Hijab’s Bad Wrap

One important component about for the Western world to understand about Islam (and hijab) is the issue of shame. In Christianity, the story is that Eve guiled Adam into eating the forbidden apple, and as a punishment, humanity was exposed to their shame, and began to cover themselves. In Islam, Adam and Eve ate the apple together. Eve is not seen as the original sinner. She was merely one half of a decision that was taken by two people. Hijab is not reflective of shame in this sense. We do not cover because we are shameful of our bodies or our sexuality. We cover out of a sense of awe for our Creator, because of the belief that what He says is right and true and just.

Hijab is not intended as a form of subjugation. Its original purpose was to protect women. Before Islam, women in were considered property. They were kidnapped and raped by powerful men as a way to showcase their power. As the Muslims gained strength in society, they were more and more able to protect the women from this practice. Hijab served as an identity marker. “I’m a Muslim,” it said, “so don’t mess with me.”

I should say that in many strict Muslim countries like Saudi Arabia and Iran, women are forced to wear it, and not given a choice. That expectation is sometimes carried into our mosques here in the US with first generation immigrants. But we should remember that forcing anyone in any way goes against the very nature of Islam as the Qur’an states clearly that there is no compulsion in Islam. That being said, most women who wear hijab choose it for its dignity, its mark of identity, and because they want to serve God.

A Story of Hope

The Qur’an says over and over again to tell those who believe in God of glad tidings and ease. Just believe, it tells us. Just believe and the rest is simple.

But all too often, new Muslims are faced with challenges from within the Muslim community to perfect our practice. We’re told how to pray, how to dress, and how to act. But most of the time we just need a friend who can help us remember the beauty of Islam, and it’s inherent hope…

My Best Friend is Muslim

A friend of mine tipped me off about this website, and I thought I’d share. I love that through story telling, people are understood beyond their Islam to the core of what makes them special and unique to each of their friends.

http://www.mybestfriendismuslim.com/

Islam and Individuality

The banning of Niqab in France is a clear violation of basic human rights. Giving the government power to enforce the removal of dress is as offensive as an Islamic state forcing woman to wear it. But I think that it signifies that we Muslims have failed as a community to be a part of the narrative. The banning of Niqab represents a major cultural misunderstanding.

By the non-Muslim community, Niqab is viewed as a wall, a way to remove woman from society.  Muslims need to understand that this can be offensive to cultures that are more open, like Europe and the U.S.

But Europeans and Americans should also understand that the niqab is not a requirement of Islam. It is a traditional form of dress, steeped in tribal times when woman (especially rich or powerful women) were not safe outside of their homes. They were often kidnapped or raped, and the solution was to cover their entire body so that no one would know who they were. It also protected them from the whipping wind and course sands in the dessert.

We need to get beyond defining Islam is one massive lump of people who do that weird bending prayer five times a day and fast during Ramadan. And we need to make an effort to understand Muslims as individuals. The Muslim community is diverse and complex. We are mothers and fathers, career men and women, homemakers, single mothers, and yes, some Muslims are niqabiahs. We have unique cultures and upbringings that define who we are as individuals, and we come together through Islam.

There are many variations, perspectives, and interpretations of that Islam. There are conservative Muslims, extremist Muslims, liberal Muslims, millenial Muslims, feminist Muslims, Muslims-who-don’t-practice-but-were-born-into-Islam-so-they-call-themselves-Muslims, Muslim converts, Muslim traditionalists, and many more. And at every mosque or Islamic Center in the country you will probably find one or more of those variations. It’s like taking one person out of every Christian denomination and putting them together in one big Christian Community Center. Grab a Catholic, an Evangelist, a Lutheran, a Methodist, and a Baptist and stick ‘em all in one place. You’d be hard pressed to define that group. They all believe in God, they all pray, and they all try to be good people the best way they know how, but they also each have their own traditions and beliefs that make them unique.

The responsibility of understanding Muslims as individuals does not rest on the shoulders of non-Muslims. As Muslims, we have a responsibility to show society who they are. We need to open our mosques, share our meals, join prayer circles, crack jokes, and represent ourselves in our communities as the loving, neighborly people that we are.

