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."

Dear God: Will you sign my permission slip?

As many of you already know, I've spent most of my time in the last 10 days waiting for that ever ellusive Saudi Arabian stamp on my passport that allows me, the crazy single unaccompanied American Muslim woman, to make pilgrimage to the holy cities. In these last hours of waiting, I've decided to go against my better judgement and post a bunch of intellectual vomit out of frustration.

Here the thing that get's me the most: what the hell do they think us American Muslim women are going to do in the holy cities? I mean seriously people, do we look like the kind who would throw a rave within the compounds of the Mecca? Or maybe we'll just go crazy and start hijacking cars and driving them around in circles?! Woo.

The irony of this whole situation is that hundreds of single women from India, Pakistan, Malaysia, Indonesia, Philipines, fly without male gaurdians to Saudi Arabia every year - to serve as nannies, cooks, cleaning ladies, etc. etc. So apparently, it's perfectly ok to let women travel as long as it's for underpaid labor. God forbid that a woman try to to fulfil any sort of religious obligation or aspiration without a male gaurdian. I mean, please that is just uncalled for. How dare we think that we are able to independently worship our lord without the help of mighty men, to keep our wild spirits in check... I mean astagfirullah sister.

Sam & Ella: The Wedding 5

This is the fifth segment of this story. It's been updated in the last few days, and is longer than the original.

Ella

As I watched the sun slowly rise from my bedroom window, I thought of Sam finishing her morning prayers. I decided I would make pancakes for Sam, one last morning before her life transformed permanently. The sun was shinning brightly by the time I grabbed all the required ingredients and made the walk across our freshly cut lawns. I smiled when I saw Aunty Zareena sitting on her porch with her tea.

“Good morning Beta!” she smiled. “Hi Aunty! Are you ready for tonight?” A fews tears accompanied her smile this time. “As ready as I can be, Beta.” I hugged her before I went in looking for Sam.

“Helloooooo! Here comes the bride's hot friend! Here comes the bride's hot friend!” I sang as I walked into Aunty Zareena's kitchen. Sam was setting the table for the two of us. The henna on her hands had deepened, making the paisley design even more beautiful on her skin. “It's about time you made me breakfast, I am starving!”

I waved the bag of semi sweet chocolate chips in the air as an offering of peace, before throwing it at her. We chatted about unimportant details as I stirred the batter. Sam wasn't allowed to do anything today, Aunty Zareena and I had decided. As I listened to Sam go over the night's schedule for the tenth time, I realized that I was loosing her tonight. By next week she would be moved into Shehzad's parent's home in New York. She would no longer be across the lawn on Sunday mornings armed with her spatula in hand.

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Sam

Her eyes stare back at me from the mirror. She is a bride, waiting for the Imam to walk in at any moment to ask for her signature. Then it will be done. There is no turning back now, her eyes say to mine. There are no words between us, only the quick rhythmic beating of our hearts.

“Sam Beta, I'm sorry but we can't make them wait any longer.” Ammi's voice was calm. I could hear the swelling of tears in her tone. She was right, we couldn't wait any longer. Shehzad had patiently delayed the ceremony for the last hour at my request. I wanted my father to be there, I longed for him to be my wali, my gaurdian. I wanted him to take this one last responsibility of me. But he had not come. I had waited again, and he had not kept his word, again.

“Sam Beta...Summar?” Ammi's voice trailed, and I noded. Yes, it was time.

Within moments, the gentle aging Imam came in with the witnesses to ask for my consent. Ammi hugged me, weeping softly as they left with the signed papers. Ella stayed by my side, she wiped Ammi's tears, fixed her sari. When Ammi left the room to witness Shehzad's half of the ceremony, Ella stayed with me. For a few minutes it was just us again. “You are going to be fine,” she said, my face cupped in her hands. “Now I don't want to see any of those tears, we have to walk down to see your man.” She winked. We laughed, and blinked the threatening tears back.

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Ella

Even in this moment, as I watch Sam sign her consent, I am uncertain of her happiness. There is a sadness that shadows her smile, a hesitancy whose origin I do not know. Perhaps it was her father's predicted absence, but I wondered if there was more. What I did know, is that Sam has never looked more beautiful. The deep red fabric of her mughal inspired skirt floats around her with each step. Even in all her bridal grandeur her simplicity is eminent. Like the glow that clings closely to a full moon.

“Ready? Remember you can't trip today.” We smile. Sam nods, and we walk over to the over sized doors that take us into the banquet hall. Her hands we tightly wrapped around her bouquet of fall colored roses, arranged in perfect circles. When the music began, the doors were opened, and all five hundred eyes were on Sam. But she didn't flinch, she floated with each step, moving closer to meet the gaze of the man she had agreed to spend a lifetime with. From the moment she entered the room, Shehzad was standing, waiting. He had waited a long time for this, his eyes never left her, his smile never faded. And then he did something unexpected - he walked to meet her half way. I saw the shadow linger in her eyes but for a moment, and then as Shehzad lead, Sam followed each step. When his hand found hers, he grasped it tightly, their fingers interlocked, and they walked together.

