Threading My Prayer Rug

by Sabeeha Rehman

  I continue to study and give talks at interfaith gatherings. I have gravitated to the middle, more to the left, inching into the realm of spirituality, am less stubborn, more open, less sure of myself, and more at ease.

  First World Trade Center Bombing. February 1993

  Sitting at my office desk, I burst into tears. A truck bomb had detonated below the South Tower, six people had died, the perpetrators were Muslim, and the media was bashing my faith and bashing all Muslims. Monique, my secretary, also a Muslim, was shaking her head. “When a Christian does something, no one blames their faith. When a Muslim does it, they blame us all.” My Jewish colleague Helene came into my office. “I am sorry this is happening. Is there anything I can do?” I badly needed sympathy and was grateful. Someone understands how we feel. I picked up the phone and called my Jewish friend Lenny, also a hospital administrator and an Orthodox Jew. “What should we do?” I asked. We had a shared history. They had been dealing with anti-Semitism for forever and had mastered the skill of pushing back and making allies. He would be able to guide me. “Let me talk to a few people and get back to you,” he said. Comforted that someone had my back (I was taking this personally), I was able to clear my head and concentrate on work. Lenny did get back to me. He had gotten something going, a dialogue and a statement. A Muslim in distress had reached out to a Jew and the Jewish community was backing the Muslims.

  My family and friends in Pakistan know of Lenny. I tell this story whenever I hear them say, “The Jews are our enemies.” Over the years, as each event piled upon the other—9/11, the Danish cartoons, the Boston Marathon, ISIS, Charlie Hebdo—the list of Lennys has grown, lining up behind us, never again wanting to see a faith community persecuted.

  Oklahoma Bombing. April 1995

  I answered the office phone. Monique, my secretary, was at the other end. “An office building in Oklahoma has been bombed, people have been killed, and they are saying the Nation of Islam did it.”

  “Oh, my God! That’s awful! But I don’t believe the Nation of Islam would do that. That is not their modus operandi.”

  “I know. But that is what they are saying. Why are they so quick to jump on Muslims?”

  When the name Timothy McVeigh was announced, all I could say was, “Thank God, it wasn’t a Muslim.”

  “Is that how your mother relates to it?” Asim’s friend’s mother was outraged.

  Khalid’s Muslim colleague stopped him in the hallway of the hospital. “Thank God it wasn’t a Muslim,” he said. “Can you imagine all the Muslim-bashing that would have taken place on TV?”

  Was it wrong to feel that way? People lost their lives. And I feel relief that it wasn’t a Muslim!

  The worst was yet to come.

  _____________

  4 Qur’an 22:39–40.

  5 Qur’an 7:19–25.

  6 Qur’an 16:58–59.

  7 Qur’an 33:5.

  8 Qur’an 4:4.

  9 Qur’an 2:228, 234.

  10 Qur’an 4:3..

  11 The Message of the Qur’an, translated and explained by Muhammad Asad (London: The Book Foundation, 2008), chapter 4, note 4, 118.

  12 Qur’an: 4:7, 11–12.

  13 Qur’an 31:14.

  14 Qur’an 24:4.

  15 Qur’an 24:2; 5:38.

  16 Qur’an 2:222.

  17 Qur’an: 24:31

  28.

  And Then Nothing Was the Same

  September 11, 2001

  I am angry. I am angry with the crazy, fanatic killers who have set us back beyond square one. All those years of interfaith work, gone up in smoke. What have the perpetrators done to us?! All those efforts to build mosques, Muslim community centers, raising the profile of Islam, getting our children to feel comfortable and confident as Muslims, all smothered in the rubble of the towers.

