In 2014, when the Peshawar school bombing took place, for the first time Pakistanis across the nation were saying, “This is not America’s war; this is our war.” A friend told me, “I am afraid for my grandchildren. When I send them off to school, I pray and pray until they return home.”
In the Dark
Amid the luxury of domestic workers is the scarcity of power and water. Load shedding would take place on designated hours. My parents dispensed with electric clocks. When power went out, no one was allowed to open the fridge, and you sat out on the lawn to make the most of the light. When power returned, we would run to iron our clothes, dry our hair, and run the dishwasher. We chased the electricity. In Lahore, when I was visiting Jedi Mamoon, the lights were one hour on, one hour off. We learned to dance to the lights. Want to read a book: charge your Kindle during “on” hours and then read the lighted screen during “off” hours. People of means installed UPS19 to keep lights and fans running. It got worse when natural gas was restricted. There was no work-around, not even for the wealthiest. Children went to school without a hot breakfast. People shivered in the cold, wrapping themselves in blankets. “Your Bush said that he would send us into the dark ages, and that is exactly what he has done,” people said, waving their fingers at me, blaming America.
Water shortages compelled Mummy to collect rainwater for her plants and go into a permanent drought lifestyle.
Suicide bombings by Muslim militants started spreading, and once again I heard the familiar chant: “America is behind it…. India and Israel are behind it … because we have the nuclear bomb … because we are a Muslim country.”
Robberies at gunpoint in broad daylight, kidnappings, and extortion fueled the problem. “Is this also America’s fault?” I said. “Rather than shifting blame, leaders need to take responsibility for whatever it is that is causing the problem.”
I wear two ambassadorial hats, actually three. In the US, it’s: “That’s not true, Islam is a peaceful religion. That’s not true, Pakistan is a beautiful country.” And in Pakistan: “That is not true. It is not America’s fault.”
Is It Safe?
I am asked this question every time I announce my plans to visit Pakistan. And it’s not average Jane the hairdresser asking. It is my children, my daughters-in-law. Safe or not, I had to see my parents. So I’d place my trust in God and get on the plane. The year 2015 was different. My parents had passed on, and Khalid and I were going to visit the rest of the family. The Peshawar school incident was fresh in our minds. We took a look at our will, settled our affairs, handed over the keys and documents to our children, and with a Bismillah got onto the plane. Our life is in God’s hands.
When I landed, I was almost embarrassed at even entertaining the thought of danger. It was business as usual. Hustle, bustle, all that energy on the streets, the festivities, celebrations, family reunions, women shopping, food vendors lining carts along the street, buses overloaded with people hanging out and perched on the roof, donkey carts blocking the roads, bicyclists ringing bells—in the rain, a motorcycle carrying a family of four with mommy sidesaddle and baby in her lap—I mean, life goes on. The resilience of this nation amazes me.
At the Daewoo bus terminal, as announcements were being made in Urdu and English, a gentleman sitting next to us said, “Can you watch my bags? I will be right back,” and strode off toward the men’s room. Should we run for our lives? I visited my uncle in Lahore, and stationed outside his gate was an armed guard who escorted me in. Bombs went off in multiple churches, and life went on. In the neighborhood where my parents lived, the homeowners have pooled in to hire a security guard and installed a gate at the roadside. Walls outside government buildings and schools have gone up higher, topped with barbed wire, bolstered with roadblocks. Domestic help, a ubiquitous part of the culture, now seems to be an endangered phenomenon. A family member I visited told me that she no longer employs help because most of the robberies are an inside job.
Flash of Light
Years ago, Pakistanis were confused as to who the enemy was. For some, it was hard to accept the idea that a Muslim, or a group of Muslims, no matter what their tactics, could be the enemy. The establishment, with its deep-rooted corruption, had made life so difficult for the masses that they were ready to wish them away at any cost. To them it did not matter who rooted out the corruption—the army, the dictator, politicians, Pakistani Taliban—as long as they could have sufficient water, gas, and electricity and get the job done without having to bribe their way. The Peshawar school incident cleared the sandstorm that obscured their vision.
