by Ayesha Mattu
Despite our different backgrounds, religion was a subject over which we connected deeply.
As I grew older, I became more religious. I began spending more time visiting my very religious family in the homeland and found that faith gave purpose and direction to my life, illuminating the values and beliefs that I’d always held: in the purpose and value of every experience, in higher accountability for my actions, and in the necessity of serving others. But because my parents raised me without a rigidly traditional foundation, I was left with the freedom to build the principles of my religious practice on my own. I doubted that the typical Muslim woman would share my worldview.
Amazingly, Rabia met me from the other side of the forest. Raised in a traditional family and a conservative community, her personal exploration and questioning of her faith had brought her to similar views as mine, rooted in a deep love of God. But whereas I was free to start from scratch, she had to contend with a heavy set of assumptions and norms. Reconciling distinct moral landscapes and conducting oneself as a Muslim woman in a non-Muslim society was especially challenging when there were also family expectations. Our paths diverged upon the question of dating.
Rabia had dated before—short relationships with Muslim men spent tiptoeing around the community’s scrutiny. I had much more dating experience. My first serious relationship, with a non-Muslim early in college, was a challenging experience, but I learned a lot from it. I fell in love with another non-Muslim as soon as I graduated from college. Our relationship was passionate, intense, and ill fated. We broke each other’s hearts like colliding trains. By the end, I realized that I wanted to be with a Muslim. The way in which I viewed the world and wished to conduct my life, while reflective of my pluralist upbringing, was still decidedly Muslim. I wanted to be with someone who understood and inspired this side of me.
I was twenty-five the summer before I met Rabia. My second serious relationship had just ended, and I was returning home to attend graduate school—this was the perfect time to begin implementing the changes I wanted to see in myself. Beyond searching for a Muslim partner, I was eager to make the Muslim community the central part of my life while shedding the more complicated and isolating aspects of the constant in-betweenness of my identity and social circle.
I saw my first chance that summer when I had to find a new doctor. There were only two doctors taking new patients in my HMO, a Jewish woman and an Arab man. I signed up for an appointment with the Arab wanting to support a Muslim/Arab professional and to begin deepening my relationship with the community, even in this small way.
He was a Lebanese man with kind eyes and an open demeanor. Having seen my name, he immediately asked me where my family was from and what I did. And though he was proud to see an Arab boy getting a good education, he was a little disappointed that I didn’t speak better Arabic. He spoke a little about his children and his hopes for them. Then he started asking me the routine medical questions.
“Do you smoke?”
“No.” A subtle hint of approval.
“Do you drink?”
“No, sir.” Again, approving.
“Have you been sexually active in the past six months?”
Shit. I paused. How do I answer? Maybe this whole mission of endearing myself to the community was going to be a lot harder than I thought. My past would not be easily shrugged off.
I had lost my virginity at eighteen. Sex had been a healthy and fun part of all of my relationships. Even as I became more disciplined in my practice of Islam, I had trouble throwing sex out. Instead, I ignored this inconsistency, passing my actions off in my mind as at worst a minor sin that, hopefully, would be forgiven. But I still avoided discussing it with any of my Muslim friends.
Should I lie? Was I even allowed to lie to a doctor? Why is he asking me these questions? Is this relevant? Should I tell him I used protection?
“Yes,” I answered sheepishly.
His hesitation seemed laden with visible discomfort and disappointment as he looked down and silently scratched my answer onto his clipboard. He quickly moved on and checked my blood pressure, but my guilt lingered.
As I left his office I regretted not seeing the Jewish doctor. Had I really done something so wrong that this doctor should be ashamed of me? Growing up outside of the rigid confines and gossip networks of a Muslim community, and always keeping my private life close to my chest, I had been able to escape the shame and reprobation felt by many other Muslims who dated and had sex. If this was the reaction of a random doctor, how would the Muslim queen I was looking for react?
But when I tried to make myself regret my past actions, I couldn’t. When I thought about my life and how much I had learned from my relationships, how beautiful a positive, healthy sexual connection could be, how frustrated and lonely so many of my Muslim friends were, it was hard to vilify the act. I was not going to argue that my sexual past was righteous, but I also wasn’t going to beat myself up about it.
I met Rabia soon after at an event of the Justice for Palestine group at the university. Though I am all about the cause, that night I had just wanted to grab some falafel and return to studying. I soon forgot my plans when I laid eyes on this beautiful woman. She was graceful and radiant, with dark eyes that sparkled even from afar and long, curly hair that fell softly across her shoulders. I spent the next hour chatting with people as I worked my way across the room to her. We connected immediately and I secured a date for coffee right as the event was ending and she had to run home. Time pressure was part of our relationship right from the beginning.
We continued to see each other after our first date. She was sharp, political, and radiated a warmth and kindness that I found intoxicating. I was soon smitten. We moved slowly but inexorably toward each other. Our second date ended with a hug. Our fourth, with the slightest touch of our hands (my hand burned with her touch for hours afterward). We kissed on our fifth date. I spent those first weeks in a daze: laughing at seemingly random moments, smiling excessively, writing poetry, eagerly anticipating each meeting.
