Lightness of Being…

Tia
Mombasa, Kenya

2000 

I am glad I didn’t meet Fatima before I came to Mombasa. I think I would have cancelled my trip. She sees everything from a very cynical viewpoint. It is quite unhealthy. I appreciate her candor though and that is what makes her special. 

I knew I was coming to Africa, a third world continent, so my expectations were tempered. Having lived in neighborhoods that were considered “bad”, I thought I had a pretty good idea of what being poor meant. Yet Mombasa redefined my understanding of poverty. It lay in the little simple things that we Americans take for granted; things like running water, constant electricity, and central air.  

The heat was claustrophobic, wet, humid, and incessant giving birth to giant malaria carrying mosquitoes. It also seemed like there were more creatures around, people lived comfortably alongside lizards, praying mantises, and humongous houseflies. There were hens and roosters, goats, stray cats and dogs, as well as a rare monkey seen grazing around the neighborhoods. 

Due to the economics of it all, women rarely got their private dwellings; they went from their father’s house to their in-laws’; causing much private dramas generated from colliding traumas of too many people trapped in too small a space. 

The cultural fusion was what intrigued me the most though. Weddings and funerals infused a lively urgency into general slumber of the area showcasing a sprinkle of Indian spices, a dash of Arabic belly dancing accompanied to the beat of African drumming. It seemed like everyday someone was either getting married, or dying, or both. The whole community participated with such wholehearted enthusiasm in both events, creating an outpouring of support from everyone related, unrelated, and even perfect strangers who just happened to be walking by. 

I was really touched to see how women wailed for the death of their neighbors or relatives with such anguish, but was disturbed to see some of the same women partying away a couple of hours later at a wedding. 

Invitations to weddings were considered a birth right. A woman, who happened to know the second cousin of an in law of the niece’s son’s wife, would be very offended if she wasn’t invited, because she was practically a family member! It became necessary to start issuing cards, since one may budget for about 200 people and have a 2000 show up (literally). The issuance of cards generated more drama, blame, and hurt feelings, and some women went out of their way to forge cards so they wouldn’t be left out. 

There was also the starkness of class division. The haves and have-nots were clearly demarcated and the gap was shocking in its divisive largeness. The handful of rich families lived in huge villas adorned with expensive furniture, electric generators, pools and a plethora of servants, maids, gardeners, and cooks. While less than a couple of miles away, another family could be wondering what on earth they were going to eat for dinner.   

There were a lot of hidden beauties though, that novel eyes could uncover. I loved the feeling of really being alive that I got from being there. I was constantly in touch (not just in contact) with people. It seemed like the emotions were more palpable, friendships more binding and people were expected to rise to their humanity in the fullest sense. Women, who didn’t visit the sick, help a neighbor, or rise to communal responsibilities were considered stuck-up.
Mombasa was heavily a “shame culture” placing punitive measures on people who dared to break the norms.  

There was also the confusing paradox of everything ancient superimposed on the modern. Satellites carried all the horrendous cultural norms of the west (read Hollywood, MTV, and sitcoms), and the east (Arab music videos and Bollywood). Kids emulated everything to a fault. Even older women were conscious of new dance moves, and evolving fashions, all of which were paraded at successive weddings. 

I loved it all though and the one who helped me put a lot of the confusing juxtapositions in proper context was the professor: concise, intelligent, well mannered, and bearing the most gorgeous pools of the kindest eyes I had seen in my entire life.  

{-} 

Sahar

May, 2000 

I couldn’t believe Aisha left him either. Wow. I honestly didn’t think she had it in her. So quiet, affable, and reserved; she seemed quite happy raising her children and staying out of our way. I felt really bad for her though, I guess I still haven’t resolved my own conflicting guilt on breaking a home. Jamaal assured me it wasn’t my fault, he takes full blame for the consequences of our relationship although he doesn’t lose much sleep over it, I can tell you that much. 

I have never generated this much antipathy to myself in my entire life. I know Aisha detests me, Mona can’t stand me, the women at the Masjid don’t even want to look in my direction and even the men (who secretly lust after me) publicly pretend to renounce me. I just don’t know who I am anymore, and if it wasn’t for my job at TQ’s, I would have gone insane. 

