It was the fall of 2006, and I hadn’t seen Dawud in the two years it’d been since I’d left high school. We were in the same homeroom all four years, but moved in different circles and rarely spoke, outside one conversation senior year to commiserate over the difficulties of being two of only a handful of Muslims at our school three years after 9/11, charged with being the sole representatives of a faith that neither of us knew very much about. He opted to attend the local community college after graduation, while I moved up north for school, and so we hadn’t seen one another again.

Yet I would continue to muse over that conversation from time to time. It marked the start of an important stage in my life, where I realized that I had a responsibility as a Muslim to know more about my religion. I had also enjoyed Dawud’s conversation, and wished we’d spoken again. Especially now that I had seen him again, I wondered; had he also continued to think over the implications of being part of the Muslim minority in America? Was he active in the MSA back home? But what on earth was he doing in this town, and on my college campus? There were many questions in my mind, but one thing I was pretty sure about: Now that the years had added considerably to our experiences and knowledge, there was the potential for us to have many more great conversations.

***

The next day around noontime, the tall figure approaching the MSA table as I sat in the student union chatting with Mariam had clearly seen and recognized me as well.

“Hey, Fatima … that’s you, right?”

“Haha, whoa, Dawud Ali! Yeah, it’s me – how are you bro, and what are you doing here? What a suprise! As-salaamu `alaykum!”

“Wa `alaykum salaam, it’s been ages! Yeah, I’m actually a transfer, got into the business school and just started this semester. How have you been?” He looked exactly as he had in high school – meticulously groomed, designer clothing, and oh yes, a killer smile. We exchanged the normal pleasantries, and he asked me where campus jumuah was held. I drew a little map for him on the back of a flier for the halaqa coming up on Thursday.

“So just go through the doors on the right-hand side and either I or another of the officers will be setting up. We try to get the khateebs to finish by 2pm sharp so nobody’s late to class insha’Allah,” I said.

“I see you’ve gotten really involved in, y’know, the Muslim Student Association,” he said, shifting from one foot to the other and gesturing at nothing in particular. “That’s cool, you know, that’s really great,” he said in a hesitant tone, betraying his true feeling on the subject.

“Yeah, yeah… kinda found my niche after high school. You should come out sometime, you know? There’s always a few events after classes every week. And the halaqa on Thursday should be pretty good. Shaykh Tariq is awesome, and the topic is about preparing for Ramadan as a student,” I said.

“Yeah, for sure… I’m still getting into the flow of things but I’ll try to make it out sometime insha’Allah,” he said. “Well I’ve got class right now, but I’m sure I’ll run into you again sometime. I’ll try to make it out on Thursday. Salaam!”

“Wa `alaykum salaam wa rahmatullah,” I mumbled to his fast-retreating form. I stared into the space he had occupied for a few moments, and eventually my heart stopped beating my eardrums. It would take several moments more before my stomach stopped fluttering.

Well, there it was. I’d finally had a second conversation with Dawud, now that we were both older and more mature. So why did I feel like I was back in high school all over again?

I glanced self-consciously down at myself, the big black abaya I was wearing billowing ever so slightly in the wind, and felt a tinge of regret that I hadn’t been a bit more careful with my clothing selection this morning. I had abayas that fit a bit more nicely and in more flattering colors; why did I choose to wear the slightly fobby-looking, shapeless one with the funny embroidery on it? Careless; I probably looked so ridiculous to him, a far cry from the funky, attention-grabbing style I’d sported in high school. Without my big earrings and hip-hugging jeans, I was hardly recognizable as the same person.

***

He showed up on Thursday. After the lecture was over, he caught up with me in the hallway as I headed out of the classroom.

“Hey Salaam Fatima!”

“Wa `alaykum salaam, how’s it going Dawud?”

“Doing pretty good, thanks. Yourself?”

“I’m good, ‘hamdillah. How’d you like the lecture?”

“Not bad, not bad. … This sorta thing’s not really up my alley, but he kinda put an interesting twist on it, so that was cool.”

“Yeah, I think he has really good insights sometimes, masha’Allah. You should hear his khutbahs, he fits an amazing amount of info in such a short time.”

“Ah, well I guess I’ll see on Friday. Hey, I was gonna ask you, have you eaten dinner yet? Do you wanna grab something on our way out? We should catch up.”

