by Nura Maznavi
Table of Contents
Praise
Title Page
Dedication
Introduction
Allahu Alim: - In Search of the Beloved
Leap of Faith
Love in the Time of Biohazards
A Prayer Answered
Love at Third Sight
Wild Wind
The Opening
Punk-Drunk Love
Alif: - Where It All Begins
The Birds, the Bees, and My Hole
Sex by Any Other Name
Otherwise Engaged
The First Time
The Hybrid Dance
International Habibti: - Love Overseas
Love in the Andes
Last Night on the Island
Even Muslim Girls Get the Blues
Rerouting
So I Married a Farangi
Third Time’s the Naseeb: - Loving After Loss
Three
A Journey of Two Hearts
From Shalom to Salaam
You’ve Got Ayat: - Finding Love Online
Cyberlove
Kala Love
Brain Meets Heart
A Cairene Kind of Love
It Will Be Beautiful
Glossary
Contributors
About the Editors
Acknowledgments
Questions for Discussion
Copyright Page
ADVANCE PRAISE FOR LOVE INSHALLAH
“With a sonic boom, Love InshAllah breaks through the tired sound bites and stereotypes that can drown out authentic voices of Muslim women. This refreshingly diverse collection of stories about heartbreak, happily-ever-afters, and everything in between affirms that no one—orthodox or progressive, gay or straight—is immune from the universal hunger to love and be loved.”
—NAFISA HAJI,
award-winning author of The Writing on My Forehead
and The Sweetness of Tears
“These are gorgeously powerful women who love men and women, fight and laugh, lie to themselves and hold back nothing.You’ll fall for some and be frustrated by others . . . You will not be able to put down these stories of women risking themselves for love.”
—LAURY SILVERS, author of
A Soaring Minaret: Abu Bakr al-Wasiti and
the Rise of Baghdadi Sufism
“As the Sufis say, the quest for the beloved is ultimately the heart’s longing to unite with God. Listen with an open heart as these Muslim women reveal their journeys into the divine mystery of love.”
—KAMRAN PASHA, author of
Mother of the Believers and Shadow of the Swords
“Love InshAllah is the most moving and emotionally honest book I have read in a long time. These bold new voices share stories that are romantic in the very best sense of the word—by turns intimate, sexy, funny, and sad.”
—CLARE WINTERTON, Executive Director
of the International Museum of Women
“Given the damage done by Muslim men, non-Muslim men, and non-Muslim women claiming the sexual lives of Muslim women as their political territory, these stories provide a desperately needed corrective.”
—Michael Muhammad Knight, author of The Taqwacores
“Love InshAllah is beauty on paper . . . Each story is as captivating as the next, the writers bravely peeling back the corners of the heart, inviting the reader into their diverse worlds. Please read this book.”
—KATHY LEMAY, author of The Generosity Plan
“This illuminating anthology . . . should be applauded, not only for its rarity and timeliness but also for its ability to celebrate these utterly normal, healthy, messy, and all-too human discussions about love and sexuality which for too long have been buried under a veil of shame, fear, and self-imposed censorship.”
—WAJAHAT ALI,
author of Domestic Crusaders
“What makes the book special is its celebration of differences and the ultimate transcendence of love. It is this common experience that connects not just the writers, but also the readers, pulled in as we are to these resonant, human stories told with exceptional skill.”
—ASMA T. UDDIN,
founder and editor-in-chief of AltMuslimah.com
“Deeply touching and intimate . . . a perfect book to upend the stereotypes of veiled and abused Muslim women, these tales are filled with hope and humor and life.”
—IRVING KARCHMAR,
author of Master of .the Jinn: A Sufi Novel
“How we understand what love and America look like is expanded and made more representative of this country we all share thanks to this collection.”
—ALIA MALEK, author of A Country Called Amreeka
“Meaningful, poignant, and powerful.”
—RABBI RACHEL BARENBLAT, author of
70 Faces: Torah Poems
“Love Inshallah provides us a rare glimpse into the intimate lives of Muslim women from very different backgrounds. The stories show that although the roadmap may be unique, the destination is universal—to love and be loved for who we are.”
—MANAL OMAR, author of Barefoot in Baghdad
“This collection is challenging and provocative. You’ll be surprised, even shocked at their stories and the honesty with which they lay open their joys, as well as their vulnerable and sometimes wounded hearts.”
—SHELINA JANMOHAMED, author of
Love in a Headscarf
“This book is an irreverent, witty reality-check. The women in this book are not only fulfilling a mission close to my heart—telling their own stories as Muslim American women, shattering stereotypes, building bridges—but they are doing so in a way that will entertain you, shock you, and make you fall in love with them.”