TQ received multiple grants which allowed him to channel his passion into a solid non profit entity with branches in multiple cities. He needed a co-director; I took on the position without a second’s hesitation despite Jamaal’s pointblank refusal. I told Jamaal, if he couldn’t furnish me the same lifestyle my parents indulged me with, he had no say in what I chose to do for a living. After all, I was actually helping kids wasn’t I getting extra Dawah points for that?  

I have been really busy on the Dawah front as well. My first “project” was TQ, who was most certainly Muslim in every sense of the word, but just didn’t know it yet. He conceded to reading the Quran, and we had our own debates which posited me on a more conservative side than him (the sheer irony!). 

Jamaal encouraged me to go on a couple of Dawah outreach programs with him, and I am sure he already regrets it. It was funny to see the church members’ faces when I interrupted Jamaal on his presentation and we started arguing right there and then on the validity of what he was saying.  

“Do you realize how much you are embarrassing me?” 

“Oh come on Jamaal! At the very least I am countering the myth of the submissive, oppressed Mozlem woman. If they go home with just that, we have succeeded in our mission.” 

 Jamaal didn’t seem to buy my argument.  

                 {-}                                                                                                                  

                                                                    Tia                                                                       

Mombasa

2000 

I got the professor’s contacts from my advisor who had been to Kenya before. So I emailed him, and we went back and forth a bit. He came to pick me up from the airport and welcomed me to his quaint home by the beach, with unreserved hospitality.  

I picked him out of the crowd in no time. From his reticent emails, I was able to draw some conclusions about his persona and was delighted that I was accurate. He was impeccably dressed, a proper perfectly creased shirt, with a belt, and khaki pants, matching socks, and polished shoes that were gleaming with pride. He was medium height, medium frame, and had a soft mild face, with short trimmed salt and pepper hair, a sharp goatee, and wore thin rimmed glasses. I guessed he was about his mid fifties.  

I still wore my Burqa and have kept it on ever since I first wore it. It may be surprising to some people that in my new found independence I didn’t just take off all my clothes. But I had grown fond of the strange empowerment of being invisible to others; yet still able to study, communicate, and interact with them. I could relate to the Afghani women, who didn’t part with their Burqas after being “liberated” from the Taliban. It is hard to explain that liberation comes in various forms for different people, and I relished that freedom of wearing whatever I wanted (or nothing at all underneath) and still dictating the terms and form of my encounter with men. 

I walked up to him and introduced myself, what I hadn’t noticed before that moment was just how deep his eyes were. There were windows to what I soon found out to be a very simple, generous, deeply caring soul.  

Everyone calls him “professor”. He has a name, Omar Salim, but few people remember his name. He had a long trail of academic years behind him, and had spent a couple of years in the US working for his Ph.D. thesis on the “Yemeni migration patterns to the East coast of Africa”.

History was his specialty and I learned a lot listening to him extrapolate on the cycles of the world and how human beings tend to repeat themselves as imperceptibly as the turning of the earth; and as tragic as the daily surrender of the sun to the gloom of night.  

He had tried his hand in politics, running for Mayor with huge support from the masses. But he was soon dispirited by the deep seated corruption, naked greed, and malicious intrigues aimed at amassing even more power by his co-leaders.  

When I met him, he was semi retired, spending a lot of time reading and writing books, and contemplating the messages unfurling with the gushing waves of the Indian Ocean. 

He insisted that I would not spend a penny on hotels and stay in his house. To prevent tongues from wagging; he temporarily moved in with his brother’s family. Women still talked though, wondering out loud if he was stealthily creeping at night to get some American booty. I was scandalized.

Fatima was there to console me though: 

“These women have nothing to do but enflame their sordid imagination on keeping tabs on other people’s affairs. You know what the problem is? They aren’t getting some themselves. If they were sexually gratified, they would not bother with trivial details on other people’s lives.”

 I had to deal with other questions of course, first one being how “Islamic” the American version of Islam is. I told them the answer lies in the same response they would give to Yemenis (in Yemen) who question their African version of Islam. I don’t understand why people think the West in general, and America in particular has a weaker “Islam”; when our religion is perfectly comfortable being integrated into different geographical settings and cultures without losing the intrinsic goodness and diversity found in each culture and tenaciously not subsume itself into them either.  

