Lightness of Being…

She stood there feeling last minute apprehensions about her decision. The scarf a well meaning sister procured out of thin air and placed on her head, felt dowdy and strange. She couldn’t help but notice that it had a fetid odor to it; faded spices mingled with stale air. She tried to fluff it on loose to keep it from stinking up her hair, but another (well meaning) sister came and tied it nice and tight around her face. It was Marcia’s first time in the Mosque and she was already feeling claustrophobic. Must they all touch me so freely? She felt distinctly apart from all the women cornered in the back of the large prayer hall. 

For one almost all of them were immigrants, judging from their varying skin tones, colorful garbs, accents, and some sported heavy spicy aromas to remove any questions on their identities. The few that weren’t fussing around her were a couple African American sisters who kept to themselves. It didn’t help that Marcia was taller than average which only made her more noticeable. Sisters milled around her, some stared with open curiosity, while others introduced themselves and engaged her in small talk.

Marcia tried to smile graciously, not really paying attention to anything but the growing anxiety in her depths.Was she making the right decision? She had replayed this moment in her head for months, the warmth of being a part of a community, the feeling of peace and tranquility, the final step on her journey towards her Creator; the eternal submission. She really just wanted to taste a piece of the peace of Youssef’s pie. She imagined it somewhat different; perhaps she should have visited the mosque before making her final decision? It’s all her mom’s fault (isn’t it always?), if she hadn’t pushed her with her over the top melodrama she would have taken more time. Another half formed question flitted through her mind, was it really her mom’s fault or Youssef’s? She stifled the question immediately, this was not the time. 

Her mind flitted back to the last argument she had with her family. Marcia the rebel (and only) child of a wealthy family was always getting herself in trouble. She went from smoking, to Goth, to preppy, to environmentalist/social justice advocacy, to (gasp!) Muslim, (all in a span of three years). She had always been a voracious reader and enjoyed taking radical positions that defied her parents’ ultra conservative status. She brought home gay friends, hinted at being bisexual (to her mom’s horror); she stayed out for days and then came home to generate more arguments. She took extended breaks from school and could care less about getting “mis-educated and indoctrinated by the system”. Ending up at the Mosque was the last thing that anyone would have imagined for her “fate”, especially her parents.

The Imam who just finished prayer, cleared his throat. He announced that they had a special occasion to commemorate on that day; “Allah guides whom He wills and even while many of our youth are getting lost, many others are joining the Deen in droves. Brothers and sisters I am very joyful to announce today we have a new Shahada!” The parts of his face that wasn’t covered in hair, were flushed pink. He was beaming with such pride, that Marcia couldn’t help feel resentful “It’s not like he personally had anything to do with it.”

Maybe she was too young. Her mom passed out when she announced her intention and was checked into the hospital for three days (Mrs. Parker was of a delicate disposition). Her father set his foot down, this was not one of her more tolerable “phases” “You are only 21 why do you want to throw your life away?” Marcia who inherited his fiery temperament and stubbornness, stood on an equal footing. “I am an adult you can’t tell me what to do!” She shrieked at him. He tried to placate her with some rational arguments about how “them Mozlems treat their women” and how she will end up being “Someone’s concubine or covered up in some harem.” She laughed mirthlessly and said a “harem is an exciting heaven compared to this dead house!”

 A path was created for Marcia to step forward and give her shahada (testimony of faith). A matronly woman placed her large arm across Marcia’s small shoulders and gently pushed her towards the Imam. Marica’s legs felt like lead, her heart was stuck in her mouth, and her parent’s threats kept replaying back in her head. “Would she let go of me already?” Marcia tried to extricate herself from the woman’s firm grip, but that only made Sister Mona (who mistook her attempts for nervousness) clutch her even more tightly.

Even before her Shahada women were already inquiring about her marriage status. An older portly brother with a graying beard and balding head had slipped his number while she was waiting outside. “In case you need help with books, advice or anything” he said in a dignified and reassuring voice. Marcia had enough experience with men to recognize the look in his eye. “That perv. wants me” she thought in disgust.

It seemed like the whole congregation was holding its breath for Marcia. She realized she wasn’t really breathing herself and felt woozy. She sat down at the edge of the barrier and the Imam was perched right on the other side. The barrier separating the men and women was short, only about knee level, owing to the gregarious nature of the board running the mosque. They boasted three sisters on their committee and a special sister’s envoy who represented general sister concerns. The decision to remove the opaque curtains covering the whole sister’s side was met with heightened mixed emotions. Some sisters were very happy lauding the Mosque for their inclusive decision. Others were so outraged they stopped going to that particular masjid which obviously “capitulated to the progressive forces within” Some disturbed brothers stood in solidarity with the outraged sisters in their boycott (“how are we expected to concentrate in prayer knowing that nothing separates us from the sisters? Isn’t that an invitation to shaytan to fill in the spaces?” they cried). Eventually the dissenters formed their own small community center a couple of blocks away, where the sisters section was curved up by a solid wall (to ensure no future breaches will occur) and an old TV set, still boasting a dial, was placed over there to make sure the sisters would have unfettered access to the speaker and prayer leader. They did have technical issues of course many times the  TV would simply refuse to transmit signals, but that was never a problem for it could easily be corrected with the Khatib (lecturer) raising his voice and the sisters could still trace the faint outlines of the intended message. What mattered was the safety from “fitna” (a catch all phrase for temptation/trial), and most sisters who went there wore Niqab as an additional seal to protect their virtue.

