Threading My Prayer Rug

by Sabeeha Rehman

  “We should fix the day—the Islamic Center in Manhattan does that. How else can we take the day off? I cannot call my boss the morning of Eid and tell him that I won’t be in because it’s a religious holiday. He’ll say, ‘You are telling me now?’ Khalid has patients scheduled. He cannot not show up. Our children have school—they need to let their teachers know.”

  He explained to me that if he fixes the day, and the moon is not sighted, the community would have missed a day of obligatory fasting. I argued: why not fix it for a day later so we fast an extra day to be on the safe side. He told me that if Eid is indeed a day early, and we are fasting on Eid, that would be a misdeed because only Satan fasts on Eid.

  “Can’t we follow the findings of the observatory? They predict when the new moon will be visible.”

  The new moon has to be seen with the naked eye, he said.

  “When will we know if the moon has been sighted?” I asked.

  He explained that it could be anytime from sundown on the East Coast to sundown on the West Coast, as the crescent has to be sighted anywhere on the landmass of the continental United States.

  “But that could be as late as midnight in New York? And how will we be notified?” I asked.

  He patiently explained that we should prepare to fast the next day, and if the moon is sighted, calls will go out to the community.

  So we may get a call at midnight telling us that Eid is on for the next morning.

  He was a learned man. I respected him and appreciated his patience. I was not well-read in theology and was relying on my sense of logic, which was getting me nowhere. I had no choice but to go along. Khalid was the only one who saw eye-to-eye with me—or at least, the only one who had the courage to express his position.

  What am I going to say to my boss, my colleagues, and my children’s teacher? That maybe I will come in to work, or maybe I won’t, and I won’t know until the night before that I have a religious holiday the next day? As it is, people’s impression about Islam is colored by the “terrorism” lingo on TV. And I thought I could brighten the image of Islam. So much for that! What are my children going to think?

  I argued in absentia.

  I understand that they are going by the book and believe that deviating from what is ordained is a violation. But I don’t believe that our religion is so antiquated that it cannot be reinterpreted to make it relevant to the times. I don’t believe that God intended to make our religion archaic, rigid, and difficult so that it is rendered unpractical. The basic idea is to follow the lunar calendar; it doesn’t matter what tools we use to determine the new moon. In the days of the Prophet, the only tool was the naked eye. Now we have the observatory. The Qur’an states how to determine prayer times based on the length of the shadow and the shades of the sky. None of the mosque leaders walk outside every afternoon and measure the length of their shadow. They follow the prayer timetable based on predicted times, down to the last minute. How is that different from predicting when the crescent will be visible on the horizon?

  And then one day, I lost my temper. It was the twenty-ninth of Ramadan. The moon had not been sighted. Midnight came and went. No word, so we followed protocol and got up the next morning at 4:00 a.m. to have suhoor and begin our fast. I had just finished suhoor when the phone rang. It was a friend of mine.

  “Stop eating suhoor. The moon has been sighted. It’s Eid. See you at Eid prayers in the morning.”

  “What!” I raised my voice. “You’re telling us now! At four in the morning! What kind of an organization are we running?”

  “It wasn’t my decision.”

  I had just shot the carrier pigeon, yet I couldn’t bring myself to apologize. After I hung up, I continued.

  “You know why we have a problem?” I looked at Khalid. “It’s because no one speaks up. They just go along. It’s the absence of outrage. See how calmly she is calling everyone at four in the morning, telling them to switch gears, as if it is no big deal. Did no one ask the question, Why are we finding out at 4:00 a.m.?”

  That morning, the mosque was full. People were coming in, smiling, calm, not looking bothered. I sat among them, battling my frustration. Am I the only one upset? After prayers, after the greeting and eating, I turned to a close friend of mine, more for validation, telling her how upset I was at the late notification.

  She gave me a serene look, and said, “Why would that upset you?”

  Maybe the problem is with me.

  It got worse. I called my friend in New Jersey to wish her Eid Mubarak. This was her response: “Eid is tomorrow. Did you celebrate it today?” By the end of the day, it had become apparent that Eid was being celebrated on two different days throughout the US.

  It got worse. The following year, mosques in Manhattan celebrated Eid one day, and mosques in Brooklyn the other day. It’s the same moon, isn’t it?

  It got worse. The year after, one mosque in Staten Island had Eid one day while the other mosque had it the next day. Same borough, same moon.

  Each mosque claimed that they had it right.

  What do I say to my children? What do my children say to their friends?

  And here is the bitter frosting on the Eid cake: At work, I took the day off for Eid. My secretary, also a Muslim, took the next day off for Eid. The third day, our colleagues asked, “Don’t you both have the same religion?”

  I refuse to be embarrassed, but I hold our religious leaders responsible for causing embarrassment and for dividing the Muslim community. Aha! Doesn’t the Qur’an stress that the Muslim ummah should stay united? Where is that in the moon-sighting equation?