  At the time, we were living in Saudi Arabia and working at King Feisal Hospital. I was in Mecca, performing umrah, the lesser pilgrimage, when the towers fell. Were my children alive? Asim’s office was in downtown Manhattan, and he often had meetings at the World Trade Center. Phone lines were down. How I prayed, going around and around the Kaaba, praying, “Dear God, please, please, please let my children be alive. Please don’t let any harm have come to them.” I called again—no answer from Asim’s phone. Dear God, please let them be alive. I called again—no answer from Saqib’s phone. Hours later I got through to Khalid’s sister-in-law, Aneela. “Everyone is fine,” was the first thing she said. “I have spoken to Asim. Both your children are fine.” I wanted to get on a plane and hold my children in a hug, just feel them, alive, warm, and wriggling out of my arms. All flights had been canceled. The next few days I remained numb. And then they identified the perpetrators: Muslims, most of them Saudis.

  Emails flooded in from across the ocean assuring me, e-comforting me. Bob offering to house my children until the anti-Muslim sentiment subsided, Robin promising to push back on Islamophobia, and all of them asking, “What is the reaction of the Saudis?”

  Asim was walking back after Friday prayers when the crowd shouted, “Go back to where you came from.” At the workplace, the Saudis extended their support. “Is your family OK? Are you OK? Take time off if you want to.” Psychological counselors were appointed, the restriction on using the Internet for personal reasons during working hours was lifted, and employees were told that if they wanted to break their contract and return home, there would be no penalties. The Saudis were angry and believed that Al-Qaeda, an organization that is committed to dislodging the Saudi royal family, had framed them by using Saudi men to carry out the attack, putting a Saudi face on the terrorists.

  I came home to a world that had changed forever. The face of Muslims had changed. Hijabs were off, beards shaved. There wasn’t anyone I know on Staten Island who didn’t know someone who perished. A neighbor, a friend, a patient … Khalid and I took the Staten Island ferry to Manhattan, and when the Manhattan skyline came into view, I burst into tears. We walked to Ground Zero, the charred framework still standing, papers with burnt edges stuck in the road signs.

  Whether it was at the supermarket, the bank, or the shopping mall, I wondered if people looked at me as “one of them.” A Muslim friend of mine posted an “I love America” sticker on her car, another hung the American flag outside her house, yet another, who always wore the shalwar kameez, was now wearing pants. Fear. I worried—worried about the future of Muslims in the US. Will Islamophobia chip away at their self-esteem? Will their civil rights be safeguarded? Will they feel alien in their own homeland? Is my house bugged? Is my phone tapped? Emails? I was hearing horror stories of people being swept away into detention centers, getting into hot water with the authorities because someone’s email said, “The party was a blast.” BLAST.

  In the 2004 presidential election, shaken by George W. Bush’s policies on civil rights, I walked into the American embassy in Saudi Arabia and cast my vote for John Kerry. I, a registered Republican, had switched parties.

  A personal crisis brought me back home to New York for good. Our grandson Omar was diagnosed with autism. It was time to come home. I left my career to start the New York Metro Chapter of the National Autism Association. But I was yearning to do whatever it took to reverse the damage done to Muslims by the perpetrators of 9/11. I needed to find and associate myself with a Muslim organization that was committed to a robust interfaith outreach. How do I search for one?

  Once again, I was reminded that when you take one step toward God, He takes ten steps toward you. One day, I received a package in the mail. It was a book, The Faith Club, sent to me by Dr. Faroque Khan, a friend and interfaith activist on Long Island. The book, coauthored by Ranya Idliby, Suzanne Oliver, and Priscilla Warner, weaves the stories of three women, a Muslim, Christian, and Jew, who, post-9/11, wrestle with their issues about and try to understand one another’s faith. I came to a chapter where Ranya, a secular Muslim, talks about her encounter with a Muslim cleric, Imam Feisal Abdul Rauf, and his wife Daisy Khan a
nd how moved she was by their approach to the faith and commitment to interfaith work. I had known about them, had been following their work, and now, reading about them from Ranya’s eyes, I knew where I was headed.