When Marcia sat down in front of the Imam, she felt inexplicably emotional. She tried to swallow a lump in her throat couldn’t quell the fire within. The Imam gave her an encouraging smile and cleared his throat (again).

He asked her for her name, “Marcia Parker”

“Did you choose another name?”

“No” Marcia who was named after her late grandmother, was particularly attached to her name. Her late Nana literally raised her from the time she was a toddler to about 10 years old; her mother was always busy with her charities, tea parties and friends. Mrs. Parker was not the maternal type. When Nana died Marcia felt like a shadow had eclipsed her soul. Nana had taken sunshine, happiness, laughter and true joy to the grave alongside her resilient body. Marcia’s grief eventually turned into a cold blaze of fury that she lived to torment her parents with.

“How about Sister Maryam Parker?” The Imam suggested good-naturedly. She technically didn’t have to change her name, but Imam Saeed thought Maryam would suit the new chapter of her life much better.  

Marcia feeling confused, overwhelmed and vaguely irritated simply nodded her head, which pleased the Imam so greatly he let out a whoop of “TAKBEER!” and the congregation responded “Allah u Akbar” (God is great!). He went on to explain the concept of the Shahada (bearing testimony), the twin simplicity and gravity of the ceremony at hand, and asked her if she had any questions.

She had a million half formed thoughts and questions buzzing in her head. She wished Nana was still alive, to have counseled her through this decision. She thought of her friend Youssef, all the way in Switzerland, and the seed he planted in her heart. What would he think if he saw me now? His amiable handsome features crossed her mind, and she wondered yet again of her intentions to become Muslim, did it have anything to do with the small copy of the Quran he entrusted her with, alongside the collection of Rumi poems; Or everything to do with wanting to know what made Youssef so cerebral and yet so passionate, so philosophical and yet so sensible (Marcia joked that he was the “Jihadi intellectual warrior veiling a poet’s heart” she could tell he liked that title, even when he assumed that far-away deep philosophical look he always wore as a mask).

It wasn’t until she got into serious social justice activism that she found an outlet for her pent up anguish. She trekked around the world following demonstrations and rallies; and volunteering for causes paid for by daddy’s credit cards. Her fight was two-fold. If she put a dent in daddy’s bank account, she felt she earned a point for the “cause.” Her father was the perfect embodiment of the “system”; cold, ruthless, distant and pretentious (Youssef the very opposite). Her mother (whom she contemptuously refused to call “momma” from a very young age, insisting on the formal Mrs. Parker) had wrapped her whole existence into making her daddy look good. She lived a petty life full of events meant to add color to their family reputation.  

Marcia’s first word as a toddler was “Nana” followed by a loud “NO!”; both those words resonated in everything that she did in her life. She refused to find meaning in the lavish existence her parents afforded her and Nana did everything in her power to encourage Marcia’s childish rebellions, much to Mrs. Parker’s consternation and resentment. How Nana’s strong thighs, fiery opinions and hearty laughter could have birthed the frail, whimsical, phony Mrs. Parker? Marcia could never figure out.

Youssef picked up right where Nana left off. She first met him in Geneva, protesting some meeting or another while she was on an extended European backpacking tour. When she paused to take some pictures of the demonstrations; he mistook her trench coat, multi-piercing, funky-haired look for one of the protestors. He started going off on the injustices of the world and she was too amused (and taken) by his passion and good looks to correct his false assumptions. She joined the protests and later went out for a late night rendezvous to discuss future plans. Her aimless life had acquired meaning and that night Marcia-the-social activist was born.

Much later when she read Rumi, she had a hard time differentiating between the Beloved and the secret thrill of her own infatuation with Youssef. She grasped the idea behind Islam from his own succinct summary: “We have to struggle on the horizontal plane, fighting against injustices and being pro-all-of-humanity. But there is the invisible struggle and that is on the vertical plane; struggle against your own desires and connecting back to the source of All Beauty, Justice, Love there is.” The word “love” tumbling from his lips with such fervor, made her ready to accept Islam on the spot.

The Imam continued “We are now going to say the Shahadah, first in Arabic and then in English. So repeat after me: Ash-hadu…”“Ashhadu…” Marcia heart was hammering, this was it, and there was no backing out now. “An Laillaha Illah Allah…”She struggled through the Arabic version and was finally relieved when he started translating. She was surprised to find herself overwhelmed by tears pouring from a place that ineffably unlocked within her.