That said it all. And that is the case at all such events—girls show up in droves, and the boys stay away. Matchmakers have set up shop. Go through their listings and see what you find: all women and just a few men. Muslim boys are marrying out of faith, and the girls are being left out.
Now let me back up a little. I just quoted one of the boys saying, “Islam allows us to marry women of the Book.” This has been the general belief for centuries: Muslim men can marry a Christian or Jewish woman, but a Muslim woman cannot marry out of faith. That doctrine is now being reinterpreted, challenged, and reversed among some progressive Muslim scholars, particularly in the United States. Their conclusion is that both sexes can marry people of the Book. Rationale: The Qur’an does not forbid women from marrying men of the Book. It is the mother who raises the child and creates an environment of faith and learning in the home, and according to the principles of Shariah, every woman has a right to have a family, to be a wife and a mother, and it is not fair to deprive her of that right by limiting her choices. On the basis of this rationale, some imams in the US are now performing the nikah of Muslim women to Christian or Jewish men. There is resistance to this trend, and it is tearing families apart. When a young girl in our close circle married a Catholic, one of her family members, feeling that this union was not sanctioned in Islam, decided not to attend the wedding. He eventually came around, but more so out of family commitment.
Dear Muslim immigrant parents: Turn the denial dial to the Off position, listen to your children, talk to them, walk with them, and grow with them. Your children are American. Trust them to redraw the boundaries as American Muslims. Recognize that our children will be better Muslims than us, because you have molded them into informed and educated Muslims and have given them the best values of both worlds. Trust them to redefine their identity. Trust them to recast Muslim practices as Americans. You are doing more than changing the direction of your prayer rug—from facing west in Pakistan to facing northeast in America—the picture of your prayer rug has changed.
_____________
2 Black cloak worn over clothing.
3 Paradise.
25.
The Shia-Sunni Schism
My father was a Shia, my mother a Sunni. What does that make me? A Sushi?
I was raised in the Sunni tradition and didn’t know that my father was a Shia until I was a teenager. My impression of Shias, shaped by what my friends in school would tell me, was that they were the bad guys. “They beat themselves,” they would say.
One day I asked Mummy about it. “Why do Shias beat themselves?”
Mummy explained that it was during the Muslim month of Muharram that Imam Hussein, the Prophet Muhammad’s grandson, was killed in the battle of Karbala. Every year in Muharram, Shias commemorate his martyrdom by holding gatherings called majlis, where they relate the narrative of the battle and read poetry on the suffering of the imam and his family; processions are led through the streets, and yes, men beat themselves as an expression of grief for the pain of Imam Hussein. “One should not inflict injury on one’s body,” she told me.
So the Shias are wrong.
Driving me home one day in our red Fiat, Mummy took a different route, explaining that the streets of Raja Bazaar had been closed for the Muharram procession. The next day, someone in school told me that riots had broken out in Raja Bazaar during the procession, and people had been killed. What riots? I asked. Shia-Sunni riots, I was told. There were two Shia girls in my class, and sensing the tension in the air, I held my next question. Why were Shias and Sunnis fighting each other on the streets? I asked Mummy when I got home. She was sitting at her usual place on the verandah overlooking the garden, head bent over her Singer sewing machine.
“Because some crazy person said something crazy to another crazy person, and the whole mob went crazy. When are these people going to learn to be patient and tolerant? Muslims fighting Muslims!” She shook her head, her voice rising in pitch, with her frown making vertical waves on her forehead. “These riots are going to go on until after the tenth of Muharram.”
“Why the tenth?” I asked.
“That is the day Imam Hussain was killed. That day, there are more Shia-Sunni riots than any other day. Until then, we stay away from Raja Bazaar.” The whirr of the sewing machine signaled that discussion was over.
