Coming from an abusive, addicted home, she was 11 when she met the man that would push her into prostitution. She killed him when she was 16 and was sentenced to life without parole + 4 years. She is 29 now. Isn't 13 years enough in this case?

What would the pimp have gotten?

How are we as a society making sure our children are cared for properly so they don't end up in these situations? So they don't lose their moral compass? How do we protect the orphans- real or metaphorical- so that they don't fall to the wolves?




Human trafficking is a problem world-wide. Keeping these girls in shame, blaming the victim, and letting the men off with absurd biological deterministic arguments brings to mind the phrase so often repeated in the Qur'an:

What logic are they using?

Spiritual Abuse Defined

In working through my course for Mending the Soul, there is a definition for spiritual abuse from David Johnson and Jeff VanVonderen that I find quite useful and wanted to share:

POWERPOSTURING
The leaders are preoccupied with their authority and continually remind people of it. This runs contrary to scriptural teaching that leaders are not to excessively leverage their authority but are to lead by example, not decree.

PERFORMANCE PREOCCUPATION
Spirituality becomes a matter of external performance, not internal character.

UNSPOKEN RULES
Spiritually abusive congregations have unspoken rules that are not discussed openly but are enforced rigidly.

LACK OF BALANCE
Spiritually abusive churches have little or no spiritual balance and the leaders exhibit either extreme objectivity (you must have a graduate degree or equivalent to have any spiritual knowledge) or extreme subjectivity (the Lord gave me this message and you must accept it)


In my journaling about my experience with these characteristics, I'm seeing how the judgment that accompanies Performance Preoccupation particularly completely shuts off compassion and paralyzes people in being able to truly help those that need it... Life becomes this zero-sum game of Punishment and Reward and there's not a lot of room left over for humanity and its foibles...

Palin's Poetry

You see, it doesn't get any more American, or Muslim, than this. We've got Shatner, we've got Beat. We're looking for 70 excuses and seeing the best where its so easy to see the worst...

Reality Check

Got this in an email and it literally made me guffaw out loud until my face hurt, so I thought I'd share the joy. :)

DO YOU WANT TO BE A MERMAID OR A WHALE?

A middle aged woman, whose physical characteristics did not match those of the woman on the poster, responded publicly to the question posed by the gym.

To Whom It May Concern:

Whales are always surrounded by friends (dolphins, sea lions, curious humans). They have an active sex life, they get pregnant and have adorable baby whales. They have a wonderful time stuffing themselves with shrimp. They play and swim in the seas, seeing wonderful places like Patagonia, the Barren Sea and the coral reefs of Polynesia . Whales are wonderful singers and have even recorded CDs. They are incredible creatures and virtually have no predators other than humans. They are loved, protected and admired by almost everyone in the world.

Mermaids don't exist. If they did exist, they would be lining up outside the offices of Argentinean psychoanalysts due to identity crisis. Fish or human? They don't have a sex life because they kill men who get close to them not to mention how could they have sex? Therefore they do not have kids either. Not to mention who wants to get close to a girl who smells like a fish store? The choice is perfectly clear to me; I want to be a whale.

P.S. We are in an age when media puts into our heads the idea that only skinny people are beautiful, but I prefer to enjoy an ice cream with my kids, a good dinner with a man who makes me shiver and a 32oz smoothie with my friends. With time we gain weight because we accumulate so much information and wisdom in our heads that when there is no more room it distributes out to the rest of our bodies. So we aren't heavy, we are enormously cultured, educated and happy. Beginning today, when I look at my butt in the mirror I will think, "Good gosh, look how smart I am.

I AM: in recovery

For the past 6 weeks or so, I've been attending a 12 step group in order to heal from my past and stop the patterns I feel trapped in in the present.

Tonight, I shared my work on Step 1 with my group. Step 1 reads "We came to admit we were powerless over (issue here), and that our lives had become unmanageable."

Sharing the places in my life where I am powerless, and the ways it has become unmanageable is no easy task. I'd felt sick half the afternoon. My ego did NOT want me doing this. I left the house late, I got lost on the way (!). When it came time to share, I wondered whether I would be able to speak. I have been carrying so much around inside of me. I have been polishing my mask. I withdraw when I don't think I'll be able to put on the perfect face... I've been withdrawing a lot lately.