Religious scholars in academia are recognizing and addressing the issue. In one of my visits, a professor of Islamic studies at the International Islamic University, Islamabad, invited me to give a lecture on interfaith dialogue at the female campus. She explained that there is a large Christian minority in Pakistan, and she wants her students to learn from the interfaith model in the US, i.e. building harmony. In a packed hall, when the Q&A took off, I was struck by the open-mindedness of the young women and their yearning to make things right in their world. They had the courage to speak up, and I was floored when a young woman addressed me. I don’t remember her precise words, but I do remember her punch line. She and a group of students were at an international conference in Europe and would break into group sessions. The people her team got along with the best and made the most headway with were the Jewish students. In these women, I see hope.
And there is one more phenomenon. Social media. The young generation is using Facebook and Twitter to mobilize opinion. They have infused energy into a nation in denial, have organized sit-ins, are reading, and taking action. I spent an evening with a visiting family—young girls in college—and my, did they have their pulse on anything that mattered! Even books. Each time I mentioned a book (and I am a reader), the girls had read it, and if not, they would whip out their smart phones and download it. They are connected across the oceans and deserts and are empowering one another to fuel change. They do not blame America, India, or Israel. They are looking inward. In them, I see hope.
Until then, I worry. I worry about whether Pakistan will survive the wave of extremism before the youth have had a chance to take charge. And what if the worst happens? Will my family be OK? We all know what happened in Europe. People who thought it wouldn’t happen stayed, until one day it was too late. Will my family make it out on the last flight out, as I did in 1971?
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19 Uninterruptible Power Supply. An electrical device to provide backup power in the event of a power failure.
32.
An American Muslim in New York
Let us dare to imagine: if the Prophet Muhammad were here in New York City today, what would he look like? Would he be wearing a long white thobe, a guthra head cover, or a hooded parka, pants, and snow boots? Would he be riding a camel or hailing a cab? Or would he be environmentally conscious and swipe his MetroCard to get onto the subway? Would he break his fast with dates and camel milk, or strawberries and apple juice? Would he order out for pizza? When he stood in line at the halal food vendor on the Avenue of the Americas, would he converse in Arabic or English? Would he say his prayers in a Sunni mosque, Shia mosque, Pakistani or Egyptian mosque, or any mosque? How would he shape the identity of an American Muslim?
I see the second generation of Pakistani immigrants peeling back the Pakistani culture and revealing a wholly American and wholly Muslim identity. Language: gone. Music and clothing: relegated for special occasions, and maybe lost in the third generation. Food: it will never be lost. There will be Christmas trees and interfaith couples. Our children will cut across national boundaries and embrace one another as Muslims, and not as Pakistanis or Egyptians. Religious freedom will allow a rebirth, a renaissance, in the land of the free. I see it in my children, who have embraced the best of both worlds. Much will be lost; much will be gained—for the better. America will be a safe place for Muslims, and more a home to Muslims
than some Muslim countries are to Christians, Hindus, and Jews.
The second and third generation of Pakistani immigrants had a much different journey than my own. Our generation cleared the path and removed many a boulder. My transition from Pakistani Muslim to American Muslim compelled me to unravel the seams and reexamine the pattern of my expression of Islam, distinguish the colors of religion from culture, and thread the yarn of my prayer rug to bring out the flowering beauty of an American Islam. Along the way, I missed a stitch, or choose the wrong color. Sometimes I couldn’t find the right thread, sometimes the colors of Islam would not blend with the American hue, and sometimes I pricked my finger. But gradually, the brilliant motifs took shape. For much of this journey, I lived within a space where I had to answer to sometimes conflicting expectations—parents, children, Muslim friends, and non-Muslim friends. I was faced with decisions my parents living in a Muslim country never encountered, all while defining a new set of norms my children would never need to consider. Being the link between two generations has been a tremendous responsibility. My ancestors: Pakistani. My descendants: American. I had the privilege of being both, of celebrating both cultures, and being the link between the two worlds. This privilege, however, came with its challenges. There were so many moments that insisted that I account for my identity and explain myself, when my allegiances were questioned, when my culture incited suspicion, when I felt compelled to explain my heritage, when I was expected to choose between my Muslim identity and my American one. At times I led a double life, answering to cultural demands of the Old Country and the new.
