Lightness of Being…

I am tempted to jump around, make my story interesting by telling you about the professor I met here in Africa, and about all the women he introduced me to, as "interview cases".

Strong women beaten at the brow, weak women who were working incessantly to kill themselves a little at a time, and young women who were learning fast not to walk in their mothers' footsteps. Women I fell in love with, "research case studies", with rich voices, different personas, and long journeys, all somehow crystallized in one of Fatima's loud, baring, cynical laughter.

But mine is a story that insists on being told from the beginning.

It requires patience from you my dear reader, as I feel like an old woman. At 40, I feel like I have lived far too many lives to count. It is just now, that I am taking my own hesitant steps into the world, to try and uncover all the things that were meant for me to comprehend.

{-}

We took the Shahada (testimony of faith) at 18, and got married six months later.

He was the eloquent speaker, writer, daring adventurer; I worked tirelessly sculpting with my hands what his heart was enamored with at any point. I still have some relics of my art from our yesteryears. The sculptures have been broken and nicked with time; the paint has faded over my canvases, but they remind me of our purer days. Of days we could spend hours together and not say a word divining everything we needed to know from our shared thoughts and dreams.

Even as we weathered the worst rage of pubescent hormonal changes, we never were tempted by each other. Jamaal was too protective of me (even from himself), and we were too busy trying to figure the world out, to worry about mundane things like making out. We had forever to rediscover each other; the world was on a more restricted time span.

After we became Muslims, a sudden unspoken urgency crept up into our relationship. It was as if we suddenly realized we were two separate people, a male and a female, and the shameful awkwardness of it all made us resign to the inevitable commitment of marriage.

{-}

There were no fireworks or sparks between us. Aside from the momentary awkwardness before marriage, we had none afterward. There was no electricity between our sheets; no furtive embraces; or wild-butterflies-in-the-stomach type of excitement. When we embraced for the first time, it felt like being engulfed by the universe; my endless nights blanketed his galaxies with nostalgic remembrances of our celestial existence.

{-}

We had been saved from the many "traps" awaiting new converts (the word 'reverts' sounds too much like regression for me); because of an older mentor/brother called Dawud. He had been a Muslim for over thirty years, and had hit every single point on the spectrum of "zeal" (for a lack of a better word).

His first crucial piece of advice was "you are embracing Islam not Arabism or Pakistanism."  

It still didn't prevent us from being lost in the waves of cultural nuances disguised as religious advice engulfing us; but it did serve as an alarm at some point.

I promptly changed my name to Aisha Williams and Jamaal was saved from the name change since his was Arabic enough to begin with. We were really unaware of how much Islam was rooted in our history; and it wasn't till much later that scholars began to painstakingly document the rich history of Islam in America. Of course technically we didn't have to take on Arabic names, Tia would have been good enough, but we weren't taking any chances. Our submission was complete, and we had to cut loose any connection we had with our "jahili" (ignorance) era.

At that time I was convinced Aisha was the perfect name for me. The historic figure of the passionate, brilliant, intellectual figure of Islam; mother of the believers and doted wife of the Prophet (peace be upon him); was everything I yearned to be. I could never match wits with her, even in my imagination, and she reminded me of lightning bolts and sparkling stars; things I normally associated Jamaal with. I needed that exterior badge to distinguish what I lacked within; it was my way of tangibly connecting with Jamaal’s world.

Jamaal never had to push me to do anything. I could sense his moods, his intellectual development, the movements within his heart and I would immediately model myself according to his changing expectations. When I first donned the scarf I quickly progressed from the timid, tied back, with ears showing, and modest gear; to the full long shayla covering my bosom with long shirts and skirts (banning pants); and finally to a full scale Niqab/Burqa/Ninja whatever you guys call it nowadays.

In a Niqab I felt safest, immune from Jamaal's side long glances as we left the house, and certainly safeguarded from any hints being dropped about the appropriateness of dressing of some sisters.

I could now dwell amongst the righteous elite exhorting the masses to abandon the lure of their western ways.

{-}

Our first child, Kareem, was an unexpected gift in the middle of college coursework, two jobs (each), and strapping means. We barely managed to stay afloat, when I got pregnant with the second (Mona). I stayed home, took on other babies to baby sit, sewed clothes, and helped with some outreach activities at the mosque for some additional income.

Jamaal was just starting his new job as an accountant for a government agency.

By the time my third child was born, Ibraheem, I was just turning 23. I had an infant, a two year old, and a three year old; juggling too many things at once; and was constantly harassed and exhausted.

That was just about the time, Jamaal started feeling claustrophobic in his job, and yearning to go abroad and earn "real knowledge" so he could come and help the Ummah (community). Everyday at work became like a prison sentence for him. He would come home to crying babies, endless complaints, and an exhausted wife. I could see the spark in his eye begin to dim; and the sprint in his step gradually fading. I could hear the tempestuous storm within him simmer down to the monotonous hum of a drone.