As I opened my notebook and began to read, I could hear my voice trembling. I read. I could hear these judgmental voices in my head commenting on my words. I kept reading. I began to hear sounds of affirmation in the group. I kept reading. The Truth of my situation would hit me. I would choke up, and tears would fill my eyes so that I could not see. Someone would hand me a tissue. Someone else would put their hand on my shoulder. I kept reading.

When I was done with all the mess, all the exposure, all the admissions of powerless, all the lists of how I'd lost control, all the places my life has become unmanageable, I closed my notebook. Everyone was smiling at me. Everyone thanked me for sharing. It was time to break into small groups.

Several women gave me hugs. Told me how proud they were of me.

In my small group, the women praised me for my honesty. They congratulated me on my hard work. They told me I inspired them to work harder on their own steps.

One woman told me after the meeting that when she heard me talking so openly, so honestly and looking so deeply, she thought to herself "There is a woman that has hope. There is a woman who will heal and help others to do the same."

That meant so much to me. Before going to this group, I had been feeling mighty hopeless. I felt trapped in the negative patterns of my life- like I'd returned to levels of toxicity that I have not seen since I left the Southern Baptist church and my family's home. I was back in a situation where there is no emotional safety. Where honesty is almost impossible. Where everyone was playing roles and afraid to be themselves. It was deeply eroding not only my sense of self-esteem, but my relationship and connection with God.

I understood why my ego had fought my sharing tonight. Instead of the harsh, condemning, judgmental voices that I receive within my family, or the masjid, I heard words of praise and encouragement. Instead of being cut down and made to feel worthless, I was raised up and made to feel valuable. Instead of feeling terrible for admitting my powerlessness, my lack of control, I was embraced and congratulated for being so diligent and honest with the process.

How different this is from my experience in the community. Is that not a tragedy?
Surely, this is how Prophet Mohammad made people feel. Encouraging their honesty, their sincere tawba. Creating an atmosphere where that is possible, knowing that we are all flawed. Congratulating those that can readily admit those flaws and who work the process of coming closer to God.

The masjid today has gotten so far away from that sense of support and community that I envision when I read about The Prophet and his Companions. Instead of loving one another through our flaws, any flaw- no matter how minor- is exposed and castigated. Someone who seems to be losing control is not encircled and supported, but isolated and gossipped about. Victims of abuse are blamed, not helped. Abusers protected. It is severly dysfunctional. Tremendously toxic.

"Islam" is a state of being. The state of Peace, Health, Wholeness, Balance that comes from living in alignment with one's True Nature, fitrah, and the relationship with God that inevitably follows that alignment. I experienced that Peace tonight. I feel restored to Wholeness and Balance, and that is incredibly Healthy.

Too bad I had to be so far away from the masjid to find it...

Graduates, please rise

One of the graduates honored at Al-Muminah's reception waves at Mom during ASU's commencement and gets snapped.

Tonight, I attended an extraordinary event. It is an annual event here in the Valley, in fact, this year was the 15th annual Al-Muminah Graduation Reception, so it has become a part of our social landscape.

Routine can become a veil that dulls our senses to the beauty of the landscapes we live with, until Grace intervenes and something catches our eye--golden sunlight painting a ridge, a bird soaring--and the veil is lifted momentarily and we let Beauty in.

Sharing the table with the keynote speaker, Tayyibah Taylor from Azizah Magazine, I imagined seeing the event through her eyes. "You're creating American Muslim culture here. These are the traditions that construct our identity" she had told us the night before.

The Al-Muminah Graduation Reception honors all graduates from high school and up. The event is sisters-only, ages 8 and up, and the dress is formal. There is a program honoring the graduates, everyone eats dinner together, and an after party follows where shoes are kicked off and we dance the night away to a playlist that is put together with the help of ticket holders. This year, in keeping with the 15th year, the theme was a Quincenera.

To open the program, we all stood and took an oath of sisterhood that included not taking pictures so people don't have to worry about shots of them in spaghetti straps and plunging decollete showing up on facebook. The graduates, of every age and ethnicity imaginable, were escorted into the hall by elder women and introduced. A Quincenera waltz was performed. During the program, the graduates are presented with a certificate and a gift, while their accomplishments are read as well as their plans for the future. Representatives make speeches, advice is given for those coming up behind. It is a celebration of these women's accomplishments, and truly inspiring.