I may have two countries, two languages, and two sets of traditions, but I am one person, with one heart and one faith. My “double life” has wrestled with itself and tried to reconcile the two-sided me. This transition has been the hardest, and as I experienced the American side of me prevail, I felt it was my responsibility to make it easier for those who came after me. I wanted to create a space for dialogue and understanding. I wanted to be part of an American ummah, a community that transcends the “otherness.” I wanted my fellow American Muslims and me to be in a place where we can be wholly Muslim and wholly American.
This urge compelled me to be part of community building in Staten Island and to take part in interfaith programs at the American Society for Muslim Advancement and the Cordoba Initiative. These and many other institutions are just some examples of Muslims giving back to the larger community, to share a space with Christians, Jews, and all faiths in a place of fellowship. It has compelled me to be part of civic activities, like the founding of the National Autism Association New York Metro Chapter, and to encourage civic consciousness in my children. This is not just a responsibility to Muslims in America; it is a Muslim responsibility to America. I already see that my grandchildren will be American Muslims in ways I don’t know, but the faith and values haven’t changed.
Immigrant Muslims like me have made the journey and transformation, diluting the cultural identity of the Old Country and threading the fabric of our attire in red, white, and blue. True to our faith, we pray to Allah, the God of Abraham, Moses, and Jesus. We pray like Muslims all over the world, facing Kaaba from all points of the globe, observing our standardized prayer ritual. We read the same Qur’an, identical in its original version in Arabic, not a syllable out of place. We fast during Ramadan, pay our poor due, and congregate once in a lifetime to make the pilgrimage to Mecca. Our values of honesty, dignity, human rights, social justice, patience in the face of adversity, compassion, and love of one’s neighbor are embedded in the American values of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. These pillars of faith remain intact and, God willing, will endure in my grandchildrens’ generation and generations to come.
What has changed is our expression of faith, which is becoming American in culture. We have reshaped the architecture of mosques—narrow, slim buildings, squeezed in tight real estate, blending in with the skyline of New York City. I recall how awestruck I was when in Xi’an, China, expecting to see a mosque with domes and minarets. I saw a pagoda-style mosque, its wings arching into a curl. Small-statured old Chinese men, with thin long beards, in Chinese tunics, greeted us in Chinese. When vacationing in Rome, the four of us went for Friday prayers to a mosque, and I had a moment of disorientation when the imam started the sermon—in Italian. My stereotyped mind could not comprehend a Muslim sermon in Italian. Stepping out in the yard, we were greeted by Muslim Romeos, chatting in Italian.
What has changed is the face of Islam. Just walk into a mosque, take a seat at the back, and watch the people file in. An Arab, a Pakistani or maybe Indian, Indonesian, African American, African, White Anglo-Saxon, Turk, Albanian … men, women, and children, white, black, and brown, praying together and conversing in a potpourri of languages. This is the Muslim community, or ummah, of America—a marked contrast to countries like Pakistan, where the congregation is homogenous. There are only two places in the world where I have witnessed the diverse Muslim ummah: in New York and, at the time of hajj, in Mecca. Is New York becoming our Mecca? In terms of demographics, it is the most reflective of that holy place.
What has also changed is how we engage in public service, i.e. to represent America and to serve America’s interests. On Election Day in 2008, watching the results on CNN, my not-quite-five-year-old granddaughter Laila burst into tears. “He is losing!” she shrieked. “Who do you want to win?” Saadia asked. “Obama!” she wailed. The night before, Asim had been knocking on doors in Pennsylvania. The week before, Khalid and I had been making calls for MoveOn.org, getting the vote out for Obama. When hurricane Sandy devastated New York, Laila watched her dad with the relief workers at the mosque, packaging goods for the victims. Each year she waves goodbye to Saqib as he and his colleagues board a plane to Haiti to train paramedics in trauma management.