  Circa 2000s

  I wasn’t the only one fixated on fixing the moon date. Apparently, over the last two decades, some Muslims had undertaken a scientific experiment with the naval observatory, the hypothesis being whether the sighting of the crescent can be predicted based on astronomical calculations. Predictions were made, tested, and tracked over the years. The result: you bet! Several leading Muslim organizations in the US announced they would recognize astronomical calculations for the new moon. Yeah! They have since been publishing the dates on their website months in advance. Khalid read me the news, and I raised my hands with an Alhamdulillah. A graduation for Muslims in America! Khalid and I now follow their calendar. Not all mosques or organizations embraced this principle, so today you will have half the people in New York City celebrating Eid one day, the other half on the other day. Alternate-side parking is suspended for three days, and the Empire State Building lights up for three days as well—a work-around.

  It’s not quite over though. Last year, on the first day of Ramadan, I called my granddaughter Laila to say Ramadan Mubarak.

  “I am fasting,” she proudly announced. I asked to speak to Saqib.

  “How was your fast today?” I asked.

  “I am not fasting.”

  “Are you OK?” I presumed that my observant son was sick.

  “I am OK. But my mosque said that Ramadan starts tomorrow.”

  “Then why is Laila fasting today?”

  Saqib tried to explain that Saadia, my daughter-in-law, had heard that Ramadan starts today and decided to fast. He didn’t know what her plan was; he didn’t tell her what his plan was; and so, there you have it.

  What?!

  “When you were missing at suhoor, didn’t anyone notice?”

  More explanations. Saqib doesn’t wake up for suhoor because, like all surgeons, he has to be in the OR early in the morning. He came home late last night when everyone was sleeping and didn’t connect, and for some reason, each of them thought that they were both on the same moon.

  “Saqib! You cannot allow this to happen. It’s bad enough that Muslims are divided across mosques, but for a family under one roof to be observing different dates is not acceptable. Think of your children. How do you explain it to them?”

  “You’re right. I should have communicated better.”

  It never happened again. But it did happen once. A
nd once is one too many.

  Eid a School Holiday in New York

  I heard talk that the Muslim leaders—particularly the young ones—were lobbying for Eid to be a school holiday.

  Are they serious? How can the school system designate the Eid holiday when we can’t agree on setting a date?

  On March 4, 2015, Mayor Bill DeBlasio announced that New York City schools would be closed for Eid. He even announced the date of school closure. Who had his staff consulted on setting the date? Who cares! Will this compel the mosques to set a date?

  I am beginning to like the pattern in my prayer rug.

  20.

  Tradition versus Women’s Rights

  And now, the moment you have been waiting for: the tormenting issue of women’s rights. Why should my experience be any different!

  1986

  I decided to run for office. Not a political office, as in the school board—although it did get political—but to be a member of the executive board of the mosque. I believed I was qualified and had earned my way. A year earlier, the chairman of the board had appointed me as the chairman of the women’s auxiliary. He gave me a free hand in defining my role. I was invited to all board meetings as a guest to give my report. I organized ladies’ functions and family events, participated in planning meetings, and mobilized the ladies to take an active role. As editor of the newsletter, I connected community members with the mosque. I had actively fundraised. Recently, Khalid and I had performed the hajj, an experience that strengthened my spiritual connection with the mosque. Therefore, when the board announced that elections would be held for the executive board, I threw my hat in the ring. I consulted Khalid and spoke with some of the key leaders of the mosque and got their support. One of the leaders proposed my name on the slate.

  All hell broke loose.

  Reason: I am a woman.

  Reason: a woman cannot be on the board of a mosque. She cannot serve in any official capacity in a mosque.

  Reason: men and women should not work shoulder-to-shoulder in a mosque.

  Doesn’t my service count? Which authority has ruled that a woman is to be excluded? If the teacher and spiritual leader say it is permissible, what is the basis for overruling him?

  My candidacy became a referendum on the status of a woman in the mosque. The leadership of the mosque was divided, and in the community lines were drawn. When I went to the mosque the following Sunday, one of the men approached me. This is how I recall the conversation:

  “You should withdraw your name,” he said.

  “Because I am a woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “When I worked for the mosque all these years, I didn’t hear anyone object to my being a woman. Why now?”

  “You can work unofficially. But you cannot hold a title.”

  “I already hold two titles. I am chairman of the woman’s auxiliary and editor of the newsletter.”

  “That is different.”

  “How is that different?”

  “You cannot be seated at the table with men.”

  “She has been at the same table every month at board meetings.” Khalid had walked up.

  “That was a mistake.”

  What!

  “Brother, let me tell you something.” An African American member of the board had walked up. “Women have fought in wars—the Prophet’s wife Aisha led troops in battle. So much of the Hadith comes from Aisha. Women actively participated in decisions made in mosques in the Prophet’s lifetime….” He continued to make more points, much of which I don’t remember.

  “Sister Sabeeha, this is how it is going to be. Whenever you have anything to say, tell it to Khalid, and he will convey it to us.”

  Now it is coming to that.

  “I am not backing down.” I looked him square in the face.

  He turned his back and, taking quick steps, walked away.

  I felt people averting their gaze. Some women chose to sit away from me; others huddled around me to convey, “We are with you.”