Mummy still hadn’t told me what they were fighting about, and I had homework to do. As I turned to go to my bedroom, she called out, “Head up.” My head shot up on cue. I had been growing in height, was towering above my classmates, and, conscious of standing out, I had started hunching my shoulders and lowering my head when walking. I owe my perfect posture to Mummy’s relentless commands: “Head up. Sit up straight. Shoulders back.”
Once Muharram was over, I forgot all about it. More pressing controversies distracted me. President Ayub Khan was meeting President Kennedy at the White House, and as I looked at the two men on the front page of the Pakistan Times, I made my pronouncement: our president was definitely more handsome.
Do Not Say, “Happy New Year”
A year went by, and we were back into Muharram. By the way, Muharram is the first month of the Muslim calendar. Keep this in mind: do not say, “Happy New Year” to a Muslim in Muharram. It’s a month of mourning. Daddy would often remark, “I wish our religion was more fun-loving: no music, no dancing, even our new year begins in mourning.” Daddy was fun loving and enjoyed making naughty jokes of the faith.
The girls at school were back on the Shia-Sunni topic. I was at the Sir Syed School for Girls in Rawalpindi, on the cusp of puberty, struggling with forbidden curiosity about what a friend had whispered during recess on Facts-of-Life-101 and star-struck by Jackie Kennedy, who, rumor had it, had taken a fancy to the dashing President Ayub Khan when she visited Pakistan. The girls at school seemed to know all about the Shias and the Sunnis—who wronged whom, who could have and didn’t, and the verdict: Shias had it wrong. How do they know all this? How come my parents never talked about this? Well, Daddy didn’t say his prayers or read the Qur’an, so I didn’t expect him to get into religious controversies, but Mummy hadn’t volunteered any Shia-Sunni information either, nor had Daadee Amma, Daddy's mother, who lived with us.
Can a Shia Love a Sunni?
Another year, another Muharram went by. That year I was visiting Aba Jee and Ami Jan. Not only were my grandparents devout Sunnis, Aba Jee was a religious scholar. He would wake up before dawn, say his predawn prayers in his prayer room/library, and then sit cross-legged on the prayer rug, the Qur’an placed on the rihal, the X-shaped foldable bookrest, and study the scripture until the adhan rang out for dawn prayers. People often visited him to seek his opinion on religious issues. Muharram had just passed, and the controversy was still lingering in my mind. I remember walking up to Aba Jee, sitting next to him on the rug as he read, and interrupting him: “Aba Jee, what is the conflict between Shias and Sunnis?”
Aba Jee fished for the ribbon in the spine of the book, placed it as a bookmark, and smoothed his palms over his face and beard, taking in the positive energy of the Qur’an. “Acha. Let me tell you.” And thus began my first introduction to the schism between the two major sects. He told me the story of the dispute of succession that arose after Prophet Muhammad passed away. There were those who believed that the prophet’s cousin and son-in-law, Ali, should succeed him and take the mantle of caliph. Another group was of the opinion that his father-in-law and close friend, Abubakr, should be the successor. Abubakr became the first caliph, and that is at the heart of the issue. The mantle was then passed on to Umar, then Uthman, and finally Ali. But the schism never healed, and Muslims were forever divided—the Shia, who believed that succession was a family right, and the Sunnis, who believed that the decision to appoint a caliph rested with the community.
“Who should have been the caliph?” I asked.
“Abubakr.” Aba Jee was emphatic. He then gave me a passionate discourse on why he believed that Abubak
r was the rightful successor. Having no other frame of reference, I was convinced.
The Sunnis are right. The Shias are wrong. Got it.
“Be careful what you say about Shias,” Ami Jan chimed in. “Your father is a Shia.”
NO!
That is not possible. My father a Shia! Daddy doesn’t beat himself; I have never seen him go to a majlis.
I looked at Aba Jee. He nodded.
They wouldn’t say that if it wasn’t true. But it can’t be! Daddy isn’t who he says he is—just a minute—come to think of it, I don’t remember Daddy ever saying that he was a Sunni. Mummy never told me he was a Shia. I just assumed … Oh, my God.
