What's in a face?

My interfaith travels took me to the Boston area for a few days last week. I arrived at Logan airport around noon, proceeded to pick up my baggage, and head out to get a cab. Except that I didn't see any cabs. So I stood with a number of other passengers waiting for a taxi to come by when I was approached by this man.

"Excuse me, Sister?" His accent for thick. Moroccon, I thought. "Excuse me ,Sister? Where do you need to go? I have a taxi," he gestured for me to follow up. I nodded and followed him a short few yards and we stopped at his shuttle. "How much will this cost me?" I asked after having told him of my destination. "Seventy dollars, Sister." I didn't really negotiate as I had been told by the hotel to expect around that much. "Alright," I said. As he took my bag to load into his trunk, he looked at me for a few seconds. I saw the question lingering in the space between us. And then it was finally spoken: "Sister, Where are you from?" I replied, knowing full well that this wasn't the answer he was looking for, "I'm from Chicago."

He persisted. "No, where are you from?" I smiled, "My parents from South India." He hesitated, his eyes never leaving my face, "India?" "Yes," I replied. "Are you Muslim?" And again I replied, "Yes, I am Muslim." Why the hell would I be wearing this peice of cloth on my head if I wasn't? He smiled with relief. "I am Muslim too... Assalamu alaikum!"

"Wa'alikum assalaam."

Eight years ago when I started wearing hijab, this sort of exchange would have totally made my day. Interacting with a fellow muslim in this big strange world. What identifies us in this brotherhood of Islam was my hijab, his accent, and the exchange of peaceful blessings between us. Nowadays, I mostly find it amusing or exhausting.

Let me explain. So you see, I have a face that cannot be easily categorized into an ethnic group. I was born into a South Indian family, but my skin is "fair complexioned" as the Aunties would say (apparently it was "light as milk", I was told by a suitor a few years ago). Before hijab, most people couldn't really tell where I was from. I remember, when I first moved to the suburbs of Chicago and began attending public school, for a week I was followed by a Palestinian student & a Mexican one. Both were members of the rival gangs at my high school, and were in pursuit of recruiting me to join their circles. Of course it all ended with disappointment, when they both figured out that I was neither Arab or Mexican. Some of the ethnicities I would frequently get labeled as were: Persian, Arab, Latino, Italian, & Kashmiri.

So after about 10 minutes in the shuttle, the friendly driver turns off his radio, and put's on a CD of the Quran. It was the 30th, Juz al Amma. I thought I recognized the Qari (reciter) and asked him if it was Saad Al-Ghamidi. "No sister, this is Shaykh Al-Meshari." We made small talk. He asked about my family, along with informing me that I totally didn't look indian about every 5 sentences. "Yea, I get that a lot" I said each time. Thankfully, we reached my destination soon after he informed me that he had just gotten married 2 months ago to a girl back home, because there was "too much temptation in America".

On the way home from this trip, my cab driver to the airport was once again a Moroccon. We did the whole routine again. Let me write down the condensed version: Where are you from sister? Chicago. Where are you really from? My parents are from India. Are you Muslim? Yes. And your from India? Yes I am. You don't look Indian at all! Yea, I get that a lot.

So once we had gone past this conversation, came the more interesting one. "Do you travel a lot sister?" No, not too often I said. "That's good. Some of these women, they travel everywhere by themselves. Women should be in the home, not travelling city to city." I don't remember signing up for a Khutba about my responsibilities as a woman, but I guess that came for free with this ride.

Finally, I was back at Logan airport. Waiting to board my flight. I wanted to grab something to eat and get a bottle of water. I was walking around the food court when I saw the man behind one of the counters. He smiled. I smiled back. Here it comes, I thought. And then....

"Where are you from?"

What do a Christian, a Jew & a Muslim do in Rural PA? (Part 1)

Megan, Noah & Ahmed: I'm so mad I don't remember most of the details of what happened this night. I only remember the vague generalities. This post sucks. But I had to put it out there.... I miss you Sir Noahalot!


So february was a big travel month for me. My work took me & my coworkers to various liberal arts colleges in Pensylvania. The first trip was to Bucknell College near Lewisburg, PA. Megan (the Christain) and I (the Moslem) landed sometime in the early afternoon at Harrisburg "International" Airport. We wondered what countries the "International" was refering to, and decided that it was prolly our neighbour Canada, and the popular spring break destination, Mexico. Noah (the Jew), was waiting for us near baggage claim. We quickly picked up our luggage and our rental car, and we were officially off on our first interfaith road trip!!

