Hebban olla vogala nestas hagunnan hinase hic enda thu uuat unbidan uue nu.
“All birds have started their nests except for you and me. What are we waiting for?” This lovely line is the first sentence ever written in Old Dutch. It refers to one of the famous characteristics of birds: they build nests. Or at least, some of them do. Some create cup-shaped nests, like the American Robin, whereas others skillfully weave together a safe ball of grass and reed strips for their offspring, like the Eastern Golden Weaver. Woodpeckers, instead, choose to excavate a hollow in a tree trunk for their young, and Swallows create their nests by sticking hundreds of pellets of wet mud against a wall.
But Emperor Penguins don’t resort to any of those techniques. Instead, their bodies are the nest of their young. Emperor Penguins find their spouses by singing songs and, every now and then, swinging their heads and showing their happy feet in an impressive walk. Once a new pair has consummated their bond, the female Penguin produces a single egg. She then leaves the egg in the care of her male partner as she sets out for the ocean to feed and regain her strength. For four months, male Emperor Penguins fast as they incubate the egg, relying on the body fat they had built up during the summer months. Then, right around the time the egg hatches, the female Penguin returns. Now, it is the male’s turn to feed and recover. After his return, the pair continues their collective care for their chick as they take turns switching between the roles of feeding and caring.
When discussing the possibility of marriage, a man once told me he believed that in a family, men ought to be the ‘providers’. It brought a smile to my face, because, regardless of ideas about gender roles, on a deeper level, that’s a bit of a funny thing to say. It is not men who deliver us from hunger, it’s potatoes, rice, and beans that do. Men don’t quench their family’s thirst, water does. Sure, men can be the ones to pay for these goods through their labor or even cultivate them themselves, but by whose providence? Isn’t it as much their mothers that have provided for their lives, the sunlight that allows them to see a way forward, and their homelands that have nourished and cultured them? Who provided for all of that? Was it men, or was it the Creator of all?
In Surah Al-‘Ankabut, ‘The Spider’, the twenty-ninth chapter of the Qur’an, we are reminded: “How many creatures are unable to bear their own provision? It is God Who provides for them and for you. He is the All-Hearing, All-Knowing. If you ask them who created the heavens and the earth and subjected the sun and the moon, they will certainly say: God. Then why do they turn away from Him?” (Qur’an 29:60-61).
I believe that marriage is about balance, and balance is an ongoing contextual effort, as is shown by the many ways in which different types of birds have come to divide parental responsibilities to fit their specific context and characteristics. Women have the physical privilege and burden of pregnancy, childbirth, and breastfeeding, which adds weight to their scale in the marital balance. To compensate for this weight and regain balance in the marriage, it makes sense for men to be entrusted with the privilege and burden of any necessary physical labor and protection, especially in these times when women’s bodies are challenged and more vulnerable. I believe this to be the heart of religious commandments for men to ‘provide’ for their spouses - an attempt to counter the natural imbalance created by an unequal privilege and burden placed on women’s bodies in the process of having children.
For me, then, it is rather nonsensical to see this commandment upon men, as it is reflected, for example, in the fourth chapter of the Qur’an, Surah An-Nisa’, ‘The Women,’ as establishing some kind of male superiority, or patriarchal archetype, especially when read in line with the context in which the verses of this chapter were revealed. If anything, to me, it reads as a commandment for men to step up to ensure a good marital balance.
But, as the example of Emperor Penguins and many other birds shows, the mere fact that a woman is blessed and burdened with pregnancy, or the laying of eggs, does not mean that she somehow ought to be confined to the nest or naturally take on the role of the sole ‘caretaker’. The Qur’an of creation speaks clearly: balance can take many shapes inspired by context, necessity, and individual characteristics. As such, as human beings, I believe it to be our task to find a fair balance in line with our unique contexts, necessities, and individual characteristics.
And that search extends far beyond the range of one man and one woman. In many traditional, tight societies, when children are born, care is shared, as is providence. When male Emperor Penguins incubate their eggs, they are not alone. Rather, they are together in communities of often more than a thousand fathers and eggs. Together, they form huddles of varying sizes and densities to stay warm or cool off when needed. When the eggs have hatched, and the chicks have gained some weight and feathers, the community transforms into a nursery where the young birds play and learn together, supervised by some adult caretakers. Although the chicks are primarily fed by their fathers and mothers, they are also fed by other community members when there is a need for it. Childcare is a communal phenomenon - it takes a village.
In our Western societies, which are strongly individualized and institutionalized, the social fabric of families and neighborhoods alike has deteriorated. Families have gotten smaller and spend increasingly less time together, both at home and outside of it. At the same time, a child’s upbringing is deemed to be the sole responsibility of its parents as opposed to a range of adult figures, except for their education, which is strictly regulated and provided by public or private educational institutions. Here, I believe there are several lessons we can learn from Emperor Penguins.
