I smiled politely as Fatima and Rabeya continued their dialogue along tracks to which I could not contribute. But as I sat there I imagined Fatima’s mother and a little tidbit of information Jehangir had told me after the night he got drunk and rubbed Fatima’s belly. Maybe Rabeya did not even know about it.
The tidbit was this: when Fatima first got a period, Mom refused to take her to a gynecologist on the grounds that it would destroy her virginity.
Rabeya gave the khutbah that week. The usual faces poured in through our front door. Fatima was there with her hair covered by a regular blue bandana. I deliberately chose a row towards the back to increase my chances of spotting Lynn before she spotted me. Couldn’t find her.
Rabeya started off with Arabic du’as, then proceeded to read off a list of actual questions posed to fatwa-dishing scholars on Islamic websites. She offered no comment or opinion on any of the questions, leaving us to receive them as we would.
“Is covering the face for women wajib or sunna?
“Is hashish haram or only makrooh?
“Is it sunna or fard for women to put henna on their hands?
“What are the sunna for vinegar, olive oil, honey and oiling the hair?
“What is the hukum for wearing a handlace with bells for a woman?
“Is the use of lipstick considered imitating the kafrs?
“Is it permissible for a menstruating woman to recite the Holy Qur’an?
“Is it permissible for a woman to visit a relative’s grave?
“When in sujdah, how are Shafi women supposed to place
their feet?
“Could a woman call her husband by his name?
“Can a female travel in a different car then her mahram more than forty-eight miles, while her mahram is in the car in front of her car?
“Is it permissible for a woman to pierce her nose for the purpose of wearing jewelry?
“Does wudhu break if you look into a mirror?
“Is it permissible to write with your left hand?
As they piled up atop each other until the final question (“Is it haram for a woman to donate blood to a non-mahram man?”), I grew embarrassed of Islam—or at least of Muslims—or at least of myself for contemplating the pork gelatin in marshmallows. Were these the essential concerns for our spiritual enhancement?
She then went into her khutbah, centering around the Necklace.
Muhammad’s wife Ayesha once found herself separated from their caravan while searching for a missing necklace. Alone in the desert she was completely lost and helpless until a young soldier named Safwan bin Mu’attal Sulami Zakwani showed up on his camel. Safwan lowered the steed for Ayesha to mount and they returned to the caravan.
Seeing Muhammad’s favorite wife riding alone with one of the troops aroused suspicions and scandal. Ayesha and her supposed consort flatly denied any wrongdoing. Ayesha said she heard no words from him the whole time but
we are for Allah and to Him we have to return.
Safwan would not even ride the camel but walked alongside it with rope in hand.
Muhammad did not know what to do. Ayesha went home to her parents and Muhammad ran off to the mountains where he cried and suffered and waited for an answer from Allah. Meanwhile, Ali beat Ayesha’s maid.
When Allah finally proclaimed his wife’s innocence, a relieved Muhammad took her back. Everyone was happy, particularly Ayesha’s parents whose status among the believers had been redeemed. Ayesha’s mother told her to thank Muhammad, but she refused.
It was at this point in the story that we really felt the emotion coming up through Rabeya’s trembling vocal folds. “Imagine this girl—and she was no woman, she was only a girl—thirteen years old. Think about that: thirteen years old, with all the prestige and responsibility and burdens of being married to the PROPHET OF ALLAH—THIRTEEN YEARS OLD, THIRTEEN YEARS OLD! Thirteen years old in a time and place that gave no voice to women—and here was this little girl standing up strong to the Prophet... peace and blessings be upon him... and Ayesha looked Muhammad dead in the eyes as she told her mother, ‘I shall not thank him and laud him, but Allah alone who has vindicated my honor.’ Think about that, brothers and sisters. You think you cannot criticize Muhammad or it makes you
kafr.
You think we can’t do anything to improve or evolve Islam. But little Ayesha, thirteen years old in seventh-century Arabia, did it right in Muhammad’s face.
Al-hamdulilahi Rabbil’Alameen.”
“Ayesha was a bitch though,” whispered Amazing Ayyub on my immediate right. “She fuckin’ had arrows shot at Hasan’s coffin, what about that?” I ignored him and looked down where my forehead would soon go in sudjah.