The 2 hour drive didn't seem to long. The scenery was beautiful, as we drove alongside the river for most part. Not long after we had left Harrisburg, I spotted a old train cart on the road side with the words "Jesus One Way" spray painted on them. We wondered what the author could have meant - that there was only one way to Jesus? that we had to drive "->" way to find Jesus? But soon we were distracted by Bryan Adam's "Everything I do" - and that is a video I will have to post. Noah recorded from the front passenger seat as Megan & I sung our hearts out... Look into my eyes, you will see... what you mean to meeeeeeeee... search your heaarrrt, search your sooooul...when you find me there, you'll search no mooooore... don't tell me, it's not worth fighting foooor... i can't help it, there's nothing i want moooooore... you know it's truuuuue, everything i doooo...i'll do it for youuuuuuuuu... umm, yea that was some seriously interfaith singing. But alas, it came to an end once we reached our destination: Lewisburg.

The next few days at Bucknell were business as usual... meetings, dinners, Noah's superstar presentation (for those of you unfamiliar with the great Noah Silverman, he is THE INTERFAITH SUPERHERO, the best one ever. For real. For real real).

At the end of our time at Bucknell, Megan suggested we go to dinner with a friend of hers, Ahmed, a Palestinian international student who attended Susquehanna University located in nearby Selinsburg. So we picked him up and drove over to BJ's Steakhouse. Lucky for us, it was Trivia night! The hostess strapped on one of those over 21 orange bracelets on our wrists, and into the arena we marched.

The first thing we had to do once we'd ordered our food, was pick a name for our table. "Free Palestine" said Noah, perhaps a little louder than we'd hoped. But it sounded like a good dream. If we won the trivia competition, "Free Palestine" would reign this night.

Round One. We were all very determined. Quickly, but carefully writing down our answers on the appropriately numbered lines. The air was tense. The smell of sweet success was so close. Or maybe that was just Noah's non-halal steak next to me. We waited as they called out the table names in order of rank. "Allahu Akbar!" swept across the room as they announced that "Free Palestine" was in 6th place. Ahmed and I sat quiet through most of the Noah's emphatic roar.

Round Two. Ok so we became a little over confident and went with speed over quality. We got more answers wrong than in the first, and we were more concerned with how we would react when the results were announced. It sounded like a bad Gross National Profit strategy for a growing third world country.

Round Three. By now we had pretty much accepted that we would not be joyously cheering "Free Palestine" at the end of this night. And we were more into actually discussing more important questions around the real situation in Palestine. "Where is Sierra Nevada Beer made?" - was of no real interest to us.

By now, partly from exhaustion, and partly from my lack of knowledge around the history of Palestine, I mostly listened to the intense discussion between Noah, Megan & Ahmed.

And it hit me: How much this little moslem had to gain from listening to her interfaithing friends.

Two Feathers Floating

Another partially finished story... i'll get to it eventually... i think... until then...

One cloudy afternoon, a little sparrow named Violet was preparing her nest for the rains to come. She had built her humble home nestled within the big tree in anticipation of a rainy season. Violet's nest was a small home, cosy and warm. She decided to get some extra nuts and berries before began raining. Violet has been flying for a few minutes when she saw him. He was holding on tightly to a nearby branch – was he hurt? His eyes were closed, his magnificent red feathers ruffled, his wound exposed. For minute Violet hesitated, should she help this exotic bird she had never seen before? Before she could answer her own inhibitions, big heavy drops of water began splashing down from the sky. The red bird opened his eyes, panicked. Violet watched him as he tried to fly, his left wing struggling against the heaviness of the raindrops.

“Follow me, this way!” she chirped. He saw her, and with no other choice, followed. A few painful moments later Violet and the red bird arrived at her humble home. It was dry, safe, and with food. The red bird collapsed into a corner, his chest gasping for breath, his eyes tight shut. Soon it was pouring around them, big drops of water pounding the leaves above. They heard the wind howling as it wrestled through the many trees in the forest. But all was quiet in Violet's house. The red bird had fallen asleep from exhaustion, and Violet decided it best that she attend to his wounds before getting some rest herself. She was careful not to wake him as she covered his wounded wing with some warm, dry leaves. With that, Violet lay on her pillow and fell asleep.

