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Entries in Islam (17)


I Own a Dog. And, also, God is Not A "Him".

This might not seem like a big deal to you, but totally is. 

When I told many of our Muslim friends and family that we were getting a dog, there were two things that happened. One, everybody recoiled in horror and said, WHY?

And the second thing that happened is that everyone assumed it was my idea. It was not my idea. I like dogs. However. I was opposed to getting a dog for several reasons.

But back to the first thing that happened -- what I will call for the purposes of this story, "Muslim Dog Recoil (MDR)."

MDR exists because Muslims consider the saliva of dogs unhygienic. In fact, if you have completed your ablutions (ritual washing before prayer) and a dog licks you, you have to go do your ablutions again before you can pray. Orthodoxy suggests that dogs may be kept for the purposes of work. That is, a guard dog, herding dog or hunting dog is fine. There are also a couple of credible hadith (this is a collection of sayings of the Prophet - peace be upon him -- that is regarded as an auxiliary to the Quran) that are pretty discouraging of the keeping of dogs in the home. As a result of this, most Muslims don't have dogs at all.

For better or worse, I am a person who is grounded in context and history. I believe in miracles, too, but I also am accepting and cognizant of the human components that inject themselves into our cosmology as they are practiced on a daily basis. This was a fancy way of saying, I believe that God is All Powerful and has revealed Themself as the shaper of human destiny through the miracle of sacred texts, but I also believe in the power of human beings to shape those narratives and affect practice in self serving ways. (Hey, spell check, I see you with your red squiggly under themself, but I'm going to reject your political agenda and go with it). I know many of my Muslim friends will shake their heads and pray for my soul when I say this, but history matters.

The way I see it, the miracle of the Quran is that not only was it revealed, but that it exists today. As inhabitants of the ever changing Earth and members of the human race, though, our greatest jihad (struggle) is to discern the validity of what was revealed in context to the lives we live today. I will not blindly accept the narratives of the past regarding piety. I will certainly give these narratives of the past the benefit of the doubt, but I will evaluate them critically. I believe the biggest problem facing all Believers today is the ability to accept that when we critically evaluate our sacred texts, that we are able to leave space for different answers that allow us to coexist peacefully. I believe it can be done, but we are definitely failing as a species on this level. 

Regardless of what you're talking about, religion or human rights, dominant narratives are shaped by the needs of the members of a community who are dominant. This doesn't make the narrative wrong, but it does subject it to scrutiny. I think a good example of this is assigning Allah the pronoun of "Him." Y'all. God is not a "He." Yet, when we talk about God, we constantly use He. Why? Because the he-s were in charge when these words were being both invented and then subsequently written down. 

The most orthodox among my Muslim brothers and sisters will recoil and say this is nonsense talk and is such a small thing -- and, anyway, they'll say, who cares -- it' s just a word? Much the way the politically conservative among Americans will recoil when you commit to honoring someone's relationship to their pronoun as a choice.

That's cool. Recoil away. I'm still going to call someone what they WANT to be called. And I will continue to avoid using Him when I talk about God. Words matter, especially to those who have been historically divested of agency and power. The fact is saying "Him" matters when you say "All praise is due to Him" or "He is All Knowing" if you, yourself, are NOT A HE. Intrinsically, a woman saying "Praise Him" - on a subconscious or conscious level - reaffirms a false narrative created by hims that all the hims in the world have a special connection with Allah. They reaffirm that women do not have this connection because they are not hims. I reject this idea that "him" connection is stronger than the "her" or "they" connection, and, ironically, so do many of the most conservative members of my religious community who are tsking at my words this very minute.

This was a long, wordy way of explaining to you why those closest to us in our Muslim circle assumed that getting a dog was my idea. Because I have this crazy idea of questioning the established practice in the context of modernity and history.

But I DID NOT want the dog, y'all.

Because? I am so allergic. SO ALLERGIC. I have not been able to breathe through my noise without pseudo ephedrine pumping through my veins since March.

I will tell you the story of how we ended up with our beautiful dog who I love so dearly and who does indeed stay inside our house (but away from the areas where we pray and sleep). For now, know that I was completely railroaded by an alliance between my husband and daughter that was so well crafted that I still don't know how this happened.

Anyway, this is our dog just after we brought her home. She's a wire-haired Viszla. She is, in fact, the sweetest and smartest dog in all of creation. Her name is Hestia. And I ...achooo.. love...sniffle, sniffle.. her.

She's waaaaay bigger now. I'll post more photos of her soon.