Rabeya recited Qur’an beautifully, often getting me on the verge of tears; and, as always, the AAAAAAAMMM-MEEEEEEEEEEEEN after
al-Fatiha
just overwhelmed me. At the end of two rakats, as Rabeya gave her final salaams and we likewise turned our heads, I paused and in doing so saw Lynn as she greeted the angel on her left.
Up by the front, between two men. I had been unable to recognize
her from behind because she wore hejab hiding all those dreadlocks and allowing only her face. From what I could see it seemed as though she had on one of her old kameezes too. I then realized she could not have possibly attended our jumaa just for my sake, and to have assumed so entailed an arrogance bordering on
self-shirk.
The jamaat broke up into sunna prayers, du’as and quiet socializing. In the steady stream of Muslims making their way to the door I bumped into Lynn.
“As-salaamu alaikum!” she said with a huge smile and matching hug.
“Wa-alaikum as-salaam,” I replied. “Good to see you.” With her face outlined in cotton hejab, a certain positive energy beamed from Lynn’s expression; but it was also obvious that she had strayed from her natural character.
“Rabeya’s awesome,” said Lynn. “I just love her.”
“Yeah, she always gives good khutbahs.”
“So is Jehangir having another of his parties tonight?”
“Yeah, insha’Allah.”
“I always thought it was real cool,” she said, “how on Friday afternoons you’d have all these Muslims here listening to khutbahs and then at night all the punks come in for beer and ass. It’s like two entirely different worlds in the same house.”
“I’m not sure how
Muslim
all these Muslims are, though.”
“Why do you say that?” Suddenly I felt myself backed into a corner whereas any explanation I could give would portray me as a fundamentalist.
“Well, I mean... from the traditional standpoint... I guess... with women leading the prayers or standing side by side with men in the prayers, it could be seen as... I don’t know, an innovation... and sometimes the messages of the khutbahs might—”
“Personally, I’m not big on the whole ‘Islam is this one way,
always has been and always must be and any deviation from the norm puts you in the hellfire’ approach. I think religion is supposed to be ours to do with what we want. Imams aren’t God, and alims aren’t God, and like Rabeya kind of said in her khutbah, Prophet Muhammad isn’t even God—that’s what got me into Islam in the first place, the fact that we don’t have things coming between us and Allah like in Christianity. Then I found out that we do, we really do—or
they
do, I guess I should say.”
“They?”
“Muslims.”
“I think you’re more Muslim than you know.”
“You’re just saying that because I’ve dressed the part.”
“No, not at all. Reminds me of a parable I read in one of Idries Shah’s books, about this dog and a guy dressed up like—”
“Mulla Nasruddin can save his pleasantries for another day. I think you’re going to buy me lunch.”
So I bought her lunch. Lynn’s opposition to the unnecessary use of automobiles provided us with a healthy walk to the pizza place.
“So you’re originally from Syracuse?” she said, the statement rendered a question with her tone on the last syllable.
“Yep.”
“What’s the community like there?”
“The community?”
“The Muslims.”
“Oh, oh yeah. It’s okay. Some jerks, you know, but that’s everywhere. There’s definitely nobody like these guys.”
“Yeah, definitely not.”
“They’re good people, though.”
“Look at us,” she said.
“Look at what?”
“Us. I got hejab on, man, isn’t that something?”
“It works,” I replied cautiously.
“And you got on—what shirt is that, Abercrombie?”
“Aeropostale.”
“Oh, oh yes. Now I see it. Well then.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, nothing. Just that... well...”
“What?” I asked.
“I’m Muslim-er than youuuu,” she sang in a childish taunt, grabbing my arm and almost leaning in on me. I smiled wide and toothy but lacked the comfort level to actually laugh out loud.
We got to the place, Lynn ordered vegan pizza and I got a plain cheese slice. Sat at a booth with our meals on paper plates. She set hers down, took off her scarf and shook out the dirty-blonde dreadlocks which made her look even weirder when contrasted with the kameez.
Just then a guy walked in with t-shirt exposing lean but sinewy arms completely sleeved in tattoos.