  I wrote to Faroque, “Can you connect me with Daisy?” Daisy was his niece. “You will see her at the wedding next week; Imam Feisal is conducting the ceremony.” I cornered Daisy at the wedding, and we pulled two chairs aside and talked. Her brown hair framing her face, she chatted passionately about her work. After 9/11, she and the imam had decided to shift their work from in-reach to outreach, from inculcating Sufism in the Muslim community to doing interfaith work. As people walked around sipping ginger ale, greeting one another and pausing to pick up a piece of chicken tikka, Daisy was charming me. I listened as she told me that no matter where she and the imam go to give a talk on Islam, there are three questions that continue to come up: One, why aren’t the moderate Muslims speaking out against extremism? Two, why do you treat your women so badly? Three, is there an example of an Islamic state that is faithful to the principles of Islamic governance?

  She and the imam had responded by putting three programs in place. One was the Muslim Leaders of Tomorrow, a global network of young Muslims who would be nurtured and groomed to amplify the voices of moderation. The other was WISE, the Women’s Islamic Initiative in Spirituality and Equality, a global network of Muslim women who would advance the causes of women within the tradition. The third was a research project led by Imam Feisal in collaboration with scholars from around the world that describes the elements of an Islamic state and provides an index system to rate how each state complies with the objectives of safeguarding the rights and liberties of the people. That wasn’t all. She was also engaged in promoting Islamic values through culture and arts and was on the media circuit. I was sold.

  Two months later, I was at a desk in her office as their director of interfaith programs. My first assignment was to give a talk at the Sabbath services at the Brotherhood Synagogue—my first speech since 9/11, and I wanted to be prepared. The gracious rabbi, whom I met for a prep session, advised me on what the audience was looking for, Daisy coached me on what questions to expect, and Dr. Faroque sent me a list of questions and answers. I took a deep breath and walked up to the lectern. After the services ended, the rabbi invited Khalid and me to open the door to the ark. Teary-eyed, I almost stumbled. In the basement, after nibbling on refreshments and chatting with the congregation, we gathered for a Q&A. There were no firework questions; everyone was welcoming and warm. A woman walked up to me and said, “I am confused. Now I am confused.” She was shaking her head, and she looked confused. Later I told Khalid, “I am so encouraged by her confusion. Confusion is the beginning of a new beginning.”

  DETAINED

  Saqib, my older son, is detained each time he enters the country—a consequence of having the same name as a terrorist. They run a check and let him go. Meanwhile, his family is pacing in the waiting area, and he, tired after a long transatlantic flight, now has to undergo scrutiny as a potential terrorist. He has tried everything to clear his name and is told that he has only two options: one, stop traveling, and two, change his name. I have spoken to a Homeland Security official I met at a roundtable meeting, who told me that there is nothing anyone can do. Every measure has a risk of fraud associated with it. Short of biometrics, there is no fail-safe way. He advised that Saqib carry a letter with him, issued by the State Department. Saqib got the letter and carries it with him. He still gets detained. “This letter is fine, but we still have to go through our process.” I am scared for him. I am scared that one day, some foul-up in the databases … I don’t even want to think about it.

  It gets worse.

  Eight-Year-Old with Autism on Terror List: Detained at Airport. January 27, 2010

  Omar, my eight-year-old grandson, was detained. Omar has autism. They were getting on a flight to go to Disney World when Omar got taken aside at the airport and was placed in a holding area. I was at the office when I got a text from Saadia, my daughter-in-law. “Omar has been detained. They say his name is on the no-fly list of terrorists.”

  What the …

  “Can’t they see that he is eight years old?” I texted.

  “They say that they know that he couldn’t be a terrorist, but they have to follow procedure.”

  “Which is what?”

  “They have to put his name in the database, and if no match, he will be cleared.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “A few hours. We will definitely miss our flight.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In a holding area. All four of us.” The four being the parents and two children.

  “Hang in there. I am calling the press.”

  I was president of the National Autism Association New York Metro Chapter and had contacts in the media. I got going and got the word out in my autism network, which was huge. The Age of Autism immediately posted the news on-line, “Eight-Year-Old with Autism on Terror List: Detained At Airport.” The New York Times demurred—they had done a similar story recently and were not interested. I called the Huffington Post.

  Another text from Saadia.

  “He is hungry, and they won’t let any one of us out to bring him something to eat. He is stimming.” Stimming is when a person with autism engages in self-stimulatory repetitive behavior such as hand flapping, rocking, pacing.

