Ever been to a Pakistani dinner party? Forget about the French. “Lavish” is an understatement. It’s not your one main dish with one side dish menu. Picture this: dining table buffet style, covered edge-to-edge with serving dishes and no room to place even a fork. Chicken biryani, kebab, haleem, chicken curry, ground meat curry, palak paneer, potato bhughia, raita, salad, naan. A separate table for the drinks: Coke, Sprite, 7-UP … did I tell you that Muslims don’t drink alcohol? These were dry parties and have remained that way to this day, at least in the company I keep.
The fun began after dinner. We sang. We sang solo, Khalid and I sang duets, we sang in chorus, and, of course, we all sang in Urdu. An oversize cooking pot, placed upside down, served as a tabla, and singers roused their hibernating talent, practicing new Urdu songs for the upcoming parties. Down came the barriers of segregation. Children would sit around or run off to play, but they cultivated an ear for Pakistani music.
Our children made Muslim friends, dressed traditional Pakistani, and indulged in the taste and flavor of kebabs and biryani. They were being immersed in the Pakistani culture, and somewhere in the subtle undercurrent was the awareness that they were Muslims among Muslims. One day one of my Pakistani friends asked, “Are there any Pakistanis in your neighborhood or are they all foreigners?”
Get the joke?
We had built a Muslim community along cultural lines, based on national origin. But partying and singing alone weren’t going to make Muslims out of the children. They needed a community based along religious lines.
All Religion Is Local
What are we going to do for Eid prayers? It’s not easy to bundle up two children and drive all the way into Manhattan on a weekday. They say politics is local. I say: religion has to be local too. Long distance can work only up to a point.
Khalid came home one day and told me that the Albanian mosque on Staten Island was holding Eid prayers. Now, my geography is pretty good, but I had to squint to recall Albania on the map. I had no idea that Albania had a Muslim population, let alone enough Muslim immigrants in New York to have a mosque on, of all places, Staten Island. No wonder I hadn’t found them in the Yellow Pages; my world of Muslim names was limited to the nomenclature of the subcontinent—Khan, Ahmed, Rehman, Saleem—not Strelic, Velic, Govic. Talk about a humbling moment. Anyhow, the Albanians, bless them, held the Eid prayers, and the place was packed. Albanian women, all dressed in flowing white garb, with serene faces, meditating in unison, prayer beads clicking rhythmically to the imam’s note, looked like a flock of angels. There was more good news: we found new Pakistani/Indian families there. But here was the problem: the sermon was in Albanian. It didn’t matter to us adults—we were not at risk (or so we thought), but we wanted our children to understand the sermon.
Now what?
Cultural Divide
We had to have our own place, a place where we could hold the sermon in English. But where? And how do we find an imam to give the sermon? Who will lead the prayers? And do we have a critical mass to hold and support a congregation? We did not have an answer and so kept going back to the Albanian Mosque for Eid prayers.
Our life had taken on a new trajectory. With Khalid in private practice, me in school, and partying off the calendar, we let another few years slip by. Jimmy Carter lost to Ronald Reagan, and General Zia ul Haq tightened his grip on Pakistan.
God was watching over us. We got a call. Eid prayers were being held in Burgher Hall, and the sermon would be in English. Apparently, one of the Indian/Pakistani doctors had rented the hall; another doctor gave the sermon and led the prayers; someone went around collecting donations; and there it was. Someone had made it happen. The small hall was full. New faces—all of Pakistani/Indian descent.
Muslims on Staten Island were now separated by boundaries of national origin, language being the driver. And we had a forum for Eid prayers.
But we parents knew that congregating twice a year on Eid wasn’t going to do it. We needed a schooling system for our children. Something along the model of an American Sunday school.
15.
A Muslim Sunday School and a Mosque
I had never been inside a mosque in Pakistan, and there was no such thing as a Sunday school. Religion was a home-based department, and every family did it their own way. And here we were, a bunch of religiously ignorant mothers, trying to model religion the American way. Was there anybody out there who could show us the way?
Circa 1980s In a House
I wasn’t doing anything about it. I was in a full-time job with a long commute to Brooklyn, adjusting to a new life, and could barely handle the basics. Children’s religious education got back-burnered, and I was no longer home-schooling them in religion either. I did worry, but that is where it stopped.
A godsend. A phone call: “A doctor has bought a house for a Muslim Sunday School for children, and classes are starting on Sunday.” Think of it. Someone actually bought a house and just gave it to whomever to run a Sunday school. I had no idea who this generous doctor was, what the arrangement was, or who was teaching classes. I was just grateful it had happened.
For sure, we were there on Sunday. Staten Islanders, if you are reading this, it was on Gansevoort Boulevard, right off the Staten Island Expressway. I walked into the living room and saw children sitting on the rug and an Indian doctor teaching them. Thank you, thank you. Downstairs in the basement, an Indian doctor had set up classes for adults. Who cares about the adult classes? Looking back, I wish I had cared, because I had to self-teach when, years later during the first Gulf war, I found my back against the wall. In the kitchen, a lady had taken charge and was serving tea and goodies. Saqib and Asim fell right into it, and all I could do was feel grateful.