Sometime during the dark hours of the night, Violet awoke, and heard Mrs. Grey hooting. Mrs. Grey had lived a few branches away for many years now, and some nights Violet would hear the calming sound of her hoot. Violet decided it would be a good idea to get Mrs. Grey's advice. So she left the sleeping red bird and set out to see Mrs. Grey, hoping that she would be able to tell her what kind of bird he was...

“Well hello Violet! You're up late today!” hooted Mrs. Grey.

Violet told Mrs. Grey about the wounded red bird sleeping in her nest. She looked concerned. Mrs. Grey said it would be best if she be careful until they knew exactly what kind of bird he was. Soon the little sparrow and the motherly owl tiptoed into the nest, and found him sleeping soundly.

“He's a Cardinal,” whispered Mrs. Grey. Violet listened intently. A Cardinal, she had never seen one of those before. “Well be careful Violet, these fancy birds aren't too kind to little plain sparrows.” Violet found this hard to believe, how could such a beautiful creature be unkind.

Sam & Ella: The Wedding 4

This is the last of Sam & Ella's current story. I'm still working on the final installment... until then...

Ella

With two days left until Sam’s wedding, I still have not had a moment alone with her. Part of me is relieved by the crowd that surrounds us, because I would not know what to say. At 3pm I make my way across the lawn to the Khan house. I found Sam sitting in the sun room, waiting for her cousin’s to start applying henna on her hands. I closed the door behind me and sat down beside her, “Hey.”

She smiled, and then nodded over to other side of the room where the dining table stood and upon it was a large vase filled with some two dozen red roses. “Go read the card” she chuckled. Confused by the peculiarity of her tone, I walked over to the table and opened the envelope.

My Dearest Samar,

“To the world you may be one person, but to one person you may be the world.” You are my world Samar. As we embark on this journey, I am excited for every blessed moment that we will share throughout our lives.

Anxiously awaiting this Saturday…

Yours,

Shehzad

I could feel Sam watching me as my eyes re-read the card a half dozen times before putting in back in the envelope. Nervously I glanced upon Sam to find her smirking.

“So what do you think?”

“That’s… nice of him” I said hesitantly. My face was never any good at hiding my emotions, and with one glance at Sam, our laughter filled the room. We were still laughing when Sam’s older cousin, Zahra walked in with the henna for Sam’s hands and feet. Caught off guard by our roaring laughter, she glanced at us both like we were lunatics let out of a mental ward. After a few painful moments of uncontrollable laughter, Sam and I were able to regain our speaking skills.

“What was that all about?” Zahra asked as she placed the henna tray on the floor.

“Did you see the delivery that Sam got today?” I said pointing to the flowers. Zahra turned to look at them, and turning to us she said, “There’s nothing to laugh at there, he’s trying to be romantic. Appreciate it Sam, it doesn’t last very long.”

“Show her the card,” said Sam as she rolled up her salwar. Once again, I pulled out the card from its hiding and handed it to Zahra. We waited for a few moments for her reaction. A smirk, a smile, perhaps a chuckle? Zahra had been like Sam’s older sister for most of their lives, most of our lives. She had always been there with advice, with a different perspective, perhaps to shed light on something we had both missed sight of in trying times.

At last the smirk crept upon her lips. And with her voice as low as it could possibly go she said, “He’s anxiously awaiting Sam.” Another roar of laughter was born, except this time, it was only me and Zahra who laughed. Sam had turned crimson and pretended not to hear Zahra as she rubbed her arms and legs with eucalyptus oil, preparing her skin for the true bridal mark, henna.

………………………………………………………………………………………….............................

Sam

I’m still sitting in the sun room. It’s been a few hours since Zahra started decorating my hands with henna. Ammi has decided it would be a good time to take a break and serve dinner. With the henna applied to my feet and partially to my hands, I have now begun my bridal transformation. So I sit here, with no responsibility to do anything except look pretty for the next several days. Being a bride has been a lonely experience for me, my fears unresolved, my anxiety so intense that on some days I feel as though a burst of emotion will break through my skin. I’m told it’s normal to feel this reluctance, to have cold feet or so they say.