But the feeling that my past had left me tainted continued to plague me. One way I thought I could minimize the fallout over this truth with Rabia was to be sure that I carried no baggage from my past. It had been a year since I last got tested for STDs. I would have to return to my Arab doctor. Steeling myself, I defiantly made an appointment.
When I got to his office, there was no doubt that his discomfort outweighed mine. He quickly asked me background questions and sent me off to the lab. He called me a week later and tersely reported that my results were negative.
Rabia and I continued to get closer. By this time, we were having trouble keeping our hands off each other. She had been coming over to my house, and things were starting to feel noticeably sexual, though our clothes always stayed on and our hands remained above sea level. I was careful not to push the envelope.
Rabia lived at home, in the suburbs, and would be picked up by a family member early every evening to return home. She was never in the city on weekends. After our first date, her mother sensed that something was up, and accused her of having a secret boyfriend. I was used to relationships that were open and involved sleepovers and unbounded time. So I couldn’t help but be frustrated at how much we had to tiptoe already. Yet it clearly wasn’t enough. Every time we were together, she would receive calls and text messages from everyone in her family and would have to tell ever-more-elaborate lies. Compounding her guilt about deceiving her family was the feeling that during our make-out sessions we were doing something wrong, and it was all becoming too hard a load for her to carry.
And she still didn’t know the extent of my history. I was putting off the inevitable conversation, not wanting to face up to the idea that I was somehow not worthy of this lovely angel.
One afternoon we were out at a café when, as usual, Rabia started looking at her phone, heralding yet another premature close to our time together.
“Can I walk you to the train?” I as
ked, slightly annoyed, but resigned to these inevitable abrupt departures. “I want to get in as much time as I can with you.”
“No, my father is going to drive me home today. His clinic is right around the corner.”
Fuck.
It dawned on me.
Rabia’s father was my doctor.
I had known that her father was a doctor, but my stupid ass didn’t know, didn’t think, didn’t realize . . .
They had the same last name, and how many Arab doctors could there be in this city?
Fuck.
After my date with Rabia, I went to meet my friend Farah. When I told her what I had figured out, she shouted, “No!!!!” and fell over laughing.
“At least you didn’t get deep into this relationship.”
“Wait, you don’t think it’s going to work out?” I asked.
More laughter.
“This is a good Muslim girl, who lives at home with her conservative parents, and her father is your STD doctor?”
“Yeah, so?”
“No, it’s not going to work out, but don’t worry, there are plenty of other Muslim women out there. If you are serious about this one, I wouldn’t tell her. Just hope her father forgets you before she wants to get married.”
I started to despair.
The next time Rabia and I hung out, we met at a café to do work.
“What are you reading?” I asked.
“A book on Sufism. I’m reading the chapter on sexuality. On how some classic scholars thought that sex was the most powerful means for connecting to God.”
“Huh. Interesting . . .” I started sweating.
“The author is basically arguing that we too often vilify sex and label it as dirty without appreciating how it can be a powerful bond of love between people. Isn’t that interesting?”
I had stopped paying attention. Why is she talking about sex? Does she know something? Is she testing me? I changed the subject.
“So, I was praying at Jumma yesterday, and this dude next to me fell asleep during the khutbah. Started snoring. Can you believe that? Ha-ha.”
I needed advice, so I turned to my father. I hoped that his wisdom would prove more heartening than Farah’s.
“Why should he care what you do?”
“He’s her father.”
“What a Muslim asshole. Let me tell you, everyone has sex. I left the village so I could do what I wanted. And when I was in Paris in the sixties, I was free, before I met your mother. Now you want to grow a beard and go back and marry some cousin? Let me tell you, all those assholes were having sex whenever they could. Now they all think they are too good for everyone and don’t even know how to treat a woman with respect.”
Damn. If my father didn’t think my situation was a problem, then it was definitely a problem.
As I continued to see Rabia, her guilt and stress over dating and lying was building. And here I was, knowing full well that her father had seen my little Habib before she had. That he knew more about my sexual past than she did. That I knew her family better than she thought. I had to tell her.
We had been sitting at a little Indian restaurant for an hour, my attention distracted by thoughts of how to broach the fateful topic, when I finally worked up the nerve to plunge right in.
“So, I wanted to talk about our past,” I paused. “I think it’s important that we know where each of us has . . .”
She cut me off.
“Let me guess, you want to tell me that you’ve had sex.”
“Wait, what?”
Did her father tell her? That Muslim asshole. Is this how we are going to end? Am I going to have to go back to dating non-Muslims?
“I assumed as much,” she replied. “Everyone has sex, and you don’t strike me as the ‘virgin type.’”
Damn. I had been spending all of this time making assumptions about her, lumping her into my preconceived archetype of a typical Muslim woman. She clearly had spent that time actually listening to me.
“So . . . ?”
“Me? I’ve never had sex. My parents would kill me, and I want to wait until I am married anyway. But I would think it’d be kinda strange if you hadn’t.”
