Threading My Prayer Rug

by Sabeeha Rehman

  “Muslims are required to pay two percent of their savings in zakah,” Imam answered my question in his Sunday lecture. “Ramadan is the month of giving. Calculate your annual charity obligation and give before the end of the month.”

  I looked at the handout, which defined who is eligible for receiving charity. Parents were not listed. It described the method for calculating zakah, listing the items on which two percent zakah is obligatory: savings, gold, commercial property, etc. It explained that God has made us the vessel for redistribution of wealth to the needy. He urges us to spend out of what He has given us, and discourages us from hoarding.

  So zakah is obligatory only on hoarded items, which prevent money from circulating.

  How does one figure out the two percent on gold? I have all this jewelry but have no idea of its gold value.

  I got my jewelry out of the bank safe deposit, weighed it on a kitchen scale, deducted what I estimated was the weight of precious stones—a conservative estimate— looked up the value of gold on the market, and calculated the two percent. Done. That plus the savings, and I had a number.

  Who to give to? The Pakistan model didn’t apply. There are no beggars lined up outside the house or on the streets of Staten Island, nor any orphanages or domestic help whose children need an education. I should ask around.

  “I send the money to Pakistan. There is so much poverty there. With the dollar value so high, a little money goes a long way to feed the poor.”

  “I send the money to India.”

  “How about the Red Cross?”

  “Are non-Muslims eligible for zakat?”

  I was clueless, and time was running out. I asked Daddy, and he told me about Abdul Sattar Edhi, a man who single-handedly started operating ambulances for the poor in Karachi, Pakistan. Eventually, Edhi’s work would expand throughout Pakistan and internationally, with an office in New York.

  Over the years, as I continued to study Islam, our attitude toward charity shifted. I learned that there was a pecking order to giving:

  Family and kin,

  Neighborhood,

  Local community,

  Country,

  World.

  What Khalid and I understood was that supporting worldly causes while family members suffer in poverty does not foster kinship. Likewise, take care of your neighbors before you take care of the world. Khalid and I embraced the concept that a strong family and stable neighborhood make a stronger nation. We reprioritized our charity list. We choose not to follow the annual reconciling of the books during Ramadan. Instead, we spread the giving throughout the year through auto-deduction from the bank. I also vowed never to turn down a request for a donation. Those were the days when one did not have to vet each organization to rule out links to terrorists.

  The Fifth Pillar—1986

  “Let’s go for hajj,” my friend said to me one day. Just like that. “I have family in Jeddah. They can take care of all the arrangements.”

  Until that moment, the thought of performing hajj hadn’t entered my mind. I knew that all Muslims who can afford to are required to perform the hajj once in a lifetime, but I also knew that in Pakistan people performed the hajj when they got old. Once people had discharged all their obligations, as in marrying off their children, settling their debts, they would go for hajj, and by that time they were well into their platinum years. Mummy and Daddy had performed the hajj just a couple of years ago. I just assumed that Khalid and I would perform the hajj when we were old.

  Wouldn’t it be much easier if we perform the hajj while we are still young? Everyone talks about the physical hardships of the pilgrimage.

  I spoke to Khalid.

  “What about the children?” he asked.

  “They can go to Pakistan and stay with our parents.”

  Mummy and Daddy were ecstatic.

  “With God’s blessings, go perform the hajj. It is better to go with friends, particularly those who have family in Saudi Arabia, just in case you run into difficulties,” Mummy said.

  “Don’t postpone it. Better to do it while you are in good health,” Daddy said.

  And that settled it. My parents came over, coached us on the rituals, gave us books to read and travel tips, and, before we departed, took the boys with them to Pakistan.

  “You need to get your mind ready for hajj,” Mummy said before she left. “Start studying the rituals, read the Qur’an, talk about the preparations, and ask your family and friends for forgiveness.” This was Mummy advising me on getting into the spiritual mode for hajj. It was not going to be a vacation or a sightseeing trip; this was a pilgrimage to Mecca, to the house of God, where we would immerse ourselves in communion with our Creator and return spiritually cleansed and rejuvenated.