—ZAHRA SURATWALA, author, editor
and co-founder of the I Speak for Myself series
To all those searching for love
Introduction
Muslim women—we just can’t seem to catch a break. We’re oppressed, submissive, and forced into arranged marriages by big-bearded men.
Oh, and let’s not forget—we’re also all hiding explosives under our clothes.
The truth is—like most women—we’re independent and opinionated. And the only things hiding under our clothes are hearts yearning for love.
Everyone seems to have an opinion about Muslim women, even those—especially those—who have never met one. As American Muslim women, we decided this was an opportunity to raise our voices and tell our own stories. And what better tales to tell than love stories, which have universal appeal?
The search for love—with a Muslim twist—is captured in the title of this book, Love, InshAllah. “InshAllah” (God willing) encompasses the idea that it is only through the will of God that we attain what we seek in life, and is used widely among Muslims, regardless of their level of religious practice.
The subtitle, The Secret Love Lives of American Muslim Women, generated more controversy than we anticipated. Some accused us of playing into an Orientalist fantasy about Muslim women, or of writing a salacious exposé of our faith community. Our intent was neither. We wanted to challenge the stereotypes of the wider American audience by presenting stories that are rarely heard, and, within the faith community, to create a space for Muslim women to share their lives honestly, across the full range of their experiences.
This book is not a theological treatise or a dating manual. It is a reflection of reality. We recognize that no book can fully capture all the voices and perspectives within the community, but we offer this as a beginning. We hope these stories start conversations within families and between communities about the similarities that bind us together, while recognizing and respecting the differences that enrich us.
We
had only one criterion for women submitting stories to this book: that they self-identify as both American and Muslim. Some within our country doubt our Americanness by virtue of our faith. Some in our faith community gauge our Muslimness based on adherence to practice. The writers of Love, InshAllah present complex lives and identities that defy both of these assumptions.
We start with “Allahu Alim.” Every important journey ends by profoundly changing the one who undertook it. These writers set out on a path to find something greater than themselves.
The writers in “Alif” narrate the firsts that shaped their ideas about romance, sex, and their sense of self.
In “International Habibti,” women live out the fantasy of falling in love with a beautiful stranger while traveling in Argentina, Sri Lanka, France, Egypt—or rounding an unexpected corner in New York City.
Next comes “Third Time’s the Naseeb,” where three women find unexpected and lasting love the third time around.
We end with “You’ve Got Ayat,” in which age-old rites of love, dating, and courtship collide with twenty-first-century social networking.
These twenty-five writers are the daughters of immigrant parents and of families whose roots in America go back for centuries. They live in small towns and big cities across the country and reflect a broad range of religious perspectives, from orthodox to cultural to secular. As such, they reflect the depth, breadth, and diversity of the American experience. For every story included in this book, there are thousands more out there, each as unique as the woman behind it.
We hope you’ll enjoy hearing from these women as much as we have.
Ayesha Mattu and Nura Maznavi
February 14, 2012, San Francisco
Allahu Alim:
In Search of the Beloved
Leap of Faith
Aisha C. Saeed
“You’re getting married?” my friend Amy exclaimed upon hearing the reason for my call. “Just so I’m clear, you’ve known him six weeks and—you’re getting married?”
I launched into my rehearsed response. “When it’s the right person, you just know. Some people live together for years and get married only to realize they hardly knew each other. You can know someone for five minutes or five years, but when it comes to how much time is enough to be sure, it varies from person to person.”
“So when, exactly, in these six weeks did you fall in love with him?”
“Well . . . ” I said, thrown off. I expected her skepticism, but I had not anticipated this question.
“Aisha, you do love him, don’t you?” she asked, caution creeping into her voice.
“I’m not going to lie to you,” I finally said. “I know I want to spend my life with him, so obviously I like him very much . . . and, well, I don’t know if I love him the way you might be asking me . . . but I know I will over time.”
I heard nothing but static on the other line as Amy digested this information. “Let me get this straight,” she finally said. “You don’t love him. But you are marrying him.”
“Well, yes,” I said, understanding exactly how this might sound to her. “We met once and we’ve talked a lot—we’ve found so much we have in common and . . . ”
“Once!” she squealed. “You met him once?!” Suddenly, her voice lowered to a near whisper. “Aisha, I’ve known you since tenth grade. I’m one of your best friends, and you know you can count on me. If you’re being forced into this, you can tell me. I can help you.”
I understood Amy’s concerns. Had I not been raised in the Pakistani culture, in which brief courtships were perfectly appropriate—in fact, the rule rather than the exception—perhaps I, too, would be offering assistance to someone like me and helping her plot an escape. But this was not the case. Even though I was entering a semiarranged marriage, the prospect felt neither constricting nor stifling. Instead, I was happy, and excited for the future to come. But I had not always felt this way.
