If I Should Speak

by Umm Zakiyyah

“In Islam, it’s simple,” she told Tamika. “The way to Heaven is, as it has always been since the time of Adam, to worship God alone and follow His prophets, and most specifically the one He sent to you, as even the Bible tells you,” she added. “The people to whom Noah was sent will be held accountable for obeying his message, and, likewise, for the people of Moses’ or Jesus’ time. For us, our prophet is Muhammad, may prayers and peace be upon them all.”

  Tamika was silent, almost dumbfounded. She sat blinking, trying to think of a rebuttal, but she could not. It all made sense. What could she say? Even if she did not believe it, there was nothing that she could say against it. “Well,” she heard herself saying before even thinking about it, “we don’t question God and try to make sense of it, we just believe.”

  “Believe what though?” Dee challenged, mouth full of chips, some of its salty dust falling from her mouth, she catching it instinctually.

  “Believe in what God says,” Tamika replied matter-of-factly.

  “But,” Aminah interjected in her soft voice, “you should actually know what God says, and then believe. We certainly shouldn’t question God, but we should question others to make sure what they’re saying is from God.”

  “That’s why we have the Bible.”

  “But the Bible’s not from God,” Dee told her, staring at her as if she were crazy. “Only some of it is true, because humans wrote that book.”

  “They were inspired by God though,” Tamika told them.

  “How do you know that?” Dee challenged.

  How did she know? Tamika shrugged, frustrated. “You just believe.”

  Dee laughed. It was a chuckle at first, but then it developed into steady laughter, culminating in hysteria. She laughed so hard her abdomen hurt. She had not intended to laugh, but she had nonetheless.

  Aminah glared at her. Dee cupped her hand over her mouth in embarrassment and apologized profusely with her eyes. She should not have had such an outburst, even if by accident. It was extremely rude.

  Tamika’s cheeks grew hot, and she felt herself becoming angry, fed up.

  “In Islam,” Aminah said sighing, upset with Dee, “we have what’s called our fitrah.”

  “Your what?” Tamika asked, trying to force herself to ignore Dee.

  “Fitrah, our nature. It’s an Arabic word,” Aminah told her.

  “Oh,” Tamika said slowly, now listening, looking at Aminah.

  “In the Qur’an, God tells us about the covenant He took with Adam and all of Adam’s descendants before they were born, and we all testified that God is our Lord. And God told us that this testimony was just in case we came on the Day of Judgment and pleaded ignorance, blaming our parents and others for our sin of not worshipping Him properly.” She put in, “I’m paraphrasing, and I apologize, but you can read it in the English translation of the Qur’an if you like. But, anyway, we don’t remember this testimony although we all did it.”

  “You mean even you and me?” Tamika decided against inquiring about Dee.

  “Yes,” Aminah nodded. “Even you and I testified, as everyone did. But even though we don’t remember it, that testimony is still with us, and our fitrah, our nature, recognizes it.”

  Aminah explained, “So what this means is that we won’t be guessing as to what is the right religion or what to believe. This fitrah within us guarantees that we will know the truth when it reaches us.”

  Tamika wrinkled her forehead. “So you’re saying, deep inside, we all know the truth?”

  “Innately, yes,” Aminah told her. “But you’re only held accountable for that knowledge if you heard the truth while you were alive.”

  “And the truth is…?” Tamika asked, her question dangling.

  “Islam.”

  “Islam?”

  “Yes,” Aminah told her flatly but politely, as if hinting at something else, but Tamika did not want to know about that something else. “So whenever a person hears of Islam, they recognize it, but—”

  “Then why are there different religions?”

  “That’s what I was about to say,” Aminah chuckled. “Everyone who hears of Islam clearly and properly recognizes it as true, but many people don’t actually submit because of various reasons, like pride, fear, or weakness. Or because they don’t want to be ostracized by their family or friends, and so on. But for many others, they just want to hold on to the religion of their parents.”