In a state that has dire educational rankings, high teen pregnancy rates, and soaring high school drop out rates, the impact that this display of talent, drive, focus, intellect and ambition has on the young girls in the audience can't be understated.

How it must be for the children to watch these amazing young women, gorgeously clad in their formal gowns, hearing their lists of accomplishments and the boldness of their future plans... what a beautiful testament that anything is possible. To see the proof standing in front of you. Not proof flown in- though that certainly has its inspirational potential- but proof in the annoying friend of your big sister, proof in your former teacher, proof in those that you've known all your life with their frailties and foibles. Women in general often downplay their accomplishments if they mention them at all. To hear all that someone has been involved in brings a new respect for each other to the surface. Flesh and blood reminders of the capacity of ordinary human beings.

In this place, surrounded by love and support, celebrated and honored, these girls, these women, bloomed. Their perfume sweet and heavy in the air, radiated, permeated, elevated us all to a place of movement and bliss, unity and power, strength and individuality. As women, as Americans, as Muslims, as humans. How appropriate that its beginnings were in the garden of someone's home.

I feel truly blessed to be a part of this. For many communities around the country, such an event is almost unimaginable.

It started in the backyard of the founding members of the Al-Muminah youth group 15 years ago and has grown into an event that now calls for reserving entire pavilions at conference centers and hotels. Tickets sell out every year; it is THE social event. The prom atmosphere works the girls into a frenzy over dresses and shoes, manicures and hair-dos.

There have been the nay-sayers that cluck their tongues over these elaborate displays, but I think they are either missing--or denying--something very essential to our sociology and psychology. Whether hijabi or not, these girls cloak their beauty and sexuality in a culture that pounds us all with images that say that a woman's worth lies solely in her sex appeal. Though I disapprove of that message for a variety of reasons, it has an undeniable effect on girls' self-esteem whether they participate in perpetuating those messages or not. Women want to be beautiful. They want to feel beautiful. They want to be seen as beautiful. This event celebrates that, and allows everyone a safe place to express that side of themselves.

The American tradition of prom is problematic for many Muslim families. It is problematic for many non-Muslim American families as well. The prom itself is a school event, which means it is supervised and drug and alcohol free, but its what happens before and after prom that scares any parent that worries about their child's ability to withstand temptation and adhere to the values they've been taught. Growing up, I knew parents that hired chefs to cook gourmet meals before the prom; presenting their kids with a glamorous (and free) alternative to eating out. Others threw after-parties at their homes to keep their children and their friends under their wing in a supervised environment. Increasingly, students go to prom in same-sex groups rather than with a date, and this certainly makes prom attendance more feasible for Muslims.

Even so, the Al-Muminah Graduation Reception provides an alternative to school proms that is completely worry free. Its girls-only. The music is screened. Its inter-generational. The girls can wear the dress they want without the worry of sending the wrong signals to some hapless boy. Most importantly, boys aren't there to mess anything up or act like goof-balls.

Proms are for girls. Boys don't like dressing up and eating fancy finger foods. Every prom is dampened by boys that don't want to be there, clashing with girls' expectations of what should be; a bull in the china shop of her fantasies. Here, the girls can enjoy themselves fully, wrapped in the downy envelope of their mutual admiration for each other and aligned expectations for the evening.

And what happens when girls are given that space is a magnificent thing to behold indeed.

Restoration

Thank God. All I got to say, really-- all I can say. I cried all the way through this. Like salve for the wounds lashed on my soul as an American as long as I can remember...

Thank God. Thank You God. Thank You.



and for this to be released on the same day we find out about the four fools I call the 'Marijuana Muslims' in NYC...
in that daily struggle of light and shadow,
I finish the day with a sigh of relief,
confident in Light's ability
to scatter Darkness.

Fleeing Failure

"Yeah, so the article said that when it comes to failure, there are two types of people;" my friend told me as she popped a piece of sushi in her mouth. She's degreed in biology, and is forever feeding me fascinating tidbits on the wonders of creation. "There are those that deny failure. They blame, they avoid, they insist it wasn't their fault, they were in the wrong place at the wrong time, they're being picked on, you name it."