I decided to take matters into my own hand.

I moved back into my parent's house, kept my jobs, and encouraged him to go abroad.

"Go study, your knowledge will be the light this dark society sorely needs. The Ummah needs you more than us" 

Even as I said those words, there was something deep within me that wanted to abandon the pretense and hold on to him for dear life. I steeled myself against my weaknesses; we were dealing with much grander things than babies and finances.

Jamaal was overwhelmed. He got on his knees and kissed my feet, promising me the world and more.

I didn't ask for all that. I just wanted to preserve my Jamaal's galaxies from the billowing clouds of the mundane.

He deserved his chance to shine.

Within three months Jamaal left for Madina, the City of the Prophet (Peace Be upon him) to search for the knowledge that would surely light the spark of faith in the dwellers of the West's pervading darkness.

I was strapped with three kids, a couple of projects to keep the finances rolling, and an exasperated mom who couldn't understand why Jamaal needed more schooling instead of focusing on feeding his  three perpetually hungry mouths.

{-}

Five years passed in a haze of potty training, growing children, work, school, and a myriad of commitments. I had barely graduated with a mediocre degree in Education, (with the support of my parents who insisted I finish my coursework) when Jamaal finally came home.

He looked so different; much younger, more relaxed, and radiant from his experiences abroad.

I mirrored an older, haggard, anxiety worn face that once belonged to me. I was still running around trying to find some useful employment that would allow me to keep an eye on my growing kids. Kareem was just turning 8, and he insisted on calling my dad “pops” long after his own father came back.

It wasn’t until two years later that Jamaal landed an Imam position in another city a couple of hours away  from our home town.

{-}

“Do you love her?” I asked trying to keep my voice neutral, edging  years of exhaustion, hurt, and bitterness off my heart.

“No, it’s not about love Aisha. This is different. It’s about Dawah Inshaallah” He added almost as an afterthought “You know I could never love anyone the way I love you”

“To invite her to Islam you have to marry her?” I was confused.

“I need to spend a lot of time with her, work on her faith; I can’t do that now because we are non Mahram (unrelated). You understand right? I don’t want to do a haram (forbidden) thing in order to reach a halal (lawful) goal. That’s one of the traps of the shaytaan! (devil)” 

“No, honestly I don’t understand. What about the masses of ‘lost’ women out there. You are going to marry them all in order to work on them?” 

“Don’t be silly. We can’t change the world all at once, just one person at a time. Imagine, if Sahar starts practicing more that will impact her family, children, and eventually society itself.” 

“Her name is Sahar? Does she have children?” 

“None. She is in college, finishing up this year”

“She is what 22? How did you meet her? Why does she want to marry you? Does she know about me? The kids? What are we going to tell our children?”

 My heart had already been in mourning. I knew long before he told me. I sensed it in the changing rhythm of his heart, in his blocked dreams and foggy thoughts. In his avoidance of my gaze. In his sudden renewed interest in clothes, appearances, and poetry. But I couldn't help the questions. I needed to know.

“Why Jamaal? Tell me the real reason, what have I done wrong?” 

{-}

Jamaal C. Brown

Washington, DC

May, 1990 

Women saw it as a betrayal. My own mother was flabbergasted by my decision. She berated me for being an ingrate, for playing games, and being selfish. My children who have never been that close to me anyway, were acting even more strange around me.

I felt ostracized from everything that gave me comfort before. But this was the way, the sirat al mustaqeem (straight path), and I had to struggle though it. No one said it was going to be easy. Allah told us that even our families could be enemies to us. In trying to excessively focus on their pleasure, I would inadvertently lose my step, and forever be lost in the depths of Jahannam (hell fires) Audhu Billah min Dhalik (I seek refuge from it).

This was the way of the Prophet (Peace be upon him). He never married for pleasure; he sought to build ties of kinship, to strengthen political allies or to protect widows. Sahar possesses too much fire, but if channeled right, she would explode onto the Dawah scene with a bang. She had the right chemistry and a rare charisma that Aisha just wasn't born with. Not that I am comparing them, Astaghfirullah (May God forgive me), but I just want to point out that they were not the same. Women have a hard time understanding the terrible burden placed on men.

I am not just a husband and father, but an Imam. I represent my community and the needs of everyone involved, it is a huge trust placed upon me and to execute it and I need all the help I can get.

My relationship with Sahar was not of mere love or folly of emotion; it was born out of a pragmatic need for the benefit of all humanity. I was willing to selflessly undertake the additional responsibility to further progress our Deen.

This was the Sirat al Mustaqeem, who ever said it would be an easy path?