  Aminah continued, “God even talks about this in the Qur’an when He says that when you ask them to come to what God revealed and come to the Messenger, they will say, ‘We will follow the ways of our fathers,’ and then God says what is translated as, ‘What? Even though their fathers were void of knowledge and wisdom?’” She sighed, as if to express how sad it was. “But that’s why many people turn away from truth and follow different religions.”

  Tamika was speechless, dazed. The information took hold of her and disrupted her peace. She could ask Aminah no more questions for the interview, even if she wanted to, at least not then. Her mind was clouded and confused. She was unable to see clearly, think clearly.

  Her body felt heavy all of a sudden, as if something enormously powerful was weighing her down. Everything around her was surreal, as the world, although the same, became strangely different. It was terrifying, the feeling that engulfed her at the moment, as if all of her comfort and security—her internal peace—had been snatched away from her. She was aching with sorrow and wanted to fret, to vent, but she did not know why, could not admit why. She felt herself become frustrated and angry, thoughts of her mother flashing through her mind.

  Had Tamika been lied to? Was that it?

  No, that was not possible. Not Ma, not her. She would never...

  Or maybe... Maybe her mother never knew… But—

  What was Tamika saying? What was she thinking!

  The fitrah… Tamika had one, did she not?

  But how could that be right? It could not be right because it was not fair!

  Or was it?

  At that moment, Tamika’s mind drifted, and she could almost feel the warm sweat from the firm grasp of her mother’s large hand as she pulled Tamika to her side while ascending the church steps when Tamika was merely a child. The smell of the cotton dress that her mother wore every Sunday had given Tamika a sense of tranquility and protection. Whenever her mother ironed that dress, that same dress every Sunday, Tamika would lean in the doorway. The room had captured the warmth from the iron’s steam, and the aroma of perfume and cheap laundry soap filled the room with each press against the dress, which lay neatly on the ironing board.

  “It’s the Lord’s day,” her mother would fuss. Tamika knew her mother was complaining about her brother and sister sleeping. “No time to rest this day. The Lord gives us life and what do we do?” Tamika’s mother shook her head, her hair moving, its curling-ironed ends brushing the collar of her shirt.

  “Don’t just stand there looking stupid,” her mother would glare at her all of a sudden. “Go wake up Latonya and Philip.”

  Tamika, already dressed in the maroon velveteen dress with the ribbons dangling from the front, white dress socks pulled up to her knees and shiny patent leather shoes that made a click-click noise when she walked, would saunter down the hallway, half-smiling, half-pouting as she went to wake her sister and brother. She was always the first one ready, even before her mother, who would make sure Tamika was dressed before she ironed her cotton Sunday dress.

  “Girl,” her mother would say when she combed Tamika’s hair, the comb yanking her head abruptly with every stroke, “I can tell you gonna be something special one day. I knew it the day you were born.” Her mother’s strong, rough fingers would gently grasp Tamika’s chin and turn it towards her slightly. “You know the Lord gives you signs, huh?”

  A nod.

  “And those signs are small miracles, pointing to something higher, and when you were born, I got one, not like with your brother and sister. It wasn’t nothin’ but a feeling,
but I knew that when you came out, child, I knew the Lord was giving me a gift.” She frowned, letting go of Tamika’s chin too quickly, then resumed her combing. A moment later, she began parting and pulling at Tamika’s hair to start a small braid that would become one of many “corn rows.”

  Tamika remained dutifully still despite the burning sensation on her scalp as her mother braided, not wanting to disappoint her mother, who called her “my strong one.” Occasionally, she would blink to both fight back tears due to the pain and to make sure the braids were not too tight.

  “But it wasn’t nothin’ like that with my others.” Her mother shook her head. “Knew they’d be trouble.

  “You see that book over there?” Her mother’s large finger suddenly pointed toward the worn Bible on top of a stack of books. “That’s what it’s all about. And with that book, child, nothin’ else matters.

  “So don’t let no boy sweet talk you,” her mother would say abruptly, although Tamika was only seven years old. “Got them sweet words and sharp fangs and then they gone.”

