Love, InshAllah Read online

  The few friends I consulted all said the same thing: “He’s a wonderful guy, but why do that to yourself? Just choose not to feel this way about him.” They said I was too old (a decrepit twenty-seven) to embark on a relationship that was destined to end because he was not Muslim and I would not marry a non-Muslim.

  I am the sort of person who believes one can and does choose love. I can put the lid on my feelings better than Don Draper, so that’s what I did for a while.

  But every so often, questions would enter my head: Why am I rejecting this good, decent man who has been nothing but a great friend and upstanding human being in all the time I’ve known him? Why am I turning down the chance to be with someone who has lived like me—all over the world, straddling two cultures, never quite feeling like he belonged but never too bothered about it, either?

  The whole situation reminded me of a verse from the forty-ninth chapter of the Qur’an, Al-Hujurat:

  “O mankind, We created you from a male and female, and We made you into nations and tribes, that you may know one another.”

  I would find myself muttering this verse under my breath like a sort of mantra, and like any good mantra, it led to an epiphany: I was finally ready to really take a chance on love and a white boy.

  So I set about doing what any woman does in such a situation. Over the course of several late-night phone calls with Gabriel, I started letting it slip that I might be interested in advancing our relationship. But then, the day after Gabriel finally got the hint, I announced to him that I was “over it” and that my feelings for a previous crush, who had just blown back into town after a couple of years in Japan, had been rekindled. I am not very good at being emotionally vulnerable, and I was embarrassed and worried that he didn’t feel the same way. So I backtracked like an emotional coward.

  Gabriel, understandably, did not take this very well. After getting me to ’fess up to the fact that I had said that thing about that other guy purely out of fear of screwing up our wonderful friendship, he spent the next week convincing me that we should give it a go.

  So like any red-blooded woman in the throes of a budding romance, I came up with a contract. I made Gabriel promise that no matter what happened, we would always remain friends. That there would be no bitterness if (when) our romantic relationship ended. And that in the unlikely event that we did decide to really make a go of it and get married, he would convert to Islam. Not for the sake of convenience, but out of conviction. He would take the time to educate himself, and then—without any prodding or help from me, and preferably without my knowledge at all—he would convert.

  I figured if he could accept such nonsense, he was a definite keeper.

  Gabriel did accept—the first of many harebrained schemes I cooked up that he would go along with. Our relationship didn’t so much change as deepen. Over the next few months, Gabriel went from being a good friend to being my best friend and my biggest champion. When I was frustrated and fed up with the intensity of life in Cairo, he was the first one there with a smile and a funny story. When he went on one of his many scuba diving trips, I was the first one he called to describe the giant sea turtle he’d seen. When I was hesitant about leaving my job and pursuing a master’s degree, he encouraged me to do it and, a year later, slogged through my dissertation, editing it and making suggestions.

  I came to realize that his particular brand of sweetness, which I had often taken for softness or weakness, was in fact a generosity of spirit the likes of which it is rare to encounter. His ability to laugh at himself was equaled only by his self-respect and respect for others. Things fell into place for us in a way that allayed all the fears I’d ever had about being with a Farangi, especially this particular one.

  A year and a half later, on Valentine’s Day 2009, Gabriel sat me down and said, “I have something I’ve been preparing.” He proceeded to recite the Fatiha, the opening chapter of the Qur’an. He made me turn away from him as he haltingly made his way through it. It was the loveliest thing I’d ever heard. Two months later, while I was out of Egypt on a work trip, he took two friends of ours down to Al-Azhar to act as witnesses to his conversion to Islam. Though I knew he was planning to convert while I was out of the country, I tried not to get my hopes too high, telling myself I’d believe it when I saw it. But when my plane landed in Cairo and I turned on my cell phone, there was a text from Gabriel: “It is done.” A huge smile briefly spread across my face, before the realization that it was now time for the really hard part—telling our respective families that we wanted to get married.

  Two months after Gabriel converted, I told my parents about us. It went about as well as I could have expected. The five stages of grief unfolded in our household over the next three months. It was not easy, but it was not as difficult as I had always (deep down inside, you know, where I’d buried my Farangi love) anticipated it would be.

  When we had our katb kitab several months later, Gabriel and I chose to have el-maktoub—Arabic for “it is written”—inscribed on the inside of our wedding bands. Despite obstacles of culture, religion, timing, and good old human pride, he and I eventually found our way to each other. As we discover what other things have been written for us, I am forever grateful that I put my faith in a higher power—be it love or God or the chaotic order of the universe—and allowed myself to read what was being written all along.

  Third Time’s the Naseeb:

  Loving After Loss

  Three

  Asiila Imani

  In 1979, the Iranian Revolution erupted.

  Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini replaced the dethroned Shah in the newly formed Islamic Republic of Iran. Each weekday night, U.S. households were riveted to Ted Koppel’s Nightline as the American hostage situation unfolded. Iran’s revolution also triggered a renewed sense of pride and religious fervor in the rest of the Muslim world. For the first time, the immigrant American Muslim population appeared wearing their khimars, kufis, jilbabs, and thobes in public.

