Other Writing

I write romance novels.

That’s not what I set out to do when I first put fingers to keyboard. I wasn’t thinking about genre at all. All I knew was that I wanted to write funny, joyful books about characters I had rarely seen represented on the page; characters who looked like me, and who would bring a different perspective to the traditional love story.

I write romantic comedies so that I can see my stories represented in the world.

“Hana Khan Carries On,” my second novel, just coming out, is a romantic comedy inspired by the 1995 movie “You’ve Got Mail.” 

I started my Ramadan prep late this year. Usually, I would have spent the weeks leading up to Islam’s holiest month taking a careful inventory of supplies and preparing the staples and treats that help my husband, my two sons, and me weather long days of fasting. Every family has a different traditional early-morning meal, or suhoor. In my household, we make homemade egg muffins, fruit salad, and meat-filled pastries. My parents reheat rice and curry from their previous night’s dinner and, inexplicably, finish with Raisin Bran. My usual preparations, though, were derailed by the coronavirus’s many restrictions on everyday life—and by my own sadness about how different Ramadan would be this year.

During Ramadan, I find solidarity in the fast, an instant connection that comes from abstaining from food and drink alongside hundreds of millions of others. However, the sense of community—attending communal prayers, visiting friends and family, breaking fast in large gatherings, and anticipating Eid al-Fitr’s celebration at the end of the month—is what has propelled me and my family through past Ramadans. None of that is possible this year. The holy month is supposed to disrupt everyday life, but this year it has been disrupted by a worldwide calamity. Muslims globally are experiencing the strangest Ramadan ever. The feeling of togetherness that is so important during this month is difficult to replicate alone at home, but I am trying to help my family find their own special connection to this Ramadan.

Writer, teacher, Star columnist: “Samosas and Maple Syrup.” @UzmaWrites

Did you march? What should happen now?

I didn’t march but fully support the women who did. I’m an activist in daily life, behind the scenes. I think there’s a sense that something very fundamental about American society is under attack right now and people feel it on a visceral, personal level. For me, as someone who is very visible, I understand so many people who are being placed, viewed and treated as outsiders. They are in a position that is unfamiliar to them but I’ve lived within and without the outsider status all my life. I live in the intersection of faith, culture and feminism. All the social justice movements, especially feminism, need compassion, empathy, understanding and tolerance. It would also be nice to see a wider variety of stories out there. I believe in the power of words. I think that feminists need to read each other’s stories.

How can feminism bring people in?

The way forward is not just to lean in but to lean on each other. Once we realize that (it will) make us feel our voices are heard and empower us. Instead of being exclusionary, now is the time to welcome and celebrate what we all bring to this movement. The idea of not discounting people who don’t look like us or talk like us is so important, especially in Toronto.

It can be tough to talk to your children about what’s happening in the world. It’s a scary and sensitive topic. Editor-in-chief of Today’s Parent, Sasha Emmons and Toronto Star columnist, Uzma Jalaluddin share five tips and strategies for broaching these discussions with your kids.

1. Be proactive in talking to your kids
   You don’t want them to get all their information from kids at school, and chances are, they’ve heard things. However, ask them what they know and let their questions be your guide to giving them the right amount of information.
2. Don’t scare them
   If they’re young, kids may need to be reassured that what’s happening is far away and unlikely to happen to them. This may not be strictly true, but until around at least age seven, many kids may not be able to handle the idea that bad things happen.

The first hijab I fell in love with was a large white cotton triangle bordered with three inches of dangling lace fringe. I tied the scarf in the only style that all truly cool hijabis were sporting: a twisty headband rolled on top, with a bandana underneath. The scarf was held together with safety pins, and most closely resembled my mom’s lace curtains.

I looked gooooood. Like, 1990s big-hair good.

I strutted around in this getup for most of junior high school, before graduating to the second hijab style that was trending. This involved a rectangular scarf that was pinned up, leaving the long end to dangle behind your back.

I still looked goooooood.

This was hijab chic in the ’90s. Those were simpler times. Back then the only places you could buy hijabs were small shops that also sold prayer beads, religious texts, exotic vegetables such as okra and bitter melon, and a few halal cows. It was your basic Walmart Supercentre for the newly immigrated set.