My (earnest, irate) thoughts

I have never been so profoundly affected by an essay. Tradition or Extradition? The Threat to Muslim-Americans by Abdal-Hakim Murad, a British shaikh, is pretty much the best thing ever.

As the new ‘Jews’ of this country, U.S. Muslims must be vigilant not to — ahem, dare I say it? — deserve being labeled Other. The shaikh takes us quickly through the particular struggles being faced among Muslim-Americans. And how America has handled other perceived enemies in decades past. And what we must do to avoid a showdown with an increasingly suspicious host, who has a history of antisemitism.

The believer’s greatest argument is his face. True religion lights up the face; false religion fills it with insecurity, rage and suspicion. This is perceptible not only to insiders, but to anyone who maintains some connection with unsullied primordial human nature in his heart. The early conversions to Islam often took place among populations that had no access to the language of the Muslims who now lived among them; but they were no less profound in consequence. Religion is ultimately a matter of personal transformation, and no amount of missionary work will persuade people — with the occasional exception of the disturbed and the desperate — unless our own transformation is complete enough to be able to transform others. Rigorism, discourtesy and narrow-mindedness, the tedious recourse of the spiritually inadequate and the culturally outgunned, end up reinforcing the negative attitudes that they claim to repudiate. Conversely, a reactivation of the Prophetic virtue of rifq, of gentleness, which the hadith tells us ‘never enters a thing without adorning it’, will make us welcome rather than suspected, loved and admired rather than despised as a community of resentful failures.

Yeah!

This started as a comment to an interesting post I read from awhile back about latte-sipping urbanites wearing Middle Eastern headwear to look cool. It makes me laugh, this hilarious thing Americans do of picking up the outward symbol (kaffiyeh) and not necessarily embracing or even being aware of its political interpretations (tribal affiliation, Palestinian solidarity, etc.) or functional purposes (desert heat/wind). America, so commercial. America, so reductionist.

America, so effing funny.

Like 30 people left comments on the post. It partially digressed into a discussion between commenters whether Americans, particularly non-Muslims, were ‘allowed’ to wear ‘Muslim’ clothing.

The Prophet, upon him be peace, tells us that an Arab is not superior to a non-Arab. Would it not follow that Arab attire is not better than non-Arab attire?

Seriously, ‘Muslim’ clothes? What are those?

It seems funny to me (and typically American) that American converts to Islam would choose to wear foreign getups, whether they do it because they think it looks cool, makes them appear more pious, or helps them fit in. American culture, if it can be defined, is a tangled mess, a boiling stew of folks picking and choosing from a world of choices what is appealing to them personally. Further reading: ‘Terrorist Chic’ and Beyond

It seems equally funny that non-Americans would be irate or even surprised about their attire being hijacked by Americans, whether they are Muslim or not. Is their culture ‘above’ imitation or reduction? Why?

Muslim culture, if it can be defined, is a mélange. How can individuals remain intact, unchanged? Why should they want to? Is it really necessary to decide whether what other people are wearing is what you would choose? As Muslims, should we not have so many self-improvement projects going on, so many acts of charity to our family and community, that we simply don’t have time for all this absurd conjecture? Is this not rejected in the Qur’an as zanna, the pitiful, puny alternative to knowledge?

It seems like many people feel compelled to endlessly define what is acceptable, what is orthodox, what are the boundaries. And that is dangerous. When Americans do it, decrying the kaffiyeh as an endorsement of terrorism, it smacks of racism. When Muslims do it, decrying Western clothing as makruh, it smacks of racism, too.

I read once that racism is most prevalent among the poor or disenfranchised because they are more likely to feel ‘encroached upon’. I think it may stem from this feeling inside, this feeling that ‘the other’ is going to invade us, to conquer us. And that afterwards, we will no longer be ourselves.

In much of the Muslim world, colonized and gutted and refilled with Starbucks, there’s an understandable feeling of resentment, of anxiety… that they’ve already lost everything. The real fear is that the enemy isn’t out there, but already lodged inside them in the deepest, darkest places. Muslims are no longer confident in their vision of the world.

And, it would seem, Americans aren’t either.

I was having the worst headaches. Every day from morning till night, and sometimes even in my dreams. Pounding or dull, they never really went away. At first I tried to be stoic. But deep in my heart I am a pill-popper. I started allowing myself one Excedrin at work and two Advil at night. I read once that women feel pain more than men, and respond better to medication. Sounds made-up, but I’m going to pretend it’s true. My husband, being naturally suspicious of all pills (even vitamins), made me go to the doctor.

I always want to burst into tears when I go to the doctor — something about my weight being written down, and an acquaintance listening to me, with concern, as I talk about myself. It’s very moving. Sometimes I do cry a little. Sometimes the doctor then tries to prescribe me an anti-depressant. But after a brief, torrid affair with Paxil in 2002, I just say no. (Paxil made me think it was OK to make fudge a couple of times a week. And eat it by myself. Thirty pounds later, my low self-esteem was good common sense.)

The doctor listened with concern. Tears idiotically sprang to my eyes. I wanted to talk forever. I simultaneously wanted him to leave me alone so I could sob. I struggled to limit my symptoms to one or two. When I start to talk to a doctor the way I talk to a friend, veering crazily between laughter and tears, the doctor is always like, ‘whoa.’ It’s like when I tried therapy. After knowing me exactly thirty minutes, the psychiatrist wanted to write me a prescription for Lexapro. Doctors, they’re all the same. A bunch of drug pushers. But it’s understandable. Western medicine has evolved on the assumption that the human brain is the be-all, end-all of this entire universe. Doctors don’t understand that a little insanity, a few neuroses, are vital to tell a good story. And that this is what I do for a living. I’ll take my contemplation with a side of crazy, thanks.

Anyway, this doctor politely overlooked my teariness and took me through the results of my blood work. No surprise: high blood pressure. I’ve been overweight and sedentary since college. And until I got married, 50% of my caloric intake was Mountain Dew. But I’d really been trying to turn my life around. I gobble up salads, and go for walks — maybe not every day but more than before — and I no longer drink or smoke, and I’ve really, really cut back on soda and coffee.

But the doctor laid down a new law: No salt. This sucked. I was never really into salt until I married a Turk who eats sunflower seeds like regular people eat M&Ms. Suddenly, it came to me in a flash: sunflower seeds! My headaches were the worst in the evening, pounding all through the night. The saltiness of our nightly sunflower-seed-bonanza in front of the TV had sent my already-high blood pressure over the top, and given me hypertension headaches.

Now I’m under orders to exercise daily and eat no salt and a long list of other tasty things. And calm down. I’m really trying. But I have been a bad kid, as my husband would say, and it will take time to undo the damage. I want to treat my body as a temple. It really bothers me, actually, because I am so disciplined in other ways. Like when it comes to reading, considering, learning. Every night I read several pages of A History of God: The 4,000-Year Quest of Judaism, Christianity and Islam. (After I’m done, I will know everything there is to know about the Abrahamic religions. You can quiz me.) But when it comes to eating right and exercising, knowing the right thing doesn’t equate to doing it. My nafs is a jerk, and makes a good case for adding an order of Macadamia-nut cookies to my six-inch Gardenburger sub, or for watching Prison Break from the couch rather than the treadmill.

The worst thing is how these shortcomings have led to a skewed self-image that tears me up emotionally. In your prayers, please think of me, and ask God to help me with my struggle. In this world where so many people don’t have enough food, the least I can do is not eat their share.