Aba Jee inched a little closer to me.
Aba Jee and Ami Jan are such devout Sunnis. How did they ever agree to the match?
This is what I remember him telling me: When your father’s proposal came for your mother, I turned it down. I would not marry my daughter to a Shia. Then your father came to see me. He made me a promise. He promised that the children would be raised Sunni, and he would never let his beliefs as a Shia influence his wife or his children. I trusted your father’s word and said yes to the proposal. Your father kept his word.
I pictured Daddy, a young man of twenty, light brown, curly hair, milky white skin, handsome, standing in the presence of this imposing man, making a vow for the woman he loved. Oh, Daddy! And you never said anything to us. Oh, I hope I never said anything bad about Shias in your presence.
I retreated to my room and lay on the charpoi, looking up at the tiny pale lizards playfully crisscrossing the ceiling, staying close to the walls to avoid being blown off the ceiling by the draft of the ceiling fan. Daddy must have loved Mummy so deeply. Daddy had first told my sister Neena and me about their “love marriage” some years ago. I must have been nine, Neena seven. We were visiting family in the city of Lyallpur (now Faisalabad). He was driving around, showing us the school he went to, the field where he played cricket, and then he pointed out a gate of the high school for girls. “And that is where I saw Mummy for the first time.” Daddy always referred to her as Mummy. “She was standing outside the gate, holding her school books. She was beautiful. I knew then that this is the girl I wanted to marry.” He turned to smile at Mummy in the passenger seat. Mummy had a shy smile on her face, and I felt a bit embarrassed. “A few days later, I saw her again, at our house. She had come to visit my cousin Zakia. I said to her, “I want to marry you,” and Mummy said, “I also want to marry you, and so we were married.” Mummy was now getting rather uncomfortable at Daddy spilling the beans with his little girls.
He had oversimplified it, of course—it hadn’t been as smooth as that. “I went to meet Aba Jee,” Daddy had told us, “and I told him that I would join the army as a commissioned officer and be able to support a wife. I then applied, got accepted, and Aba Jee agreed to the marriage.” Daddy had smiled as he told us the story. And he had left out the Shia bit. Dear Daddy. And what about Aba Jee? This was the 1940s; my grandparents were conservative Sunnis, and Aba Jee was strict. No music, no romantic novels, definitely no movies. Forget about dating; Mummy wore the burqa. How did my grandparents agree to their daughter having a love marriage, to a Shia, no less? Daddy was not wealthy, so it wasn’t the money. A student at the Forman Christian College in Lahore, he was not on much of a career path either. Mummy was drop-dead beautiful—quite the eligible maiden. Aba Jee’s wise eyes must have seen something in Daddy, and beneath the façade of strictness, his love for his little girl. On the checklist of an eligible bachelor, Daddy didn’t stand a chance, yet Aba Jee agreed to the match. Isn’t that was love is all about—what parents will do for their children?
I never talked to Daddy about this—the Shia part, that is. I wish I had. I wish I had told him that I saw him as man of his word, a man who gave up part of himself to allow us to grow in a home free of conflict. Isn’t that was love is all about?
I did raise it with Mummy. “They are converted Shias,” she told me. “For many years, your grandparents’ children would die in infancy. Your grandfather went to see a maulvi, who advised him that if he became a Shia, his children would live. So your grandfather converted. They then had five children. Seeing that, other members of the family also converted.”
I asked her about Daadee Amma, my paternal grandmother. I had never seen her engaged in any of the Shia rituals. “She was born and raised Sunni, so even though she converted, she has kept a middle-line approach,” Mummy said.
I think it was more than that. Daadee Amma was a hands-off mother and mother-in-law. She lived with us but never interfered, not in household affairs, comings and goings, and definitely not in matters of religion. Her children would quibble over whom she would stay with—they all wanted her, and each time she said goodbye to go stay with the other son or daughter, her children and grandchildren would start counting the days when she would return. Not getting into the Shia-Sunni rituals was just her way. It made for peace in the family.
