An oppressive humidity penetrates my abaya, making my jeans sticky and uncomfortable. It’s sweltering out in the mosque courtyard and the mist from cooling stations dousing the women’s section does little to relieve the situation. Despite the heat, I have moments when the reverberation from the Qur’anic recitation floats over my skin and penetrates my body — giving me chills and shaking my soul. I break out in goosebumps. I sway to the rhythm, lost in God’s words.
It’s the end of Ramadan 2013 and I’m chasing The Night of Power. I’m yearning for spiritual connection — desperate to inspire my heart in a rare moment free of family responsibilities.
While soaking in the atmosphere, breathing in contentment, my neighbour in the prayer line points out that I’m not crying — and that if I can’t cry, it’s better that I fake it until I feel real tears. Otherwise my heart will harden.
I’ve had many good cries. Nights where I’ve cried myself puffy in the face while asking God for forgiveness. Cries that have erupted unexpectedly, letting loose a purge of pent up emotions. I’ve had cries based on needs, on wants, and out of desperation. Now, it is true that over that past few years I have not cried during worship in the same way or with the same fervour that I did when I first entered Islam. But a lot has happened that has driven me away from that initial high — the one that enflamed my heart and made me love the deen without question.
Sadly for me, this random comment in the mosque held unknown power. The power to invalidate my religious experience. And so I spent the rest of the prayer not breathing in contentment, not enjoying the Qur’anic reverberations (even though that’s all I needed to find peace) — but instead contemplated all of the corrections, negative experiences and comments I have received over the past 15 years. Each one is cemented around my heart — and only because I give them power over me.
My heart is not heard because I can’t fake cry. It’s become hard because I’ve lost perspective.
I feel vulnerable. My religious self esteem has plummeted. My relationship with parts of the ummah has become toxic. Somewhere along the way I lost confidence in my identity as a believing Muslim.
Soon after I converted, people gave me a script to read from and implanted a record into my brain that to this day, plays list after list of proper conduct, halal and haraam living, and the “right” way to worship as a Muslim. As I grew in Islamic knowledge I began to question this mammoth mullah in my mind — but I still gave it power. And while I’ve been dealing with this for a while, I have yet to uncover *why* I give the opinion of others so much weight when it comes to my relationship with Islam.
Again and again throughout the Qur’an, God calls to believers, “Oh you who believe…” Each verse is a commandment toward living a greater Good: Fear God. Establish the prayer. Stand for Justice. Join together in Peace. Fast. Be patient. This is the only voice I should be heeding.
Over the past year, I’ve talked about my love/hate relationship with hijab, how I’ve become unmosqued, that I am disappointed in our leaders, and now that I am a mother, how it seems that in order to find fulfillment in the religious experience, I must first accept traditional gender roles and unrealistic expectations, especially during Ramadan. I have been struggling for a while, publicly announcing my insecurities:
I want to feel like I’m part of my religion again and not only present by accident or just along for the ride. I want to worship in ways that really speak to me. Like playing silly games to benefit the kids, but also worshiping alone without being the one to run away from the prayer line when the baby is about to break something, without being the one who delays prayers to finish cooking first, without being the one to miss prayers because the children need me NOW, without being the one who feels spiritually inadequate, without being the one who just stopped praying.
Fasting is my favourite form of worship. The act of fasting contains wonder and amazement in how it quiets the mind and depresses the ego. In the absence of food and stimulants, in the physical silence of not listening to music or from reducing screen time — fasting creates a space for me to regard many things that nourish my spirituality and opens doors to a higher consciousness. The warmth of the sun. The softness of the wind. The beauty of creation. They stir something of the divine deep inside.
In my last post I said that this would be a simple Ramadan. One of going back to the Qur’an and reflecting on God’s word and what that means for me. I want to worship without hearing the mullahs in my mind obscure the delicate flower of faith that first bloomed in my heart.
So I need to go back to basics. I need to find my authentic spiritual voice. I need to revisit the reasons why I answered the call of Islam. How did I, an agnostic/atheist become a practicing Muslim? How has this changed my life? What have I sacrificed? What have I lost and what have I gained?
This month, instead of writing about how 2014 is going to be the best Ramadan ever, or that Ramadan is a wonderful opportunity to become more righteous and pious, I’m going to contemplate and write about how I came to love God.
July 2, 2014 at 2:02 am
I have recently started following your blog, and you have opened my mind to how Islam is such a beautiful religion, and reminded me indirectly, that moderation and balance are key.
I have often felt inadequate as a Muslim, because I do not follow all the staunch rules, however my heart is turned towards Allah, and I want to thank you for reminding me that that is the most important thing.
A religion should bring peace and contentment.
July 2, 2014 at 9:20 am
This is my favorite post. Thank you for sharing this with us. Your honesty and vulnerability is beautiful, masha’Allah. May we all learn to quiet the mammoth mullahs in our heads, i’A. Much love.
July 2, 2014 at 10:02 am
You beautifully articulated what my heart has battled for some time now. Your words provide great comfort in that I am not alone, or inadequate in my faith. Thank you for your courage to be so open.
July 2, 2014 at 3:28 pm
MashAllah, I really appreciate your honest writing. It struck a cord with me. For me, reading Rumi always brings me back to the spiritual divine love when I get lost in jurisprudence. Thank you for sharing, and may God fill your heart with love and peace.
July 3, 2014 at 1:33 pm
excellent,,power of faith bonds inner peace with materialistic but natural requirements(children etc..)..jazakallah khairan..Ramadan Mubarak.
