This is their culture; take it in stride.
After the first few kisses, I stopped taking notice. And, finally, one day, I shocked myself by initiating the peck.
One evening, as my fellow student friends were leaving after dinner, one of them said to me, “Would it be against your religion if I give you a hug?”
And there I was, handshaked, kissed, and hugged.
A Double Standard?
Were we setting a double standard for my children? They saw their mother wearing skirts to work, shorts in the summer, beach attire at the beach, but a shalwar kameez at Pakistani-Indian parties and her hair covered at the mosque. I tried to rationalize it as a dress-code thing. I was holding American parties in English, in pants, with Western music, and Pakistani parties in Urdu, in shalwar kameez, and with Urdu songs. Khalid and I would greet our Muslim friends with a nod, our American friends with a hug and a kiss. The only common denominator was food—Pakistani spicy, spicy food and no alcohol. And, of course, no pork either.
Alcohol, Pork, Halal, Kosher, or None of the Above
We never crossed the line when it came to alcohol and pork. I was Americanized in many ways, but this is where we drew the line. Alcohol consumption and pork are forbidden in Islam. There are no two ways about it. Our parents never drank, we didn’t drink, our children don’t drink, and I hope that my grandchildren never will. I have never tasted alcohol, except by accident at an event. The same is true for pork and pork products—by accident, that is.
Halal meat was another story. When I first came to the US, I didn’t even know the difference. For me, meat is meat is meat, as long as it isn’t pork. Then I started hearing the word “halal.” Someone at a party explained that Islam requires an animal to be slaughtered in a humane way, with God’s permission, and the blood drained out. That is considered halal, or permissible. The meat sold in supermarkets is not halal. However, kosher meat, prepared in the Jewish tradition, meets the Islamic requirement and therefore is permissible. I asked where one could get halal meat and was told that halal meat stores are few and far between. I dismissed the whole halal meat idea as extremist. I wasn’t even going to consider kosher as an alternative. As far as I was concerned, one shouldn’t complicate life with dos and don’ts. So I continued to buy meat right out of the cooler at Pathmark. I had opted for the “none of the above” option.
Beer was another story. One day my college friends, Bob, John, and his lovely fiancée, Tina, decided to play a prank. We were at a diner. They told me that they had ordered a special drink for me that I would find interesting. “Don’t worry, it’s not alcohol.” Drinks arrived. I took a sip.
“How do you like it?” they asked.
“It’s different. OK, I guess.”
“It’s called root beer,” they said, chuckling.
“Oh, my God! Beer! You said it wasn’t alcohol.”
More chuckles. I felt myself choke.
“It’s not alcohol. It’s just root beer.”
These are good kids. They wouldn’t do that to me.
The joke went on and on, until one of them felt sorry for me and explained, “It’s not beer, it’s only called that.”
I had forgotten all about this episode, until John and Tina, now parents of adults, reminded me. “Don’t forget to mention the root beer incident in your memoir.”
Ladies First. All Rise
Would you be surprised if I told you that in Pakistan, the Ladies First rule applies? When a man holds open a door, it’s ladies first. When men are lined up at the counter and a woman approaches, it’s ladies first—she moves to the front of the line. When dinner is served, it’s ladies first. When a lady enters a room, men stand up and remain standing until she takes a seat. When she approaches her seat at the table, a gentleman will pull out the chair and seat her. If both approach a door, he will hold open the door for her. If it’s a revolving door, he goes first so that he does the pushing. Got it! And where do I land? In the land of women’s equality. No more preferential treatment for me. Not only do I have to scrub, clean, wash, cook, and shop, I get treated like a man. Sorry feminists, but inequality has its privileges.
Decades later, at work, I walked into the office of the chief operating officer at the hospital to greet him on his first day at the job. He was seated.
“Good morning,” I said.
He stood up.
My jaw dropped.