Emperor Penguins illustrate the importance of the reliability and emotional involvement of various caretakers in a child’s life. Even though the need for food often drives one of the parents away from their nesting ground, there is always the other parent, or a caring family or community member, that is present with the child. In their book, The Evolved Nest: Nature’s Way of Raising Children and Creating Connected Communities, Dr. Darcia Narvaez and Dr. G.A. Bradshaw point out how detached parenting with a lack of emotional involvement and physical presence often leads to insecure attachment styles in children. The lack of closeness, care, and support they experienced in their early life, often leads them to develop issues as adults navigating relationships.
Detached parenting may, for example, lead to an attachment wound known as ‘anxious attachment’, where a person is insecure in their relationships, has a deep fear of abandonment and insufficiency, and requires a lot of attention and validation. Because the words of their caretakers (‘I love you’) often did not match their actions (e.g. neglect), they have grown distrustful of such kind and caring words, which they tend to interpret as lies, only feeding their insecurities. Persons with anxious attachment wounds will often resort to the display of emotions to get their needs met, for they have learned that this is the most reliable way to instantly receive the care and closeness they crave.
Another common result of detached parenting is an attachment wound known as ‘avoidant attachment.’ People struggling with avoidant attachment wounds have learned early on not to rely on others for care or help and have instead sought shelter in radical self-reliance and independence. Such a person often finds intimacy uncomfortable, and most relationships troublesome. Narvaez and Bradshaw describe: “Although individuals with an avoidant attachment style may be regarded as highly functional, fully capable of doing basic tasks in life - work, socializing, and so on - they have limited access to their emotions. Despite underlying insecurity, anxiety, or distress, they may deny their need for nurturance and often portray themselves as rational, logical, emotionally strong, and in control. Showing weakness is perceived as too risky. In the absence of responsive care, the baby was left completely vulnerable, so as an adult, when they are stressed, instead of seeking intimacy and nurturance, they tend to become irritable and short-tempered.” (The Evolved Nest, p. 83)
Books are an important tool for children’s education. Since the paperback revolution, books have become cheaper and more accessible than ever, and education can be, and has been, increasingly detached from personal relationships. But what is endlessly more important for raising a child than a Penguin Press book is a caretaker who embodies the parental teachings of Penguins. Education is about so much more than the facts kids learn in standardized school curricula. In fact, a disproportionate focus on decontextualized facts will raise a generation that is ‘book smart’, but lacks the wisdom needed to live a life of goodness. Like the Qur’anic example, they carry their modern Western education like donkeys carrying books on their backs (Qur’an 62:5).
Narvaez and Bradshaw warn us, “Decontextualized, abstract theorizing ends up substituting for real-life understanding, and this has led to a great deal of damage around the world by “experts” with the simultaneous devaluing of those who do not conform to collective (dominant culture) standards. Dismissive of other modes of knowledge, through a detached understanding of what is good, Western education has undermined the well-being of Animals, Plants, and the planet and their ability to maintain their respective evolved nests.” (The Evolved Nest, p. 73)
Emperor Penguins teach their young through play, active involvement, and a steady increase of tasks and responsibilities as chicks get older. Their young pick up on social skills simply by spending time in their communities. For us, education has become the domain of books, but let’s not glorify books. Books are nothing but a record of humanity. The pages they hold only gathered meaning when they entered into a relationship with a human author. And that meaning only comes to life when it is processed by a human reader. Books take knowledge beyond the narrow physical context of a human-to-human, teacher-to-student, or storyteller-to-listener relationship, which is both a blessing and a curse, as are most other technologies and media.
Similarly, the written Qur’an is nothing but a record of divinity. Like an unbuilt blueprint, it loses its value when it does not inspire a reader to live divinely. Like any book, its teachings must be embodied for them to be meaningful. If we glorify the ink and pages of the Qur’an an sich, like the glorification of any book, it will only be a barrier between the Author and the readers. We may, then, fail to see the many ways in which we can enter into relationships with the Divine outside of the direct scope of the text, as we hold on to literalistic yet contextually unethical readings of the text, as opposed to searching for a wise and deeply moral application of its ideals. Instead, let us strive to pursue a relationship with the Qur’an only as a means to strengthen our personal bond with its Author, Whom people knew and loved long before the Book was written. When approached in that way, the Qur’an can be powerful beyond any contextual barriers.
The prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, did not only teach the Qur’an by reciting it. Much more importantly, he embodied it. In the siblinghood of the Muslim community, the practical scope of family-like care and love extended far beyond our modern concepts of the family unit. So when the prophet Muhammad visited his close companion Anas bin Malik and saw that his younger brother, a child, was grieving, he asked Anas bin Malik what was the matter with the child. Anas bin Malik answered, explaining that the child’s Sparrow had died and that he was grieving that loss. Muhammad did not brush this concern aside as insignificant, or leave it to his parents or biological siblings to comfort the child. Instead, he himself, a community elder, amidst his endless responsibilities and tasks, turned to the child and asked about the Sparrow. For him, it was no trivial matter. He understood how to give meaning to the Qur’an. And he understood that it takes a village to raise a child.
Very interesting and thought provoking.