Reading Pride and Prejudice and discussing it with my fellow students in high school English class, I was struck by their reflections on what they clearly perceived to be a bygone era. For me, whispers of available suitors, and lavish wedding parties where girls of marriageable age with carefully applied makeup and gold jewelry hoped to catch the eye of a potential suitor or his mother, were not a thing of the past, but the present I lived and breathed. It was how my parents expected I would find my future husband; it’s simply how it was done, though my own thoughts about the process were not quite as simple.
I disliked the whole arranged-marriage business. I minded the twenty questions about my education and cooking abilities. I was not interviewing for a corporate job; I was looking for a loving partner in an intimate relationship. An arranged marriage seemed an unlikely avenue to get me there.
My mother listened to my expressed disdain for the process, nodded as I told her I did not know if I wanted any part of it, and then promptly told all her closest friends to keep an eye out for a suitable husband for me. One June afternoon, months after graduating college, I walked downstairs to hear my mother in deep discussion on the telephone.
“She’s twenty-one years old. A teacher.” A proposal, I realized. Not again! I thought with dismay, as I remembered a handful of awkward encounters at weddings and dinner parties with completely inappropriate suitors over the years. None had ever made it very far, but I did not want to relive any of that again.
“Do I have to?” I grumbled that evening, as my mother coerced me into lipstick and shalwar kamiz and handed my brother a camera.
“They asked for a picture,” my mother said. “He’ll send one, too, I’m sure.”
I fumed as I slouched against the wall, wearing a beige and maroon shalwar kamiz, and glared at my brother, who was giggling. My enthusiasm ranked a notch below that of an inmate posing for a mug shot.
“Beta,” my mother said, trying to elicit a smile, “Auntie Zaida met a nice boy on her visit to South Carolina. I talked to his mother. They seem very nice. There is no harm in sending a picture.”
I had agreed to meet possible suitors, but now that the moment was at hand, I felt uneasy about having my picture sent to total strangers for inspection and approval. I envisioned a family circled around the photograph, pointing out blemishes or flaws, deciding if I was good enough to join their fold.
My apprehension showed in the photo. Instead of the traditional ristha picture of a shyly smiling girl, I stood with my arms crossed and my eyes fixed on the camera with a very clear expression of annoyance. As I watched the mailman drive away with my picture the next morning, I felt apprehensive. A rejection based on a photograph would hurt, but perhaps it would prove to my mother that this sort of arrangement was not for me.
Two weeks later, he called.
I took the phone to the study and shut the door tightly to grant myself privacy from curious cousins, aunts, and parents just outside the door. I felt my stomach turn over as I sat down and pressed the phone to my ear. I already knew what this conversation would be like before it began: awkward pauses, cleared throats, and a hasty hang-up. I wanted it done as soon as possible.
How wrong I was.
Talking to him felt anything but awkward; instead, I felt as if I were speaking to a long-lost friend who had suddenly ventured back into my life. We spoke for what felt like hours, our conversation moving seamlessly from one topic to the next. At the end of the conversation, he said, “Wow. I really liked talking to you.” I could hear the surprise in his voice, and smiled; I had not expected this either. “Me too,” I told him.
But then a month went by, and Kashif did not call. I tried suppressing my disappointment. It was only one phone call, but I thought we had had a connection.
I tried to forget about our conversation, until one day when my mother greeted me at the door with a smile as I came home from work. “Kashif’s mother called,” she said. “They were moving, so he hasn’t had a chance to call again. But they want to come over this weekend to meet you.”
&nbs
p; The preparations for the visit began. That Saturday, I chopped the salad and helped set the table. A lunch of biryani, chicken korma, and shami kebobs sat on warmers. The curtains dusted, the crystal polished, we stared at the front entrance, waiting for the doorbell to ring.
Finally, the chime echoed through the house. I watched my parents walk to the foyer and open the door, greeting our guests. A friend who was an expert at this process had advised me to make a grand entrance, but my curiosity got the better of me. Though I had sent my picture, I had never received one in return, and now I was seized by fear: Why hadn’t he sent a picture? What did he look like? As I heard them settle in the living room, I smoothed my beige shalwar kamiz and ran a hand over my braided hair before walking out to join everyone.
It felt surreal to walk into a group of strangers who might one day become my family. I greeted his mother and sister, and then for the first time I met Kashif: tall and lean, crisp white shirt, black pants, brown eyes, black hair, and a nervous smile that he flashed my way.
After a few minutes of polite conversation about the weather and the drive from South Carolina to our home in Florida, my father cleared his throat and stood up.
“We have orange, grapefruit, and guava trees outside. Why don’t we take you on a tour?” he asked with a smile and an unusually loud voice.
We all stood up to follow him.
“No,” my father said, shaking his head. He smiled at Kashif and me. “You two sit and talk.”
