big-eyed, fully $20k.

None of this generation have licenses for motors. They bus out from their pigeon-holes in Jurong and further afield Fridays and weekends in particular. The stalwarts have full-time membership at Labu Labi, never missing. 

A good part of the dissolution of these chaps can be seen in their entertainment of the Batam Indo gals thirty and forty years their junior. In their quarters where they offer accommodation to the transient visitors, none can know of developments in the dark of night. 

Some of the girls might pass from one household to another without need of winks or handshakes. What was left the morally upright than justifiable outrage and condemnation, for all that the stipulated three honest witnesses might be difficult to find for the purpose of official proceedings? 

Often the Deaf needs to rise from his chair to properly display his routine. This afternoon a kind of chattering monkey-call with various modulations sounded in trills up and down the tables. Gleaming bright faces were turned to the showman. At one point an old chap in his late-seventies, if not beyond, crowned with a white songkok, was evidently failing in the little play and needed to be taken by the forefinger, slowly and deliberately on the table-top the particular word spelt out letter by careful letter, until it was got.

— Arrhh!

Produced more laughter again in another spurt.

 

.

Improvisation

Drummer-boy approaching from behind it sounded, carrying something vaguely like the current Chinese "hungry ghost" rhythms. Guess had been the young Malay lad who has appeared at the Labu Labi tables the last few months with his little bongo drum. Difficult to tell whether the youngster was a trifle touched, or simply one of the loose and free kampung spirits who has not buckled down to the big city. The lad thinks he has struck a Meanie unwilling to become Facebook friends; unwilling to sponsor him to Australia; standoffish. 
         The barreling percussion quickly brought out the beefy hirsute Tamil rojak chap from behind his stall. What was this?... 
         It was only this man's rounding the table and craning his neck for the narrow entry-way behind, that made one turn to look. 
         Two tight adjacent entries there for the upper storeys of neighbouring shops on Changi Road, measuring little more than a metre in width, concrete risers in both cases. At the base of the second, the further, sat an empty eighteen litre cooking-oil tin, one of the common square kind that can be found at any of the street Eateries. 
         There might have been a dozen and a half stairs in a straight line upward, reaching cheap rooms where landlords bunk ten or fifteen foreign workers to a room. One sees the lads mid-evening wearily lugging their packs up to such places. The big Tamil went all the way along to the entry and stood there a short while looking up. 
         Mystery solved. Unwanted lodgers, those who had failed in their rent, were sent cart-wheeling in precisely this fashion from just such dwellings here not so long ago, one could be sure.
         A short supermarket pass directly after the morning teh found the old Malay leaning against some kind of utility box hard-by a pillar. Yesterday she had surprised there in her traditional garb, straight-backed despite her years and sounding out morning greeting clearly in English. 
         Even a consecutive second sighting like that a couple of moments were needed to realize what she was about. 
         Woman clearly in her eighties, no mistake. Handsome aged face, thin, tall and scarved. 
         There was no hand out. Any passersby who were of a mind here would understand and extend a coin or two, or more often a note. 
         Around the corner Alfie the Optometrist thought his is the only First World country where the aged beg on the streets. Old style, dignified begging in this case; like Osman the recent amputee awaiting the release of his CPF funds, seated most mornings just down the rise under the cover of the walk-way. Osman won't stretch a hand either; unnecessary in this community.

Editorial Butchery: An Author Protests

A short piece of mine that was recently published by a Tertiary Institute in Melbourne, Australia was without any consultation dreadfully butchered and hashed by the editors. 

         Two weeks have now passed since an exchange with one of the editors, with the matter left hanging.

         I want it known, I completely and utterly repudiate the piece, titled "Cunnamulla", as it appears in A Time To Write 2013, published by North Melbourne Institute of Technology, Writing and Publishing Department.
         For anyone interested in the form these disasters can take when inept, unprofessional editors are involved, have a look at the version published by this outfit (on-line at Smashwords), and compare the original posted on this Blog 15 May 2011. (See below for easier convenience.) Perhaps the juxtaposition can have some educative value. Typos, omissions, mangled phrasing and punctuation, blunt and creaking syntax, blundering transitions—it's a complete mess that's been produced by these teachers of the writing craft. A hash almost beyond belief.
         Be warned all writers: steer clear of this crowd.

