Friends from another world

From time to time, the Interfaith Youth Core office hosts State Department Delegations from various foreign countries. These visitors are usually mid-level diplomats who are brought to the United States to learn about life in America and about initiatives focusing on social justice work, building religious pluralism, youth empowerment etc. We hosted such a delegation today with visitors from the countries of Pakistan, Sri Lanka, and Bhutan.

Unfortunately, due to various scheduling conflicts, I was not part of the staff that hosted this delegation. However, they received a tour of IFYC's office space after the discussion with some of our staff.

When they entered our fourth floor office, she made instant eye contact with me. I was on the phone with my dad, figuring out the mess that is my car at the mechanic. As I saw her approaching me, I quickly got off the phone. She was beautiful, wearing a white salwar-khamees embriodered with tiny mirrors and french knots. Her dupatta (scarf) casually framed her face, giving her the distinguished Benazir Bhutto look. Her smile was radiant, recognizing, as if we were old friends reuniting after a long absence. When she shook my hand, her grip was firm, knowing, as if she knew we were connected through some unseen bond that existed between us. For a moment I hesitated, trying to remember if we had indeed met before? Perhaps we were connected in some way through friends, relatives?

We chatted for a short while. We talked about her work in Pakistan, where she was working with several non profits that focused on youth and women. We talked about our families, she asked where I was from when I had begun the conversation in Urdu, and we continued to compare family trees. About half way through our conversation, she started to search through her purse. Every other sentence out of her mouth was: Mere paas ek cheez thi... (I had something here...) I assumed she was looking for informational material that she had brought regarding her organization, as she had just handed me her card.

After a few minutes of searching, she finally pulled out a bangle. Silver with multicolored beads woven through with wires. Baas ek choti si cheez (Just a small token), she said. I protested, I tried to give it back, I failed. I realized it was fruitless to try and return her priceless gift, so I accepted. We chatted for a bit longer, before the delegation finally left.

I've been thinking about this woman for the past few hours. Thinking about the conversation we shared, the amazing work she's engaging her community in, the way she looked at me as though we had known each other forever. And I realized... perhaps I had known her in another lifetime, when our souls obediently circumbulated around the throne of Allah. Perhaps this was one soul recognizing it's friend from another place, where our beings were surrounded in His ultimate mercy. In this recognition of souls, she gifted me with more than a beaded bangle. As the poet Khalil Gibran says:

"And there are those who give and know not pain in giving, nor do they seek joy, nor give with mindfulness of virtue;

They give as in yonder valley the myrtle breathes its fragrance into space.

Though the hands of such as these God speaks, and from behind their eyes He smiles upon the earth."

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?"

King of Khans

I read a book recently that changed my life.

Now I know that sounds dramatic, and over stated, but it's true. The title of the book was "Non-Violent Soldier of Islam: Badshah Khan, A Man to Match His Mountains." Until recently, I didn't know much about Badshah Khan and his relationship to Gandhi's philosophy of non-violence. Having attended an Indian school for some 10 years (from 1st - 10th grade), I'm fairly familiar with Gandhi, and the struggle for independence in the sub-continent. Anyone who's even remotely familiar with Gandhi knows that he was a man of faith, a devout Hindu. However, as far as I knew, most prominent Muslim figures within the Satyagraha movement were secular or cultural Muslims at best. That is until I found Badshah Khan.

I stumbled upon this book really - one of the perks of working for the Interfaith Youth Core (www.ifyc.org). And it stumped me. Literally. A non-violent soldier? Wait, a non-violent soldier from the North Frontier Province of present day Pakistan. No, no, let me say that another way... A non-violent Pushtun soldier of Islam from North Frontier Province of Pakistan. This is what Badshah Khan would have to say about my surprise:

"There is nothing surprising in a Muslim or pathan like me subscribing to the creed of nonviolence. It is not a new creed. It was followed fourteen hundred years ago by the Prophet all the time he was in Mecca, and it has since been followed by all those who wanted to throw off an oppressor's yoke. But we had so far forgotten it that when Gandhiji placed it before us, we thought he was sponsoring a novel creed."

Here's the most amazing thing about Khan: His commitment to non-violence stemmed from his commitment to Islam. It was not a foreign ideology to him. His way to becoming part of the freedom movement in India was to start schools, to educate the next generation much to the dismay of the local "mullah's", to encouraged women to become part of the freedom movement.

In the past week I have mentioned my new found fascination with Badshah Khan to a few friends. Every one of them shows signs of surprise upon hearing the title of the book: Non-violent soldier of Islam. And I began to wonder, have we become so incriminated with our portrayal as a violent people that it surprises us when shown otherwise? I digress, that's a whole separate topic...

...coming back to Khan. Here's how his story ends...

Khan manages to mobilize an "army" of non-violent soldiers in the North Frontier Province known as the Khudai Khidmatgars ("Servants of God") aka the "Red Shirts" (as referred to by the British, and it was also the color of their "uniform"). The Red Shirts become so influential in the area that Khan is exiled from the area for a number of years by the British. He spent the entirety of his time away from home either in Gandhi's Ashram or in prison. The Muslim League under Jinnah's leadership pursues the formation of the independent state of Pakistan. Khan is obviously opposed to partition, but ultimately realizes that he can't stop it.

"I delivered many speeches against the division of India, but the question is: has anybody listened to me? You may hold any opinion about me, but I am not a man of destruction but of construction. If you study my life, you will find that I devoted it to the welfare of our country. We have proclaimed that if the Government of Pakistan would work for our people and our country, the Khudai Khidmatgars would be with them. I repeat that I am not for the destruction of Pakistan. In destruction lies no good."

So how is this Non-violent Soldier of Islam treated in newly partitioned Pakistan?

From 1948 -1954, Khan is held under house arrest with no charge. This is after his address to the Pakistani Parliament stating his willingness to support the construction of Pakistan. In 1956 he's arrested again for disagreeing with the government and remains in prison until 1959. Once released, he goes into exile to Kabul for a few years before returning to Peshawar. In 1969 he was named an "Amnesty International Prisoner of the Year." Badshah Khan died at his Peshawar home under house arrest in 1988. He was 98 years old.

When I came to the closing chapters of Khan's life, I was shocked! Shocked! Pakistan, a country created to ensure Muslims their rights puts a man of faith under house arrest for decades! That too a non-violent man of faith! And why? Because he speaks to his beliefs? Because he asks the government to show constructive progress?

Can you imagine devoting yourself to a struggle for freedom, only to have your freedom restricted by the very people you fought for?