Advance Praise for
Threading My Prayer Rug
“Take this journey on Sabeeha’s prayer rug, and you will be enchanted as she vividly and beautifully transports you through rich and elaborate threads of a lifetime lived with love, intelligence, and compassion—an inspiration to all.”
—Ranya Tabari Idliby, coauthor of The Faith Club and author of Burqas, Baseball and Apple Pie
“Funny and frank, acute, and compassionate, this story of an immigrant ‘fish out of water’ who falls in love with her adopted American home is for all of us, and for all times—but current events also make it the story for this time. As Americans consider who they were, are, and want to be in the future, they could have no better guide than Sabeeha Rehman. I can’t imagine our country, or my bookshelf, without her.”
—Susan Choi, Pulitzer Prize finalist and author of A Person of Interest and My Education
“With anti-Islamic sentiments on the rise in this country, Threading My Prayer Rug is a refreshing look at what it is really like to be a Muslim in the US today. With humor, charm, and great insight, Sabeeha Rehman recounts how one can be both a devout Muslim and an American wife, mom, grandmother and community activist.”
—Jan Goodwin, award-winning author, journalist, and Senior Fellow at Brandeis University’s Schuster Institute of Investigative Journalism
“Coming to America is seldom associated with discovering one’s faith—let alone Islam. Rich in exotic detail, Sabeeha’s true-life story is funny, sweet, beautiful, warm, and deeply touching to any reader, who will note how much the heart and soul of a Muslim mother is like that of any other.”
—Imam Feisal Abdul Rauf, founder of Cordoba House and author of What’s Right with Islam and Moving the Mountain
“Threading My Prayer Rug is a warm, wise, and wonderful book. Ms. Rehman writes in a wry and often humorous style that is understanding of human foibles yet gently pushes readers of all backgrounds to become fuller and more engaged human beings. As an Orthodox rabbi working to strengthen cooperation between Jews and Muslims, I was moved by her involvement in Muslim-Jewish coalition-building efforts.”
—Rabbi Marc Schneier, president of the Foundation for Ethnic Understanding and coauthor with Imam Shamsi Ali of Sons of Abraham
“Sabeeha Rehman’s prose resonates with intimacy, wisdom, and wit. She achieves a richly textured narrative that introduces readers to the rituals and enduring values of her Muslim faith as she, her husband Khalid and their sons Saqib and Asim integrate into the American melting pot. At the conclusion of her classic text, Ms. Rehman affirms, ‘Together we will change the discourse, quell violence with knowledge, and banish phobias to the fringe as we work together in unity of the spirit.’ This reader was moved to respond, ‘Ameen … Amen.’”
—Sidney Offit, former president of the Authors Guild Foundation and Authors League Fund and author of Memoir of a Bookie’s Son
“A charming and engrossing book, Threading My Prayer Rug provides a window to a culture and people we do not know enough about…. Readable, easy to relate to, and inspiring!”
—Sumbul Ali-Karamali, author of The Muslim Next Door: the Qur’an, the Media, and that Veil Thing
“Threading My Prayer Rug is a beautifully written memoir of a cosmopolitan and faithful Pakistani-American Muslim woman. It’s recommended for all who want to have a sense of how the tapestry of American Islam is shaped by the contributions of a variety of Muslims, including those from South Asia.”
—Omid Safi, Director, Duke Islamic Studies Center
Copyright © 2016 by Sabeeha Rehman
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.
First Edition
Arcade Publishing books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or [email protected].
Arcade Publishing® is a registered trademark of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.
Visit our website at www.arcadepub.com.
Visit the author’s website at sabeeharehman.com.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Rehman, Sabeeha, author.
Title: Threading my prayer rug: one woman's journey from Pakistani Muslim to American Muslim / Sabeeha Rehman.
Description: New York, NY: Arcade Publishing, 2016.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016007676 (print) | LCCN 2016009024 (ebook) | ISBN 978-1-62872-663-3 (hardback) | ISBN 978-1-62872-666-4 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Rehman, Sabeeha. | Pakistani American women—Biography. | Pakistani Americans—Biography. | Muslims—United States—Biography. | Muslim women—United States—Biography. | BISAC: RELIGION / Islam / General. | BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Cultural Heritage. | BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Women. | BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Religious.
Classification: LCC E184.P28 R44 2016 (print) | LCC E184.P28 (ebook) | DDC 305.8914/122073—dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2016007676
Cover design by Laura Klynstra
Cover photo: Shutterstock
Printed in the United States of America
In memory
of
my loving parents
Farrukh Akbar and Lieutenant Colonel Kazim Akbar
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE Not a Mosque, and Not at Ground Zero
PART ONE An Arranged Marriage in Pakistan
1. It’s Arranged
2. I Never Said, “I Do”: The Marriage Contract
3. A Silver Watch: My Splendid Pakistani Wedding
4. Marital Advice
PART TWO A Pakistani Muslim in New York
5. A Pakistani Bride in New York: "I Wouldn’t Do That If I Were You"
6. Where Are You From?
7. A Muslim Girl in New York: A Holiday Muslim
8. Pakistani Pregnancy, American Delivery: A Baptism of Sorts, Plus a Circumcision
9. Ramadan without Ramadan: Why I Stopped Fasting
10. The Christmas-ization of Eid
11. A Muslim among Orthodox Jews
12. The Americanization of Yours Truly
PART THREE Creating a Muslim Space
13. Where Do I Begin?
14. Building a Muslim Community
15. A Muslim Sunday School and a Mosque
PART FOUR Rediscovering Islam: Religion or Culture?