I had an awakening in 2008 when I read Reza Aslan’s No god but God. Of course there was another side to the story: the Shia believe that it was Ali’s birthright to succeed the prophet and that the caliphs were to be from among the Prophet’s descendants, that Ali was qualified and had the support. They too had their narrative about the events that prevented Ali from becoming caliph. The compelling case that Reza Aslan made gave me something to think about.
So who was right?
Who Cares!
Daddy was filling out admissions forms at our new school. I must have been fifteen. One of the questions on the form asked for the sect. Daddy wrote: none.
“Daddy, you didn’t write Sunni,” I was quick to point out.
Daddy stopped writing and looked up. “Sects are not important. If you can just focus on the Qur’an, practice its teachings, and do what it instructs you to do, that is what will make you a good Muslim. Fighting over history will not.”
Fighting over history. That is what this is all about, isn’t it! Who rightfully or wrongfully succeeded the Prophet. Isn’t complying with the moral principles in the Qur’an enough of a challenge in itself, rather than to divert one’s energies into who, once upon a time, did what to whom?
Daddy’s words have stayed with me. I find myself repeating his words each time I hear a Sunni badmouth a Shia. When that doesn’t work, I tell them that God says in the Qur’an, “Do not divide yourselves into sects, for it will weaken you.” We belong together, brothers and sisters in faith. There are no theological differences between the two sects. It is all about what should or should not have happened in seventh-century Arabia. Who cares!
Get over it.
26.
Don’t Ghetto-ize Islam
We had done our in-reach in building a community and making good Muslims, but what about outreach to the non-Muslim community to raise awareness about Islam?
A Challenge from Within
It was not 9/11 that triggered interfaith dialogue. Sure, it accelerated it, but in New York it began way back in the 1970s. Yes indeed! A few—just a few—Muslim community leaders, who had the foresight to envision the concept of building bridges, had started engaging with faith communities, civic leaders, and the media. They faced a challenge—not from churches or synagogues—but from within. How about that! Some Muslim families were not ready for it, did not see the need for it, and some even felt that it would dilute the effort of Muslim-izing our children. The sense was: “Sure, it’s a good idea to learn about other faiths, and sure, it’s a good idea to raise awareness about Islam, but you know what? I first need to focus on strengthening the faith in my children and keeping them in the fold.” Some felt that it was an exercise in futility: “The media have so distorted the image of Islam and left such an indelible impression on the viewers that nothing we can do can change that. Why bother?”
We may not have been ready for the world, but the world was ready for us. The first opening came not from an imam, a priest, or a rabbi—it came fr
om a Boy Scout.
Scout’s Honor. The Early 1980s
One evening, Asim came home from a Cub Scout meeting at his den mother’s house. “Daddy, Mr. Phalen wants to talk to you,” he said. Mr. Phalen, the cub master, explained that the Boy Scouts of America have always had a religion award for Muslim Boy Scouts (I didn’t know that), but this is the first time they have created one for Cub Scouts, and Asim, if he worked at it, would be the first Cub Scout in America to receive the award—the Bismillah Award. Mr. Phalen was beaming.
The Boy Scouts of America is recognizing the Muslim faith. Mr. Phalen—definitely not a Muslim—is rooting for Asim to seize the prize. This is America!
The award ceremony was held at a banquet in Manhattan, sponsored by IBM. Asim sat at the dais with high-ranking executives from the Boy Scouts and IBM, gave his cute little adorable speech, and walked back to us bejeweled with a medal and accolades. A nice surprise: a proclamation from the borough president of Staten Island and Councilman Vito Fossella. I know! This was my first encounter with interfaith whatever and my first awakening to the sense that “they” were open to, willing, and enthusiastic about “us.” I was embarrassed that I should even be affected that way. Shouldn’t I have given them more credit than that? And what do I mean, “them”? Shouldn’t I have given people more credit than that?
Threading My Prayer Rug Page 24