July 4, 2014 at 12:17 am
A beautifully honest post. There is a part of me that wants to congratulate you that you have reached a point in your journey into islam were you are realising the chasm between the culturally expected and the actually divine experience of God and trying to figure out a way to make it all your own, to feel and experience God in a way that makes sense to you (no fake tears necessary because really I think God can tell!)
It is very unfortunate that culturally it is thought that there is only one way to worship, for example tears, that a majority don’t realise that a smile, or whatever else comes naturally to you, at the thought of God can also soften the heart.
As the other commenters have mentioned i appreciate the honesty with which you are sharing your journey as it is something I too struggle with as I insist on, and am unable to accept otherwise, believing that there is so much more to God and to islam than what the “head honchos” selectively force feed us.
I hope this ramadan will be the best ramadan that you need it to be for you.
JAK 🙂 and Ramadan Mubarak!
July 4, 2014 at 9:49 pm
I feel this post so much.
July 6, 2014 at 1:37 pm
I don’t know if it helps or hurts to say that I have felt all the hurts you describe here. It can be so hard. Last Ramadan I was in such a low place. But alhamdulillah talking, and writing about it helped so much. I also think of myself unmosqued. And I even shy away from most Muslims now. But somehow, I have come to think of those things as helping to heal me, instead of being symptoms of my pain. And I’ve been working on getting back, like you stated, what drew me to Islam in the first place. And taking power back – realizing that the things I liked, the way I view God is SO much more powerful than that mullah in my mind. My passion, once rediscovered can destroy that imaginary parrot of patriarchy & “traditional” Islamic values that I created from all the little comments that have been said to me over the years.
I think my main problem was that I never gave myself enough authority over my own submission. I never trusted that I could be a “real” enough Muslim, and relied on what others said. Like you, I gave their comments power, which I shouldn’t have.
I know there are so many more on similar journeys. And when we wake up, inshallah, and realize just how powerful we are, with full faith in ourselves, we can make changes (no matter how small) to turn the Western Muslim landscape into something we once again feel at home in. I pray…
Thinking of you and praying for you. Salaams & love
-Kelley
July 8, 2014 at 3:58 pm
Salaams Asiah! Your comment really resonated with me, especially, I think my main problem was that I never gave myself enough authority over my own submission. I never trusted that I could be a “real” enough Muslim, and relied on what others said. Like you, I gave their comments power, which I shouldn’t have. And I think you and I looked at these issues last year in our post series… but it was about this time where I really believed that people (even those close to me) didn’t really worry about my spiritual state of affairs, or whether I had the time to pray, because I’m “just a convert.”
Or maybe it was because I’m a feminist. The core beliefs and rituals certainly don’t apply to someone who is reinterpreting things… I also slowly began feeling like I couldn’t be a “real” enough Muslim. And that triggered emotions and issues I’ve been hiding inside since my first shahadah.
Thank you for commenting 🙂
July 6, 2014 at 1:41 pm
Also of note, Rabata is doing a series on converts’ first Ramadans (either this year or of years past) and they are many of them painful and truthful. They are still accepting submissions if anyone wants to share circlesoflight@rabata.org
http://rabata.org/2014/07/30-first-dates-unmosqued/
December 8, 2014 at 4:59 pm
and Rabata (Anse Tamara Gray) also does an amazing workshop empowering converts and giving them tools to resist that mammoth mullah. basically, making the experience different than the negative one so many converts have to face. http://rabata.org/classes/project-lina/
July 7, 2014 at 7:25 am
“Whoever draws closer to Me by a hand’s span, I will draw closer to him by a forearm’s length. Whoever draws closer to Me by a forearm’s length, I will draw closer to him by an arm’s length. And whoever comes to Me walking, I will come to him running.” (Sahih Muslim, Hadith Qudsi)
Have a good Ramadan, Woodturtle.
July 8, 2014 at 3:58 pm
Thank you Zayinson 🙂
July 7, 2014 at 10:54 am
Salaam, I had a recent experience at the masjid where, my heart very heavy, I was crying almost as soon as I sat down in prayer. I stopped praying, made du’a, more tears. Not sobbing, but that kind of quiet crying where the tears just keep coming. As soon as I was done, the woman next to me motioned me over and here I thought “yes, woman to woman, we’re all in it together, suffering together, supporting one anoth-” “Sister, your feet, they need to be covered in prayer.”
I decided that, it being Ramadan, I would fast from being angry about something like this and just feel compassion instead. Compassion for myself, not letting myself go immediately to a place of isolation, reminding myself that I “own” this space as much as she does, that I have every right to be there and to express myself the ways I need to before my Lord. And compassion for her, because here was an opportunity for her to connect with another person, another woman, another “sister” that she missed because of the ways that her vision of others is clouded. Still, I was a bit shocked so all I could say was “Yeah I don’t have socks” and got up to pray someplace else.
July 8, 2014 at 9:22 am
I can relate to this so strongly! I was thinking about this burning need for authenticity earlier today. The weird thing for me is that it is at least eight years since I began the process of recovering from the first four years of my conversion experience, back then no one was discussing this stuff online. But it is still a struggle and I really am only now beginning to have that first taste of really feeling integrated as a Muslim self…yet still I don’t want to go to Tarawih or risk anything to tip the balance back into an internal raging so its a precarious and unsettled integration.
July 8, 2014 at 3:59 pm
Thank you everyone for your heartfelt messages and comments. It’s much appreciated — and much love to you all!