Love, InshAllah

by Nura Maznavi

  James’s brown eyes sparkle under the streetlamp, and I think of all the things he doesn’t know about me. To him, I’m simply Chinyere, a half-Nigerian Muslim woman who goes to classes with him, occasionally watches Latino and Brazilian films with him, and has a weakness for off-color humor. He has no idea that I’m in the midst of dancing between dating and not, between relating to men and avoiding them to prevent sex or not. But I still like him, just because he is who he is. And he seems to like me for who I am, right now, in front of him. Attraction is easy for him. Maybe it could be easier for me.

  Walking with James, I realize that I’m doing not the hybrid dance, but a unique dance of my own that someone someday will understand. I’m not just an Igbo who is not Christian. I’m not just a black American Muslim. I’m a woman who loves God and who strives in my everyday life to be conscious of Him. I am a woman who has chosen medicine as my career, believing that I’m serving God by serving my fellow human beings. I am much more than the labels I use to identify myself.

  And ultimately the man who loves me will love me for all of those things, inshAllah.

  For now, going forward with James is better than holding out hope for a Muslim man who likes me in spite of my race. Tonight I’m letting the Sadiq apparition die for good. While part of me would like a Muslim partner to help me grow in my religion, I’m satisfied enough with the Muslim I am that if that doesn’t happen, I’m okay. I know I can grow into the Muslimah I aspire to be, alone if I have to be.

  But inshAllah, I won’t.

  International Habibti:

  Love Overseas

  Love in the Andes

  Angela Collins Telles

  Maiza and I escaped the rain by dashing into an Irish restaurant in Bariloche, Argentina. A restaurant, that is, if I could ignore the pints of Guinness, the central bar, and the droves of men standing around drinking. I shouldn’t be in a place like this, I thought to myself, guilty conscience awakening.

  Not as a Muslim convert who directs a private Islamic school in Orange County. Not as an American Muslim about to have her picture and story in People magazine for sixty million subscribers to read. Not as the girl who would soon be on CNN, Fox News Live, Inside Edition, the Today show, and Al Jazeera as an “American gone Muslim” after September 11, 2001. And especially not as the woman who would cave in to social expectations and wear a hijab back home in response to requests from the media and her devout community.

  My thoughts slowed my stride, and my blond hair and blue eyes caught the unwanted attention of the locals. Maiza and I were in Bariloche to get away from our lives. She had a demanding job and a bad separation happening back home in Brazil. I had a community expecting me to be the perfect example of a Muslim in America. These unreal expectations, combined with several marriage proposals from men fantasizing about marrying a Western Muslim woman without considering our incompatible backgrounds, had driven me to seek an escape through travel.

  We did not want our last night together to be interrupted by men with the worst of intentions. Yet this restaurant—and Argentina, for that matter—invited precisely those types of advances. That is, until he arrived.

  “Did you find a phone?” a man asked me in English.

  I realized it was the same man who had met my glance when I first arrived. I needed to contact our hotel concierge and had decided to ask this man if I could borrow his phone, but he did not have it with him.

  Now facing him again, I found myself tongue-tied. In spite of my flustered silence, he tried again: “Is this seat taken?”

  I regained my ability to speak as I sized him up. “Sure. Have a seat.” He was clean cut, fit, and nicely groomed, with a confident, warm smile. He was more attractive than I had realized during our earlier encounter. He sat next to me and extended his hand.

  “Hi, I’m Marcelo. And you are?”

  “Angela. Nice to meet you.”

  “Wow, you’re an American.”

  “Yes, and you?”

  “Brazilian. I am here with my brother on vacation. We’re leaving for home tomorrow.”

  “Oh.” My tone lowered a bit at this information. “My friend Maiza is from Brazil, too.”

  While they greeted each other in Portuguese, I wondered why I felt excited that he had asked to sit next to me.

  “So, Angela, what do you do?” Marcelo caught me off guard with his English again.

  “I direct a private . . . ”—I paused on the word “Islamic”—“ . . . school. I’m a principal.” Why had I omitted the most important part of what I do? I had never done that before.

  “You work with children? Really? That’s great.”

  “And what do you do?” I quickly diverted Marcelo’s attention to give myself time to figure out what I was doing.

  “I am a financial analyst in Latin equity research. I visit clients in the States frequently from Mexico City.”

  Why wasn’t I driving the conversation into one about Islam? Why was I not explaining how Islam makes so much more sense than our Catholic and Christian beliefs, as I usually do with any new person I meet? Was I afraid I would scare him away with my strong belief in God, which wasn’t widely accepted in the Western world?

  As though we were close friends reunited, we skipped over the awkward conversation of people meeting for the first time and jumped straight into one full of personal views and stories. From our mutual opinions about the food and noisy ambience to my tales of my amusing tree-climbing adventure that day and how I had mastered the technique of fighting off assertive Argentinean men, Marcelo and I clicked magically as we laughed the hours away. The noisy restaurant, lingering men drinking beer, and even Maiza faded into the background, until a lady approached our table.

  “Disculpe, señor. Estamos cerrando ahora.”