Cunnamulla

                          Original

Daryl didn't mind you getting his name wrong. It must have happened commonly. Daryl, Terry, Greg—he was of that vintage and strata.
        — Call me Nipper, he allowed immediately at the error, too rapidly for comprehension.
        Nipper. It had been a long while since Daryl had nipped about.
        The day before he had discharged himself from hospital. Trouble with the ticker. A stent had been put in. Drugs for opening up the little veins around the heart. Drugs to thin the blood. More drugs to control blood pressure. Then pancreatitis, Hep C and liver damage. On top of that Nipper left hospital with a chest infection. Tests for nasties on the pancreas and liver couldn't be conducted because the infection meant Nipper couldn't be put down.
        Greg could meet Nipper half-way—or some part of the way—in blackfella talk. They bounced off each other a bit playfully. The pair evidently knew each other well, though Greg had never mentioned Nipper, or Daryl. The blackfella talk was full of smiles and bright eyes, a completely unexpected vaudeville in Greg’s dark, dingy room.
        Cunnnamulla Nipper hailed from. He left on December 17 19----.... The year was a problem for a while. For a while Nipper was stuck in the 90's, which he knew was wrong. Eventually 1976 definitively returned. A few weeks short of his seventeenth birthday. The apprenticeship papers for a diesel mechanic had just come through. On December 17 1976 Nipper came home early, pulled out his drawers and emptied his belongings into his kit, while his mother looked on.
        — Where do you think you're going?
        — Brisbane.
        — Brisbane! You'll get killed in Brisbane.... You never seen a traffic light, you're going to Brisbane.
        Cunnamulla was seventy miles north and a thousand kilometres west—Nipper thumbed for inland in a single jerk. Cunnamulla wasn't on the coast, No. Nowhere near the Gold Coast or Surfers.
        More than likely Nipper thumbed rides in those days. Since 1976 he had been back to see the old lady three times. The last time he had been in thirteen fights in twelve weeks. These numbers came immediately and unimpeded.
        Greg's black jokes went down without a problem. Nipper's large hands, raised knuckles, the tattoos visible even rugged up against the sudden winter blast, stayed put. No cause for alarm.
        Greg's other black jokes on the state of Nipper's health and his mental balance likewise went down smoothly.
        — He may as well put a gun to his head.
        Nipper gave back to Greg's cracks, but without the nimbleness. To this last there was no protest.
        Working in the mines, drink and substances were tricky even on days off. Each morning you had to blow. Not only .05 but .01 got you a window seat. On the aircraft to the mainland.
        Talk of work on the islands brought out Greg's familiar story about Hamilton. The head honcho who will remain nameless here, who was called God by his minions, wore a pith helmet and monocle. In his office a large plaque on the wall declared: You Can Tell the Size of the Boys by the Size of their Toys. That didn't stop Greg dropping his strides and brown-eyeing the monocle when he got fired. You could forgive Greg for returning to the story over the years; finally it was the repetition of detail that confirmed its veracity.
        The Achilles was the name of God's runabout, a former mine-sweeper. When some Arab sheiks were being entertained by God and given a tour of the islands, $98,000 of diesel went into the jaunt. Later God bull-dozed a mountain to extend the runway for direct flights to his resort. A waterbed in the cabin of the runabout, mirrors on the ceiling, Greg poking one of the lasses where God alone had the prerogative—Nipper might have heard the story before too. It was hard to tell. Had it been a first listening Greg’s fragmentary delivery would have made it almost impossible to follow. Nipper may have worked on the island himself. Either way, in Nipper's hearing no added bullshit would have gone down in such a story. Through the hour or so Nipper remained on his feet, arms crossed on his chest like the quiet guy in the bar who needed to be monitored for the good order of proceedings.
        More than strange to catch Nipper—Daryl—up close like this. On Fitzroy Street you could often see him lurking with a couple of pals nursing a stubby. Around in Gertie Street the same, on the Koorie gym corner. Nipper roomed in Fitzroy nearby. In Nipper’s time there were no gyms in Cunnamulla, you could be sure. Not many Marquis de Queensberry lads could have gone a round with Nipper in his day. On the street Nipper was always a little dauntingly squint-eyed like now in Greg’s bed-sit. Squint-eyed, hollow-cheeked, gap-toothed, heavily creased. In his winter clobber, cap pulled over his eyes, none of the signs of illness were visible. You couldn’t see Nipper submitting to a medical regime, tests and pills, palliative care. They’d pass round the hat for Nipper’s fare. The ride to Culla took as long again as Brisbane almost, one of them reckoned with some kind of wry truth that produced nods.