  “In the Prophet’s Mosque in Medina, make sure you perform forty prayers,” Mummy advised. “Walk in his footsteps; visit the places where he made history.”

  We waved good-bye to Saqib and Asim. It was the first time they were getting on a plane without us.

  Be safe. Be well.

  Two days before we were to depart, one of our friends held a have-a-blessed-hajj party for us. Everyone was wishing us a blessed pilgrimage and asking us to pray for them. They were handing me their prayer wish lists: pray for my son to get into a good college, pray for my husband’s health…. One of the women called me out.

  “You cannot perform the hajj,” she said.

  A hush fell into the room.

  “Why is that?” I asked.

  “Because you have a mortgage on your house.”

  Is she serious?

  “I cannot perform the hajj because I have a mortgage?”

  “You are supposed to settle your debts before you go for hajj,” she said.

  “Ability to afford is the only requirement for eligibility. I can afford the journey.”

  “No, you cannot. You are in debt.”

  If I let this go, those watching are going to walk away with the wrong idea. Push back.

  My discourse went something like this: settling debt is an Indian-Pakistani tradition, not a religious requirement. There was a time when the hajj was a journey that took months and sometimes years. People traveled on horseback and camelback from places as far as China. Some never made it back home. For them, it was important that they settle their affairs before leaving. In my case, I will get on a plane and be back within two weeks, Insha’Allah. Why should I have to pay off my mortgage if I am leaving home for ten days? Don’t we take long vacations? How is this different, other than the spiritual aspect?

  “This is your interpretation,” she said.

  “As is yours,” I said.

  It didn’t end there. We continued to argue until someone called for dinner and we stopped. I fumed all the way home.

  Hajj was a life-changing experience for me. Arm-in-arm with Khalid, I circumambulated the Kaaba—the black stone structure that Abraham and Ishmael built, and prayed to God for forgiveness. Among a sea of hundreds and thousands of pilgrims, we retraced the path that Hagar took, running seven times between the hills looking for water for baby Ishmael until the spring of Zamzam erupted. A million people walking the walk, commemorating a mother’s struggle for her child, honoring a woman. I wondered if they were aware of the esteemed place of a woman. We stood on the plain of Arafat and held out our hands in prayer; we slept under the stars in Muzdalifa; we stoned the devil symbolized in pillars; and in the comfort of shared space, with no space to share, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, we prayed. At every prayer time, someone in our group would stand and lead the prayer—a Nigerian, a Malaysian, an American—reciting the same prayer of guidance that I have been reciting since childhood. We were all the same in prayer, in faith. The lines of nationality and color were erased when we stood in prayer. I noticed something else. None of the women had their face covered. Women are forbidden from covering their face at the Kaaba. Think about it.

  By the time I returned to New York, I had made a resolution—my hajj resolution.
I will commit to saying all five prayers every day for the rest of my life. I had come to the conclusion that the only thing that stood between my prayers and me was me. I equipped my office with the essentials: a prayer rug, a scarf, a gown to drape over my skirt, and bathroom equipment for ablution. At prayer time, I would tell my secretary, “I am closing my door to say my prayers,” and no one would disturb me until I opened the door. And that is all it took. At night, as I put my head down on the pillow, I would ask God, “Please wake me up for morning prayer.” He does. It’s been almost thirty years. I never set an alarm for the morning prayer. But if I am lazy and go back to sleep, saying, “God, wake me up a little later,” He does not.

  I made another resolution, that in two years we would bring Saqib and Asim for umrah, the lesser pilgrimage. If I bring them here when they are still in high school, they will take it upon themselves to perform hajj on their own when they are adults. We did return two years later for umrah—all four of us. Saqib performed hajj three years ago; Asim plans to go this year, Insha’Allah.

  17.