  At the time, I was the secretary of the Black Studies department at Washington State University (WSU)—my first job after graduating from the same institution six months prior. Like most WSU students and faculty, I was curious about what was going on in Iran. The late ’70s were a time of political disillusionment. On campus, moments of silence and marches against South African apartheid or the treatment of Palestinians were regular occurrences. Many of us did not doubt Iran’s claim, which came not too long after the end of the Vietnam War and Nixon’s resignation, that the American embassy was a “den of CIA spies.” We were impressed with a real-life “power to the people” revolution against yet another oppressive regime.

  My boyfriend, Talib, was Muslim, as was my closest friend, Asma. As the world’s eyes turned to Islam, Asma and Talib shared their faith with me. Asma introduced me to the newly formed Muslim Students’ Association (MSA), and we attended sisters’ meetings and Islamic conferences. I was impressed with the incredibly kind and cultured female students and wives of students from Asia, Africa, and the Middle East. They welcomed me into their fold, and I quickly felt at home in their company and with the teachings of Islam. After a few months, I converted, my new sisters witnessing my shahada. In 2011, after being Muslim for thirty-two years now, I have rarely experienced as much of a true united ummah as I did then.

  Talib and I had previously discussed the “what ifs” of our relationship, realizing that Islamically we should either marry or break up. Since we were no longer on the best of terms, the latter choice was imminent, until a positive pregnancy test changed our minds. We made halfhearted preparations to marry, never committing to a solid date.

  Three months later, I miscarried a girl I named Turiya.

  This was an opportunity to go our separate ways, but we married anyway, brought together by grief. We rationalized that we had already been together for nearly three years and that perhaps the miscarriage was a punishment for our sexual transgressions. Three years later, two more babies had passed: Jihad di
ed in utero; Amina, born prematurely, lived for just two hours.

  In a fog of intense emotion, we were determined to have a child. A year and a half after we lost Amina, Raheem was born. Our mission complete, it seemed that our marriage was, too. But by the time Raheem was fifteen months old, our union of six years was in shambles. I packed my things and moved into my parents’ home in Hawaii.

  Oahu’s Muslim population was sparse. Sparser still was the number of single Muslim men: four. One was certifiably insane, and two were half my age. The last, Ali, was the one whom friends kept insisting I meet. We eventually made phone contact. I don’t remember much of our two or three conversations, except that he wanted to get married right away and I was still reeling from my divorce.

  Ali also wanted a wife who wore the full head covering and practiced more of the Sunna. Living the Prophetic lifestyle was easier to do when husband and wife helped each other, he said. But I was barely able to wake up in time for Fajr and didn’t eat ritually slaughtered zabiha meat, and I wasn’t about to start looking like an Arab with my neck and ears all wrapped up, when my “American hijab” (a West African–style gele) was good enough.

  Ali also spoke of homeschooling, gardening, learning Arabic, giving dawah, and making tahajjud prayers regularly. It sounded lovely—for someone else. I was content with my nine-to-five workday and prime-time-TV nights. Our courtship ended quickly, but, both seeking friendship within Oahu’s small Muslim community, we kept in touch.

  A year passed. My son was getting older, attending a Catholic preschool, giving out candy for Halloween, and helping my mom decorate the Christmas tree. I wanted to raise him in more Islamic surroundings. I was also lonely, and celibacy was beginning to take its toll. I needed a husband, and this time I was going to do it right. The Internet, online social networks, and cell phones were a decade in the future. Instead, there were “marital services” provided by Islamic Horizons and other Muslim magazines.

  The courting process required filling out a data sheet with name, ethnicity, age, height, weight, looks (below average, average, or above average), likes, and dislikes.

  African American female, 30, 5’3”, 138 lbs., previously married with one child, average looks. I like reading, writing, exercising, spending time with my son. I am looking for a practicing Muslim brother, 32–42, who is kind, knowledgeable, has a sense of humor, and will be a good stepfather to my 2-year-old son. Ethnicity unimportant.

  The information was then printed on a sheet with that of other candidates and mailed to male members; vice versa for the women. Participants then chose whom they wanted to meet and wrote an introductory letter with more information and questions. Admittedly, it was thrilling to read letters from so many brothers vying to impress me. The only problem was that 99.7 percent of them were unhinged.

  I had the “pleasure” of meeting the American who thought it a sin for men and women to speak on the phone; another American, who wanted to collect as many concubines as was humanly possible; a Sudanese who demanded I be circumcised and wear the face veil; a Moroccan who wanted to marry for the green card; the double-murder inmate looking for his queen; the 5-percenter searching for his black goddess; the Egyptian who demanded I send him a picture of my hair because he didn’t want kinky-haired kids; and the seventeen-year-old who was ready to marry because he had a paper route and a bike.

  The next profile was a breath of fresh air:African American male, 39, 6’, 180 lbs., practicing Muslim for over 20 years,traveled throughout the Middle East and Africa, one or two children OK, looking for an American sister willing to relocate. I love jogging and exercise.