*Friends, this is a post that discusses religion and, to an extent, politics. Be advised that while I respect freedom of speech very much, I would never permit someone to sit in my living room and disrespectfully engage with my ideas. I will not tolerate it here either. If you can be mindful, write thoughtfully, and stay in your lane -- then, feel free to disagree. If you can't... go yell in your own living room (or your own blog).


The Ambivalence of Vulnerability.

There are a thousand different ways to express this, and they feel weak, shameful and pseudo-catastrophic. A few years ago, I read all of Brene Brown’s books, and they changed my life. I learned about the power and courage of vulnerability. I learned vulnerability is a magic key that opens you up to abundance and love in the universe in a way that holding your flaws, fears and mistakes too close will never allow. I came to love the idea of vulnerability – the delicate balance it requires in personal relationships or the way it can inspire friendships and cooperation in phenomenal ways.

Today, I loathe vulnerability. I hate how vulnerable I feel when I watch a man talk about killing the family members of terrorists. Or closing borders. Or requiring ID badges. Or, basically, any time he opens his idiotic, stupid-headed mouth.

I hate the total loss of words I had tonight when my emotionally rock solid daughter asked, “What is going to happen if Donald Trump wins? Are we going to be okay? Is he going to make us leave?”

I do not know the answer to this question.

This vulnerability? It’s victimhood. It’s the haunting sting of being bullied by someone so much more powerful than I am. It’s that familiar feeling of watching people who can do something, sit back and do nothing.  It’s the vulnerability you feel when you hear someone give you the backstory, the rationale, the reason why your abuser is who he is. You don’t care what those reasons are because it does not stop them. I do not give a damn why we are here. Stop telling me why why are here.

We are here. And I am very afraid.

This vulnerability is the finality of knowing you can never count on the people you thought you could count on again. People who love you, they are supposed to stick up for you. They are supposed to say, "You cannot talk about my friend like that." They are supposed to stop people from talking about you like that. They are supposed to effing do something besides make jokes or lament the journey to this place.

When you lose faith in the people who love you, you beleive you will never get it back. You are left with the realization that having faith in people is a precarious proposition at best. Let me tell you, there are very few points that are lower than this one, emotionally speaking.

Disconnected. Alone. Vulnerable... I listen.

He says what he thinks, so, you know, take the abuse. Let’s keep this family together. Don't forget, you're lucky to even be here. You thought you were big enough to sit at the table? Listen. We will make you leave if we want. There is nothing you can do. We were great before you came here. We want to be great again. You made us un-great. We're just trying to go back to what we were before you showed up and screwed everything up.

Also? Jesus. Guns. Racism.

I gasp for air under the weight of this vulnerability that leaves me weak, sad and scared.  I had no strength to loan my child when she showed me her vulnerability.

 “I don’t know if will he make us leave. I don’t know. I know that no matter what has happened to me in my life, Allah has provided me with the best of things in the end. This is something I know to be true because I have lived it. I don't know what's going to happen, bete. Some things, we have to just let Him sort out.”

I can say what I think, too.


Can't (or Won't) Imagine 

There is a phrase... "I can't imagine..."

You might say this to someone when there is a pain in them that appears to be unbearable... a situation that seems far removed from your sanitized reality, yet one that demands the salve of human acknowledgment and empathy.

I've had a recent revelation. This phrase, "I can't imagine" is a lie. Stop saying it if you're trying to empathize. 

You can imagine. You can imagine anything at anytime.

The truth is, that you WON'T imagine.

Not "can't." Can't implies lack of ability.

"Won't" as in "Will not". The word "will" is strong. It is the reflection of our intention and the promise of its realization in the near future. 

"I won't imagine that what is happening to you will ever happen to me." 

"I won't imagine who I would become if the things I fear most became a stark reality instead of a boogeyman." 

"I won't imagine that you worry about whether your children will be alive tomorrow morning."

"I won't imagine that you are afraid in a way I have never been and that your choices and words  are affected by that."

"I won't imagine that the threat of annihilation is so real for your people that you have lost sight of the fact that you cannot war on the collective without bathing in the blood of the innocent."

"I won't imagine the ways in which you are wrong while also acknowledging that I would be wrong in all the same ways if I were you."

Have ability. Will not use it. No, I won't imagine.

I won't imagine because then I'll have to confront the human cost of politicizing, pontificating, and propagandizing.

I don't like this word "conflict" to describe the events in Israel-Gaza. The word conflict shrouds us in the cloak of "can't" imagine."

What if you did imagine, though?