I knew he hadn’t come to the MSA table for jumuah directions.

“Oh I’m actually about to head home with my roommate, we’ve got a midterm tomorrow bro,” I said, groping for the words that I had to say, but having difficulty finding them.

“Oh, what about tomorrow night then?”

“Uh there’s a sister’s movie night thing tomorrow…” For goodness’ sake! I spoke to interfaith groups all the time, even talked to journalists about Islam. Why was it so difficult for me to explain my position on a simple matter to my Muslim brother?

“Wow, you’re a pretty busy woman!” He smiled – and I looked into the source of my difficulty. I took a deep breath and tried to sound casual.

“Haha, yeah I know … between classes and MSA events, I can hardly find time to sleep! And like, even when I don’t have stuff to do for class or MSA, I just try to chill with my roommates or some of the freshmen and sophomore sisters. Like, when I was a freshman there were some great sisters in the MSA that chilled with me and made me feel like less of a freak for not hanging out with guys and stuff, you know? So I’m kinda trying to provide that same kinda support for the younger sisters insha’Allah.”

“Yeah…” he said, a bit more out of respect than understanding. “Yeah, that’s cool.”

“Yeah,” I also said.

The silence set in slowly, like a sponge slowly sinking into the sea between us. I fidgeted with the fringe on my hijab and glanced over at my roommate, who was talking to another sister a few feet away as she waited for me so we could walk home together.

“Uh, well it’s pretty late, I should get going,” he said, breaking the silence. “Homework to do and all. I guess I’ll see you around then. Have a good night! Salaam,” he said, and walked away.

“Thanks bro. Wa salaams,” I said.

A line had been drawn in the sand. There would be no great conversations. And you know what? That was okay.

But in terms of our daily lives, who is it we really model ourselves after? Choosing a role model isn’t always a conscious decision. Sometimes we look to people as role models without even thinking about it. Not in the sense of the natural attraction to charismatic, successful individuals, but unconsciously deciding that a person or group of people are a standard by which to judge ourselves.

A quick example: I was born and raised in California, but I’ve been living in Turkey since summer 2007. When I lived in the States, through my collective experiences at my local mosque at home and later on in college and at MSA events and other mosques, I’d pretty much settled on an idea in my head of what constituted “appropriate” and “inappropriate” clothing for Muslim women, for myself and in general. However, after living in Turkey for a year-and-a-half, a country where 70 percent of women wear headscarves, my idea of what hijab, as a code of dress is, has completely changed.

What’s the difference? Before, in my head and in the popular mindset, hijab was all about a scarf on the head, all about covering hair. In Istanbul where I live, you see everything on the street from chadors to shiny silk headscarves in bright colors paired with knee-length skirts, calves exposed. You see all sorts of behavior from women dressed in all sorts of hijab. For the first time, I thought — and I mean really thought — about how much hijab is not merely about covering the hair.

It may seem like a very basic realization, but it really got me thinking about how much I relied on my own intellect and the opinions of those around me for interpretation of my religion. When we make our standard the fast-changing, transient dunya (our cultures and societies, politics) we’re standing on unsteady ground, and we open the door to inconsistencies and error in the practice of our deen. Alhamdulillah, Allah swt did not leave us to operate based on our insufficient personal experiences, but sent us the Qur’an as guidance. The Qur’an and the Prophet Muhammad, sall Allahu alayhi wa sallam, to show us what it means.

It’s something that deserves a good deal of reflection. Do we think the way we dress is okay because we’re on the conservative side of the spectrum in our community? Are we comfortable with a certain level of inter-gender interaction because it’s what we’re used to, or because our parents are fine with it? What about food, or interest on our money in the bank? I speak to myself first and foremost when I say we need to think outside the box of the here and now and look to the timeless wisdom of the Quran and the Sunnah and the best of their followers for guidance instead of tossing caution to the wind and placing our trust in the status quo.

We need to watch out for ideas we’ve formed about Islam that aren’t based on solid Islamic grounds. As women especially, our places and roles are being redefined every few years as societies decide on the latest greatest way to exploit women. In our modern societies of subliminal advertising, television/radio/Internet bombardment of false and superficial morals and value systems, along with hidden and blatant contradictions of what Islam teaches us, we need to be consciously aware of these influences.