Paving a Path

Some people in the Muslim community have the misconception that we should isolate ourselves from non-Muslims, and only surround ourselves with people who share our beliefs. But friendship is a beautiful thing, and it’s by building relationships in our communities that we can change the narrative of Islam in the bigger picture. We cannot do that if we isolate ourselves from people who have different backgrounds or beliefs than we do.

I am amazingly grateful to have many non-Muslim friends who support my choice, share my values, and encourage me to be a better person. I benefit from their friendships because they not only support me, they challenge me. They ask questions of me that I may not ask of myself, and they walk patiently with me while I find the answers. I truly believe that the ONLY effective way to change public perceptions is through one on one dialogue, through exploring each others values, and creating a safe place to challenge each other. I can only hope that my actions represent an Islam that proves the opposite of the current public perception of the religion.

While friendships with people who share our faith is imperative to our spiritual health, Islam is about our responsibility to our brothers and sisters, be them Muslim or non-Muslim. We have a responsibility to anyone who wants to be a part of our lives. We need to open our hearts to the good in anyone, and embrace everyone who reaches out to us regardless of their faith, their color, their sexual orientation, or any other marks of judgement. It’s the best and only way to pave a path for the next Muslim convert, immigrant, or anyone who was ever made to feel out of place because of their beliefs.

The Best Muslim I Know

I like to joke that my horse is the best Muslim I know. He greets me with a happy nicker every time I come to the barn, he is patient and forgiving, he’s always making me laugh, and he never complains.

Wouldn’t the world be a better place if we all acted a little more like animals?

Yea, but…

Today my six year old nephew, Moses, and I were driving quietly along when he asked, “Is God the sun?”

“No,” I answered, “but He created the sun. And He created the earth, and He created you and me!”

“Yea, but how did He create Himself?”

The Burden of Being

In an interview with To the Best of Our Knowledge’s Steve Paulson, Margaret Atwood says that debt is not strictly matter of owing someone money, but something much more profound:

“You open the door for somebody, they go through it. They don’t say thank you. How do you feel? …You’ve paid them a door opening, and they have not repaid you with a thank you, which is what they owe you.”

Debt is rooted deeply in culture and religion. Atwood goes on to explain that a “redeemer” is one who pays your debt for you. She ties this idea to Christianity, in which it is believed that our sins are so great that we could never pay them for ourselves, so Christ was sent to pay our debt on our behalf.

In Islam, we are each responsible for our own actions. Our sins may be great, but our Creator is ever-forgiving and always forbearing. But this Being of limitless mercy has opened a door for me, and I owe Him a “thank you.” He gave me life, and I am in His debt.

It’s a big debt. To hope to repay it, I need to be a better person. I need to treat others with respect and dignity, to praise my Lord and Creator, to appreciate hardships as opportunity, to be considerate and generous, to be always grateful. Fulfilling this debt can be challenging, especially when wearing a head scarf. I notice people watching me, and I find myself walking through life with the constant reminder of what I need to be. I try to be someone who is open and accepting, but firm in her beliefs. I try to be respectful and a good listener, but wise and fair in my advice. I try to be forgiving and forbearing, but hold humankind to a higher standard. I try to be modern and idealistic, without forsaking my commitments or values. I try to walk confidently with my head held high, hoping that my actions speak louder than my words and my faith speaks louder than my head scarf.

But most of the time I fail at being what I should be. When I fail, I don’t just fall short on my debt to God, I fail myself and others. I fail an opportunity to be touched by someone who may change me, who may tenderly shape my weaknesses into strengths, who may help me learn something about myself or what it means to be human. And I fail an opportunity to chip away at some of the misconceptions about Islam. I fail the chance to foster understanding and find common ground despite differences. I fail to show  people the reality of what Islam is to me: a faith that is meaningful and fulfilling, and full of peace.

The debt I owe my Creator cannot be escaped. But I accept the burden with gratitude. Inherent within this burden of being, there are deeply satisfying rewards. In the rare moments of success, there is loving support from unexpected friendships, there is a respectful exchange of ideas that broaden my perception of the world, and there is a conversation that touches the core of my humanity.

