Threading My Prayer Rug

by Sabeeha Rehman

  Blame

  So who can I blame?

  The media? For sensationalizing it?

  No. They are reporters, and they will report it as they see it, and they see it through the lens of their understanding.

  The Islamophobes? No. They don’t know better. Their mindset is a consequence of centuries of conditioning.

  Ourselves? And by that I mean “us Muslims”? Yes. Because we haven’t done enough to make our faith known. We are afraid to wear our religion on our sleeves, lest we be discriminated against, and take comfort in believing that “religion is a private matter.” Well, guess what? Religion is all over the TV monitors, the radio talk shows—so get out of the closet. Some of us wallow in self-pity: “Why us?” Some of us retreat into our fold, exhibiting fear: “They are out to get us.” Some of us just give up without trying: “It’s no use.” A few, who believe in interfaith work, are carrying the burden: giving lectures, writing books and op-eds, accepting invitations from hostile TV talk-show hosts—just to have the chance to put in a word.

  It’s a huge burden for a few to carry for the whole world of us. My message to my Muslim readers: open your doors. It’s not enough to say, “My imam knows your priest.” Get to the grassroots level, and let yourselves be known as the Muslim next door. I don’t mean to suggest that you walk around with a slogan on your tee shirt, “I am a Muslim, Don’t Panic,” or a bumper sticker on your car, “Muslim Driver on Board.” Invite your Catholic neighbor for iftar in your home—not in a catering hall. Fast on Yom Kippur and join your Jewish colleague over dinner. Tell the story of the Prophet Muhammad’s exodus over a Passover Seder. Go to the Holi festival with your Hindu neighbor and immerse yourself in color. Take delight in watching your children decorate their friend’s Christmas tree. Tell the story of Mary in the Qur’an over Christmas dinner. Start an interfaith book club, interfaith scripture group, movie club, poetry club, and watch the magic work.

  Get to be known and love thy neighbor.

  Why Aren’t the Moderate Muslims Speaking Out?

  A bomb goes off. Innocent lives are lost. An Islamic group claims responsibility.

  Muslim-bashing commences.

  Us: I condemn the bombing; and: Don’t blame Muslims for the acts of a few.

  Them: Why aren’t the moderate Muslims speaking out?

  Us: Excuse me, but what did I just do?

  Them: It’s not enough.

  Us: What is enough?

  Them: Get the media involved. Show them that most Muslims are not like that. Show them that you are law-abiding citizens like most others. They will air it.

  Us: We did get the media involved. They turned us down. We issued press releases, begged the newspapers to publish our statements, wrote op-eds, contacted TV reporters. No luck. Muslims being portrayed as regular John Smith kind of people does not make for a good story. On the sensational index, it’s minus zero.

  Them: Post statements on your websites. That is in your control.

  Us: We did. Every Muslim organization in the US posted a statement condemning the attack, referencing the Qur’an.

  Them: Maybe it wasn’t strong enough.

  Us: I will send you the links. Tell me how to make it stronger.

  This dialogue is repeated every time ISIS strikes, every time there is a cartoon-inspired killing or a video-inspired killing. Each time, Muslim leaders and organizations rush to condemn the attack and watch as they are blamed for not condemning it. We do raise our voices, but we are not heard.

  So what do we do?

  Well, Muslim leaders, think tanks, and NGOs across the nation and across the world are devising creative strategies to amplify the voices of the moderates, through education, skill development, and harnessing the power of networking. Imam Feisal Abdul Rauf conceived and is promoting the concept of the Global Movement of Moderates and is starting an imam training program. The Zaytuna College in California, co-founded by Hamza Yusuf, is the first Muslim liberal arts college that aims to revive Islam’s educational and intellectual legacy and to popularize traditional learning among Western Muslims. Asim recently moderated a two-day workshop at Harvard, Representing American Muslims: Broadening the Conversation, where Muslim activists, artists, scholars, and advocates deliberated on strategies for Muslim engagement in public service, the art of storytelling, creative outreach, and more. You don’t have to look beyond Twitter to see the buzz going. These are just a few of many examples.