Waltz, Twist, and Disco
Daddy taught me to waltz when I was ten. For a Pakistani family, this was unusual. Girls in Pakistan did not dance (now they do), and fathers certainly didn’t teach them. But Daddy loved to dance and in England had won a silver medal in a dance contest. He and Mummy would dance at the Army parties and made an elegant couple on the dance floor. My friends and I rock ’n’ rolled in the fifties—in girls’ schools—and twisted away in the sixties in girls’ college. When Khalid took me to hospital dinner dances, I would dance the night away. Then disco hit the scene. Not wanting to be left behind, we enrolled at the YMCA for disco classes and became a hit on the dance floor. People would part to watch Khalid and me twirl. Imagine Daddy’s delight.
I crossed the line again. At my hospital’s dinner dance, after I had exhausted Khalid on the dance floor, I noticed one of my colleagues sitting alone. Poor guy had no one to dance with. I ran up to him, beckoned, and raced back to the dance floor. We didn’t hold hands, just danced. Khalid didn’t mind. My liberal Muslim friends wouldn’t have objected. But there were others who would have raised eyebrows.
With an Accent
I clung to my British accent. I was not letting go. It was too much a part of my identity. Imagine my surprise when on my first visit to Pakistan, Mummy remarked, “She said ‘skedule’ instead of ‘sheydule,’ and ‘aawer’ instead of ‘our’ (hour), ‘fla-wer’ instead of ‘flaar’ (flower).”
Every time I said “can’t,” my cousins giggled.
I guess I was losing it.
Today, when someone remarks, “You have an accent,” I beam.
A Suburban, a Dog, and a House in the Country
Well not quite, but close. We got a Ford Taurus station wagon, Bob gave Mao, his Siamese cat, to the boys, and we bought a country house in Hemlock Farms in the Poconos along with a sailboat. With that, and a dose of apple pie, we were now the All-American Family.
So
How do I make Islam fit into all this? How do I introduce Islam into the lives of my children?
PART THREE
Creating a Muslim Space
13.
Where Do I Begin?
Circa 1970s
Saqib is now six. How do I make a Muslim out of him?
How do I teach him:
To believe: I can just tell him about the Oneness of God.
To pray: I can help him memorize the Arabic prayer.
To fast: It can wait. He is just six.
To be charitable: hmmm!
To make the hajj: deferred.
To study the Qur’an in Arabic: yikes!
He is only six.
How do I transmit the religious values I was raised with? Faith in God—trusting that He knows best what is right for us; God consciousness—that He is watching over us and will protect us; our responsibility toward God and our fellow human beings—do the right thing and avoid what is forbidden; that we are accountable for our deeds; that charity and compassion toward our fellow human beings is paramount. How can I teach him that through prayer one can give thanks for countless blessings; that God has given us a precious gift—a book of guidance—of divine revelation showing us the right way, a way of life that is pious and filled with love. How do I inculcate the value of respect for elders? How do I get him to understand that out-of-wedlock dating and sex are not permissible? Hold off on the last one—he’s only six.
How did I learn to be a Muslim?
Perhaps it was the environment: I had grown up in a predominantly Muslim country. But wait! I had started my schooling at the Presentation Conven
t Girls School, a missionary run by European nuns—in habits—and remained in the convent system until high school. We started our day with the Lord’s Prayer, “Our Father who art in Heaven …” Sister, I still remember it. When Christian students went for Catechism, we Muslim girls attended class in “Moral Science,” teachings that left a permanent imprint on my values and sense of ethics. At an early age, we learned to coexist. My friends went to the same schools—a privilege afforded to daughters of army officers. And yes, it was considered a privilege. So scrap the external environment factor.
Was it the home environment? No and yes. First the no. My parents were secular. Daddy did not observe the rituals. I don’t recall seeing him pray or fast. He never learned to read the Qur’an in Arabic, which was unusual. The only time Daddy went to the mosque was on Eid; and women never went to the mosque at all. Mummy would pray every now and then, would sometimes fast, and, like most of her contemporaries, would embrace religious rituals later in life. The Qur’an had a place on the uppermost shelf and almost out of sight. It was brought down at the first sign of an impending calamity, when Mummy would assemble ladies’ prayer groups. Mummy did not wear the hijab, and no one—as in no one—in her circle of army wives did, but legs were always covered. The only time they covered their hair was when praying or reciting the Qur’an. I don’t believe I ever heard the term “Islamic”—honest.