  Ishaq was friendly and conversant during our weekly phone calls; his letters were long and amusing. He had a great sense of humor and an infectious laugh. He was a former merchant marine and regaled me with tales of his many travels. We became friends.

  We had been courting a year when Ishaq flew to Hawaii. “As-salaam-alaikum !” he greeted me at my wali’s house, wearing the blue shalwar kamiz I had sent him for his birthday. We picked up where we had left off on the phone, gabbing like the friends we had become. He made it a point to interact with Raheem, sitting on the floor building Lego castles, which impressed both my son and me. I picked him up from my wali’s house every morning for a week and we toured the island together, relaxing on beaches and spending time with my parents and Raheem.

  Our long-distance courtship lasted for nearly two years. Ishaq was divorced, too, and we both felt cautious moving toward our next nikah, but we liked each other and felt comfortable together. The more we talked, the more certain we became that we were ready to commit ourselves to each other. Marriage was the logical next step. It would take a couple of months to get things ready, and then we’d marry in Hawaii before moving to Oakland, California.

  One day, Ali called. He was also about to marry and relocate to Oakland and wanted to find out how I was doing. I told him about Ishaq and our plans. We laughed at the coincidence of ending up in the same city and congratulated each other on our upcoming nuptials, promising we’d get our two families together.

  Unlike with my first wedding, I planned the day cheerfully, inviting my family and friends to share in our happiness. But when Ishaq returned to the island, the easy energy between us had changed. There wasn’t any obvious problem; it was as if we had fallen out of sync. When we hugged and gave salaams, my heart said, Uh-oh. My head countered with, It’s just nerves. Still, we had our nikah ceremony at the masjid. It felt like an obligation then––no longer the day we had been looking forward to. We barely smiled in our wedding photos and coolly received congratulations from our loved ones. Boarding the plane to Oakland, I hoped the disappointment of the wedding would subside once we settled into our life together. It did not.

  By the fourth week, the cracks were apparent. We were getting on each other’s last nerve, and Ishaq broke out in hives. By the sixth week, we were divorced. It was a mutual decision. We realized forcing something that neither of us wanted anymore was useless. As soon as the binds of our marriage were lifted, the ease of our friendship returned. I moved to my brother’s apartment in Fort Bragg, North Carolina.

  There I was, a thirty-four-year-old, twice-divorced black woman with a five-year-old son. Given my two marriages of six years and six weeks, respectively, if I could have found another husband, it would probably have lasted only six days. I now lived in a part of the country that was chock full of masjids and Muslims. There were plenty of single men. The problem was that everyone I was introduced to reminded me of either one or the other ex-husband. I was also considered too dark and too old for the nonblack immigrant brothers looking for wives. I began to feel that I wasn’t meant to marry. I was tired of being introduced to men who were incompatible. I was tired of investing time and energy in relationships that seemed destined to fail, and I couldn’t stand the idea of dragging my son through yet another divorce.

  Still, I was willing to give it one more try. I didn’t want to be a single mother or alone for the rest of my life. I was raised in an intact family and wanted the same for my son. I liked being married. I just had to find the right man.

  I enrolled in another marital service to widen the net. Right away, I noticed a profile that looked very familiar: 44-year-old African American, 6’, 180 lbs., practicing Muslim for over 20 years . . . I love jogging and exercise.

  Ishaq!

  I called him.

  “Brother, you need to stop lying about loving to jog.”

  “Asiila?! What you doing in my network?”

  “I’m searching for what is starting to seem like the impossible dream, and you?”

  “Same here. I’ve been married and divorced twice since you and I divorced.”

  “Ishaq, what are you doing to these women?”

  He laughed. “It’s more like, what y’all doing to me!”

  We wished each other good luck and hung up. And I disen-rolled from the matrimonial service.

  That was it. Only God could do thi
s. I prayed halfheartedly, asking Him to send me my match, doubting it would happen. I got involved with my sister friends, enrolled in prenursing classes, and concentrated on my studies and my son. It was time for Plan B: living single, happily ever after.

  One Friday evening, three months after my new resolution and six months after my divorce, Ali called. He had heard Ishaq and I had separated and was calling to check on me. We spoke for a while, and he asked if I planned to marry again.

  “I don’t know. I won’t marry just to be married this time,” I told him.

  “That’s good,” he replied. “I just worry about my sisters living alone, raising their children by themselves. It’s not what God wants. My wife Hajar and I will keep an eye out for men for you.”

  I thanked him, but, just as when I prayed for God’s help, I felt nothing would come of their efforts. It wasn’t just the failed marriages that bothered me; it was a deeper feeling of numb discontent and a deadness of spirit. Even if I found a man I could stay married to, what of my soul, my own path in this life? Marriage is half the deen, but not all of it. What of the other half, my personal relationship with God?

  As promised, Ali called to check on my progress and became my sounding board as I bounced these concerns off him. He was a great listener. His insights were poetic and wise and his advice spiritually based, guiding me back to Allah.

  Nearly every time we spoke, he asked, “What do you want?” I responded with an ever-growing list: to leave North Carolina, to make more money, to have a Muslim family, to pass Chemistry . . .