  The extremists use Islam as the weapon to justify killing. We have to use Islam to un-justify the killing. It’s the only weapon that will work. Fighting them with a secular argument is not going to cut it. Nothing stirs passions as fervently as religion; nothing is as potent as religion; and nothing will move you or stop you as well as religious conviction. Harness that sentiment. Use religion as the basis for condemning the murders, for fostering tolerance, and for building harmony. Use the Qur’anic text to take away from the extremists what they took away from us.

  When the Next Cartoon Appears

  When I was a little girl, Aba Jee would tell a bedtime story to Neena and me.

  Once upon a time, long ago, in the desert of a far-off land, the Prophet Muhammad was walking to the mosque to say his prayers. He walked by a house. In that house lived a lady who didn’t like the Prophet. In fact, she didn’t believe that he was a messenger of God. She threw garbage at him. The next day when he walked by her house, she again threw garbage at him. This went on for many days. The Prophet didn’t get angry with her and just quietly walked on. One day, as he walked by her house, the lady wasn’t there. She wasn’t there the next day either. He asked around and learned that she was sick. The Prophet felt bad for her and went to visit her. He told her that he would pray that she get well soon and asked her if he could do anything to help her. The lady was so touched by the Prophet’s kindness that she came to believe that he was indeed a messenger of God and became a Muslim.

  Aba Jee would go on to tell us that the Prophet, through his conduct, set the example for compassion, mercy, tolerance, and patience during adversity.

  I now tell this story to my granddaughter Laila. When I am tucking her in, her curly hair tangled over the pillow, she will look up with dreamy eyes. “Daadee, can you tell me a bedtime story?” She is too young to know the term “compassion” or “mercy,” but she knows the feeling. “You see, Laila, if someone is mean to you, try not to get upset. Be nice to them.”

  “If I am nice to people, Allah will love me?” Her eyes start drooping.

  “Yes, sweetie. He already does,” and I kiss her goodnight.

  If the woman had sketched his caricature or cartoon instead, would the Prophet Muhammad have acted differently?

  A Place of Hope

  On the shores of Chautauqua Lake, in southwestern New York State, a community comes alive each summer. Chautauqua Institution is my version of heaven on earth. Each summer it hosts fascinating interfaith dialogues, cultural events, and educational lectures. Founded by Methodists in the late nineteenth century, it is ecumenical in spirit. In a serene and picturesque setting, its beautiful grounds are home to houses of Christian and Jewish denominations. Keen to have a Muslim presence, they have been inviting prominent Muslim speakers and clergy, including Imam Feisal A. Rauf, and sponsoring Muslim cultural events, and they hope one day to have a Muslim denominational house. It is a place for a meeting of the hearts and minds of people of all faiths, from communities all across the US, a place for thought to flourish and for nourishment of the soul. Each morning, at the 8:00 a.m. devotional hour, people will start moving toward the Hall of Philosophy, a Parthenon-like outdoor hall atop the hill, overlooking the lake. They take their seats as Imam Feisal takes his place at the podium for the daily sermon on Sufism and Rumi. His talk leads into zhikr—remembrance of God, a collection of sounds to awaken the soul and make it stand before the Creator. The audience—men, women, Christians, Jews, Hindus, and Muslims, join him in the chant: Allah, Allah, Allah. For fifteen minutes, they s
way, eyes closed, chanting the name of God, unveiling the soul. The next morning, they are back. Later one afternoon, a clergyman sitting next to Khalid and me related his spiritual experience during the zhikr led by Imam Feisal. “I always yearned for that spiritual connection with God. Today, during the chant, I finally experienced it.” This is just one of many ways in which the Chautauqua community has opened its arms to us. It is a microcosm of what America is all about. This is a place where I see hope, and a place where we can showcase Islam in the twenty-first century.

  _____________

  18 Qur’an 5:32.

  30.

  Upgrading Islam into the Twenty-First Century

  I see many practices as being outdated, where the solutions are before our eyes if we can muster the courage to embrace them.