  At the time, Tamika had no idea what her mother was talking about. It was not until years later that she had a clue, when her mother said that Latonya and Philip didn’t know no better, getting fooled by the “sweet talking,” when both Latonya and Philip started to “go out.”

  “You have any more questions?” Aminah’s voice startled Tamika back to reality.

  “Huh?”

  “Any more questions.”

  “Oh,” Tamika replied, suddenly self-conscious, wondering how she must have appeared sitting on the couch reacting so dramatically to a simple question. “No.”

  Tamika stood, placed her purse strap on her shoulder, and started for the door. “But thanks.” Where was she going? She opened the front closet, removed her coat, and slipped on her shoes.

  “Is everything okay?” Aminah inquired with concern.

  “Yeah,” Tamika replied, forcing a smile. “I just, uh, forgot to do something.”

  “Oh,” Aminah nodded, unconvinced, but she accepted the excuse nonetheless. “Well, be careful.”

  Be careful? Why? Oh, it was late. “Okay,” again, forcing a smile. “Thanks.” Had she said that already? She opened the door, put on her coat, and waved to the roommates, still clueless as to what she was doing, but inside knowing that whatever it was, she needed to do it—immediately, before it was too late.

  She closed the door and locked it, and walked swiftly down the hall. The neutral hallway gave her a chance to breathe and get her needed space. She opened the exit door and made her way down the steps to the side door.

  The cold night air sent a sudden chill through Tamika’s body as she left the building. Other students were outside talking and smoking. The odor offended her nostrils, causing her to wave her hand in front of her face as she walked by them. Too focused on where she needed to go, she did not notice their rolling of the eyes and harsh whispers directed at her.

  She walked faster, pulling her coat tightly around her as the wind blew, pushing against her face and body. She quickened her pace to a jog through the grass, opting to avoid the walkways, which took longer. Finally, after almost ten minutes, she was there. Sighing relief and struggling to catch her breath, she opened the main door to the building. She hoped Makisha was in her room.

  “I don’t care what you were trying to do, Durrah, it was rude,” Aminah blurted in frustration, her pale face now pink with anger. “You may have scared her away.” She rolled her eyes and shook her head at Durrah, who stood in the living room several feet from her in front of the couch. “What were you thinking?”

  “I know,” Dee smiled from embarrassment, waving her hand at Aminah. “I just thought it was funny.” She laughed forcefully. “I mean, she just kept saying you just gotta believe, you just gotta believe.”

  Aminah groaned. “But that’s not the point, Durrah,” she told her friend angrily. “When you’re talking about religion, you gotta be sensitive.”

  Dee’s expression became serious, and regret was apparent on her face. “I know,” she brooded.

  “You don’t know what’s going on in Tamika’s head now. She probably doesn’t want anything to do with us anymore.”

  Biting her lower lip in deep thought, Dee frowned as she pondered the likelihood of what Aminah was saying.

  “You better apologize to her,” Aminah suggested reprovingly. She shook her head. “And,” she started to say, but stopped, throwing her hands up in frustration. “Whatever,” she said finally, then walked out of the living room into the bedroom.

  Dee dragged herself to the couch and collapsed on it, filled with shameful regret. What if Tamika had gotten a bad impression of the religion because of what she had done? She wiped her hands over her face and groaned. Her guilt taunted her, pulled at her, reminding her how she, of all people, had no right to make another person feel bad for her religion.

  It was strange how quickly Dee talked about the senselessness of another person’s religion but barely practiced hers herself. She knew Islam was right, but she felt herself becoming lazy, praying sometimes, fasting only some days during Ramadan, and eating like a pig on others. Even on the days she actually fasted, she had to force herself not to break the fast before sunset. Before going to college she had covered completely, showing only her face and hands, always wearing a large khimaar on her head and a large dress to cover her body as Aminah now did, and she had even considered covering her face at one point. But what happened? Dee herself had no idea, as she had gradually stopped covering toward the end of her senior year. And after being showered with compliments on her appearance, Dee began to enjoy the attention, never before realizing that she was even partially attractive. But she had not entered any beauty contests until she was a freshman in college. She won the first pageant she entered, having sung a song she had known before she had stopped listening to music—and before she started listening to it again.