What if we used words besides "terrorist," "resolutions," "threat," "annihilation," "human shield," "disproportionate" and a plethora of other words that take what is very real and human and transform it into an object lesson? About post colonialism. Imperialism. Zionism. Islamism. Pick your poison-ism.

Would you go to the place beyond these words? The place where you truly felt what it is like to send your only sons to war? Or to let you little daughter stay up late and eat chocolate because that might be her last piece on the last night of her life?

I'm confident that most of you knew how you felt about this issue the moment you read the first bit of information.

I did. But, this was enough to make me careful in my expression because it meant I was thinking from the place that "can't imagine."

I have spent a month imagining how the side with whom I'm sympathetic feels and thinks AND, even more importantly, how the other side feels and thinks. I have decided that my opinion is less important than my task which is to be the voice that reminds you that we are humans talking about other humans.

Humans talking about other humans.

Humans with sons, and little girls, and mothers, and favorite TV shows and, please, for the love of all things remember that every time you write or say Israeli, Jew, Palestinian or Arab that you are talking about HUMANS.

Even the ones that we think are wrong are humans just like you. Please don't inhabit the world of "can't imagine" where you fool yourself into thinking you'd do things differently. You probably wouldn't. Because you are a human, too.

We must do this - remember that at the core we are all humans. We must do this or we will perish. Maybe not perish in the physical sense, but in the most terrible way that humanity can perish.

The following video is a little over eight minutes long. I have read hundreds of articles and seen enough videos in the past thirty days. I haven't shared a single one. This is the one that I have decided to share.

Take a deep breath and remember we are all humans. Watch it.

Spend at least the time it took to watch it while letting yourself imagine before you share it on Facebook or somewhere else.

Israeli and Palestinian Mother Debate Gaza Conflict - 



(sorry, if you can't see video,  you'll have to copy/paste the link -- my blog is being silly and since it is not human I'm not going to negotiate further with it.).



Epic Battle: Ninjas vs. Burqas



This is rad. I hope that if you ever have a question like this that you ask me. I think it shows initiative and a deep sense of compassion to want to say and do the right thing. Also, four year olds are hilarious.

So, let's talk abount ninjas versus niqabis. (A niqab is the veil part that goes across the face and a niqabi is an Urdu slang term for women who cover their faces.)

With absolutely no disrespect to my face covering sisters in Islam, I can totally see the ninja-niqabi connection.The subtle differences in clothing are difficult to ascertain, especially for a four year old.

But the question isn't why does a four year old think a Muslim woman with her face covered is a ninja because that's an honest and obvious comparison. We are more concerned here with how we can make this a teachable moment.


Put your hand over your mouth, turn your head, pretend you're coughing and get the laughter out of your system. While this situation is hilarious (did I tell you about the time that N. thought Taye Diggs was Barack Obama?), it's important to turn this moment into an opportunity to develop compassion for the different. Laughing with your child is great, but it's important to make sure it's not distracting.

What to Say: "Other than those face coverings, what else looks like ninja clothing? Don't ninjas have swords? Aren't their clothes tighter?" My response to N.'s misperception regarding our president was something to the effect of "Are that man's shoulders as broad as the other handsome guy you saw at the DNC?"

2. Down with Shame!

There is nothing wrong with a child confusing a woman with a veiled face for a ninja, so don't make them feel bad for saying that. Ignorance is not the biggest obstacle to the elimination of bigotry. It's shame. People often feel shamed for making a mistake and then they fight that shame with anger, actual bigotry and denial. 

What to say: "You're right, what she's wearing is very similar to a ninja's mask, but she's not a ninja -- that's called a burqah and what she's wearing on her face is called a niqab." At this point, most children are going to ask another question. If they're under six and don't ask any more question, this is like the sex talk-- just answer what they've asked and don't go any further. Give them the minimum amount of information so they don't feel overwhelmed or worse bored.

3. Identify simple lessons in the opportunity.

Geography is super fun, so try explaining the disparate geography of the ninja and the niqabi. Use it to distract from topics that will likely lead to an incredibly controversial discussion on the constructed cultural concepts of modesty, patriarchy and the Western objectification of Middle Eastern women. And why they're called "Chinese stars" when ninjas originated in Japan.

What to Say: "I definitely see how that veil reminds you of a ninja mask, but did you know ninjas originated in Japan and the veil's history is in the Middle East?"

4. Empathy is the ability to understand the feelings of another.

And also how you and I are going to save the world together. Let's bring home the point that everyone has different ways of expressing their feelings about clothing. This is a great opportunity to discuss relativism (how much should people cover) and acceptance (how much business do others have in telling people what to cover).