Moreover, I felt like the Islam in America was more rigorous because we consisted of a melting point of various cultures that question, challenge and eventually help each other grow from a “culture specific” Islam into a more universal one.  

{-}                                                                                                                       

                                                           Jamaal                                                            

9/11 

Subhana Allah, soon after losing my first love, Tia, 9/11 came crashing upon us. I miss her terribly. I realized how big a mistake I made after she left. She waited just moments after the kids moved out, for her to launch on her own journey. Tia and I come a long way. She knows me, my weaknesses, preferences, strengths. I am ashamed to admit that I enjoyed how she amplified my manhood, and always made me feel more important than I really was. 

With Sahar it’s just different. I am always fighting to be understood, begging to be obeyed, and stressing on what other public display of humiliation awaits me. I don’t like her closeness to TQ, and how she insisted on working with him. I don’t get why it is so hard for her to just submit! Not to me, Astaghfirullah, but to Allah. This life is too short, for her to insist on fighting the Truth every inch of the way. 

Now the Kuffar have launched a public war on Islam, the “crusades” as their cowardly Leader has proclaimed. There is a lot of work that needs to be done. The days of slumbering in the comfortable albeit apathetic grip of the west are over. Muslims need to wake up to the reality of Lady liberty forcing down our throats the bitter piece of American pie that has been served to the millions of our dying brothers and sisters all around the world for decades, despite the fact that we resolutely turned a blind eye to their plight. 

Being an Imam places the burden of aggressive outreach, education, and dialogue firmly upon my shoulders. I miss Tia’s support. I need her to fill the void in my heart, to nurture my strengths and grant me the courage needed to embark on the hard road awaiting me.  

{-} 

Tia

9/11 

I don’t want to talk too much about 9/11 for it’s all been said. It was bizarre for me to suddenly be the “American spokesperson”. On that day, I made so many calls for I have a huge family in
New York. Alhamdullillah no one I knew was harmed by the tragedy. I wept for the senselessness of it all, and for how much hurt it caused innocent men and women. 

I wept more for the way our country decided to retaliate, calling for vengeance and spilling even more rivers of innocent blood in the memory of the innocent. 

There was a sort of euphoric tension in Mombasa when 9/11 happened. Some people jeered that the US deserved it “the chicken have come home to roost”; forcing me to speak up for the innocent lives that had nothing to do with America’s foreign policy. Most of the people though were nervous for what was coming to them, for the Kenyan government had publicly pledged it would stand shoulder-to-shoulder with its American ally. 

{-} 

Sahar

2001 

9/11 was a tragedy, but like all others it bore its own peculiar silver lining. There was a growing interest in everything Islamic. We got so many calls to go speak to different churches, schools, community centers, and even companies. I was thrust in the limelight, and was able to deliver my passion for the religion with the same dazzling ease I had performed with all my life. 

I still didn’t cover my head, although I had opted for more modest clothing overall. I wore looser pants, longer shirts and skirts. I tamed my unruly curls into a nice loose bun and even stopped highlighting my hair.  

TQ thought I was going “extreme” on him; Jamaal still acted like I was flirting with Kufr since I still debated on the validity of the head scarf. As far as I was concerned it was just a cultural manifestation of Divine decree; the Quran was perfectly ambiguous about it. Don’t even try arguing with me, because I have studied the whole debate painstakingly and I still am not convinced. 

{-} 

Tia

2002 

I can’t believe it has been two years since I arrived here. I feel like one of the
Mombasa women, I have picked up Swahili and can hold a conversation without eliciting giggles for my foreign accent. That’s a huge landmark! I started learning Arabic as well; there are a lot of native speakers around to practice with which has helped me a lot. 

Aside from my research on Polygamous families in Mombasa (which I really need to get wrapped up), I have been involved in so many activities. We set up a defense fund for incarcerated brothers under the new sweeping measures on the “war on terror”. I am also involved in a drug rehabilitation center for the many young men and women hooked on dope. We are working to support young girls in going to university (young women are doing much better than their male counterparts); and setting up extra classes to help some of the struggling brothers. 

On a pettier note, I started wearing Jasmine in my hair, putting on makeup and visiting for “afternoon tea” with other women. I even picked up some belly dancing moves, as well as grown fond of intricate Henna patterns on my body (I get it redone every time it fades). 