  It was 2:00 am. Somehow, four hours had passed like minutes while we shared our life experiences about places we had visited around the world, our families, our jobs, our likes and dislikes. I was entranced by this man who spoke four languages fluently, enjoyed international travel as much as I did, and took care of his whole family back in Brazil. He was attractive, well educated, and amused by my stories.

  “I have to go.” I said. “I have a boat trip early tomorrow on one of the lakes here before I leave Bariloche tomorrow night.”

  “Wait—I would like to be in touch with you. How can I reach you?”

  I hesitated. He was not Muslim. I could never see him again.

  In spite of my qualms, I handed him a tiny piece of ripped paper. “This is my cell number in Argentina. But remember, I can only receive calls on this phone, not make them.”

  I told myself it was safe. The number would exist for only another twenty-four hours, and besides, he was returning to Brazil the next morning.

  That night, I couldn’t sleep. Inexplicably, I had an immediate sense of loss, knowing that I would never see Marcelo again.

  The next day, after nine hours in icy rain and fog, the tourist boat finally headed for shore. As the shore appeared, my phone rang.

  I answered it, surprised at getting reception on the lake. “Hello?”

  “Angela, it’s Marcelo.”

  “Marcelo! How was your trip back home?”

  “Well, actually . . . I didn’t board my plane this morning. And now I’m watching your boat come in to dock. I’m so happy I found you!”

  “You’re here?” I asked in disbelief.

  “I’ll explain everything in just a couple of minutes.”

  I looked over the bow and was excited to see the waiting people, now that I knew someone was waiting there for me, too.

  I was the first to exit the boat. Pushing through the crowds, I searched for his eyes.

  He was standing by a taxi in the parking lot, wearing a cap, looking younger, sweeter, and more innocent than he had the night before. He opened his arms and pulled me into the type of hug reserved for couples who have been separated for days. I could sense he was nervous as he stumbled for the right words to
say.

  “Can I take you back to town?” he asked.

  In the cab, he kept staring at me, grabbing my hand, and trying to hug me sideways. I felt myself resisting his constant need to touch.

  “How did you find me?” I asked.

  Marcelo began to tell his story. The previous night, he admitted, he, too, had not been able to sleep, for fear that he would never see me again. When he had arrived at the airport earlier that morning, he had sought advice from his brother, Alexandre, about what to do.

  “If I leave, I will never see her again. All I have is this number she gave me here in Argentina. I won’t be able to reach her after she leaves Bariloche tonight.” Marcelo paused, realizing the significance of what he was about to admit to his brother. “I think she is the one.”

  “If this is the one,” Alexandre responded, “there’s only one thing you can do.”

  Marcelo admitted that the same thought had crossed his mind after spending just five minutes with me at the table in the Irish restaurant the night before. He wasn’t afraid to say what was on his mind. It was frightening, but exciting, too. I restrained myself from thinking further about what had to be an impossible union, but listened attentively as he continued his story.

  Marcelo had left the airport, hired a driver, and spent the day trying to find which boat tour I was on. He had happened to arrive at the correct port just as I was returning. Of the twenty-four ports that exist in Bariloche, how had he found the right one?

  I couldn’t help but wonder if this was more than a mere coincidence.

  The taxi ride back to the center of Bariloche was treacherous, not because of the muddy roads so much as because of what I knew could unfold between us if we let it. So, as Marcelo continued to be physically demonstrative, giving me happy, affectionate hugs, I found myself pulling away. I started to fear that if I accepted his show of affection, I would be leading him on, and I knew I could not do that as a Muslim.

  “Marcelo, look. I can’t stay with you. I’m flattered by what you have done, but I don’t want to mislead you.”

  “No, that’s fine. I wasn’t suggesting we stay together,” he responded.

  “I have a girlfriend waiting to meet me in Santiago in two days,” I explained. “I have a ticket to leave Bariloche tonight at ten o’clock.”

  “Can I go with you?”

  I was not prepared for his request. I couldn’t say yes, but I didn’t want to lose his company, either. “Well, it’s a two-day bus trip. When is your next flight leaving?”

  “All of the flights are booked for the next four days. It’s high season.”

  I realized what a risk Marcelo had taken to find me. He had missed his flight to try to find a stranger, postponing his work in Brazil. If he hadn’t found me, he would have been stranded in Bariloche for four days, alone. Or, worse, I could have told him that I wanted nothing to do with him.

  “Marcelo, I doubt they still have tickets for the sleeper bus. I bought mine when I first arrived, five days ago.”

  His eyes grew wide with despair. He seemed to fear that this could, in fact, be our last meeting. I watched as goofy motions overtook his confidence, as he tripped on the curb upon our exit out of the taxi. He struggled to find more words to say. There was something truly authentic about Marcelo. I realized he had never done this before and had not rehearsed what move to make next.

  We had arrived at the bus station. Sure enough, there were no more seats on my overnight sleeper. But we found tickets leaving the next morning, though they were not sleeper seats. While I dreaded taking a two-day bus trip sitting up, I was excited at spending time with Marcelo on this long journey.

  “Dos billetos para mañana, por favor.”