What You Can Say: "Would you go to the grocery store in your underwear? Why or why not? Do you think I would? Why or why not?" Okay, don't say the "why or why not" thing. Do explore with your child the different ways that we determine what is okay to wear and what is not. Move a step further by exploring the issue of how we feel about someone else bringing their determinations from another country. I know this is a tough topic, but that doesn't make it less important. Remember that while your child is their own person, you do have a right to present your beliefs within the context of a value system you've chosen to implement in your home.

5.. It's really just a piece of cloth over someone's face. Mostly.

Here is something to consider: men who ascribe to the practice of Islam which mandates face veiling are required to grow beards that are of a certain length (no longer than a clenched fist) and must wear their clothes in a certain way (for example, the cuffs of their pants must not go below their ankles). And, in my experience, the husbands of women who cover their faces generally adhere to these rules stringently. They never seem to make it as topics for debate on TV or the Internet. Why is that? Something for you (and your child depending on their age) to think about it.

What to Say: I don't know. I just felt the need to throw this last one in there. You do what you want with it!

The thing of it is that a person who wonders (worries) about approaching a cultural misunderstanding with grace has nothing to worry about in the first place. Asking ourselves questions about how we can coexist and be sensitive to difference is an important skill that you can only model by doing.

If you have any questions for me, always feel free to tweet me or post a message my Facebook Community page.



Covered Heads

You might have noticed photos online or seen me in person and noticed that I started covering my head about a year ago. I never announced it on the blog or went into detail about it. It's so trite. There's a gajillion posts on the Internet about Muslim women covering their heads. Posts that tell you that it's required. Posts that tell you that it's not. Posts that tell you it's incredibly liberating. Posts that tell you that it is most certainly not.

The reaction of my family to my various head covering exploits is a great case study. Back in 2001, I visited Saudi Arabia and completed my first Umrah in Mecca. Umrah is like a mini-hajj. Unlike Hajj, Umrah can be done any time. My visit to Saudi was beautiful and spiritually complex. 

In Saudi, women are required to wear abayas in public, which is long, black cloak accompanied by a black head scarf. Yes, all women. Even non-Muslims. I often find that people who are unfamiliar with Saudi or have never been there have a similar reaction, "God, don't you get hot?"

My response is that you do get hot, but I bet a bare chested Himba tribeswoman in Namibia is thinking the same thing about you in your summer tank top and denim shorts. Weather is only one part of the equation when it comes to fashion.

And, yes, abayas can be fashionable. 



From Dubai Fashion Week Fall 2010, Designer Amal Murad, Images from Style By Amara

Back in August of 2001, there was something about the abaya that was incredibly appealing to me. When I was growing up, my parents were very strict about my wardrobe. No sleeveless tops, bathing suits, shorts, skirts, tight jeans, shirts above the waist, and, God have mercy, no middriffs. I didn't have to cover my head, but I did have to follow what these stipulations or suffer dire consequences. Even though I adhered to it, my father would at least once a week comment on how he didn't think my shirt was appropriately modest or something to that effect. That was less about the clothes and more about my dad. More on that another time.

For some people, getting married and moving away from their parents is a clean break. I'm not a clean break kind of person. Breaking with anyone is more like a badly done Civil War amputation for me. It would involve a lot of whiskey, a dull saw and several tendrils of tendon and flesh that just… won't… rip…dammit.

The abaya in Saudi Arabia, then, offered me potential respite from feeling like my clothes were too wrong, too tight, too colorful… too American, I guess. The last day we were in Riyadh, I made Tariq and his brother take me to a higher end abaya shop and we bought a lovely abaya that costs the equivalent of about a hundred dollars. My intention was to wear this on the flight home.

And for the rest of my life... in public. 

I did that, and, truth be told, it was awesome because, hi, I wore pajamas on the plane and nobody knew. I also noticed that people both noticed me more in some ways and noticed me less in others. I started wearing a hijab, too, which is the traditional head covering of the more colorful variety that most Americans are familiar with. Once again, I basked in the liberation of not having to blow dry my hair everyday. 

I have to interject to any Muslims that might be reading this that I understand that it may feel like I'm making light of the the traditional coverings of Muslim women, and, well, I am. I respect the right of women to cover for religious reasons and that most do it because they feel it's requisite, but I don't feel any more pious when I have a hijab on my head. To me, it really is a cultural statement. It's an outward symbol to identify myself to others and to my own. 

I flew into Orlando International Airport wearing a black abaya on September 2, 2001 and nobody blinked. I went grocery shopping, to the mall and to parties wearing it. People did do double takes, but everyone was still very nice. I like to think this is because I'm nice and people have a very hard time being mean to someone who says hello and smiles at them.