I have also been in touch with some really amazing brothers and sisters; and at the rate I am getting so intertwined with this culture, I don’t know when I will be going back to the good old US of A. 

{-} 

Sahar

2002 

I should have known from the greedy looks of the sisters who cornered me at the Masjid. His sudden distance should have told me more. I shouldn’t have made excuses for the way his gaze seemed too discomfited to meet mine, or the way he had lately been “too tired” to get it on with me.
“What’s wrong with my freak-in-bed-turned Imam-in-the-day?” I joked with him, never guessing even for a fleeting moment what was really wrong. 

“Sister Sahar can we talk to you” They came like a pack of hounds cornering their prey. 

“Sure. Whats up?” I tried to keep my voice level; I didn’t trust them for a minute. 

“We just wanted to give you mabrook on Jamaal! Mashaallah we never thought you were the type…”
 

“What type? Mabrook for what, I ain’t pregnant?” 

“Umm…his marriage to sister Leena of course, you mean you don’t know” Wide eyes feigning surprise. 

“What?” Silence fell like an earth quake deep into my being. I could see their lips moving, watch the excitement and wonder creep into their eyes, but I couldn’t hear anything.  

Blood rushing into my head; I tried to make sense of the equations; who is sister Leena? Married? 

Silence deeper than the ocean depths; more piercing than midnight’s cries.  

Silence engulfed me and I felt lost. Lost and betrayed. 

The only question that found its way ricocheting from the hollowness of my depths into my lips was an eternal “why?” 

{-}

Jamaal

2002 

Astaghfirullah women just don’t understand that men have needs. Needs going beyond the physical manifestations into a deeper more profound space that one can’t articulate. I am weak. Weaker than all the women I know, weaker than my grand mother, my mother, Tia. 

My weakness lies in my need to protect.  

Sahar would never understand, but Sister Leena is an orphan. The Prophet (Peace be upon him) encouraged us to take care of orphans. Her parents both died in a car accident and she has no one in this big ugly world. She came to me weeping, offering herself like a garland of delicate petals.  

She is 18 but had never lived by herself, she felt lost and overwhelmed. They were all new immigrants from Syria. She had been sheltered all her life and could barely speak English. I couldn’t just turn her away, other brothers would have eaten her alive, probably used and abused her. I wanted to protect her, to do my Islamic duty by her.  

I know Sahar would be mad. I just need to find the time to explain to her, I am sure she will come around and understand the predicament I was in. 

{-}

Sahar 

The silence lifted momentarily for me to get a grip on my bearings. The sisters were still eyeing me; I could sense the tension in the air, as they were anticipating my combustion. 

I looked at them and said something; my lips moved but I can’t recall for the life of me what it was that came out. 

I walked right into the men’s section, could hear the shrill pitter patter of their feet behind me but I didn’t care. 

Jamaal was having one of his Halaqas surrounded by brothers embraced in their endless cloaks of piety and self righteousness.  

I jumped over the guys, peals of “Astaghfirullahs” falling out of the air. I went straight to him, to his face, my eyes murderous, my voice deceiving in its lethal calmness:

“I just want to know one thing: Why did you betray me Jamaal?”

 “Sister this is not a good time, as you can see…”

“I don’t care when is good for you Jamaal. Tell me right here, in front of your petty congregation, why would you betray your word? You signed the contract Jamaal or did you forget?”  “Sister, the contract can not come in the way of Islamic obligation”  “Oh..i see how it is. This is an Islamic thing huh? Nothing to do with the fact that she is around the same age as your own daughter!” “No sister, you don’t understand….” “Yes, I do. I understand too well. I am leaving Jamaal, I want my divorce now. I am leaving you to your hedonistic Islam, depraved ideals and petty beliefs. You have no principles Jamaal. You don’t know anything about true Justice, honesty, love. You know nothing about Love Jamaal. And these people following you, they are worse than blind sheep!”

“Sister, can we step outside” “

Don’t sister me. I aint your sister pervert! I am getting the hell outta here.”