Now the yes. My religious education did indeed begin at home and remained in the home. It began with bedtime stories. One hot summer night, as we slept outdoors with a mosquito net covering all four beds, Daddy told his two little girls, ages seven and five, the story of Adam and Eve. Think of it: creation, man and woman, heaven and earth, angels and Satan, temptation and sin, punishment and reward, expulsion and exile, repentance, separation and unification, and genealogy—all in one story. From Daddy, I first heard the story of Prophet Moses. The next morning, Mummy showed me the surma bottle, a kohl powder eyeliner. “This is made from the ashes of the mountain that burned down when God showed a glimpse of Himself to Prophet Moses,” Mummy told us. It may have been soon after that Aba Jee, my maternal grandfather, started telling us stories—stories of Prophets Abraham, Jesus, Jacob, Joseph, Noah, and Muhammad. Ami Jan, my grandmother, taught me the prayer. Together, they taught me to observe the faith. Grandparents were a religious breed, either because they had the time or due to their sense of impending mortality. Aba Jee was the exception. A religious scholar—self-taught—he was conservative, devout, and open-minded. Tall and well built, he had a short, gray beard, sharp, handsome features, and a refined manner and was always immaculately dressed. When telling us bedtime stories, he would fall asleep. We would nudge him; he would wake up with a start, continue the story, and then fall asleep again. This went on until Ami Jan would come in and shoo us off to bed.
At age ten, I learned to read Arabic—which was the norm. The maulvi would come to our house and teach me to recite the Qur’an. By age eleven, I had completed the recital—in Arabic. With this, my religious education was considered complete. The fact that I could not understand Arabic was considered inconsequential. I had recited God’s revelation, in His words, from A to Z, or rather, from alif to ye, no worries if I couldn’t comprehend what I read. Daddy was one of those rare people who had studied the translation of the Qur’an. As for me, I grew up strong in faith but lacking in knowledge of the sacred text. It was in that state that I started making Muslims out of Saqib and Asim. Good luck!
Do Unto My Children, as Daddy and Grandpa Did Unto Me
You guessed it! I started with bedtime stories. But my memory was vague. I needed a storybook, and there weren’t any Islamic bookstores. Searching in the children’s section of Waldenbooks, I found one: Stories from the Bible. There it was, the stories of Adam and Eve, Abraham, Moses, Jesus. Only Prophet Muhammad was missing. No worries; I can cover that from memory. The belief in all the prophets is an essential part of the Islamic creed, so this book would do—notwithstanding that each faith has its own interpretation. Bedtime stories became daytime stories. With Saqib and Asim on either side, I would sit on the brown velvet sofa by the window, with the sun streaming in, and read to them. Seeing the wonder in their eyes, I was reliving my childhood. Did I ask Daddy the same questions? “Why did Joseph’s brothers throw him in the well? Why did God make so many people drown in the flood?” I didn’t have the answers, but I took comfort in believing that I was laying a foundation, inculcating faith in the One God and the belief that good triumphs over evil.
What about Arabic?
There were no maulvis on Staten Island, of course. Bookstores didn’t sell Teach Your Child Arabic or Arabic for Dummies, nor was this the age of Rosetta Stone. Dead end. But Pakistan was only halfway across the world. I started making a list of all the books I would bring back on my next trip to Pakistan, where General Zia had overthrown President Bhutto and declared martial law. Armed, I put on my brand-new Arabic teacher hat and began the daily sessions with dear little Saqib. He was such a good boy. Not once did he protest, as in, “Do I have to?” He would sit with me on the brown sofa and learn. He was diligent. He would bend over the book and studiously, with effort, work at learning. What a precious gift! It was a slow process. I could teach only what I knew, which was “read only,” minus the comprehension. At the time, this is what I believed was necessary—evincing an appalling sense of comfort in the limitations of ignorance. Decades later, I would wake up to become a student of Arabic and would study it for five years. Asim would go on to take a semester abroad at American University in Cairo and study classical Arabic. He picked up enough Arabic to make his way with a group of students to the Sinai desert, camping at the mountaintop and offering his prayers at daybreak at the pinnacle of Mt. Sinai.