  Khalid and I talked about it that evening and agreed that backing out was not an option. If I pulled out, it would send the wrong signal. People will say, “Once she realized that a woman has no place in a mosque, she withdrew.” And that would shut the door on women.

  “Win or lose, you will have made your point and set a precedent to stand up for your beliefs and not be cowed by those who use religion to intimidate,” Khalid said.

  Khalid got on the phone and called members of the board. After the first call, he hung up and relayed the conversation.

  “He says,” quoting the board member, “‘We cannot allow the ultraconservatives to set the wrong precedent. Tell Sabeeha that not only does she have my support, I would like to be the one to nominate her. I will clear my calendar and be there.’”

  Next call.

  “He says,” quoting the other board member, “‘My wife is very concerned and feels strongly that we cannot afford to lose this one. We don’t want our daughter’s rights curtailed.’”

  Third call.

  “He says, ‘This is ridiculous! If we let these mullahs prevail, they will destroy the mosque. I am campaigning for Sabeeha.’”

  These were the they-will-support-me-no-matter-what board members. The tone shifted when Khalid called the we-support-her-but-wish-she-wouldn’t-run members. The opposition had already gotten to them.

  “He says, ‘Sabeeha has done a lot of good work, and of course she deserves to be on the board, but wouldn’t it be better if she did not run? It is dividing the community.’”

  And then there were those who said, “Yes, of course,” and no more. Those were the ones who voted nay.

  In that moment, that evening, my prospects looked good.

  “You should call some of your friends,” Khalid said.

  I feel awkward doing that. My friends know me, know my work. I trust them to use their judgment. I don’t like tooting my own horn.

  I had to push myself to pick up the phone. I made two calls and was jolted into the hard truth of politics.

  The first call was to a dear friend. After pledging her support, the whole women’s rights stuff, she laid it out for me. The opposition had already called her—and it was a woman who had made the call.

  “Sabeeha, you think the men don’t want you there. Well, let me tell you. It’s the women who don’t want you.”

  Women?

  “Sabeeha, after I gave her my argument on women’s rights, she backed off from that argument and attacked you personally. But know that I am here for you, you have my vote, and you have my husband’s vote.”

  Why are the women against me? I have had good relationships with all of them. We have worked well together. Wouldn’t they want to see a woman on the board? What is going on?

  The next call was worse.

  Another close friend, someone whom I looked up to as an older sister, gave me a dressing down.

  “People have been calling me,” she said. “They are dead set against you. No one is arguing about the great job you have done. It’s your image that is the problem.”

  “My image?”

  I still recall her words: “You are Americanized. I am too—more Americanized than you. Nothing wrong with that, until one decides to be a representative of a mosque. The two don’t go hand in hand. You cannot be Americanized and be a mosque person. I am not saying that it is right, but it is the reality. If you want support as a mosque-ish person, then you have to look like one. You don’t cover your hair, and you dress American, and those who oppose you are using that against you. I have told these people off and said that my husband and I are behind you, but I am just letting you know what’s going on.”

  I felt my cheeks burn. The dress comment stung.

  I am not backing down. Definitely not now. I will fight this.

  Election day came. The mosque had standing room only, was noisy, and on that October evening, it felt cramped, stuffy, crowded, and chilly. I saw people I had never seen and never
saw again. I knew then what the outcome would be. My supporters were there. One of my friends, so sick with multiple sclerosis that she could barely stand, walked in, walked up to the opposition, and made a statement. The men made speeches after nominating me, put forth arguments in my favor, and, when the votes were counted, I had lost big time. But something grim and ominous had happened. Several key members on the board who had supported me were de-elected. Those who had stood for the rights of women had taken a fall. I looked across the room at them, somber and quiet, handling it with dignity, and felt guilty. My friends surrounded me, outraged, not at the outcome but the circumstance that led to it.

  My children were there. As we sat in the car, Asim, my eleven-year-old, reached out from the back seat and put his hand on my shoulder. “Mummy, I am sorry.”

  Khalid and I had strategized when the controversy first started on how to address this with our children. We did not want to draw them into the wrangling of adults, yet they saw and heard what was going on. They respected the leaders of the mosque, and we wanted to preserve that relationship. On the other hand, they had to understand that women had a place, and their mother was fighting to uphold those rights. It was painful to see my children exposed to controversies within the Muslim community, just when we were getting them to feel pride in their flock.

  The phone rang all evening. Khalid’s friends were incensed. Many who were inactive in the mosque pledged to get active and roll back this wave of conservatism.

  That was almost three decades ago. I can see clearly now. Given a chance, would I run again, in 1986? NO. It was premature. You can tell that I was also naïve. My PR skills were nonexistent, nor had I placed any value on them. Benazir Bhutto, when she ran for president of Pakistan, did two things. She got herself an arranged husband, and she donned a white dupatta over her head. Image. If you cannot yield to a required image, then don’t run for office. But above all, I question my intent. Why did I aspire to be a board member in the first place? Recognition? Ego? If that was so, then God humbled me. I could have carried on the work without the title. And that is what I did over the next several years—just carried on, keeping a low profile.