  The ritual of moon sighting is one, where the most important Muslim holiday is announced only after one sights the new moon with the naked eye. As movements have sprung up to eclipse moon sighting with moon forecasting, and with impetus from such breakthroughs as New York City’s mayor designating dates for Muslim holidays, there is a crescent of hope—hope that the Muslim ummah, or community, will come together as it was meant to. Meanwhile, it’s a free-for-all. You believe in sighting the moon? Fine. Scan the horizon and stay up in case someone, somewhere on the West coast might call at 1:00 a.m., saying, “I sighted the crescent. Eid Mubarak.” You want to have a neatly packaged, preplanned day off for Eid? You have that option too. Only in America.

  What about rituals dating back fourteen hundred years that cannot be replicated on Manhattan Island, such as sacrificing a lamb to honor Abraham? Are there work-arounds? For now, everything goes. I doubt if anyone is slaughtering a lamb in his or her backyard, though. A call will go out to Mom in the old country: “Can you sacrifice a lamb for me? I will send you the money.” Go to the website of Muslim charitable organizations, and chances are you will find a Donate button for Qurbani. Click Here, enter credit card #, the money goes to the designated country, a lamb is sacrificed, and meat is distributed to the needy. Then there are the slaughterhouses where families will place the order. Animal lovers: I also see a shift. Families in the US and in Pakistan are opting for charity in cash versus meat. Last Eid, when I called my sister Neena in Pakistan, she told me that this year she did not sacrifice a lamb. “It’s no longer practical,” she told me. “I don’t have the household help—someone who can go to the bazaar, select, purchase, and bring home the lamb— and I don’t have the space to house it. Due to power outages, meat goes bad in the freezer, and the needy are now asking for cash instead, because they don’t have the capacity to store meat.” Some families in the US are beginning to take that view. I am no authority on religion, nor am I issuing a fatwa. Just pondering.

  Can a woman serve as clergy or spiritual leader? Dr. Amina Wadud created a stir when she led men and women in Friday prayers in New York City in 2005. A photographer captured the image of Asim sitting in the front row, next to a young lady, their hands raised in prayer. Men and women side by side! He had taken time off from work to join the congregation and support a woman leading prayer. Dear Asim. How he must have felt each time he saw his mother move to the back of the prayer rows. He was making a statement. I was at a women’s conference a few years ago where Imam Feisal was in attendance. As we assembled for prayer, Imam Feisal made an announcement. “This is a women’s gathering…. It is only fitting that a woman lead the prayer.” He then took his place in the back row, and one of the women led the prayer. Recently, at an interfaith book club meeting at my apartment, when it was prayer time, one of the Muslim women announced, “I will pray only if Sabeeha leads the prayer.” Khalid smiled and waved his hand to usher me to the front.

  Let’s stick with women and look around: they now serve on the boards of mosques and head faith-based and religious organizations. Ingrid Mattson—a woman, as you would have gathered—served as the president of the Islamic Society of North America (ISNA), one of the largest Muslim organizations in the US. Daisy Khan, an imam’s wife (who doesn’t wear the head scarf, I might add), former executive director of ASMA, now heads WISE, Women’s Islamic Initiative in Spirituality and Equality, and is a sought-after speaker on the media circuit.

  My dream is for women to have equal right to space in a mosque. It bugs me to see women shepherded to a curtained-off balcony, or worse, relegated to a separate, tiny, cramped room with plasma screens. What troubles me more is that women accept that. I don’t buy the argument put forth by men that women need privacy. Privacy to do what? It’s outright male dominance, and as long as women go along and don’t exert their rights, then they deserve what they get. Phew! That was harsh! We all choose the path of least resistance. Don’t I just walk over to the back row instead of protesting? ISNA in 2015 launched its campaign for the inclusive, women-friendly masjid, stating that “women have a prayer space in the main musalla (prayer hall) which is behind the lines of men but not behind a full barrier that disconnects women from the main musalla and prevents them from seeing the imam.” A promising start, but ladies, we have many rows to cross to the frontlines.