Where Do I Go from Here?
So my children are getting the basics in Islam. But is that enough? As they grow older, won’t they lose their religious identity if they don’t experience a sense of belonging? They see their friends and neighbors go in clusters to the synagogue and church. Won’t they feel the desire to have a sacred place of their own—a community to belong to, where they can bond with peers, gain comfort through association, and grow confident in their faith and their heritage?
How in God’s name am I going to pull this one off?
14.
Building a Muslim Community
How does one build a community from scratch?
Circa 1970s Let Your Fingers Do the Walking
I knew no one. When I first moved to Staten Island, I didn’t know any Muslim families. Khalid and I would go through the Yellow Pages looking for Muslim-sounding names. Millennials, that was the telephone directory—in hard copy. We found one name but were too shy to call and say, “Hello, this is your friendly Muslim family.” We put word out to our friends in Queens and Long Island, “Does anyone know any Muslim families on Staten Island?” Eventually, through word of mouth, we found one, then two, and then three. Yeah! One Pakistani, one Indian, and one Sri Lankan. She knew someone; he knew someone; and then we were six. Six Muslim families on Staten Island—a dream come true. We now had a network. Not a critical mass to establish a religious center, but enough to get something going.
Like what?
How about a party!
Eid Eve
There is Christmas Eve—why not an Eid Eve? Why not indeed! The sighting of the new moon signals the end of the month of Ramadan and the celebration of Eid the next day. Let’s celebrate the moon-sighting night as our Eid Eve.
I got on the phone and called the five families.
“Let’s have a music party.”
“Henna-painting for the girls.”
“Make it pot-luck.”
“Everyone gets dressed up in traditional, glittering outfits.”
Someone dubbed it Chaand Raat, or night of the new moon.
And a tradition was started. That year, and for many years to come, we gathered in our home for the moon-sighting night until the community grew so
large that I could no longer accommodate them and the venue moved to a larger space. This was by no means a religious event; rather it was a means to bring Muslim children together for a fun-filled evening and to heighten the joy associated with Eid.
One Dish
The party bug caught on. Why wait for Eid when we have weekends? We filled up the rest of the year with parties. All we needed was an excuse, and we’ d have a party. Meet-my-visiting-parents-from-Pakistan party; honor-your-visiting-parents party; new-baby party; started-private-practice party—you get the picture. Staten Island, Long Island, Queens, and New Jersey: if there was a party, we were there. Our network was branching off like a date tree on growth hormones—excuse the cliché. Average occupancy in these parties: thirty, not including children, would be conservative. Too many for the lady of the house to cook? No worries; everyone bring a dish. We dubbed these the one-dish parties.
Men and women started self-segregating. As the guests arrived, they would sit together in the living room, chatting comfortably. Once the room started filling up, men would gravitate to one end, women to the other, in a rather seamless transition. Chattering in Urdu, the men talked politics—Gerald Ford and Jimmy Carter were running neck and neck, and President Zia in Pakistan had hanged Bhutto, the ex-president. The women talked fashion.
That wasn’t fair. I am sorry.
Whereas there is some truth to it, it was more perception than reality. These women were doctors, businesswomen, designers, artists, and, of course, housewives like myself. But let’s be honest. Doesn’t every woman’s face light up on seeing a dazzling piece of jewelry or a stylish shalwar kameez? Won’t she say, “What a beautiful outfit! Where did you get it?” Now do the math: fifteen women, each complimenting one another, and you’ve got the fashion buzz going. I will tell you a secret. Parties became the platform for us to display our latest shalwar kameez. Trips to Pakistan became shopping sprees. Every time a woman walked in donning a new style, it was a given that she had just returned from Pakistan. Mommies back home were kept busy getting new outfits for their daughters, packaged and ready to send with whomever was willing to carry it back to the States. “What will I wear?” topped our list of worries. A discrete inquiry of the guest list was made, because God forbid that people should see you in the same outfit. We were in our twenties, so cut us some slack.
Threading My Prayer Rug Page 12