I was reading Surah al-Fatir and some verses struck me as particularly relevant to this idea of awareness:

35:8: Is he, then, to whom the evil of his conduct is made alluring, so that he looks upon it as good, (equal to one who is rightly guided)? For Allah leaves to stray whom He wills, and guides whom He wills. So let not thy soul go out in (vainly) sighing after them: for Allah knows well all that they do!
35:19-22:
And the blind and the seeing are not alike,
Nor the darkness and the light,
Nor the shade and the heat,
Neither are the living and the dead alike. Surely Allah makes whom He pleases hear, and you cannot make those hear who are in the graves.
35:37:
And they cry for help there, (saying): Our Lord! Release us; we will do right, not (the wrong) that we used to do. Did not We grant you a life long enough for him who reflected to reflect therein? And the warner came unto you. Now taste (the flavour of your deeds), for evil-doers have no helper.

There is a difference between right and wrong, often (but not always) as plain as night and day, and Allah swt has sent us the Quran and the best of examples to help us discern between the two. It’s hard sometimes for us to tell the difference; we have shaytan, our nafs and other influences trying to blur the lines to make it difficult for us to see what is good and what is evil. We seek refuge in Allah from being among those whose evil deeds seem appealing to them, and insha’Allah Allah swt will make it easy for us to reflect upon the nature, manner, and intent of our deeds, ameen.

Photo: Thomas Hawk

This time, it seemed like something snapped within the Muslim community regarding Palestine. While far from enough, it was impressive nevertheless. Faster information-sharing, increased networking and communication, and a general sense of indignation, sadness and rage at the latest atrocities being perpetrated against the innocents of Palestine all combined for a stronger-than-ever community reaction to the siege of Gaza. Sifting through my email inbox, I got sometimes four or five copies of the same email from different groups and people, with action items and harrowing pictures of destroyed bodies and buildings.

I was proud of many in my community in the face of the tragedy, the genocide-in-progress. Through emails, I watched brothers and sisters in my community back home in the US protest, organize teach-ins and boycotts and synchronized appeals to elected officials to end the carnage or at least their support of it. Here in Turkey, I watched a stadium full of Turkish basketball fans prevent an Israeli team from playing a game amidst the Gaza crisis, daily protests in front of the Israeli Consulate, and watched as my office and others organized clothing and food drives even as normal people who don’t have much money donate as much cash as they could to send to their brothers and sisters in Gaza.

Even now, as the Palestinians of Gaza attempt to put together the remaining pieces of their shattered lives as the Israelis plan their next offense, I am still proud to see the continued work of Muslim activists to keep the dissent alive and the awareness spreading. Muslims are continuing to work, forming action committees for Palestine and creating workshops related to the issue for upcoming conferences, etc. May Allah swt accept, aid and reward them all, ameen. But what if we look beyond Palestine? What about Afghanistan, Pakistan, Kashmir, Sri Lanka? What about the many Muslims in Africa, Asia, Eastern Europe? While Palestine undeniably holds a special place in Islam, even as we must admit that we don’t do enough for our brothers and sisters there, we do far less – almost nothing – for our fellow Muslims in Asia, Africa, Eastern Europe and beyond. As little as we do for Palestine, we do far less for other places where our efforts would meet with far less opposition.

Many of us with practically no interest in international affairs or history still know more than the basics on Palestine. We know about the illegal and immoral occupation, we know about the Israeli lobby and Israel’s massive PR machine, the war crimes and peace crimes of the Israeli sate, the social aid Hamas provides and more. We can hold our own for a while in debates with Zionists. But when it comes to things like Darfur, it all gets a little fuzzy. What exactly happened over there? Is it still going on? Who were the sides involved in the conflict? Huh? We don’t even know the basics; and what’s more, many of us don’t really care. We’ll free Palestine; let the Peace Corps take care of Africa. The UN or the EU will look after the Muslims in Eastern Europe. And Chairman Mao will take care of the Muslim minority in China, right? What, there are millions of Muslims in Russia?

As Muslims, we see other Muslims, no matter where they’re from, as our brothers and sisters; we should love them for the sake of Allah swt. It’s as if Palestine is the “trendy” Muslim cause to support. How do we justify this situation to ourselves? Our siblings are dying and suffering, and we don’t have the slightest clue what’s going on, or the motivation to find out. It’s something to think about, because it’s something we’ll be questioned about.