Nine days later, on September 11, 2001, though, things got super awkward.

"You have to take it off, bete," my mom said in the tone she reserves for commands that leave no room for negotiation.

"Come on, mom, it's fine… I'm not a terrorist or anything."

"I'm your mother. You don't need this to be a good Muslim. I'm your mother, and you have to listen to me because good Muslims listen to their mothers."

Yeah. She totally said that. Verbatim. Because it's true, they do. As a matter of fact, one of the stipulations of Muslim going to fight a battle is that it has to be alright with their mother. I always giggle at this a little. "Where's the note from your mom, soldier?!"

After many conversations with this, one of which was conducted intervention style by my mother and her friends, I stopped wearing the hijab and the abaya. I have a terrible habit of assuming that certain things are obvious, so forgive me if you've already picked up on what I'm about to say… I just want to be clear.

My entire childhood, my parents had dictated the parameters of my wardrobe. Nothing too short, nothing too long, even my hair ("bangs out of the face -- you look like druggie hippie!") and definitely no eyeliner, shadow or bright lipstick. I rebelled against that as much as I could, but, mostly, I complied. Fast forward to twenty three, when I am literally shrouded in a black cloth, and my parents still have a problem with what I'm wearing. 

It occurred to me a few years after the Great Abaya Removal of 2001 that clothing is so much more than color and fabric. It is identity. It's a statement of who you are, who you want to be, how you want the world to see you and, as illustrated above, it is also a statement of who others expect you to be and how much importance you give that. For my parents, they wanted a daughter who was modest, but assimilated enough to be accepted by her society. And, let's face it, after 9/11, they wanted a daughter who people didn't harass.

Clothing was control and I gave it to them completely and unabashedly. Better or worse, it was who I was at the time. Let's be honest, it's still a part of who I am in the smallest of ways.

Nine years later, I have my head covered again, but, this time, I'm in control. I know why I cover my head… exactly why. My appearance is mine to control. Even in covering my head, I assert my rebellion to notions of what is the proper way to cover one's head. Ear lobes! Bare neck! Uncovered in front of select people who are not my husband, brother or father! What can I say, I'm a rebel with a cause.

The reason I cover my head is probably different than why the majority of women cover their head. In Islam, we often say that when you do something, you should do it for the sake of Allah. This prevents arrogance and self righteousness from seeping into what would otherwise be considered pious behavior. 

I do cover my head for the sake of God, but not because I believe that God has commanded that I should hide my hair from people or suffer hellfire or, worse, an eternal loop playing in my head of that Call Me Maybe song. I do it because I'm proud to know God the way that I do and I want people to know that about me. Adopting this cultural symbol is the most efficient way of doing this.

My hair is not shameful and nor is my body. Every article of clothing I wear, from head covering to shoes is a choice that I'm comfortable with. Yes, these choices have been made as a result of strong influence, but not due to the power of others over me. I mean, not any more power than Vogue or InStyle exert over hundreds and thousands of people.

Thirty six has not vaccinated me from attempts by well meaning people who care for me to exert their power over my appearance. My dad said something again when I was in Daytona about people in Tennessee potentially lynching us. Some of my non-Muslim friends have said they're not totally sure why I insist on doing it. Other people close to me are awkwardly silent about it.

But this? Is not about them, about you, about the world or what it thinks of how liberated, oppressed, modest or pious I am. This is about me and God and what He/She/It has compelled me to do. 

My wardrobe today is a consideration of things that I find beautiful. It is long sleeves that convey the thin veneer of the formality of my personality coupled with ethnically inspired prints and flowing fabrics that suggest that I am so much more underneath than what you see on the surface. The scarves are block colored or perhaps a Sudanese inspired print, and are carefully chosen and wrapped with delicate intention. I wrap in a way that pays tribute to my African and Caribbean sisters.Finally, I almost always wear a pin or brooch in the hijab that I make sure is in a distinctly American style -- because it's not me if there isn't any American in it. 

My clothes are a tribute to the seamless beauty of our earth's varied, elegant and powerful aesthetic. And here's something that I will divulge that will be surprising but I'm entirely comfortable with. Sometimes, I don't feel like covering my head in public, so I don't. This is a rare thing, but it happens. 

I wear these clothes not because I must be modest and what to hide from the world, but because modesty is my aesthetic. I find it beautiful and special. Like most Muslim women, I do dress for the sake of God…in that I think God really wants me to be my true, authentic self.