 {-} 

Tia

2002 

Dear Tia, 

I don’t know why I am writing this letter to you and what exactly I hope to accomplish. I got your email address from Mona by the way. She sends her love. She misses you. I am so proud of them all; you did such a good job Tia! Kareem is now a partner running his own mechanic shop, Mona is doing her second year of college (International studies in a prestigious pre-law program) and Ibraheem is following along on his own path to Physics. Ibraheem is brilliant Mashaallah, it’s just his first year, and his professors are already raving about his remarkable gift. 

 I don’t know why I am telling you this. I am sure they are already in touch with you. 

I am writing to apologize to you Tia. I have needed to do this for too long and I guess I had to feel that terrible anguish, to begin to understand what I must have put you through. You are stronger than I am Tia and I will forever admire you for that.  I am sure you know about the drama with Leena. I refuse to get into it, or tell you how much I loathe Jamaal right now.  Please forgive me Tia.

Forgive me for breaking your heart, your home, for taking your Jamaal away from you. For pretending I had something extra special that would keep Jamaal tied to me. For daring to believe that he could never do to me what he did to you.  I am sorry for my ego, for my idiocy and blindness. I am sorry for the unfathomable agony of losing someone you have always loved. I am sorry.  I heard you are doing many grand things over in East Africa and I am really happy for you. I hope you meet someone who will light a smile in your heart and cherish that gorgeous soul of yours. You deserve it. May you dwell in peace, love, and contentment today and forevermore.

Love,
Sahar 

Poor Sahar, I wish I was closer so I can give her a big ole warm hug. May God protect her poor heart (amin).  I don't know what it is that has scattered thoughts of Jamaal out of my being. Maybe it's the ocean breezes, or the laid back lifestyle, maybe it's the shocking revelation I got in knowing that I, Tia, could exist outside of him.

I feel a tinge of pity for Jamaal. I hope his heart finds what he is searching for. It's nice to be able to think of him without being choked up with bitterness…

{-}                                                                       

                                                          Sahar                                                                       

2002 

“Hullo, pere is that you?” 

“Yes Mon Cherie, are you okay what’s wrong?”

 “Nothing…it’s just…I wanted to ask…” 

 “Go ahead tell me what?” 

 “Is the offer to go to Madrid still on?” 

“Of course, forever honey. I will have your tickets ready tomorrow, no questions asked.”

 I had been out of touch with my parents forever. My mom could not understand the path I was on, and did not pretend to. She cried every time I came around and that just made me mad. My father was more reserved in his display of emotions, but only met Jamaal once before he wrote him off as a self righteous scum bag. I guess, my dad saw through him in those early days, but I wasn’t going to hear it. When it came to choosing between the two who gave me all the sweetness of life, and the one who taught me its bitterness, I jumped straight for the poison. 

{-}                                                                                                                                                                               Tia                                                           

2002 

Despite being well known through out Mombasa, Professor had a very small tight knit circle of friends. He attended weddings, funerals, and other obligatory communal events but generally kept to himself. When he did talk, most of the people did not understand his complicated train of thought, and why he worried so much about what was written in the books.

Mombasa was decidedly oral in its culture, people who read too much (outside of compulsory schooling) were looked on with suspicion. 

Women also wondered why he refused to remarry; especially since his first wife died 15 years ago. I asked him about it and he made my heart melt with the thoughtfulness of his response: 

“My first wife Nawal was a special woman. I could not just replace her with anyone. If or When I do marry again, I have to honor her memory with a woman who embodies her strength of character and sweetness of spirit.” 

{-} 

                                                            Leena
Astaghfirullah, I can not believe how mean spirited that Sahar is. She humiliated my husband in front of everyone and took off in a flurry of temper and insults. To tell you the truth, I am happy she left him. Jamaal told me that his first wife Aisha, was an amazing woman, I wish I could have met her, I am sure we would have been good sisters in the deen.  

I am so blessed Subhana Allah to be married to Jamaal. I know my parents would have freaked out, (lol), that I didn’t marry someone from Syria. But I wasn’t about to turn back and go home after all the sacrifices they made for us to come here. If I were to marry outside my culture, who better than an Imam to be married to! I told my uncle over the phone, he was my Wali, he agreed readily I think he was a bit relieved that I won’t be his responsibility anymore. 

I feel so alone in this world, but Alhamdullillah, Allah gives you so much more than what He takes away. Jamaal is so sweet, loving, and sincere. His Imaan is so strong Mashaallah! I would be happy to have a fraction of his conviction! 