Within weeks, Sunday school took on the feel of a community center. Someone brought a cake—it was her child’s birthday. Someone didn’t show up because one of them was sick—and everyone rallied around to help them out. Children were setting play dates; Ramadan iftar invitations for dinner were being issued; and on and on. My boys now had Muslim friends on Staten Island. In those first few weeks, for the first time, I felt that I belonged.
I belong to a community. There are people who know I exist, people whom I see every week, who care about what is happening in my life, who will call me when my child is sick, celebrate with me, be there for me. Khalid and I are not alone.
Saqib and Asim were now reading Arabic, with an Arabic accent (I read it with an Urdu accent that would make an Arab want to scream), they knew their prayers, and they were learning about the values of Islam. Above all, they were schooling with Muslim children, a prerequisite for confidence building. Khalid and I went with them every Sunday, and stayed. The first time I heard my children say, “Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him,” I wanted to fall on my knees.
One summer Sunday, I handed Asim his shorts.
“Mummy, teacher says we cannot wear shorts to Sunday school.”
Ouch! I didn’t know that. Khalid then explained that in the mosques in Pakistan men had to be covered from the waist down to the ankles.
“What about the waist up?” I asked.
“It doesn’t have to be covered.”
Oh.
In a Mosque
We outgrew the space—within months.
Another godsend: the Albanian Mosque offered us space, free of charge, to hold our Sunday school. They are a blessed community; they take care of their people; they have preserved their culture and faith; and now they have the most beautiful mosque on Staten Island. Years later when Asim was to marry, it was the imam of the Albanian mosque who would perform the nikah.
Khalid and I were now committed, committed to clearing our calendar every Sunday. No more weekend trips to the Poconos, no more drives out to Long Island to huddle with friends, no more Sunday matinees, no more walks in the park. Sunday school was not going to be a place where our children went only when they had nothing else to do, and it was not going to be a place where we dro
pped off the children and drove off to run errands. For me personally, it was not the adult classes that were the draw, it was the adults. I wanted to get to know the mothers, whose children my boys would be socializing with. I wanted this socializing to be a family event, hoping to create and nurture a Muslim community. Every mother who parked her car and got off to stay had the same drive. Children made friends at the drop of a dupatta. Private home parties became community parties as Sunday school families merged into our social groups. Saturday night parties closed with, “See you at Sunday school tomorrow.” Good-byes at Sunday school were punctuated with, “See you at dinner tonight.” And everyone was invited. That was the unwritten rule. If someone wasn’t your type, too bad. The distinction between friends and acquaintances was erased. You had to open your home to everyone. This gift-wrapped package was all-inclusive.
Reach for the Crescent
One day Khalid and I got a call from one of the Pakistani doctors from Sunday school, inviting us to attend a meeting at the school. He explained that our Muslim community would soon outgrow this space and we needed to start planning for a place of our own—a mosque.
Build a mosque! A few families will build a mosque! How thrilling is that!
I counted the days to Sunday.
We were going to plan a mosque for our children. Where would we even start? Where will we get the money? Would it look like a mosque, as in domes and minarets? I told the children, showing them photos of mosques. I want them to feel the pioneering spirit. As a young hospital administrator, I did have some exposure to planning, construction management, and community outreach, enough to appreciate the complexity of our undertaking.
Muslim readers in the US know how this story unfolds. It is a shared narrative. Interest is forbidden so you cannot take a mortgage—has to be a cash purchase—which means fundraising. Khalid, all pumped up, agreed to serve as chairman of the building committee. The committee’s charge was to look for a property—buy or build. Khalid took this project by the throttle and flew with it. I inserted myself somewhere between the role of a copilot and a flight attendant. From then on, mosque building was all we talked about—well, almost all. We talked about it on the way home from the Sunday school; we talked about it over dinner; we talked about it after dinner; and we talked about it in bed.
On weekdays, when I got home from work, as I busied myself preparing dinner while the boys did their homework, Khalid would give me his building committee report.
“The mosque has to be beautiful. Our children should take pride in their place of worship…. It should have a community center on the grounds, a place where children can have their activities, apart and separate from a mosque,” he said.
I like that. Take the gatherings out of the home parties into a community center. Create a space where children can play sports, have a library, do teen activities, maybe even have a gym, in the company of Muslim friends, within the boundaries of Islamic values.
Khalid always got home before I, the commuter. As I entered through the garage downstairs, making my way up to the kitchen, and heard the excitement in Khalid’s Salaam Alaikum from above, I would know that he had a good mosque-finding day.
“I saw a piece of property today. It’s an old church.” He helped me with my coat and gloves.
“Will the church owners be OK with us converting it into a mosque?” I asked, as I made my way to the bedroom to put away my briefcase.
“They are OK with that. The problem is the price. They are in a hurry to sell, and we need more time to raise the funds.” He had followed me back into the kitchen.
“Mummy’s home,” I called out. “What is the property like?” I was heating whatever it was that I had cooked—probably chicken curry or keema matar. I would cook for the whole week on weekends. Khalid was setting the table, and I was having a mommy moment with Saqib and Asim.