“Abu Sa’id said: I heard the Messenger of Allah saying: ‘He who amongst you sees something abominable should modify it with the help of his hand; and if he has not strength enough to do it, then he should do it with his tongue, and if he has not strength enough to do it, (even) then he should (abhor it) from his heart, and that is the least of faith.’” Narrated by Tariq ibn Shihab (Muslim)

Ignorance and ignoring, racism, indifference, apathy, laziness and a lot of other ugly things are contributing to this problem on our part. SubhanAllah, what can we say to defend this sort of mass failure to even sympathize with our fellow Muslims facing hell on earth? It’s a deep-rooted problem. The first step in fixing it is to address the shortcomings within ourselves that have cut us off from any sort of lingering emotional response to suffering of Muslims; we should reflect on the meaning of Islamic brotherhood. The next step before action is education, learning what is going on and what we can do. We live in the so-called Information Age, where it’s easier than ever to educate ourselves. Seriously: Make a good intention, reflect upon the meaning of brotherhood and go read up on oppressed Muslims outside the Arab world. Africa, Asia, and the former Soviet Union are good places to start. Learn about one conflict affecting Muslims on each continent at the very least. And when you learn something new, spread the word.

Photo: hdptcar

“Excuse me, sister, can I just ask you a question? I’m sorry, but I just really have to ask you something.”

“Sure,” I said, as I walked around between the cars. I thought she was going to ask me for directions to the nearest masjid or something. Maybe even ask about converting to Islam, but as I peered into the car at her, I saw trouble in her eyes.

I wasn’t sure then and I’m not sure now if she’s Muslim or not. She was an ethnic woman, perhaps Hispanic, Pinay or Laotian mixed with African American; no way to know for sure. She was beautiful. And seriously troubled. She paused a moment when I came up to her window, as if considering whether or not she really wanted to speak.

When words finally came to her, her speech was quick and disjointed:

“I just want to ask you a question–I’m not even sure why I’m asking you I–you see I’ve been married to a Muslim man for the past three years–I don’t know why I’m even talking to you but, still–I’ve been married to a Muslim man for the past three years. I know everyone is different…” her voice trailed off.

Did she mean not all Muslims were the same?

As though she found the words she had lost, she continued, “But I’m married to a Muslim man and we have two children and one on the way.”

She was about six months along, and she motioned to her other two small children in the back, a heavy knot formed in my stomach and I knew this wasn’t good or easy.

“…And he’s going back to his country soon, and I’m happy for him, and I want to throw him a party and everything, and make food, and invite people, but I just–.” She stopped for a moment, and I could see the tears welling in her eyes.

“I just don’t know what to do,” she finally continued. “I don’t know why I’m saying all of this to you, but I don’t know what to do anymore, I want to throw him a party, but I’m just sick of the craziness, and sometimes I just want the craziness to stop, you know?”

Her eyes pleaded with mine, and I suddenly felt tears springing to my own eyes–my mind raced as I tried to figure out what to tell her; the reality that she had a problem was apparent, but I had no idea what was wrong. How could I advise her, should I take her number, should I give her my number, would she ever call if I did?

“It doesn’t make me feel good, it doesn’t help me get closer to Allah, I don’t feel more connected to Allah with all of this, I just want the craziness to stop. Now he’s doing marijuana and everything, and I don’t know how long I can continue on like this.”

“Oh, no…” I muttered as I heard ‘marijuana.’ I thought to myself again that I should get her information, and contact someone that maybe could help her.
”I don’t know why I’m asking you, but I just don’t know what to do right now, I don’t know how to handle this and my husband is coming right now so just, just–” her voice rose into a pleasant falsetto –,”It was nice running into you again!”

She waved, and it took me a second to realize that her husband was coming up from wherever he had been when she was waiting for him in the van earlier. He was a man with a thin beard and dressed in a dress shirt and pants, maybe Moroccan. I forced a smile, scared of what might happen if I didn’t, and waved and called out, “Yeah it was nice seeing you, bye!” and walked over to the other side of Sarah’s car and got in.