{-}

When I was much younger, Aisha and I used to love hanging out at Jazz clubs. On alternative weeknights they used to hold open mics. They would have local artists battling out on the hip hop front, spoken word, and showcase emerging bands. It was a fun, hip place where artists of all different genres got to meet and hang out.

We stopped going for a long time because they also served alcohol and with the music and free mingling of the sexes it could lead to too much temptation.

Since I took on the Imam post, I had really stopped to reflect on that point. Most of the people who go against the gradient of our society, hang out in those spots. If I started interacting with them again, it could be a Dawah gold mine. After all, they were the ignored aspect of our outreach campaign, yet the most fertile soils are available on those grounds.

I felt excited at the prospect, and talked to a couple of brothers who agreed wholeheartedly with my plan. They even offered to accompany me.

“You know Akhi, that was Hassan Al Banna’s (May Allah rest his soul in peace), methodology! He would even go talk to prostitutes and that was the best grassroots Dawah plan action ever implemented” My good brother Amin reminded me.

“I know, it is a hard decision because it is a haram place, and I don’t want to feel like a hypocrite going there. But I will do what is necessary for the greater cause.” 

{-}

“Spendin time, writin rhymes

Tryin to find words that describe the vibe That's inside the space

When you close yo' eyes and screw yo' face

Is this the pain of too much tenderness

To make me nod my head in reverence

Should I visit this place and remember it?

To build landmarks here as evidence

Night time, spirit shook my temperament

To write rhymes that portray this sentiment

We live the now for the promise of the infinite

We live the now for the promise of the infinite” 

Sahar was doing her own rendition of Mos Def’s Love Song the first night I saw her. She was all legs and hair, possessing a captivating voice that hushed the entire block down. She was mesmerizing.

Long curly hair, with flaming henna dyes, a tight pair of jeans with a funky cut T-shirt (Astaghfirullah!) , and an irrepressible smile she walked around being given high fives and pats on the back by other brothers around, she seemed quite at ease with her own popularity.

I couldn’t help but be intrigued by this obviously “Muslim” girl who had long lost touch with her deen. I learnt from another brother that she is actually of Moroccan descent, born in France, and grew up for the most part in the US.

I went back a couple of nights in a row and checked out her other performances. She was dazzling, mixing French raps with English; throwing in some Arabic music to her soulful blues. Everyone waited with baited breath for her long legs to climb on the stage and when she opened her lips, hearts trembled at her magical threshold. She knew when to pause, raise her voice, break out into song; she pinned down the precise moment to look down and then dramatically meet your gaze. Her act was hard to pin down, eluding description, breaking stereotypes, and at the very end she leaves her captivated audience feeling lost, mesmerized, and a little confused by what just happened to them.

{-}

I did not dare approach her, opting instead to take my corner seat and watch her day after day. She was going to be a hard one to convince. I had to be strategic in my approach, or I would lose her completely to the Kaffir ways.

I admit I was a bit obssessed by her. I had lost touch with the initial reasons I went there, and she became the ideal for all my outreach efforts. If I succeeded in bringing her to our side, then my mission would have been beyond victorious. To me, she became a figure like Hamza (RA) or Umar (RA), their conversion to Islam was pivotal to the cause. (I do not of course, mean to imply this lost girl was in anyway comparable to our beloved companions of the Prophet (Peace. Be upon him)- Astaghfirullah, that I should even go there!)

I also had to dress the part too, since I couldn’t possibly go in looking like I am about to give a sermon, no one would want to talk to me. So I wore my sweat shirt, with jeans, a kufi, and my huge pair of tims. Sometimes I would wear a thowb/Jallabiyya with Jeans; throw on a kufi of course; and tennis.

{-}

The day arrived much sooner than I anticipated. She simply waltzed up to me, introduced herself, and stuck out her hand as if to shake mine (does she know anything at all?). I placed my hand on my chest and bowed a little out of respect, told her my name, and politely complimented her on her acts.

“I see you have become quite a regular here?” She asked good-naturedly.

“yeah, I stop by when I can” discomfited. I had been there every night for the past three weeks.

“Can I ask you a really dumb question?”

“Sure sister, go ahead”

“I thought it is really haraam for you to be here. Why do you come?” 

“hmmm….same reason you choose to perform despite the fact that it’s obviously haraam for you to do so” I had been priming myself for this conversation forever.

“So you come here because you love the arts? Appreciate the audiences? And like to push their boundaries?” disbelieving.

“More or less…You would be surprised I used to come here all the time. I stopped though for the obvious reasons. But I still do appreciate a good performance, I love the peeps that hang out here, and I want to connect…you know?” 

“Actually no, you gotta back track and explain to me how that’s not hypocrisy” She challenged.

We easily spent the next three hours arguing that night.

{-}