What has changed is how we celebrate the blessings God has bestowed on us, be it honoring Mom on Mother’s Day (and Dad on Father’s Day) or lining up by the East River to watch the Fourth of July fireworks. On Memorial Day, Khalid and I took little Laila to the ceremonies at Ulysses Grant Park. Sitting atop one of the guns, she watched the colorful march and listened to the speeches, and when it was all over, she said, “It wasn’t a fun day, but it was an important day.” Every November, we convene to give thanks, gathering around the table, each of us relating, “I am grateful for … ,” a practice introduced by my daughter-in-law Brinda; and we wait for Khalid to say grace the Muslim way—shukr Alhamdulillah, all thanks and praise to Allah—so they can dig into those steaming mashed potatoes. And that reminds me: please, keep the menu American. At least once a year, I can do without biryani, kebabs, and kheer. Give me turkey, yams, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie. Bridal red has given way to white, the nikah is no longer performed in a quiet ceremony in a room in the back but center stage for everyone to witness, and ladoos have been replaced by the wedding cake. Whereas once upon a time her mother, sisters, and girlfriends escorted the bride, now it’s Dad on whose arm she walks down the aisle, as teary-eyed Mom watches from the sidelines. Feminists, are we going backward? Did Pakistani moms have it right?
What has changed is how women express their faith. Brides are retaining their maiden name in keeping with the Islamic tradition of calling oneself by the father’s name. Watch Imam Feisal conduct a marriage ceremony and ask the bride to propose to the groom. Try Googling women Islamic scholars, and see what you find. Many are taking on the role of spiritual leaders, and now we have a women’s mosque in Los Angeles. And yes, they are moving up the rows and taking the best seats in the mosque—some mosques.
What has changed is the hand that holds the mic. Imported imams from the Old Country, imposing alien cultural norms, are being replaced by homegrown imams from accredited seminaries in the US.
All all-American, all-Islamic.
In the land of freedom of religion, the opportunity to create one’s own brand is astounding. We will be testing our skills in finding loopholes while mi
xing and matching line items from various schools of thought to suit our rationale, sensibility, and convenience. We will be offered a diverse range of mosques, Sunday schools, and associations. Want a Sunday school that forbids music—you got it. Want a musical one—you got that too. Want a moon-sighting mosque—got it. Want a scientific-calendar mosque—got it. Want a segregated or non-segregated mosque? How about a women-led mosque? Got that too. Interfaith marriages? Visit dial-an-imam and select from the drop-down menu: Muslim with Muslim only; Muslim man with Christian or Jewish woman; Muslim man or woman with Christian man or woman; Muslim with Hindu; Muslim with atheist. America will offer something for everyone.
I too have a dream. As America continues to learn and grow in the direction of pluralism, so will we. We will continue to build a country meant for all faiths, to create spaces that enhance the dialogue and champion fellowship. Together we will change the discourse, quell violence with knowledge, and banish phobias to the fringes as we work together in unity of the spirit. I dream that in the land of the free, Islam in all its spiritual manifestation, will find a home.
One nation under God.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
If it weren’t for my husband, Khalid Rehman, my best friend and my soulmate, this book could not have been written. He pushed me year after year for more than twenty years, urging me to write it. When I finally found the nerve to pen my private thoughts, he was the happiest man. Every morning when I sat down to write, he would take away my phones, close the door, and give me the quiet I needed—and refresh my coffee.
I would also like to thank and acknowledge:
My dearest children, Saqib and Asim, who were the inspiration for my quest. Their earnest pursuit for answers put me on the path to finding the American expression of Islam. Khalid, Saqib, Asim, my daughters-in-law Saadia and Brinda, thank you for allowing me to share our intimate and sometimes awkward moments.
Threading My Prayer Rug Page 31