  Early the next morning, we took our seats on a bus full of sleepy-eyed passengers awaiting their passage over the Andes Mountains. That August morning showed the winter season’s first clear blue sky, which seemed to symbolize a new consciousness I was developing. I no longer felt fear of the unknown with Marcelo, and I accepted that what was unfolding between us was real and growing from good intentions.

  As we were reminiscing about funny life experiences, the tires of our charter bus slid on the terrain and the engine groaned violently. The bus lost control, skidded, and finally came to a stop on an unplowed road. We were snowed in. Panic built all around us, yet we somehow felt protected and welcomed this unexpected delay in our travels.

  Hours later, the plow cleared the road and our journey continued down the spiraling cliffs to Chile. Later that evening, we arrived in the small fisherman’s port of Osorno. We found a nice restaurant in town. We were seated close to the window, and within seconds, a popular Chilean liquor was placed in front of us, along with the only meal being served that day: an assortment of meats, including sausages.

  “Marcelo, I can’t eat this, and, well, I can’t drink this, either.” Finally, I felt confident enough to share what I had been withholding from Marcelo.

  “Yeah, sausage is pretty fattening,” he responded, trying to make me feel comfortable.

  “Well, not for that reason. There’s something I haven’t told you yet.”

  Marcelo looked carefully into my eyes and breathed in deeply.

  “I am a . . . well, how do I say this?” I halted, as if I had completely misled him by withholding this huge part of myself but sharing so many other tiny details about my life so easily. “Marcelo, I’m a Muslim. An American Muslim. I converted to Islam six years ago.”

  “You’re a Muslim?” he asked. “Wow. To be honest, Angela, I don’t know much about Muslims. So, how did you become one?”

  Although we were famished, our dinner grew cold as our conversation, once again, took center stage. It was a relief to learn that he did not share the anti-Muslim sentiment many Americans had adopted after 9/11. It was this prejudice that had led me to read the Qur’an for the first time. I had defended Muslims based on my personal experience with them through my travels abroad, but I had not felt qualified to debate the topic of terrorism without understanding their beliefs. The Qur’an alone was my sole source of knowledge, and I had begun crying tears of happiness while reading Surah Rahman. I had said to myself, I believe in one God and all that is written in this holy book. Am I a Muslim?

  Marcelo listened with an open mind and admitted that, just as I was raised Catholic and he Protestant, many of the ideas about God our parents taught us did not add up logically in our personal views. He seemed relieved to know that God could be complete as one being. Given his openness, I couldn’t help but wonder: Could he someday become a Muslim, too?

  This question played over and over in my mind as Marcelo learned more about Islam in that three-hour conversation than someone might learn in an entire semester. A sudden calm came over me. For the first time, my passion for my inspiring beliefs was not up for debate. Marcelo asked many of the same questions I had asked when I first read the Qur’an, and seemed genuinely interested. Then it occurred to me that the level of trust we had gained was what had allowed this conversation to occur. I then understood why I had held back from sharing all of me during our first meeting in the restaurant in Bariloche. Could there be a divine plan for us together?

  Once more, we were the last ones remaining in the restaurant. “Oh no, Marcelo—we have only a half hour to catch our bus to Santiago from here,” I warned.

  We caught our bus just as it was exiting the station. The exhaustion of an overnight trip was completely masked by our conversation about being American and Muslim, and how some people on both sides believe that there is no intersection between the two identities. I divulged my challenges around believing strongly in the revelations of the Qur’an, yet also struggling every day to find how to make my new life a part of my culture. I had found a new belief in God, but did that mean I could no longer be me? Did the way I think, dress, speak, relate to others as an American woman disqualify me from being a Muslim woman at the same time?

  I strongly believed that it was because of thes
e traits that I was able to do what so few people ever allow themselves to do: understand God in a way that makes sense to them personally, not just to their families and peers. Marcelo seemed fascinated by my perspective and was empathetic while listening to my personal struggles. He related in a way that very few people could, whether they were from a similar culture or not.

  Without hesitating, I dropped my head onto his shoulder and slid my hand around his waist. His hand gripped my arm. My shyness and fear about spending my time in the company of a man evaporated into the fog of the night. Marcelo was no longer just a man I had met—he was the man I was destined to meet.

  The ride was bumpy, and the oncoming cars’ high beams scorched my eyes repeatedly. Even so, I wished it would never end. When we arrived at our destination, my blissful time with Marcelo would come to an end.

  A European city surrounded by colossal mountains appeared in the windshield.

  “Santiago,” announced the bus driver.

  It was already dark, so we quickly searched for an Internet café to look up the address where I was supposed to meet my girlfriend Coral, but we couldn’t find one that was open at that hour. Even though I didn’t know where I would rest my head, I was grateful that I was not alone on the streets of an unfamiliar city late at night.

  During our walk in a neighborhood known to welcome tourists, we came across an enormous colonial-style mansion that rented out rooms. With each stair I climbed to enter this unique hotel, my heartbeat started to accelerate and panic overcame me. Would we ever see each other again?

  “Two rooms, please,” Marcelo asked. I took a deep breath and felt relieved that we would at least have the next morning together.