He told me that in Jannah, he will reject all the Hoors for me! He said in his eyes I embody 72 Heavenly Hoors. Awwww… 

As you know it says in the Quran “Ar Rijal Qawwammuna Ala Nisaa” (Men are protectors/maintainers of women”. It is so important in this life to have a good guide, someone who will share the path towards Jannah. In my culture they say a husband is either your path to heaven or hell (astaghfirullah). I just pray that I will be a good Muslimah wife (not like that Sahar!) Inshaallah, so I can make it to the highest Jannah where Jamaal will be waiting for me! (awww….). 

{-} 

Jamaal 

Inna Lillahi Wainna Ilayhi Rajioon (To Allah we belong and to Him is our destination). I was really saddened by Sahar’s lack of Adab (manners) in the Masjid of all places! May Allah guide her. 

I can just guess that she went running into TQ’s arms and back to her Kufr ways. I know she never gave up her prior Jahili life, in all her resistance, she was just looking for a reason to go back. It is hard to break old habits. I feel bad for Sahar’s choices, and sometimes I even blame myself.
Leena is so amazing Mashaallah. She works so hard to please me; it is so heartwarming to see her sincerity! She never asks twice about anything I tell her, not like that Sahar arguing all the time. It is nice to live in peace once more.
Leena tells me not to blame myself for Sahar “Allah guides whom He wills and lets astray whom He wills”. Mashaallah so much wisdom from such a tender sapling! May Allah increase her in Imaan and may He make me worthy of her companionship in Jannah (amin). 

{-} 

Sahar 

I did go to TQ after the Masjid. I took sometime off from work and told him I needed a break to clear my thoughts. He was so understanding, didn’t ask anything, simply wished me well.  

I refuse to jump right into TQ’s arms, although I do question myself on why I didn’t end up with him in the first place. For the longest time, I did not want to mess up our friendship, which to me is a lot more precious than any so called “love” relationship. I am very bitter. 

My heart aches all the time.  

I didn’t go see my mom, the last thing I need is to hear her gloat over how she warned me about it. I am leaving in a few hours to go to Madrid.  

I just don’t know where I am going to end up, and what will happen to me. 

I feel betrayed not just by Jamaal but everything that connected me to him. I can’t read the Quran without hearing his hypocritical voice reciting it, I can’t pray without the knowledge that worship links us in an intractable web. Everything Islamic is too intertwined with the memories of Jamaal; like a tapestry made of the same poisonous thread. I am not sure how to divorce myself from one and not the other. 

{-} 

Tia 

Fatima came to me her face shining with excitement. “I knew it! I knew he had the eye for you! Okay you are not supposed to know this yet, but Professor sent Khale Huda (his aunt) to come inquire about you!” “What? Are you serious? He hasn’t even seen my face! What if I am hideous?”  “Well, you are not. And men have a way of knowing these things. Besides we don’t know that he hasn’t seen you….” “Shutup Fatima, you know better than that.” 

“Of course I am just kidding. But I am really excited for you!”

 “I haven’t said yes” 

“But you will right?” 

“I don’t know.”

 {-} 

Sahar 

The irony of this scene does not escape me. I am in the plane with Mona, Ibraheem, Kareem heading to Mombasa for Tia’s wedding. Mona and I are actually good friends now that we both hate Jamaal. 

Leena and Jamaal are very happy together from what I’ve heard. I can’t pretend that I wish them well, but whatever. What tripped me up was hearing that Leena was shopping around for a "second" wife to join their perfect family. And I thought I've seen it all…

TQ and I are still on the precipice hovering between the sober certitude of our friendship and the abyss of emotional entanglement. 

I don’t think I am ready for him or anyone else yet. I am still struggling through my personal relationship with God, healing my spirit and trying to figure out how I can be a believer without falling into the quagmire of hypocrisies, irrelevancies and pettiness of religiosity.  

This is a happy time though and I refuse to wallow in my own self imposed misery. Things are sort of patched up between my parents and I, and they are certainly glad to have their “princess” back. A grown, bitter, torn Princess, but in my Pere’s eyes I am still his adorable 6 year old stuck in an extended operatic performance.  

I pray to find myself. whole. soon.

{The End}