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.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Saturday, March 14, 2009
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
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
Saturday, March 7, 2009
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."
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."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
