"Come, come, whoever you are.Ramadan begins tomorrow here in the Antipodes. Whenever it comes around, I'd be reminded of the aroma of a porridge that the local Muslim community in Singapore where I grew up would cook. They'd share it with the needy as they break their daily fast. I'd be coming home from school, and greedy me always wondered what it tasted like. I regret that I've not actually tasted it. I'm sure they would've generously shared it and more had I made the effort to ask about their faith. Anyway, a Muslim friend who extended hospitality to me at a difficult time of my life posted this by Rumi. To my limited reading a beautiful ode to what I've come to call—thanks to Derrida—unconditional unconditionality unconditionally.
Wanderer, worshipper, lover of leaving.
It doesn’t matter.
Ours is not a caravan of despair.
Come, even if you have broken your vow
a hundred times.
Come, yet again, come, come."
I won't pretend to know Islam; wtf do I know? But I've certainly been hailed by the call of hospitality. And which culture, community, or self hasn't? For in assuming a culture, community, or self, hasn't one already acceded to the call of hospitality, presupposing as it must a boundary, a border which designates at once the impossibility and possibility of hospitality? Without this limit where would an opening be? How else to welcome and receive?
Viens, oui, oui, I believe, is what Derrida used to say.