That was that. An experience that ended as abruptly as it began. I still wonder what it is I should have done in that situation. I have so many unanswered questions about her life. I wish I had known of some resource for her. From what she said to me, it seemed like her husband was using Islam as a tool to either abuse her or excuse his abuse or neglect. There was so much that her eyes said that her words could not. Drugs were the only problem she could voice in the brief hit-and-run on the street. What would have been revealed if she could really share her burdens? The woman’s calling me out randomly in the street was a sign of desperation. The act of a woman who doesn’t know a way out, and has nobody she can count on. May Allah give her justice. I don’t know what happened to that woman, and I probably never will. I pray that her life has improved. But I still wonder what I could have/should have done.

What would you have done if you were in my shoes? What’s the best way to help someone when you can only speak with them for a minute? Is there anything that can be done? How can we be prepared for things like that?

Photo: Scott Robinson

You’ve seen it happen before. After prayers on Friday, after the MSA gender relations halaqa, at the conference you carpooled to attend because Shaykh So-and-So was speaking. A simple sentence or two from the speaker can be all it takes to set the sisters’ side of the room ablaze with discontent:

“Unless the shaykh is going to wear a scarf, he shouldn’t concern himself with how I wear mine.”

“I hate it when Muslim men talk about the way sisters dress — he has no right!”

“Why doesn’t he get on the brothers’ case for not wearing beards and kufis instead of picking on Muslim women?”

I’m going to say it plain: This has got to stop.

It’s easy, perhaps, to see where some of this rage originates. Maybe it’s frustration with the group of misogynist males that has led to the nearly instinctual reaction of some Muslimahs to shut out any male speeches giving advice to sisters, esp. on the topic of clothing. This is probably paired with uncertainty/guilt/confusion on the parts of sisters themselves on whatever the issues are, a culture of judging/tension between sisters over the same topics, and the general pressures of trying to maintain an Islamic identity in a minority context.

The problem with this is that such reactions just don’t jive with the Islamic ideal. When you look at the big picture, it hurts Muslim women instead of helping. Naseeha sometimes comes along with an inevitable bite of criticism. It might hurt sometimes, but we need to at least retain the ability to take the good and leave the bad.

Remember Malcolm X before he became El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz? He saw no place for white people in the struggle for the liberation of Black Americans, slamming the door on potential activists and supporters. He realized the error of his ways through making the Hajj pilgrimage to Mecca and embracing orthodox Islam. Islam made the difference by broadening his vision, and we need to keep Islam in mind when building our communities and defining our place in them as women.

Pre-Hajj Malcolm X was angry, frustrated with the oppression of his brethren by some white people, and determined to achieve his civil rights goals “by any means necessary.” At Hajj though, he was inspired by the scene of Muslims of all different colors and backgrounds working together harmoniously toward a goal. He saw the power and the beauty in that. Then, he adjusted his message accordingly, eventually sacrificing his life. He still fought for civil rights and still held his line against white oppressors, but he no longer shut out those sympathetic to his cause who happened to be of other than African descent. Islam taught Malcolm better than that, and Islam teaches us Muslim women better than that, too. We need to evolve from Malcolm X to El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz.

What’s our broader vision here? The Islam-inspired, refined vision of Br. Malcolm was to attain rights for Black Americans while strengthening the Black community and fighting racism. It’s not reasonable or right to hold a prejudice against every Muslim male who dares to touch on the topic of Muslim women beyond saying, “You go, girl!” and commending the sisters for wearing hijab and representing Islam. Our vision should include Muslim men not as cheerleaders, but as teammates. We need to be clear with ourselves and in our communities about the goal we’re working toward, because unless we do, we can fall too easily into the trap that the Nation of Islam was (and remains) in. The history of Islam does not feature only women speaking on women’s issues any more than it only includes men speaking on men’s issues. Many academics have settled for the position of “an empathetic white person can teach and understand to a large extent the African American experience, but they cannot know it.” I think the same goes for us.

As Muslim women we need to represent and support one another, but also help the brothers in their role as Muslim men, by telling and teaching them what they need to do for us, and what they need to let us do for ourselves. A Muslim man will never know fully what it means to be a Muslim woman, but there are Muslim men out there who are pious, well-intentioned, and defend Muslim women’s rights and participation 100 percent. We should welcome the support and efforts of these brothers alongside our own on the path toward the full realization of the Islamically-vested rights, roles and responsibilities of Muslim women. But we must lead the way.