16. Born-Again Muslim
17. Lower Your Gaze
18. Pakistani Islam or a Hybrid?
19. Moon Sighting
20. Tradition versus Women’s Rights
21. My Brand of Islam
22. Abraham’s Sacrifice
23. Grounded in Roots
PART FIVE An American Muslim in New York
24. An Arranged Marriage for My Sons?
25. The Shia-Sunni Schism
26. Don’t Ghetto-ize Islam
27. Flashpoints
28. And Then Nothing Was the Same: September 11, 2001
29. Extremism and Islamophobia: Viewed from the Eyes of a Muslim
30. Upgrading Islam into the Twenty-First Century
31. An American Muslim in Pakistan
32. An American Muslim in New York
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
GLOSSARY
Photo Insert
> PROLOGUE
Not a Mosque, and Not at Ground Zero
New York, 2010
Am I safe in here? Do they know I’m a Muslim? Can they tell by the look on my face that I’m one of them? Don’t look them in the eye.
I lowered my gaze and walked into the crowd, making my way through the meeting hall, up the aisle, through the rows of people waving posters saying, “No Mosque at Ground Zero.” I found my way to the back, out of sight of the protestors, and took a seat.
I am surrounded by hate.
I had been volunteering in the office of Imam Feisal Abdul Rauf and his wife, Daisy Khan. When one day the imam had described his vision of a Muslim community center in downtown Manhattan, I couldn’t fathom that I was in the moment of “history in the unmaking.”
A space for faith, fun and fitness, R&R, and interfaith gatherings! A place of our own—to meet and greet, to learn and share, to feast and celebrate, to swim and gym, with room for all faiths. Cool!
I was there when the Finance Committee of the Community Board reviewed the project. Sitting along the wall, I had watched Imam Feisal present the concept of the equivalent of a YMCA and 92nd Street Y. I was elated when the committee, giving their approval, asked, “How soon can you start?” I had noticed members of the press scribbling notes. I had stepped out onto Chambers Street, the majestic Municipal Building towering beyond; the evening was still bright, the spring air brushing my cheek, as I made my way to the number 6 subway train.
“There is bound to be an outcry,” said my husband, who had attended the meeting with me. The STOP sign stopped me and I glanced up at him.
“Why would anyone object? Look at how supportive the committee was.” My husband and I had yearned for a community center for our children; it didn’t happen while they were growing up, but it was going to happen now.
I had gone home on a high; and the next morning my hopes were dashed. Having arrived early at the office, I picked up the phone on the first ring.
“This is WABC. We would like to interview the imam about his plans to build a mosque at Ground Zero.”
A what? At where? Where did that phrase come from? It’s not a mosque we are building, and it’s not at Ground Zero.
The phone rang again. “This is WCBS …”
I called the imam on his cell phone. “Are you on your way to the office? The major media networks are lined up to interview you. Just so you know, they are calling your proposed Islamic cultural center downtown ‘the mosque at Ground Zero.’”
That day, as I put on the hat of media scheduler, reporters of leading networks bumped into each other as they entered and exited. Watching them interview Imam Feisal, I knew that my husband had been right. A Sufi imam, dignified in demeanor, gentle in his expression, building bridges between Muslims and non-Muslims, and honored and acclaimed for his interfaith work, was now the focus of outrage—accused of insulting the memory of 9/11 victims and the most tragic violence against our country.
Why didn’t I see it coming? I was so close on the inside. I just answered my question.
It’s not a mosque, it is a community center, the imam explained to the interviewers over and over again.
It is not at ground zero, the imam said once more, and explained, once again, that this was to be a space open to all New Yorkers, a platform for multi-faith dialogue, a center guided by the universal values of all religions, a place of healing.
The Real Battle Is between Extremists and Moderates on Both Sides
I took note of Imam Feisal’s mantra, “The battle is not between Islam and the West; the real battle is between the extremists and moderates on both sides.”
It didn’t matter. The phrase “mosque at ground zero” was too inflammatory to let go. It had too much potential to be put to rest as a mere community center. The opportunity was irresistible.
How did a unanimous approval last night turn into a poisonous inflammatory label this morning?
Months earlier, when the imam and Daisy Khan had run this by the civic, faith, and community leaders, the 9/11 families and 9/11 Memorial team, the mayor, and political leaders, no one had objected. After the imam had announced the project at an interfaith iftar in a church, the New York Times had run a front-page story on the project in December 2009. There had been no outcry then.