"Right. Prison is full of those." I replied.

We laughed. "Right. Nothing changes for these deniers. The brain stays the same- no development."

My eyes were wide, eager, as I dipped my roll in the wasabi-soaked sauce. Dichotomies, or dividing issues into two opposing categories, always make me suspicious. Not only is Life typically more complicated, thinking in dualities polarizes and divides us as people- pushing us to abandon middle ground and move to the extremes of left or right, this or that, for or against. I was ready to try to expand the two categories; to diversify.

"Then there are those that accept failure. They face it. Facing it and accepting it changes their brain. It opens neural pathways and pushes development forward."

I lowered my chopsticks and sat back in the booth. "SubhanAllah."

"Yeah, 'cause they're looking to see 'What did I do wrong?' asking themselves 'How can I do better?' It changes you."

So we don't just learn from our mistakes, we need mistakes to learn.


For more than a decade, I have meditated heavily on the story of Adam and Eve. Indeed, the Qur'an's insight into them was tremendously affirming for me and certainly played a role in my conversion. I had long seen the doctrine of Original Sin as being inherently evil in the way that it distances us from God, pushes us to identify with our egos instead of God's Breath as the Truth of who we are, and justifies corrupt behavior (after all, if we are corrupt at our core, can we really ever hope to be anything other than corrupt? But if we have God's Breath at our core, then evil is something we can win over and leave behind). I did not see any justification for Original Sin in the story of Adam and Eve. In fact, I read that story very differently from how I'd been taught.

The real problem was not so much that they ate the fruit- surely God knew that they would- the problem was that they did not take responsibility for what they had done. Adam blamed God and Eve, Eve blamed the snake. No one admitted to what they had done, no one repented.

When we refuse to acknowledge our mistakes, we begin engaging in all sorts of behaviors to justify ourselves, and this puts a distance between us and God. It affects our relationship with ourselves and with others. The word "Eden" means "Bliss". So we can see that the story is showing us how we remove ourselves from the Bliss of God's Presence when we refuse to take responsibility for our actions, when we don't accept our failures. Blame blocks Bliss.

To return to the Garden, we need to face Truth and undergo purification. In the Genesis story, this is symbolized by the angel with the flaming sword guarding the gate. The Qur'an is very straightforward: Adam and Eve repented and were forgiven. They continued on to Earth, as was always the intention, and God provided sustenance and guidance.

The way the lines of Genesis are colored in by the Qur'an relieves us of the guilt attached to living on this planet, and assures us that it was always meant to be so. The stigma of making mistakes is lifted; "They slipped" is all that is said. We are assured on a variety of levels: making mistakes is part of being human, the Earth is not a prison but was always our intended dwelling place, and forgiveness is ours for the asking.

I had understood for quite some time that making the mistake was an integral part of the story- that, somehow, they could not go to the Earth until they did... but I didn't understand why. In hearing the role that facing our mistakes and accepting failure plays in our brain's development, so much falls into place.

Failure is necessary. We need it to grow. No wonder God tells us that if we cease to make mistakes and repent for them He will create a people that will... that we all make mistakes and the best of those that make mistakes are those who repent: to accept failure is to move forward. To move forward is to come closer to God. To become rigid, immersed in blame, afraid of change and failure, and convinced of our own piousness is to halt our development and begin moving away from God towards spiritual and intellectual death.

Failure is necessary. We need it to grow. How gloriously liberating! What a smack in the face of the Whisperer that is forever telling us how damned we are because we are not perfect. We needn't ever be ashamed for making a mistake- only in not ADMITTING that we have made a mistake. Failure is not the problem, denying failure is the problem.

Failure is necessary. We need it to grow. What a demonstration of God's Grace woven so intricately into our creation. God is indeed Greater- greater in Mercy and Forgiveness than we can even imagine.

As I saw in an article title: "Failure is not an option--Its Required"

The Power of Stories

I've become quite the hulu.com junkie. I've been making my way through documentary series; first I watched all the "30 Days" episodes they had, and was continually touched by the ability of the show's structure to soften even the hardest of hearts. God bless Morgan Spurlock for doing this most crucial of work to help us to see each other as humans instead of (opposing) issues.

