My (earnest, irate) thoughts

Al-Ikhlas means The Purity. Of 114 chapters in the Qur’an, the Muslim holy book, Al-Ikhlas is number 112. With only four verses, it is one of the shortest. But for Muslims and their uncompromising belief in Divine Unity, it is one of the most significant — some say it alone is one-third of the Qur’an. It was reported from Ubayy ibn Ka’b, one of the Prophet’s companions, that this verse was revealed after polytheists said, “O Muhammad! Tell us the lineage of your Lord.”

Bismillah.hirrahman.nirrahim
(In remembrance of God, the universally Merciful, the singularly Compassionate)
Kul.huwallahu.ehad
(Say: He is God, the One and Only)
Allahus.samed
(God, the Eternal, the Absolute; — meaning, the Self-Sufficient Master, Whom all creatures need, He neither eats nor drinks)
Lem.yellid.wellem.yulled
(He begets not, nor was He begotten)
Wallem.yakullehu.kufuwen.ehad
(And there is none like Him; — meaning, there is none co-equal or comparable to Him)

Al-Ikhlas was one of the first suras (chapters) that I memorized for daily prayers. At first, it seemed harsh, like a frontal assault against the Trinity doctrine of the Christian church. Though I no longer believed that God had literally sired a child, I didn’t want to necessarily get into that with Christians — better to focus on the areas where we agree, because there’s plenty of them. For instance, my grandmother was worried about offending me by saying, “in Jesus’ name we pray” at the end of grace. But I told her that as a Muslim, I continue to adore and respect Jesus, may God bless him always.

But as time goes on, I see the wisdom and beauty of this chapter, which is now one of my favorites. It’s an admonishment against trinitarian belief, yes, but it is so much more than that. The nature of Islamic monotheism, like orthodox Jewish monotheism, is a wondrous thing in a world that sometimes seems chaotic and cruel. To look beyond the chaos to see the underlying order — like looking beyond the atom to the quark — is a leap of faith that only a theist (or a scientist) could take.

Turn the volume up and listen to it in Arabic, accompanied by its meaning in English.

Al-Fatiha means The Opening. This is the first chapter of the Qur’an, the Muslim holy book. Muslims recite this sura twenty to forty times a day in their daily prayers. The English is OK, but the Arabic is extraordinary. I wish sometimes that I was internally fluent in Arabic. I wish for this to happen magically, though no work of my own. But then, once upon a time in Bayside, Queens, one of my ESL students, a young woman from Palestine, informed me that Qur’anic Arabic is difficult even for a native speaker, and that Arabs must study it and read commentary on the verses just like we do. I used to love to watch her jotting notes to herself in the margins of the worksheets I passed out. Loops and dots in the margins.

Bismillah.hirrahman.nirrahim
(In the name of Allah, most Gracious, most Merciful)
Elhamdulillahi.rabbil.allemin
(Praise be to Allah, Lord of the Worlds)
Errahman.nirrahim
(Most Gracious, most Merciful)
Maliki.yeumiddin
(Master of the Day of Judgment)
Iyyake.neabudu.we.iyyake.nestayin
(You alone do we worship, You alone do we ask for help)
Ihdinas.surratal.mustagkim
(Show us the straight path)
Surratal.ethine.enamte.aleyhim.gayrilmadubi.aleyhim.welled.dallin.Amin.
(The path of those You have favored, not the path of those who earn Your anger nor of those who go astray. Amen.)

It’s really beautiful to hear someone singing Al-Fatiha as it’s meant to sound. In Konya, Turkey — a city that is famous to me for two reasons only: it is the final resting place of the Sufi poet Rumi, and it is the home of etli ekmek, a thin-crust pizza that is insane — we went to a mosque for sunset prayer. I was beside myself as I stood in line with Turkish ladies and we listened to the imam sing Al-Fatiha. He sang it really slowly and carefully and beautifully, and at that moment I wished with all my heart that this was my religion from birth, that this was my home and that these were my people… that a small part of me didn’t feel forever strange and left out, both in America and in Turkey.