Well, okay then. But I couldn’t help thinking what her parents, what her father would do if she ever brought me home. I hesitated before continuing.
“I have something else to tell you. I know your father.” I told her, my legs shaking slightly underneath the table.
“Really? How?”
“He is my doctor.”
“Really?” Her brow knitted in confusion.
“He’s my . . . primary care doctor. . . . Really nice guy.”
“Small world, but why didn’t you tell me earlier?” she asked. At this point there was no reason for me to hide the ball.
“He knows I’ve had sex! He tested me for STDs!”
She started laughing.
“I sure hope it was negative,” she said between laughs.
I paused, dumbfounded. I had spent all of this time building this up in my head as if it were an epic tragedy. Her patience and understanding made me ashamed of the lonely dialogue I had been having in my head without her. I should have brought this up weeks ago.
“It was,” I finally fumbled out.
“Well, he isn’t going to meet you anytime soon, so don’t worry. He probably forgot you anyway.”
I was still speechless. That went better than I thought. But, wait, how did he forget me? And why isn’t he going to meet me anytime soon? I thought this was going somewhere . . .
Now it’s May and the air is warmer. Rabia and I are still together and I have yet to run into her family. After our conversation, I committed myself to being more open and communicative. Finding time to be together continues to be a struggle, but now it’s our shared struggle. I am slowly relinquishing my hang-ups and fear over what my past might mean in this relationship, and every day Rabia challenges my poorly conceived notions of how Muslim women think. She has made it clear that what matters most to her is who I am, not what I have done. We’re dealing with the normal challenges of learning about each other and building love in complicated and busy lives.
I did, however, get a new doctor. The Jewish woman.
Finding Mercy
By Anthony Springer Jr.
I was born and raised Christian in Las Vegas—a modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah in the eyes of most religious people. Church never appealed to me. Sleeping in beat waking up for Sunday sermons, and Saturday-morning cartoons were infinitely better than the Song of Solomon. All I needed to know was that treating people as I wanted to be treated was the way to go, and that I’d get into heaven because Jesus died for my sins.
As an adventurous college kid, I racked up quite a few transgressions. Shortly after graduation, I took a hard look at my faith. That’s when everything fell apart. I realized I didn’t believe God had a son and that the Trinity made no sense to me. Christianity was like the dusty family photo album you never look at but immediately notice once it goes missing. I mourned my loss of faith, even though I hadn’t cared much for the religion in the first place.
I knew I believed in one god—but that’s all I knew. I believed in tawhid before I knew what the word meant. After a little research, I stumbled on Islam and felt like I had arrived at an oasis: No trinity. No savior. No original sin. Just me and Allah. Sign me up!
I didn’t know anything else about Islam. I didn’t need to. I drove down to a nearby masjid on a Wednesday. The imam’s wife answered the door after three nervous knocks. In my haste to be cordial I extended my hand, which she reluctantly shook. She may have been as shocked at my gesture as I was to find out later that handshaking was considered improper between unrelated Muslim men and women. I told her I wanted to be Muslim, was introduced to some brothers at the masjid, and took my shahada after Jumma.
At the time of my conversion, in the fall of 2006, I was fresh out of college with my first job as a college recruiter at my alma mater, the University o
f Nevada, Las Vegas. I suppose a steady job and a degree made me a suitable candidate for marriage in the eyes of older brothers in the community, as it didn’t take long for the “M” word to come up. I sheepishly brushed off most of the marriage conversations, opting for a smile and an “inshAllah” when asked when I was taking a step, which felt more like walking the plank than fulfilling half my deen.
After all, I was an eligible bachelor who still occasionally partook in the vices of life. And as a twenty-two-year-old, very Western convert, the idea that I was supposed to find the love of my life without “dating” was more foreign than the Arabic that penetrated my ears the first time I heard the Qur’an recited at the masjid. Then there was the pressure—the pressure on brothers to get married is as strong as the pressure put on sisters. Or so it was in my case. Equality and resistance made for strange bedfellows.
One day after Jumma I was caught staring aimlessly off into space, my peaceful state of bliss shattered by a gentle hand on the shoulder.
“You see one?” the older brother said to me.
“One what?” I replied, puzzled by the question.
“A sister,” came the response.
I quickly put two and two together, and told the brother I hadn’t. My response was met with, “Let us know if you see one.”
A nod was enough to get me out of that situation. But I wanted to yell out, “I barely know who I am! How am I going to be a good husband?”
I was flattered to be thought of as marriage material. But I was far from ready to get married, and the “just pick one” approach seemed more like shopping than courtship. Maybe the brothers saw in me something I didn’t see in myself: a suitable husband. Or perhaps I was just an unmarried brother in an environment that highly values marriage. I never asked. I didn’t want to know the answer.
On the surface, I was a “good brother.” I made a daily appearance at the masjid. I learned a lot and enjoyed the community. But the thought of courtship under the watchful eye of the community terrified me. “What if they find out I don’t pray five times a day? What if someone finds out I still drink from time to time?” My fear of marriage was as much about culture shock as it was a fear that I’d be discovered to be a fraud.