Now I'm making my way through the "Empires" series. I finished "The Kingdom of David" last week. The series began with the Jews being brought into captivity in Babylon. The scribes and religious leaders decided that the way to get the Jewish people out of slavery was through their stories. So they took a religion that had been oral, and began transcribing it to paper. Historical accuracy was not as important as imparting morals and patterns of behavior. They needed spiritual roadmaps; working in the Truth imparted to Muslims in the Qur'anic verse "God will not change the state of a people until they change themselves."

Throughout the series, the commentators emphasized that the legacy of the Jewish empire was not land or wealth, but ideas. The idea of One God. The idea of religious autonomy (the Maccabbees revolt against idols in the temple of Jerusalem). The idea of democratization of religious institutions (replacing the temple and priests with synagogues and rabbis). The idea that piety lays not in how one treats the gods, as it had in paganism, but in how people treat each other: the Ten Commandments given to Moses were largely concerned with behavior rather than temple rites.

The fact that stories are healing, the political implications of which are so beautifully laid out in the Arabic legend of Sheherezade, is a cornerstone of American society. Recovery groups are built on stories, non-profits are expanded through stories, fields of psychoanalysis use stories as their primary tool, television programs revolve around real-life stories. Indeed, the Qur'an edifies and encourages through stories, reviving stories that had been lost, deepening stories already known. Muslim literature, based on the idea that reporting life was interesting enough without the need for fiction, revolved around biographies- the telling of life stories. Stories inspire and encourage because they touch something very deep and personal within all of us. They connect us to one another, to ourselves, and thus to God.

Yet the Muslim community is silent. People are warned against telling their stories. Stories told are often punished by those that are so small minded they see only fodder for gossip rather than fuel for growth and change.

We are suffering from a plague of social diseases and dysfunction in our community, however, recovery and growth programs--even programs to lift families out of poverty--are left dead in the water because Muslims won't respect confidentiality. Apparently we would rather be sick than foster an atmosphere supportive of openness and honesty.

We know that God does not send a disease without sending the cure. Have we become so lost that we would deny the cure for so many of our ills: sharing stories? Has our communal immune system become so infected that we only turn on ourselves; attacking that which is there to heal us?

Stories heal because they bring darkness into the light. Stories heal because they help us find our voice. Stories heal because they connect us. Stories heal because they humble us, making us realize that we are all struggling, that we all make mistakes. Stories empower for that same reason. Stories help us better discover who we are, and as Prophet Mohammad told us: he who knows himself, knows his God. Stories help us release the past so that we can move on with our lives, instead of having to perpetually shove things deeper in the closet and always worry they will pop out. Stories strengthen us against the whispers of the Shaitan. Stories open us to the beauty of God and the Creation. Stories confirm faith and foster community. Stories help us understand where we've been so that we can see where we're going. Stories help us change. Stories are, indeed, the most effective tool for change humanity has ever known.

Abrahamic Space

One of the many things that confirmed the truth of the Qur'an for me was its depiction of Abraham. Though the Christian tradition portrayed him as so sure and certain, I had come to know Abraham through my prayer and meditation as a figure that struggled perpetually to find the Truth. One who wrestled and agonized, who God continued to challenge throughout his life.

"Get out of your country, from your family, and from your father's house, to a land that I will show you." is the beginning of God's promise to Abram in Genesis 12. This pushes him to continue to spend his life in that space in between... finding solace in neither This- not yet knowing where That is, he must negotiate a space somewhere in the middle. Though he loved his father dearly, he could not abide with the idolatry that was not only a part of his society, but had put food in his belly and a roof over his head all of his life. He literally becomes a voice in the wilderness- leaving his family and society behind to go find God.

The rest of the promise in Genesis 12 is that of making him a great nation. In the Judeo-Christian tradition, beginning the story of Abraham with this great promise lays a foundation of certainty. Yet though the promise gave him the strength and courage to leave behind his home and family, surely he wrestled with it. The idea of him puffing his chest out with pride and arrogant assurance, pushing the villagers aside as he set off to establish a nation is absurd.

He left with a heavy heart. The Qur'an tells us in many places of how he continued to pray for his father over the years.