My Flag Flies Above

The first time I prayed the Islamic prayer, or Salat, I stood in my living room in the silvery morning just moments before dawn. I was self-conscious and unsure of what to do. I had prepared flash cards to help me through the complicated process of standing, sitting and bowing while reciting verses in Arabic. I stood facing Mecca and folded my right hand across my chest. My left hand clutched a flash card that read:

Bismillah ah Rahman ah Raheem

In the name of God, the most gracious, most merciful

Alhamdu lil-ahi rab-bil alamin

All praise be to the Lord, the Cherisher and Sustainer of the worlds

Ah rahman-ah rahim

The most merciful, most gracious

Maliki yawmid-deen

Master of the day of judgement

Iyyaka n’abudu wa-Iyaka nasta-in

You alone do we worship, and to you alone do we turn to for help

Ihdi-nas sira-tal Mustaqim

Show us the straight path

Sira tal-ladhina an-amta alaihim

The path of those who went before us with your grace

Ghair-il Maghdubi ‘Alaihum

Who did not deserve your anger

Wa lad dal-in

Nor went astray

The awkward syllables filled the back of my throat like a swallowed cry as I struggled to make the foreign sounds. But as my mouth worked away at the words, I felt my spirit enter a world that existed outside of the senses, a dimension beyond time and space where the body does not confine the soul. I felt a deep, unending sense of mercy and forgiveness surround me. As the first gentle rays of morning light reached me, I went to my knees, put my forehead to the floor and I cried, “Subhana rabi ya’Ayla” (Glorified is my Lord, the exalted ). Every single atom in the room praised God with me. The chairs and the shadows and the carpet beneath me all sang, “Glorified is our Lord!” The sun and the light prayed with me – their very essence ringing praise for our Creator. In those moments my imperfections and flaws were exposed, but I felt embraced and accepted, forgiven and loved. I found a sense of trust. I knew that the Being who created me knows me and protects me. In that moment I committed my life to that Being.

That commitment is continually evolving. It was a simple beginning, first with prayers any time I was able, fasting during the month of Ramadan and reading a page or two out of the Qur’an every once in a while. Soon I noticed a change in the way that I saw the world. A bird’s chirp would strike me dumb with thankfulness for the gift of hearing. A playful toss of my horse’s head would send my heart singing with praise for the One who created this magnificent creature. The curiosity in the eyes of a child discovering something new reminded me of the gift of knowledge, and made me crave a deeper understanding of Islam. Over time I found myself praying five times each day, memorizing verses of the Qur’an, visiting the local mosque, and making friends with other Muslims.

Eventually I made the decision to wear Hijab, the traditional Islamic head scarf. I chose to cover my head because I believe it that it is a requirement of Islam. Not every Muslim feels this way, and some feel that the simple head covering is not enough. Each Muslim has his or her individual views about Islam, and we each have our own very personal relationship with God. For me, covering is a simple way to express my faith on the inside and out. But Hijab also makes me different. Sometimes I forget how different.

One day I was trying to figure out how to put air in my car tires. A man came up to me and asked me if I’d like some help. “Sure! Thanks,” I said. While my tires were re-inflating he asked me where I was from. “From here, Syracuse,” I said. “Really?” he asked. “But where are you originally from?” He looked confused. “From Syracuse,” I told him. It slowly dawned on him that I was an American. We continued our conversation with pleasant small talk, but the unasked questions hung in the air between us.

I can imagine how perplexed people are by my decision to cover my head. I think that most people see the head scarf as a form of suppression. When my aunt saw me wear it she said, “I can’t believe you want to do that. It’s so submissive! It’s just not like you.” My aunt has known me as a willful, stubborn and independent woman. But to me, Hijab is an expression of pride and dignity. Each morning I practice my own flag-raising. Hand over hand, I carefully work the scarf around my head and I stand tall. I do not shrink into submission. My flag flies above a woman who loves to laugh and discover, who finds bliss at 15 hands and a blazing gallop and who finds peace in worship. I wear Hijab because it’s my choice. I wear it because I respect myself and I respect my religion, and I wear it because I am proud to be a Muslim.