                     Edited

Daryl didn't mind you getting his name wrong. It must have happened to him regular. Daryl, Terry, Greg – he was of that vintage and strata. “Call me Nipper,” he allowed immediately and a tad too rapid for comprehension.

Nipper? It looked a good while since Daryl had ever nipped.

The day before he’d discharged himself. Some trouble with his ticker. A stent had been put in. Drugs for opening up the little veins around the heart. Drugs to thin the blood. More drugs to control blood pressure. Then they’d run some tests for pancreatitis, Hep C and liver damage. But in the end, Nipper left hospital with a chest infection and the tests for nasties on the pancreas and liver, couldn't be conducted because Nipper couldn't very well be put under if didn’t reckon he’d come through.

Greg could meet Nipper halfway – or some part of the way – in blackfella talk. They bounced off each other and evidently knew and liked each other well enough, though Greg had never mentioned Nipper, or Daryl. The blackfella talk was full of smiles and bright eyes – a completely unexpected vaudeville performed in Greg’s dingy digs.

Nipper hailed from Cunnnamulla. He left on December 17, 19--. The year was a problem for a while. Nipper was stuck in the 90s, which he knew was wrong. Eventually 1976 definitively returned.

A few weeks short of his seventeenth birthday. The apprenticeship papers for a diesel mechanic had just come through. And so on December 17, 1976, Nipper came home and while his mother looked on, he pulled out his drawers and emptied his belongings into his kit.

“Brisbane!” She screeched. “You'll get y’rself killed in Brisbane.... You never seen a traffic light, an’ you're off to Brisbane.”

Cunnamulla was seventy miles north and a thousand kilometres west –Nipper thumbed for inland in a single jerk. Cunnamulla wasn't on the coast, No and nowhere near the Gold Coast or Surfers. Nipper thumbed rides in those days.

Since 1976 he had been back to see the old lady three times. The last time he’d been, he’d been in thirteen fights in twelve weeks. These numbers came to him immediately and unimpeded.

Greg's black jokes went down without a problem. Nipper's large hands, raised knuckles, tattoos visible – even rugged up against the sudden winter blast – stayed put. No cause for alarm. Greg's other black jokes on the state of Nipper's health and his mental balance went down likewise. Nipper gave back to Greg's cracks, but without nimbleness. “May as well put a gun to his head.”

To this last there was no protest.

Working in the mines, drink and substances were tricky even on days off. Each morning you had to blow. Not just .05, even .01 got you a window seat. On the aircraft to the mainland.

Talk of work on the islands brought out Greg's familiar story about Hamilton. How the head honcho, who’ll remain shameless here, was called ‘God’ by his minions and wore a pith helmet and monocle. In his office, a large plaque on the wall declared, You Can Tell the Size of the Boys by the Size of their Toys. That didn't stop Greg dropping his strides and brown-eyeing the monocle when he got fired. You could forgive Greg for returning to the story over the years. Finally it was the repetition of detail that confirmed its veracity.

The Achilles was the name of God's runabout, a former mine-sweeper. When some Arab sheiks were being entertained by God and given a tour of the islands, $98,000 of diesel went into the jaunt. Later, God bull-dozed a mountain to extend the runway for direct flights to his resort. The runabout had a waterbed in the sleeping cabin, mirrors on the ceiling – Greg poking one of the lasses where God alone had the prerogative. Nipper might have heard the story before too. It was hard to tell. Had it been a first-listening, Greg’s fragmentary delivery would have made it almost impossible to follow.

.