The Qur'anic depiction in Al-An'am beginning at 6:74 of Abraham's leaving home and beginning his search in the desert is so poignant, so tender and human. There were likely many who did not believe in the idols, who saw the vanity of the practice, but did not act upon it. In acting in line with his convictions--despite the social consequences--Abraham is shown the Kingdom of Heaven and Earth. The veils are dropped from his eyes so that his heart would be strengthened.

There is the certainty of knowing that the idols are false, but when darkness falls, he searches for light- only to be disappointed when faced with the temporal nature of the stars. His repulsion for that which sets sends him to expand his search- to look beyond, to look under, to find that which is bigger. He turns to the moon, only to realize that he's made the same mistake. "Surely if You do not guide me I will be of those who go astray" he calls to God. The search and the struggle of the search help him build his relationship with God. Each verse indicates hours and days watching, questioning, nights awake searching the heavens. Questions, answers, questioning the answers...

Though frightened and unsure, Abraham pressed on. He left all he'd ever known--the physical "certainties"--to search for something that existed only in his heart. He was scared, but still he went. This is what makes Abraham so inspiring as a religious character, and so prescient as a role model. This is where his faith and bravery lies: though he was scared, still he followed. Though he had no physical proof, still he had faith in that to which his heart alone attested. Though his mind fluttered and whirred, still he did not leave the tree that had sprouted from the convictions of his heart. Each time his mind returned to the branch, the tree strengthened, the roots deepened, and he was brought closer to God.

Abraham's relationship to God is marked by great sacrifices: to ask a tribal desert-dweller to leave their family and society is worse than death. Indeed, what makes Abraham's story so relevant to our lives today is that even now we still find this to be a terribly frightening prospect. We define ourselves by our families, our culture, our geography, our language, our food, the religious practice we were raised with... Abraham left all of these things and embarked on a unique path. He would not lose that rugged individualism and continued to live and act in ways that were far from the societal norms, but were in alignment with the convictions of his heart, and his relationship with his Creator. Abraham shows us that questioning does not necessarily mean the dissection and death of faith, but is rather the basis and edification of True faith.

In working with Muslim immigrant families while living in The Netherlands, I saw these children and youth- who others saw as caught between two worlds- as living in Abrahamic Space. Little did I know at the time that 5 times a day they asked God to help them follow the Path of Abraham as part of their daily prayers. I often wonder if Muslims ever think about what that really means... to leave not only your country, but your father's house... to wander in the desert-exposed to every danger imaginable- in order to find God.

I wonder how many believers of any faith think about the amount of questioning Abraham engaged in to become so close to God... If we really consider the magnitude of the actions that he took as a result of the answers he received... If we ever wonder how religions founded by someone so unique, intellectually curious, and individualistic could become so rigidly conformist and anti-intellectual... how we could ever come to fear that space in between- that Abrahamic Space of the Middle Way.

He Stood Right Here

"He stood right here, in this spot," Brother Alakoum emphasized pointing at the ground next to where he stood as he looked out over the massala, "stood right here and asked for money for Bridges TV."

Earlier in his portion of the presentation, Br. Alakoum had told the story of a man from our community that was such a tyrant that his family celebrated his death at Chuck E. Cheese. He wanted to stress that the issue of domestic violence is real in our community, and its time to move to Zero Tolerance. "You think its being a man to have your house afraid of you, but then your family celebrates your janaza at Chuck E. Cheese."

The panel discussion entitled "From Domestic Violence to Domestic Peace" was held during the Friday night halaqa spot at ICC in Tempe. I'd printed 40 of each of the flyers we had to give out. We'd run out. 50 - 60 people were there, many new faces. Panelists were Dr. Aneesa Nadir, Founder and President of ISSA-USA, Ahmad Daniels, Executive Director of CAIR-AZ, Ahmed Alakoum, Executive Director of MAS-AZ, and Jacqueline Freeman-Ennaffah President of AMWA-AZ and founder of I AM: American Muslim (that would be me)

I'd spent the afternoon trying to untie the knot in my stomach. Each event I'm involved in concerning domestic violence brings an onslaught of feelings of insecurity and helplessness, inadequacy almost to the point of despair. Each of these attacks serves to prove to me how important this work is- how much Darkness would stop it- but staying on top of the wave instead of being crushed under it takes tremendous effort and God's Grace to get through.