  Of course, when Dee’s mother heard of the contest, she was livid. She lectured Dee day after day on how wrong it was, and although Dee knew her mother was right, Dee had already tasted the sweetness of popularity and was drawn in. Dee would listen to her mother without a word, shamefully replying with “I don’t know” to every question of why, an answer she knew was unacceptable to her mother but was strangely true.

  At such times, Dee would feel regret for her actions. But when she returned to school, she was thirsty for the attention again, curious if there was actually something special about her and if she had genuine talent. She would find herself pondering if she was really beautiful or if she had won the contest on luck. When she won yet another contest, this one held at a local mall, she was ecstatic. This time she had won a thousand dollars, money that was all hers. Although thrilled at the thought of having so much money to herself, she was in no need of it, since her father was doing quite well financially from the shoe store he owned.

  Dee’s father was disappointed with her, Dee knew, but he did not say much. Dee was unsure if his silence was due to too much anger or too much sadness. But either way, it tore her apart. She often wished he would yell at her, scold her, just say something. But whenever her mother lectured her, he would just stare at her with a disappointed expression on his face, remaining silent. It was as if he were trying to gather his thoughts, pull himself together, and come to terms with the fact that this was actually happening. He, like her mother, was a strong Muslim, dedicated to the religion, having accepted it while Dee was a young child. They had not been married then, but after becoming Muslim, they married and raised Dee and their other children in the religion.

  Although only four then, Dee remembered the wedding—quiet, simple, nothing like she had seen on television. But she was dressed in her favorite dress at the time, and it made her feel special, as if everyone was admiring her. After the wedding, her parents came and talked to Dee, then their only child, explaining everything to her at home that night.

  Still dressed in the formal attire,
her mother held Dee on her lap while her father sat next to them, holding his wife’s hand.

  “We’re Muslim now,” Dee’s mother told her. Dee batted her innocent bashful eyes with her thumb in her mouth, as was customary whenever she sat on her mother’s lap. “Do you know what that means?”

  Dee shook her head, her eyes now admiring the pretty shoes that adorned her small feet.

  “It means we’re going to start praying,” Dee’s mother explained.

  “And it means we’re going to go to Heaven,” her father added.

  “Do you know what Heaven is?” her mother asked, her voice rising in its soft, child-friendly tone, as it normally did when she talked to Dee.

  Dee shook her head and leaned against her mother’s chest, enjoying the comfort more than the conversation. Her small world precluded any real comprehension of things that did not interest her.

  “It’s the place where people who worship God go,” her mother told her, her soft voice now above Dee’s head, which brushed her mother’s chin.

  “But only if you’re Muslim,” her father added almost sternly, but in a child-friendly tone.

  “Are you gonna be a good Muslim?” her mother asked, now gently pulling Dee from her chest and establishing eye contact.

  A nod.

  “Good.”

  Dee again leaned on her mother’s chest, the sweet smell of perfume relaxing her as she nestled against the warm body.

  “And we thought of a special name for you,” her father told her, excited.

  From her mother’s lap where she relaxed, she stared at him blankly, confused. She already had a name.

  “And it means pearl,” her mother told her.

  “Pearl?” Dee repeated in her small voice, wrinkling her nose, thumb still in her mouth, somewhat muffling her voice. “What’s that?”

  “It’s a clean white piece of jewelry.”

  “Like in your secret treasure box?” she asked, anticipating.

  “Yes,” her mother told her, referring to her jewelry case, “like in my secret treasure box.”

  Dee’s eyes widened with hope, and she sat up, her childish eyes staring at her mother as her thumb fell from her mouth. “I get to go in the secret treasure box?”