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Travelling alone

I woke up at 7am on Monday morning, the 21st of May. I had a few hours to finish packing, get dressed and head to the office to tie up loose ends before I boarded my flight for the long journey down under. I was waiting for Tahseen to pick me up and drive me downtown when my cell phone rang. It was my dad. "Where are you?" I always hated that question, as he usually knew where I was. "I'm just about to leave dad" I said with a bit of annoyance in my voice. Then there was this pause, the kind of pause that always means that the next thing about to be said will undoubtly be bad news. "You can't leave yet..." his voice trailed off for a few seconds, and then returning to tell me that my great aunt, Chachipasha, had passed away that morning. She has been increasing becoming ill over the last year, but none of us expected that her time would come so soon.

At this point I had a bit of a delimma. If I took my flight at 5pm as planned, I would surely miss the Janaza (Funeral), but I wanted to do both. I decided that I wouldn't make a decision about my trip until I went to the funeral home later that morning. I waited for my mom to get home before heading to the bank to get what I needed for the trip. I must say that I felt an incredible amount of guilt getting my things in order.

Finally, we loaded my moms car with my suitcase and headed to the funeral home. I decided it was best if I did what I could before leaving for New Zealand. I spent the next 3 hours helping prepare Chachipasha's body for the burial. I'd done this once before, when my own aunt passed away about 7 years ago. My responsibility is usually to make sure that the proper rights were being followed, and that no step was over looked. It's a wierd feeling, to wash the body of a grandmother you've seen all your life. To speak of her out loud, as if she wasnt there, and yet here you are, purifying her body for her final journey.

Finally at 3:30 pm, Tahseen drove me to the airport. My parents had been very concerned about my travel to New Zealand, as it would be my first international travel with no companions. But they didn't have time to dwell on it a the moment of my departure.

And then I found myself alone. Standing in line at O'Hare waiting to check in. Standing in line at the security check in. Standing in line at the gate to board the plane. After an hour of standing in various lines, I was finally on the plane to San Francisco, where I would transfer to my flight to Auckland.

The thing I realized about travelling alone, is that eventually we all find ourselves on a solitary journey home.

Glowing Prayer Beads

They waited every night by his pillow, for the early hour when his weathered fingers would grasp them. Iridescent by day, glowing green by night. He had bought them while returning from prayer in the holy city. He was my grandfather, Nana. For as long as I can remember, he would sit in his chair placed next to the open door of our home in India. His eyes would be cast upon the main gate, his lips softly moving, his fingers gently pushing his beloved prayer beads. Their green glow helped his aging eyes find them in the early hours of dawn. His routine every morning took him several hours to complete. He would read his wirds in two different languages: Arabic and Tamil. His beads never left his side through the day. When I would wake up, he would tell me stories, mostly his originals... hours and hours of stories. The story I remember most was called “Panch Phool ki Rani” which roughly translates to “The Princess of Five Flowers”. The story gets its name from its heroine, a Princess so delicate that she was compared to five flowers. He was a gifted storyteller, and I would sit listening to him for hours as he made up small and intricate details about the princess, her adventures, her quirks, her underdog prince charming, and her magical (non-human) friends. This was no ordinary princess, she may have been called as delicate as five flowers, but she was a feisty one. Only recently, it struck me that perhaps she was suppose to be his perceptions of me as a child. Unfortunately, I will never know for sure.

We talked about everything. He would often narrate to me the names and relationships of our many relatives... and then quiz me on them. We would walk around his garden, his personal pride, and he would tell me about each flower he had planted. Every afternoon, he would call out to me when the cotton candy man would walk by our house ringing his bells announcing his arrival. When I was ten I was in India during the FIFA World Cup finals. It was Germany vs. Argentina. Nana and I stayed up all night watching the game, and eating grilled corn rubbed with lime and chillies. It was the most fun I have ever had watching a soccer game. We were both a little disappointed when Argentina lost, and Maradona went home empty handed that year. He was the only person willing to sit through me reading my cheesy poems out loud, and then tell me that I was going to be a great writer.

When my grandfather passed away, my mother brought me his wird books and his misbaha (beads). For a long time they all just sat on my book shelf. I am not very fluent in Tamil anymore, so I couldn't make much of the books in Tamil. As for the books in Arabic, the one I immediately recognized was the Burda of Imam Al-Busiri. It was the most damaged of them all. The pages were mostly torn, falling apart. I had one of my more learned friends look through some of the other Arabic books with me, and we discovered that amongst his primary readings was the wird of Imam Abdul Qadir Jilani. But my most precious inheritance from him were his beads. They sit by my Quran on the shelf in my room. Some nights, I fall asleep with them near me, only to wake up and find them tangled in my fingers.

Someday, I want to write a children's story based on the Princess of Five Flowers, only this version will have a wise grandfather king by her side.

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.