  My grandson with autism, a little eight-year-old, hungry, stimming, and detained. Has our nation gone crazy? Let’s just set aside that he is only eight. Don’t they know that Omar Rehman is as ubiquitous a name among Muslims as John Smith and David Cohen are among Christians and Jews? God help the Omar Rehmans of America. I called my assemblyman. “He is an eight years old with autism, and they are treating him like a terrorist!” The assemblyman was a New Yorker; the airport was in Philadelphia. I got a lot of sympathy, but no one could help me.

  A text from Saadia: “They have cleared him. The terrorist is in his twenties; no match.”

  Duh!

  My dear little grandson, and I couldn’t do a thing to help him. I made a lot of noise, continued to make noise, autism moms backed me up, and the autism community made a big splash over it, but we couldn’t make a dent in the system. Omar is now fourteen, a handsome young boy with a sprouting mustache. What is going to happen the next time he gets on a plane? I hold my breath. And pray.

  Each event had jolted me in a new way, opening windows of awareness, and closing many doors. Some set us back, some propelled us forward; some hit us hard till we could stand it no more, some brought friends to our doorsteps; some caused us to splinter from within, and others made us feel that we didn’t belong.

  But I am hopeful. This is America. If there is a place in the universe where there is a sparkle of hope for Muslims to restore their image, recover their integrity, and make their voices heard, it is here, in America. But we have to earn that right and work at it. Let’s get started—mend the damage done to Muslims by Muslims, and confront extremism and Islamophobia.

  29.

  Extremism and Islamophobia

  Viewed from the Eyes of a Muslim

  I Hope It’s Not a Muslim

  A terrorist attack takes place and how do I react? I hope it’s not a Muslim. Does that make me less compassionate toward the victims? I carry that guilt. Do I run for cover each time the perpetrator’s Muslim identity is revealed? I do. Am I angry with the perpetrators? Of course I am. They are killing innocent people, tarnishing the image of Islam, and giving the Islamophobes just the ammunition they need to paint all Muslims in one broad stroke. It is painful to see my revered faith associated with murder, over and over again, in voices that are getting louder and louder. The acts of a few are hurting us all. Each time an incident takes place, I have to sit and watch talk-show hosts bash us again and again. Well, I don’t have to, but you cannot get away from it. Islamic terrorists … Muslim terrorists … Islamic jihadists … all evoking images of
terror. Ask anyone on the street: what image does Islam evoke? At times I feel Muslim fatigue.

  God states in the Qur’an:

  Because of this did We ordain unto the Children of Israel that if any one slays a human being—unless it be [in punishment] for murder or for spreading corruption on earth—it shall be as though he had slain all mankind: whereas if anyone saves a life, it shall be as though he had saved the lives of all mankind….18

  Is There a Double Standard?

  Why is it that when a Christian, Jew, Buddhist, or Hindu commits a murder, we don’t hear mention of their religious affiliation, but when the perpetrator is a Muslim, his religion makes news? Let’s face it. It is because these people invoke Islam to justify their deeds. They quote the Qur’an out of context, and those who don’t know believe it.

  Did I just talk you out of believing that there is no double standard? That is not what I meant. I believe that there is a double standard. How many of you heard the story of the Muslim Ring of Peace around the synagogue in Oslo, Norway? Or of Muslim students in Pakistan forming a human shield to ensure that their Hindu friends could celebrate the festival of Holi in peace? Isn’t this newsworthy?

  Is there a double standard in freedom of speech? I watched Daisy Khan being interviewed on PBS Newshour in the aftermath of the killings in the Charlie Hebdo case. When asked if there was a double standard, Daisy responded: “Muslims here in the United States complain that there is a double standard for them. They don’t enjoy free speech. If they criticize their government, they are seen as unpatriotic. If they criticize the policies of Israel or question them, they are called anti-Semites, and if they call for examining the root causes of terrorism, they are seen as aiding and abetting. So there is a sense that free speech is not for Muslims, and it’s only to be enjoyed by Westerners.”