  Lower Your Gaze

  I lost my footing once again. I had gotten through hajj, the largest congregation on earth, but couldn’t handle the assembly in my living room. Think of a packed subway car; now multiply it ten thousand times, and you have a picture of the hajj. I made more than eye contact during hajj—at times I was skin-to-skin in the crowd—but back home I was jolted into reconciling the boundaries of gender distinction. After the sublime and spiritual experience of hajj, these demarcations felt superficial.

  Circa 1980s

  I was hosting event-planning meetings for the mosque in my home, where members of the board were present. I was aware of being the only woman in the room, and knew I had to be sensitive to the sensibilities of the men. A few were conservative and may not have been comfortable having a woman in their midst. My work environment had conditioned me, so I wasn’t fazed. I am sure they had similar situations in their workplaces. But in this setting, in my living room, we were all Muslims doing the Muslim thing, and Muslim rules applied. A physical distance had to be maintained. So I always took my place on a chair. Were I to sit on a sofa, I would be sitting next to a man, and that would not be acceptable, unless, of course, the man was Khalid. When conversing, some men would look me in the eye; others would lower their gaze. Now, there is a reason for the lowering of the gaze. It says in the Qur’an: “Tell the believing men to lower their gaze and be mindful of their chastity … and tell the believing women to lower their gaze and be mindful of their chastity….”1 The purpose—as I understand it—is to encourage modesty in exchanges between men and women. I have to confess: I get very uncomfortable when men lower their gaze when talking to me. I feel it’s as if I am a threat, and if the man dares makes eye contact he will fall under my spell. Give men more credit than that! I couldn’t force myself to lower my gaze and fix it on the static pattern of the rug. The men in attendance were going by the book; I was not. But I found an acceptable medium. Each time I had to speak to someone who did not make eye contact, I would turn to Khalid and make my point. We would exchange a complicit look. I was conversing through my male guardian, a chaperone of sorts. Understand that I had a stake in this. If I wanted to influence decisions, I had to abide by the rules of decorum. I wasn’t the only one making compromises; they were too. For the conservative men in our meeting, my presence was a major departure from the norm; yet they accepted it (I’m not saying they welcomed it); they listened when I spoke and agreed with my suggestions. All that without an air of condescension. I owe that to the leadership of the mosque, who had set the tone for accepting me. A year later, I would get emboldened, push my luck, and fall on my face. I will talk about that later.

  2014

  Recently, I had an end of the bell-curve encounter on lowering the gaze. I met an old friend from college days. Her son was with her. I greeted him. He lowered his gaze. Oh, come on! I am your mother’s age—going on Medicare. Do you really believe you will get swept away? I thought about it on the drive home. It’s his conditioning. He has cultivated a manner of conversing with females, and it has become a habit, one that removes the distinction of age. I would hardly suggest the alternative: take a quick look, if you find her attractive, lower your gaze. Think of the fallout: boy meets girl; boy looks at girl; girl holds her breath; boy keeps looking at girl; girl is insulted. So, my dear friend’s son: I understand. And to men who lower their gaze, who are abiding by God’s injunction in the Qur’an, I have no business making light of it. If I have offended your sensibilities, I apologize. And if lowering the gaze makes me uncomfortable, that is my problem.

  _____________

  1 Qur’an 24:30–31.

  18.

  Pakistani Islam or a Hybrid?

  How much of what I practiced was Islamic-Islamic, and how much of it was influenced by Pakistani culture? In the beginning, I didn’t even know that the distinction existed. I believed that all my practices were religion-based. Not so, it turns out. Great! That means I can change outfits, dress up my faith in an American ensemble, with American sounds, flavor, and color. A hybrid.

  But first, take an oath.

  Citizen Rehman

  Standing by the Statue of Liberty, Khalid and I took our oath, pledging allegiance to the United States of America. It was 1981. Did I feel a lump in my throat; did my eyes well up? I had been a Pakistani all my life, and giving up Pakistani citizenship was bittersweet.

  Will I have conflicting loyalties? Am I now less Pakistani? How will I feel when my new country takes up arms against Pakistan? Will I stand up for the US when Pakistanis blame it for everything? Will part of me always be Pakistani? How wrong is that? Am I the only one feeling that way?