“And seek assistance through patience and prayer, and most surely it is a hard thing save for the humble ones” (Qur’an 2:45)

As I rounded the corner, quietly reciting the Eid takbeer, I reminded myself that I would probably be one of very few women there. Turkish women don’t traditionally attend Eid or Friday prayers at the mosque; it’s just not the cultural practice. But I knew from my own experience that there were usually a handful of younger women that showed up for the khutbah on Fridays, and their numbers were steadily if slowly growing.

With that image in mind, I ignored the stares of the couple of men standing around near the entry to the mosque complex and scanned the mosque courtyard for any women as I took off my shoes. None. When I entered the mosque itself, it was more of the same: Though the mosque was by no means full, there were only men in it. The building’s construction is such that the women’s prayer area is actually in a separate room to the right, so I headed there. I walked in, and it looked mostly empty except someone I saw out of the corner of my eye sitting way in the back. Success — almost.

I was putting my shoes away when I realized that there was a man sitting in the front of the room. Hmm… I looked toward the back, where I thought I had seen an old woman as I walked in, but no, he was actually an old man. I sighed, having expected at least one other woman to be there, and at the very least no men in the women’s section! More than a little deflated, I went to collect my shoes and head out. In the same space of time it had taken me to figure out that this wasn’t going to work out as planned (maybe 10 seconds) it seems that the men in the mosque had come to the same conclusion. An older man rushed into the women’s section, and (assuming the combination of brown skin and an abaya meant I was an Arab) began shouting “Laa! Laa! Laa! [No, no, no!]” and gesticulating frantically. I left, undergoing a second round of stares on my way out of the mosque, through the courtyard, and out the main entrance. So much for my first Eid prayer in Turkey!

So much for the Eid prayer … and so much for the Sunnah too:

Umm ‘Atiyah (radi Allahu `anha) said: “We were commanded [and in one report it says, he commanded us -- meaning the Prophet, sall Allahu `alayhi wa sallam] to bring out to the Eid prayers the adolescent girls and the women in seclusion, and he commanded the menstruating women to avoid the prayer-place of the Muslims.” Narrated by Bukhari and Muslim.

Alhamdulillah. The experience, coupled with reflection, has been a valuable one for me, and I feel it’s a good example of why there’s a need for a movement for and by Muslim women to reclaim their Islamic rights. The main lesson I learned after mulling the incident over is that Muslim women need to stand up for Muslim women’s rights — because nobody else is going to.

In Turkey, the state controls mosques and religious education through the Religious Affairs Directorate (the Diyanet). Basically, since they control mosque administrations and haven’t told mosques to make space for women for Friday prayers and Eid prayers, it doesn’t happen on the large scale, despite the complaints and efforts of a courageous few young women, because Turkish culture dictates otherwise and the Muslim men don’t care. The mosque I’d visited was in one of Turkey’s most conservative neighborhoods, and I am sure that many, many of the men there know that the Sunnah is for women to be allowed to go to the mosques on Eid. None of them do anything about it. The small number of women petitioning for their rights isn’t yet big enough to overturn the government setup and the control of culture.

Incidents like this don’t just happen in İstanbul, where there are many mosques, and at least a few of the bigger ones were indeed open to women on Eid. Males-only mosques are also found in Pakistan and other parts of the Muslim world, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg in terms of the blatant dismissal of Muslim women’s rights. In North America, the UK, Australia and other Western countries with burgeoning Muslim communities, the neighborhood mosque is often the only option for miles and miles, and these mosques (which are centers of the Muslim communities in addition to their function as houses of worship) often have similar misogynist and un-Islamic views and practices.

Muslim women in these places have a responsibility to make sure that their Muslim communities don’t develop a culture where Muslim women can be so easily ignored and religious leaders wield the power to prevent them from their God-given liberties. Western Muslim women have a brief window of opportunity to ensure that in their nascent Muslim communities, where Muslim culture and practice is still settling, Muslim women’s rights become a fundamental standard. As demonstrated by the example of modern Turkey (where, aside from the mosque issue, practicing Muslim women are widely deprived of many fundamental rights), once your rights are taken away, it’s awfully hard to get them back.

Photo courtesy: Miralem Jakirlic