Women's Studies professors aren't generally well-recieved in any religious congregation, let alone a mosque. Talking about feminist theory and women's emancipation will likely repel this audience even more than the average American. Yet, I am convinced that the issue of domestic violence will not be significantly reduced until faith communities become proactive in preventing abuse and intervening when it does occur.

Why is this issue so important to me? Why should anyone listen to what I have to say? If being a Women's Studies instructor has no authority here or even arouses suspicion, what can I possibly say to this audience that would matter to them?


I was raised in an abusive home. My father sent my mother to the hospital a few times. We learned very quickly not to talk about it. Dad convinced us with his screams, Mom with her tears. My extended family knew mother's stories about broken bones and bruises were lies. They tried to get my brother and I to tell them what was happening. We merely regurgitated the half-truths we had been trained to tell. I remember so clearly the suspicion in my uncle's eyes, the pleading in my grandmother's face, but my tongue was tied in a knot I didn't know how to loosen.

A hostage, a puppet, my mouth bore the words that had been planted there. I hoped as much as I feared my eyes would tell the Truth. No one ever acted on what they saw in my eyes, only what they heard come out of my mouth. I thought they didn't see. I realize now they must have felt as tied and helpless as I did.

I learned there is no safety in the world.

I am a product of both my mother and my father. Growing up with the violence, the distrust, the lack of respect, the lovelessness, ripped something inside of me. That hole would yawn wider and wider as the years went by. I would try to fill it with just about anything. Nothing worked. It seemed too big even for God.

My parents were not just at war in our house, they were at war inside of me. There was not communion between my male and female sides, there was competition. There was not communication and comprimise, there was name-calling, ultimatums, and threats. I was not given a foundation of trust, respect, love, dignity, equality upon which to build my relationship with myself, with God, with the world around me. Instead, I was raised on the rim of a volcano, never knowing when the ground beneath my feet would crumble or explode.

My dad never hit me, but hearing him hit my mom, listening to the way he talked to her, seeing how little respect he gave her, taught me about being a woman. Woman was something despised, sometimes pitied, but seldom loved. She was an object. A slave. Not really human. She was not appreciated, she was not respected, what she contributed was not important.

My mom clung on for years. For the kids. We all wish she hadn't done that. It would have been better to not have Dad there. It would have given us the chance to be a family, instead of a collection of refugees, each huddling in their own corner, hoarding supplies, listening for signs of the next raid.

It has taken me a long time to learn to forgive my parents. Both of them: him for doing it, her for staying.

I haven't forgiven myself yet. For the cowardice I exhibited huddled in the dark on the top of the stairs while they screamed, while he hit, when she was chased. For being the reason they were still together. For getting sick so they would fight about him not giving me my medicine on time. For being alive and the reason they would argue about money or later, visitation. For needing anything ever from my mother who was clearly struggling to stay alive herself. For continuing to love my Dad even when he'd caused my Mom so much pain.

I haven't forgiven myself yet. I don't know how to loosen the knots of emotion and the guilt-ridden consciousness of a child that takes all blame upon themselves. My intellect cannot comprehend it, and my heart is afraid of feeling it fully enough to let it go.

So I do this work. I hope that parents will hear, that they will listen, though the arc of change is slow and incremental. I hope that leaders will pay attention and take this problem for being the real threat to the community that it is. I do this work in the hopes that fewer children will grow up carrying the same burden that I do. That fewer children will have to work so hard to trust God and believe that they can experience love. That fewer souls will be ripped in quite this way.

I do this work so that more children will have fewer barriers in their relationships with themselves, with God, with the world around them. That more children will be brought up on a foundation of equity, justice, trust, honor, dignity.

And today, humbled and in awe of the immensity of God's grace--of the enormity of what happened last night in that mosque, faces turned upward, next to the projector screen--I am so grateful for the plowers and planters like Dr. Aneesa Nadir. Those constant and patient souls that have banged their hearts, minds and souls against the hardened earth of this community, who have spent their years breaking up the surface, dropping seeds, praying for the right balance of rain, sun, and temperature to bring the seeds to fruition...

