Colliding Words

by Sara Hakeem

Read the original article in Muslim Voices Issue 2!

My parents have asked me—continue to ask me—“Do you consider yourself more Muslim or more American?” Oh, Mama—Daddy—with what tears of unresolved bitterness do I think, even now, of the utter injustice of ever being forced to choose—of ever hearing that question from anyone other than myself; a live interrogator requires that one actually has to answer—as if the two identities were mutually exclusive! Is there a “(C) Both A and B” or “(D) None of the above” hidden somewhere in this quiz game sponsored by the INS?

It was easy enough to keep the two worlds apart in the beginning. I spent my days studying and laughing and playing ridiculous children's games with my peers on the quad, but observed a natural segregation in the evenings, ascending the stairs to my room when everyone else descended into the Brasenose pub. I easily escaped to my room at prayer times, and no one was the wiser. But things began to leak together, and once that wall begins to crumble, there's really no stopping the forces steadily chipping away dividing chunks of increasing size.

I'd find myself constantly eyeing the hoards of fully veiled Muslim women braving with equanimity the record high London temperatures and the fires of self-consciousness that plague any and all who dare to assert their difference. I'd pass them, secretly congratulatory, with a twinge of jealousy at their prominently displayed strength of faith, and most of all, with the intense, nearly irrepressible desire to call out “Salam aleikum!” to each and every one of them—a phrase which some translate to mean “Peace be upon you,” but which in this case might more accurately translate to “I'm one of you too! I belong! I promise!” Still, these glances, thoughts, urges were strictly my own, carefully hidden from the group of fellow American students and tourists to which I ostensibly belonged; the two worlds only brushed up against one another, not quite yet colliding.

I had prepared beforehand for our trip to London; knowing that our late return time meant that I'd have to pray on-the-go if I didn't want to miss my prayer; by wearing long sleeves and packing my scarf in my bag. Even though I was having a marvelous time wandering through Soho with Erin, Patrick, and Lauren, I absolutely could not prevent my thoughts or my gaze from going on their own explorations down dark alleys and secluded side-streets along the way. My thoughts strayed with my eyes; and once we returned to the street and the day waned into evening, it was hopeless for me to even try to think of anything but my immediate need to pray. My eyes darted around my surroundings, constantly searching out quiet places where I could possibly discharge my religious obligation without attracting too much attention. The necessity of finding a place to pray in the middle of London's unfamiliar city streets and then stepping away for several minutes forced me to enter into my friends' confidences regarding my faith; and furthermore, to depend in an entirely unprecedented way on their vigilance, patience, and acceptance while I stepped into a dimly-lit, deserted alley to expose myself to the fear of God and public worship (the most vulnerable kind, I've learned).

The routine of slipping away from the group, searching out a place to pray, and then heading back relieved became oddly familiar to both me and my friends: Erin could tell from an anxious look in my eye that I was itching to go pray, and would often finish my “Hey, I've gotta go…” with a knowing nod and a “Yep, go pray”; and even Patrick would concernedly ask upon my return whether I had found a suitable area. Even still, because I've always fallen in the “My religion is my business” camp, any overt sign of my religious practice or beliefs seemed—still emotionally seems—distasteful to me, despite my friends' quick understanding and empathy. But it occurred to me while observing the hijabi women and feeling self-conscious about my bare head, that an absence of something can be just as visible as a presence; and that negative space created by my lack of a scarf speaks volumes to a different audience that is just as quick to slap on “American” labels. I guess I had never thought to consider that my secularism is my business as well. That wellspring called the Need to Belong sits strongly yet uncomfortably with me, like a sign of weakness, like falling into the trap of mutual exclusivity, of “American or Muslim?” Any behavior determined too strongly by others' perceptions seems suspect in my mind; living in the in-between space has forced me to strongly consider whether I move in any one direction because I took a step, or because I was pushed by a world searching for the simple ease of extremes.

Finally, though, I was there, standing outside the London Central Mosque, watching yet again with all the same feelings the streams of passing Muslim women observing the strictest hijab . I put my scarf on, ready to assume the Muslim part of my identity that I had come to the mosque to assert and reconcile, while simultaneously self-conscious about attracting my classmates' attention to the fact of my belonging there. We all entered the mosque together, the girls in various states of makeshift hijab , all of us, including—perhaps especially—myself, unsure of what we were doing there. We split up from the men, with ridiculously irrational feelings of reluctance on my part to leave them unsupervised, to leave their experience unmediated by me, as though I were somehow the ultimate authority, the right voice of Islam. With some trepidation, then, I half-followed, half-led the group of girls up the stairs to the women's area of the mosque.

The same concerns of others' perceptions had kept me away from the mosque since I started college; yet here I am visiting a Sunni mosque for the first time since I converted from Shi'a Islam, and in the most unlikely of circumstances. Indeed, here we all are, whispering in groups, standing around awkwardly, feeling alien. But here I am, entirely at home in a space I've never occupied. And here I stand, shifting from foot to foot, glancing nervously at the clock as I anxiously await the call for afternoon prayer, self-consciously answering the questions of my classmates and professor about what exactly they're looking at. Here is the adhaan , right on time at 1:09 pm, signaling the rush to stand in line and perform the optional sunnah prayers that precede the main dhuhr prayer. Incomprehensibly, here I am alongside those women in black I've seen on the streets, finally one of them as I bow to God and pray for peace of mind. And here is the call for dhuhr prayer, the women lining up toe-to-toe in a meticulously straight line as the second adhaan continues, and I wonder, when the woman next to me gives me a surprised look, if everyone—Muslim, non-Muslim, close peer or complete stranger—is watching me. Here is the glorious forgetfulness of worldly or selfish concerns washing over me as I pray the first congregational prayer I've prayed in years. Yet here, as I turn my head to the left to end my prayer and the real world comes rushing back, is Becky reading the Quran as an elderly Muslim woman bends over her explaining something. And here I am, getting up to join the group I came with, the group that obviously doesn't belong here. And here we are, leaving to go back downstairs now that the spectacle of prayer is over, while a part of me floats above it all, contemplating the event of worlds colliding, grappling with my own personal apocalypse from which, somehow, I escaped alive, unscathed, stronger.

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Sara is an English and Linguistics senior and plans to attend graduate school in Asian Studies. Her hometown is Sugar Land , Texas and she is Pakistani by descent. Sara enjoys reading novels, writing, working out, and sketching.