  As long as we are on the subject of mosques, there is something else. In the seventies and eighties, first generation Muslim immigrants, driven by their need to preserve their cultural expression of Islam, established mosques along national lines: a Pakistani-Indian mosque, Egyptian mosque, Albanian mosque, etc. The Prophet Muhammad was praised in Urdu in the Pakistani-Indian mosque, in Arabic in the Egyptian mosque. Women wore shalwar kameez in the Pakistani-Indian mosque, jalabiya in Egyptian mosques, long skirts in Albanian mosques. At iftar, people broke their fast with biryani in the Pakistani-Indian mosque, mezza in the Egyptian mosque. You get the picture. Parents chatted in their native tongues, and children played in English. These children are now parents themselves—American parents, raising American children. They will establish mosques wherever their careers take them, and these will be American mosques—iftar with an American flavor. The lines of national identity will get blurred, and mosques will become less ethnic—just Muslim mosques—just as they were intended to be. Then there is the issue of sects. We have Sunni mosques and Shia mosques—imambaras. Will those congregations merge as well, into non-denominational, “just Muslim” mosques? That is what Daddy would have liked, and I am my father’s daughter.

  31.

  An American Muslim in Pakistan

  How do I feel each time I visit my country of birth? What is it like to juggle ambassadorial hats? Who do I speak for anyway? How does it feel to see the beautiful country of one’s birth engulfed in terrorist attacks?

  Pakistan before I Came to America Ah! The Sixties

  My generation came alive in that glorious era, when art and culture flourished, and we felt free and safe on the streets of Lahore. But it was not without its pain. In 1965, Pakistan went to war with India. Daddy was sent off to war, and I stood on the platform of the railway station in Quetta, trying not to cry, not wanting to wave, and trying not to lose Daddy’s figure leaning out of the doorway, smiling and waving as the train pulled out. A telegram arrived. My uncle: killed on the battlefield of Kashmir, leaving behind a young widow and three little girls. A phone call: my cousin, killed in battle, single, with a lifetime ahead of him. At school—I was in high school—each time the principal stopped by our classroom, I’d hold my breath. She’d beckon to a student and escort her to her office, where a family member waited to give her the news: her father had fallen in battle.

  I’d come home to a house full of women sitting in the drawing room on sheets spread on the rugs, furniture pushed back, praying over tasbeeh beads, praying for the safe return of our fathers and for the souls of the departed. Each time the phone rang, I’d freeze. Only the bravest would answer the phone, and as she nodded “All is well” to us, we’d exhale with a “Thank, you God.” At night, when the sirens wailed, we would jump out of bed, rush outside, and crouch in the trenches in our backyard, shivering in the night until the
all-clear siren sounded. At school, my friends (girls, of course) would gather in clusters in the courtyard during break, catching the sun in the cool days of autumn, and talk war politics. We were going to beat back those Indians; they would regret having attacked us. Spirits soared as the Pakistan air force and army pushed back. When the guns fell silent, we were elated at having won the war, and President Ayub Khan, the dashing field marshal, was our hero. Brimming in national pride, we reveled in making mean-spirited fun of the short-statured Indian prime minister Lal Bahadur Shastri. Time magazine was delivered to our homes on Saturday, and by Monday morning, we girls had devoured every page of it and were ready to share our take on world politics as soon as the bell rang for the break.

  We’d lament over the long-widowed Jackie Kennedy and had our own conspiracy theory going—it had to be Johnson—and took pride in knowing that the riderless horse in the Kennedy funeral procession was the one given by President Ayub to Jackie when she visited Pakistan. One of the by-products of the war was music—national inspirational songs. When inspired by love of country, poets overnight composed songs, and the voices that pierced the skies and touched our hearts were those of Noor Jehan and Mehdi Hassan. At school, I would sing “Aey watan ke sajeele jawano” (“Oh, Our Nation’s Young Warriors”), and at home I would immerse myself in the soft, velvety voice of Mehdi Hassan’s ghazals as I prepared for finals. Mummy would wonder, “How can she concentrate on her studies with all this music?” but she also knew that music was my lifeline.

  We took pride in being Pakistani, and the future felt bright, despite the pain of war.