Oh Lord, hear our prayer

Not in Our House, Not in Our Name, Not in Our Community

Peace,

I cannot tell you how good it felt to be chanting those words, "Not in Our House, Not in Our Name, Not in Our Community" candle in hand, cupped to protect the flame against the wind, following and being followed as we emerged into the masjid parking lot. Flyers with the Power Wheels had been distributed on "the strip" on Mill Ave; pressed into hands of couples and thugs, retirees and girls clicking by like giraffes balancing on their heels.

We were Christians, Hindus, Spiritual Free-lancers, and of course, Muslims. Insensitive planning left our Jewish brothers and sisters out of the event, but I know their prayers were with us. Indeed, one of the barriers of getting the Abrahamic siblings together is negotiating worship days.

Earlier, in the afternoon after asr--the time of day when the light is golden and dapples my curtains drowsily--I was Raggedy-Anned in the armchair, head back, tears rolling down my cheeks. The day had been full of iritating setbacks. Numerous and persistent like ant bites, their collective poison now seeped into me, my heart heavy and tired. It felt pointless. I'd gotten a stream of cancellations dressed in well-wishing clothing and invitations to other events. I had been bullied in a totally unrelated forum. My exhaustion had moved past tired into discouragement. I didn't leave the house until the last minute, convinced I would be walking alone, trying to keep my candle balanced and pass out the flyers I'd made simultaneously.

As is so often the case when I'm feeling like my efforts are for naught, Grace intervenes and I am proven wrong. Greeted before and after prayer by those that had come to join us, my heart grew lighter with each smiling face, each additional faith represented.

The participation from last year's event, organized with the American Islamic Fellowship in Atlanta and several other congregations around the country, was more than doubled. Instead of sitting in a room closed off, we had decided to break our isolation and go onto the streets, out into the community. Domestic violence knows no religion, no race, no class. We repeat these words, we know they are true. But we also know that there are many that mangle and twist scripture to justify their tyranny in the home. We see it in the marriages around us, the way a woman scurries like a mouse. We smell it in our worship spaces in our lack of representation, the silencing of our voice, our concerns.

The Qur'an has one verse that can be mistranslated, and so many others that speak unequivocally against anything other than justice and tranquility in a marriage. The language of the Qur'an is gender-balanced: man and woman being repeated as often as sun and moon, day and night. There is no "Fall", so Eve is simply the Mother of Humankind, not the reason sin exists. The Earth is not a place of punishment, but was created with humans in mind. For these reasons and more, I see Islam as having a duty to lead the way in bringing faith communities together to speak out against violence. The doctrine of tawhid, or Unity, in Islam naturally leads us to ask: how can there be justice in our society if there is not justice in our homes? Our civil rights threatened, held in suspicion by the culture at large, this question has an added heaviness in the Muslim community.

The Qur'an tells us that God will not change our condition until we change ourselves. We have strayed far from the Path, deep into injustice and tyranny. It is time to return. The setbacks and obstacles experienced to make the vigil happen confirm for me that Darkness knows how powerfully transformative this change will be. The family is the basic building block of society; changing how we are in our homes means changing the world.


Date night in Tempe, Arizona; home of one of the biggest party schools in the country. We were laden with flyers on the wheels of Community Accountability for domestic violence, the Characteristics of Healthy Relationships, the Power & Control and the Equality wheels. Many passersby were receptive, many were not. Some kids, after having passed by 3 or 4 times, squatted 10 feet from us and started asking people for money, making it difficult to approach people. Many were hostile, others scared. It is a strange and uneasy feeling to witness the translation of the words in your hand to flesh and blood standing before you. Simultaneously disheartening and encouraging; a wretched validation of the importance of the work.

There were also many that took the information gladly. Couples, heads together, reading as they waited for the light. Many that smiled, many that talked.

"Any man that beats his wife is a coward!", one man declared from under the bill of his cap.
"Then this flyer is perfect for you! Its about our responsibility as a community to keep it from happening and to intervene when it does."
"Allright, then. That's what I'm talkin' 'bout," he said as he took the flyer. "Now, it's no excuse, but ya'll can make us real mad sometimes," he added.
"That goes double for us," a hijabi sister called from over my shoulder. We all broke into peals of laughter.

When difference is no longer a potential spark for violence, we will indeed have become "the most evolved of communities."