Khalid continued his story over dinner. Saqib and Asim wanted to know what changes would be made to the interior of a church to make it more mosque-ish. Khalid promised to drive us all after Sunday school to show us the church.
“When did you make the time to see the church?” I asked.
“In the afternoon, between hospital rounds and office hours.”
Thank God for Khalid. Only he can squeeze hours out of minutes. Somewhere between rounds at two hospitals at both ends of Staten Island, seeing patients in his office, and making house calls, he goes mosque hunting.
The church deal did not go through.
Meanwhile, Khalid kept coming up with bright ideas, one of which was to approach the borough president of Staten Island. It started with a conversation in the doctor’s lounge of St. Vincent’s Hospital. Khalid made his pitch to a colleague, whose father was a former borough president. “I want my children to grow strong in their beliefs…. I want to preserve our religious traditions…. They need a place where they can congregate, pray together, play together … a mosque, a place they can be proud of … We first-generation immigrants have no experience in establishing a house of worship.” And then he put forward his ask: “Can your father help?” This Catholic Italian doctor was so moved that he promised to speak to his dad. True to his word, he arranged for Khalid to meet his father. A gentle elder statesman, the former borough president was magnanimous. He got Khalid an appointment and accompanied him to the office of the Hon. Ralph Lamberti, borough president of Staten Island.
A man with a gracious and humble demeanor, committed to diversity, he listened with interest.
“How did it go?” I asked that evening.
“He says he will help in any way he can. Apparently, the city has designated parcels of land for religious organizations to purchase. Someone will get back to me.”
I bet this was the first in the borough president’s career. A respected elder statesman comes to his office and asks him to help this handsome Pakistani Muslim doctor build a mosque. I bet he couldn’t resist Khalid’s charm.
This was the mid-1980s, not the world we live in now, and the toxin of Islamophobia had not infected the American psyche. The borough president said yes. Would that happen today, in the post-9/11 era?
“I have invited him to come to our Sunday school graduation,” Khalid said to Saqib and Asim. “The borough president will be awarding you your certificates.”
I didn’t know what surprised me more: Khalid’s audacity in inviting him, or the borough president’s acceptance.
“You invited the borough president!” The board was in utter disbelief.
“How are we going to pull this off? We don’t have a venue, we don’t have an audience, we can’t invite the borough president to an empty hall.”
“It’ll get done.” Khalid was calm.
Reach for the crescent.
My children will be proud of being Muslims. The borough president handing them certificates, recognizing them as young Muslims. We are going to make this the most beautiful, organized, and well-attended ceremony. And we will fill the hall. The borough president will not be disappointed.
Graduation day came—June 30, 1985. The auditorium in the Staten Island Academy was packed. Families in traditional garb—shalwar kameez, saris, jalabeeya, African headdresses, pantsuits, and long skirts; women with headscarves, women without headscarves, and men in suits. We had organized a combined graduation for three Sunday schools on Staten Island: Albanian, Egyptian, and ours. To the marching tune, the students filed in, girls in white dresses and white leggings, the boys in white shirts, neckties, and gray slacks. Mr. Lamberti handed each child their certificate, shook hands, and smiled into the camera. When he took the podium to speak and offered his support to the Muslim community, the audience rose to an applause that resounded beyond the walls of the auditorium, all the way to the ballot box. I stole a look at the children.
Relish your proud Muslim moment.
A decade later, when Mr. Lamberti, now out of office, visited our home for a holiday party, Khalid pointed out two photos on the mantle: Saqib and Asim receiv
ing certificates from him. He looked at Asim and said, “See how I am bending down to hand you the certificate, and now you are bending down to shake my hand.”
Mosque Hunting
I had just returned home from work, and walking up the stairs, I sensed a wistful note in Khalid’s greeting.
“I wish I had the money!” he said.
“What happened?” I knew it was mosque-related. That was all we thought about.
He followed me to the bedroom. He had met with someone at Borough Hall, who had gone over parcels of land designated for religious organizations. The prices were discounted, but the tracts were so large that the price was out of our reach.
“These are solid properties and a great location,” he told me. “The tracts cannot be broken up to meet our budget. We are back to the start.”
He is trying so hard. For his sake, I pray that we get the mosque.
Over the next six months, Khalid and a member of the board looked at houses, a church, land, more houses, and finally settled on a warehouse. We could raise the funds to purchase it, but then it would sit for a long time until we had the funds to make it functional. In December 1985, the deal was closed.
Where did the money come from? Every Muslim community in the United States that has built a mosque knows the formula: fundraising parties, fundraising picnics, fundraising auctions, fundraising…. You go to the same trough again and again and again until people stop looking you in the eye. Mosque fundraising is local. Forget about reaching out to the donor in the next town; he has his own mosque to give to. I was up to my expanding waist in fundraising events. As we got close to wrapping the deal, Khalid got on the phone and called the board members: “Board members are committed to donating $5,000 each. I am coming to pick up the check.” He was ringing doorbells that evening. I sat on edge, at home, hoping we’d make the down payment. “Children, Daddy is out collecting money for the mosque.” I told them.
Threading My Prayer Rug Page 13