“Hey, Lynn! Salaam-alaikum!” He had a thick Spanish accent.
“Wa-alaikum as-salaam, man!” she yelled back.
“What are you up to?”
“Just got back from jumaa.”
“Oh, al-hamdulilah,” he said, moving forward in line. “Keep it up.”
“How did you do this semester?” she asked.
“Eh, so-so. How about you?”
“Could have been better.”
“I hear that.” The conversation stopped abruptly when it became his turn to order.
“That’s Marcos,” Lynn explained in a half-whisper.
“He’s Muslim?”
“Yeah. Converted this past year. I think he might have gone to a jumaa or two at your house, but I don’t really see too much of him. Once he finishes school he’s going to go back to Spain and win it back for y’all.”
“Mash’Allah.”
“You should probably go tell him,” she whispered, putting her hand by her mouth so Marcos couldn’t read her lips from ten feet away, “that tattoos are haram.”
“I’ll be sure to go do that,” I replied facetiously.
“At least they’re haram for women,” she said. “Muhammad said Allah curses the woman who tattoos. I don’t know if it’s the same for men.”
“I think it’s considered haram for everyone.”
“And of course,” she said with a gentle slap on my forearm, “women who pluck their eyebrows are cursed too.”
“Really?”
“Oh dear Yusef Ali, you need to study your hadiths.”
“I guess so.”
“I remember back in the day when I was a good sister and all, going to the masjid like every day... and one of the women who took it upon themselves to tutor me one day discreetly said ‘Lynn, I’ve noticed you don’t have very thick eyebrows and I just wanted you to know what the Prophet said about that...’ I was like, ‘whoa, okay, I don’t pluck my eyebrows anyway but thanks for the info. Now I can go to heaven.’” I tried to laugh. “So remember that, Yusef! Keep your eyebrows as they are!”
“I’ll try.”
The conversation paused for us to take a few bites of our respective slices. “You know,” I mentioned after swallowing, “I imagine it’s a lot easier for you.”
“What is?” she replied with her mouth half-full.
“Separating the good stuff from the bad. You weren’t raised in
a Muslim family so you can just take things on your own terms. For me it’s hard because I got all of this stuff in one big lump package. Some of it’s worthwhile guidance that I would like to hold on to for the rest of my life, some is just culture that’s a part of who I am and then there’s a lot of traditional things that I can’t understand and I don’t know why people follow them, but they always have. I think that’s why you have something to your Islam that I don’t have.”
“What do you mean?” she asked with half-smile of pleasant surprise.
“I can’t separate spirituality from my family, my heritage, my identity as a South Asian; it’s inextricably connected. You reject an aspect of one, to some extent you’re rejecting all of them.”
“Yeah, my family didn’t seem too disappointed when I started celebrating Christmas again.”
“You celebrate Christmas?”
“Just with my family. It has nothing to do with religion.”
“Well, it is
Christ-
mas
.
”
“No, no it’s not. It’s
see-my-family-that-I-don’t-ever-see-
mas
.”
“Oh.”
“But who cares anyway, right? It’s like Attar said, ‘forget what is and is not Islam.’”
“Attar?”
“Farid ud-Din Attar.
Conference of the Birds,
ever read it?”
“Can’t say that I have.” Marcos walked towards the door carrying his slices in a large brown paper bag, making sure to hold it straight.
Lynn called him over.
“S’up,” he said standing before our booth.
“Hey Marcos, we just wanted to get a closer look at your ink.” He stiffened his green arms as though to make for easier viewing. “Didn’t you get one on your stomach?” Marcos lifted up his shirt
to reveal a
Fisabilillah
arched huge below his ribcage.
“Got that done a month ago,” he explained.
“Nice, very nice... now Marcos, what would you say to someone who told you that was haram?”
“I would say
fuck off
, and then I would say that when my body’s resurrected and Allah asks ‘what’s that?’ I would answer, ‘it’s to glorify Your Name.’ If He wants to throw me in Hell after that, then what kind of Allah did I believe in?”
“Exactly,” said Lynn.
“Mash’Allah,” I added.
“Well Lynn, good seeing you again.” He turned to me. “And I didn’t catch your name—”