About two weeks ago, I had decided to take on a task that Ammi was unwilling to support me through – I sent my father an invitation to my wedding. I had not spoken to him in many years. He had randomly come in and out of my life, with each time bringing more disappointment and broken promises. But I still loved him. Days passed as I waited for his response, and finally today he called. He was going to come! I couldn’t believe it. Ammi was less than ecstatic to hear the news, but she knew what it would mean to me have him here.

“Sam do you want something to drink?” Ella voice brought my drifting thoughts back to reality. I nodded as I picked at my food with my one free hand. Maryam, Zahra’s first born, came up to me asking to look at my hand. As her eyes admired the intricate designs that had been carefully cast upon my skin, I wished that I could share in her innocence. “Sami Khala, Abba said I can put henna on my hands too if I’m a good girl” she declared. “Really? Is your Abba going to do it for you?” I asked teasingly. Maryam chuckled, “Nooo. Abba doesn’t know how to put henna.” For a few brief moments I was lost in the innocence of her giggles. The thought of her father doing intricate henna designs was so hilarious, that Maryam skipped away to share my silliness with him. As I watched her, I hoped the coming days would bring me such a moment as well.

Sam & Ella: The Wedding 3

Ok here's some more of Sam & Ella's story. It's a continuation from the previous posts (I would recommend starting with the first couple posts and then read this one).

Sam

Ella and I have not spoken since the arrival of my trousseau a few days ago. I have had several conversations with myself, searching for words that Ella would want to hear. There has never been an awkward silence between us, never anything that we have not been able to talk through, until now.

When Ella left to visit her father in April, I didn’t tell her of Shehzad’s family visiting us that weekend. And I didn’t tell her when they called Ammi following that visit to formally propose. I had not even called her to tell her that I had accepted, and our engagement announced to our families. Instead I waited. On the morning that she returned from Phoenix, Ella stormed into our living room demanding an explanation for my silence. But I had none to offer.

“I wanted to tell you in person,” I lied.

“Whatever Sam, you should have called me, emailed me, heck you should have sent me a post card,” Ella said emphatically, “How could you not tell me!”

“I told her to call you,” my mother chimed in, “But she wouldn’t listen beta, she kept insisting on telling you when you came home.” Ammi was surprised by my lack of excitement through this decision, but mostly she was just relieved that I had finally agreed. Upon seeing Ammi’s beaming smile, which she had worn on her face for over a week now, Ella’s anger subsided.

“Did you show her the ring?” Ammi said, sounding like a child with a shiny new toy.

“There’s a ring!” yelled Ella, “Sam, why aren’t you wearing it? Where is it? What else are you hiding? Aunty, what else is she hiding?” With that outburst of questions, both Ammi and I began to laugh. Ella had never changed, her energy had always remained two steps ahead of me.

“See Samar, even Ella thinks you should be wearing your ring all the time. Go and put it on before everyone comes over tonight.”

After rolling my eyes at both Ammi and Ella, I walked up to my room. There it was, in the navy blue box that I had received it in, sitting on my dresser, my engagement ring. An emerald cut 1.5 carat diamond shined back at me. Everything I had ever imagined my ring to be lay within these satin walls.

“Oh my god, it’s beautiful,” Ella’s words pierced the air of discontent that hung around me like a foggy morning. With a smile I took out my ring and handed it to Ella for further admiration. “It’s exactly what you wanted Sam, how did he know…” her words trailed into silence as she looked at me. “You’re not happy. Tell me why you’re not happy.”

“Why wouldn’t I be happy?” I said as I took the ring from her and slipped it onto my finger. “Because you always answer my questions with a question when you’re lying.”

“Should I wear a brown or beige scarf with this?” I asked, blatantly trying to change the topic. “Beige and we are not done talking about this” said Ella, “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“There’s nothing wrong, I’m fine. Really.” I smiled. Anyone would have bought that smile except Ella. The truth was the past had still followed me to this moment.

“You need to let him go Sam,” Ella said reading the thoughts that only she could see written across my face. My father’s failures had haunted my childhood. As much as I wanted to hate him, I realized that I shared his weaknesses. I had not inherited Ammi’s strength.

Later that night, it was decided that Shehzad and I would be married in two months. And two months later, here I was, two days away from my wedding and still filled with uncertainty.