  Be Counted

  We voted! How empowering is that?!

  I have a voice.

  I have a say.

  I count.

  In 1984, Khalid and I reelected Ronald Reagan. Sorry to hurt your feelings, but we were Republicans. Most Pakistanis were of Republican leaning. It dated back to the Eisenhower years and his foreign policy towards Pakistan; and then it was Nixon’s leaning toward Pakistan during the war of 1971. Add to that our conservative social values. We remained committed Republicans to the shock and dismay of my colleagues, who couldn’t fathom how “nice people” like us could be Republican. Years later, we would switch parties. I will talk about that conversion later.

  Threading My Prayer Rug

  Call it redefining: now an American, I was witnessing the Islam I grew up with undergo a transformation. The main ingredient in the recipe was the Qur’an, blended in with the coloring of Pakistani culture, accentuated with an American flavor—all folded into the sounds of Arabic. As the next generation came of age, the colors took on more and more of an American hue.

  Do They Have to Recite the Entire Qur’an?

  “I want my children to complete the recitation of the Qur’an. Six months later they are still on the first chapter.” I spoke to the Sunday school teacher, a medical doctor of Indian descent.

  The other parents chimed in.

  In Pakistan, reciting the Qur’an in its entirety—all thirty volumes—was an essential part of religious education. I didn’t see that happening at Sunday school.

  This is how I recall his response: listen. Recitation will not educate them. They need to understand the belief system, the elements of faith, and the history. It is knowledge that will strengthen their faith and build their confidence. I understand that it gives you parents a sense of accomplishment when your child has read one volume, then two, then three, and appears to be progressing. Besides, I am the only teacher for twenty children. In the few hours that we have at school, it is impossible to give one-on-one instruction.

  He was right. We parents were hung up on our tradition of recitation. We became Muslims through osmosis and blind faith—the consequence of growing up among Muslims. Our children don’t have that advantage, or, rather, disadvantage. They are going to hav
e to learn the hard way, through education.

  Hold it! I still want my children to complete the recitation of the Qur’an. I cannot just dismiss that.

  There was only one option. Khalid and I started coaching Saqib and Asim at home. Saqib completed the recitation at age thirteen, Asim at age ten. Children younger than Asim were completing the recitation, and each time a child reached the milestone, the parents would hold an Ameen—call it a “Qur’an completion ceremony.” We held an Ameen for Asim. Saqib did not want one—he felt that he was over-age to qualify for a celebration.

  Ameen

  This was a first for me. In Pakistan, we didn’t have Ameen celebrations. At least, not in my family. We had birthday parties, Eid parties, and just parties, but not an Ameen. When it was Asim’s time, I asked Imam if he would conduct the ceremony, which he graciously agreed to.

  Asim got nervous.

  “Do I have to? Why do I have to have an Ameen? Saqib didn’t have one!”

  I overruled him.

  I cooked up a storm—rice pullao, chicken curry, kebabs, and kheer. I had invited everyone in the Muslim community on Staten Island. As we got closer to party time, Asim’s protests grew insistent. “Why do I have to?” Two cars pulled up—the first guests had arrived. Through the kitchen window, Asim watched them get out of their cars, bearing gifts.

  “I am getting presents!” Eyes brimming with sheer delight, the brightest of smiles, the unexpected pleasure—oh, I wish I could have captured that Kodak moment. I heard no protests after that.

  “Mubarak,” I was congratulated by the parents. Gone was Asim’s nervousness. In the living room, with windows overlooking the valley and treetops, guests took their places on the sofas and on the carpet. Asim and Imam took their place on the center of the rug. I had the children cluster around Asim—let them be motivated. Asim held the Qur’an. Imam asked Asim to recite the last five chapters, and as he recited the last verse, Imam said, “Ameen.” Everyone chanted, “Ameen.” We all raised our hands in prayer—prayer of thanks, prayer that all Muslim children complete the recitation and grow up to be observant Muslims. I could see Asim smiling amid all the congratulations.