Why now?
It was the power of words: Mosque at Ground Zero.
Calls were made to community leaders and 9/11 families, trying to ease their anxiety.
Once they understand what this center stands for, any misgivings they may have should subside.
I Am Surrounded by Hate
Of course, that didn’t happen. When I walked into the Community Board hearing, the place was packed with people holding placards with anti-Islam slogans that do not deserve mention. Taking my seat, I looked down across the room, spotting my husband and son in the speaker lineup. As the speakers took the mic, the room shuddered and shook with the sounds of hatred.
If they just listen—9/11 is not about Muslims vs. Ground Zero. Muslims also perished in 9/11. We are not trespassers—Ground Zero is sacred to us too; it is our tragedy too. If they just listen.
Testimonies against the project were amplified by cries of “Terrorists,” “Down with Sharia,” “Don’t insult the memory of 9/11”; testimonies supporting the project were drowned out by booing and hissing. I forgot to breathe. It seemed that the walls holding the roof would give way.
Don’t they see that we are not those people? Are we destined to carry the burden of their actions? This is not the America I know. Does America have two sides?
On the cold, hard bench, I felt warm tears on my cheek when a 9/11 family pleaded for tolerance; I said a prayer when clergymen from all faiths urged interfaith harmony; and I felt a surge of gratitude when politicians appealed for a place and a space for Muslims. I trembled when I heard voices calling, “We don’t want you here.” Islamophobia had reared its head, and I was witnessing humanity at its best, and at its worst.
Are they going to yell at me?
I cried when my son Asim spoke to the audience of his shock at seeing the smoke gushing out of the tower as he looked out from the window of his office building, of his flight up the streets, with the wall of soot chasing him, of his reaction when he turned to look back and could no longer see the tower, of the shouts of “Go back to where you came from” when he and the faithful walked out of the mosque on a Friday two days later. I recalled how hard I had prayed for his safety when I couldn’t reach him by phone, how terrified I was.
Put yourself in their shoes. How would I feel if the Arizona memorial in Pearl Harbor took the shape of a Shinto shrine? It’s not the same, but that is how it has been spun. They have been misfed, misled, and now it’s too late to un-spin it.
Enraged by a speaker supporting the project, they stood up and, waving posters, started to shout the speaker down.
Should I duck?
The chairwoman issued a warning: those out of order will be escorted out. I saw the guards take their place behind the table where the board members were seated.
Exhale.
The community board voted; the project was approved. I watched the protestors leave. It wasn’t defeat I saw on their faces; it was determination.
What is going to happen now?
I walked down into the pit, where my husband and son were standing with the imam. I can’t say, “Congratulations, project was approved.” What is there to celebrate?
I was spent. We all had the “What now?” look on our faces.
I fought a surge of bitter taste. Too often we are asked, “Why aren’t the moderate Muslims speaking out?” The community center was to be a forum where American Muslims would stand side-by-side with men and women of peace, promoting religious tolerance. The extremists had drowned out the voices of the moderates.
Leaving the Scene
Hate mail and hate calls paralyzed the office. Daisy Khan and Imam Feisal needed me, and I abandoned them. My fath
er, who was suffering from leukemia, had taken a turn for the worse. I walked off the set and took the first flight out to Pakistan. Planning to stay for two weeks, I ended up staying for three months.
I was in Pakistan, nursing my dying father, when the uproar around the community center project, now dubbed Park51, reached hysterical heights. Swept away in doctor visits, arranging for blood donors, transporting blood bags for transfusion, monitoring medications, hospitalizations, visitors, I was barely in touch with the news. Then my mother took a fall, fractured her hipbone, and was immobilized. Park51 fell off my screen.
My brother in Pakistan brought me back to this world. “Have you heard the news about what’s happening in New York? Some Muslims have decided to build a mosque at Ground Zero. Why would they do something like that?”
Even Pakistanis have fallen for the rhetoric.
Picture the look on his face when I told him that his sister was one of those “some Muslims.”
Friends from my college days came to visit. Park51 must have hit an even higher high, because they brought it up. “Unnecessary provocation,” one of them said. There I go again, explaining the intent of the project.
My uncle advised me, “It would be wise if you built it someplace else.”
Death Threats
After burying my father, I returned home to New York. The storm of Park51 had blown over, and I walked into the office to face the debris: ashes, soot, mud, and smoldering black smoke. The place was a fortress, buttressed by security. I walked into a new world trying to reconcile hate mail with warm and tender letters of support; trying to fathom how far one should go in standing by principle without taking the world down at the same time; how hard does one push in paving the way without causing a stampede; how does one amplify the voices of moderation without having those voices drowned out by the thunder of the extremists; and how do we carve a space for ourselves without stepping on the sentiments of our shared pain? Imam Feisal was not around—he had been advised to take the death threats seriously.
“You knew when to leave, and you knew when to come back,” Imam Feisal said to me when he returned. I chuckled.
Threading My Prayer Rug Page 1