by Umm Zakiyyah
“Post traumatic stress disorder,” Dr. Goldstein said. “It’s actually quite common for people who have experienced or witnessed something traumatic.”
Reem averted her gaze. She hadn’t revealed to the psychiatrist what Fahad had done. She had only mentioned her constant anxiety and angry outbursts. “I haven’t experienced anything traumatic,” Reem said, a nervous, reluctant smile on her face. She didn’t want to mislead the psychiatrist into thinking she had survived a war or anything like that. “I’m just really stressed, that’s all.”
“Life can be stressful,” Dr. Goldstein said. “So it’s okay to not be okay sometimes.”
A lump developed in Reem’s throat. She’d often heard the saying, It’s okay to not be okay, but right then it touched a deep part of her. “I’m doing okay,” Reem said, her voice rising awkwardly as she tried to sound positive. “God has blessed me with a lot, so I’m grateful.”
“He’s blessed all of us,” Dr. Goldstein agreed, her voice soft and empathetic. “But true gratefulness isn’t possible without self honesty.”
Reem nodded, and she felt her cheeks go warm in embarrassment. “I’m honest with myself.” She didn’t mean to sound defensive, but she didn’t want the doctor to think Muslims weren’t honest people. “In our religion, it’s a sin to lie.”
A faint smile formed at Dr. Goldstein’s lips. “In every religion, it’s a sin to lie,” she said. “But struggling with self honesty is not the same as lying.”
“Not in Islam,” Reem said. Now isn’t the time to give da’wah, she told herself. You can teach about Islam another time. But how could she leave the appointment without defending her religion? She couldn’t allow the psychiatrist to think Muslims were deceitful. “We have to tell the truth, even about ourselves,” Reem said. “God tells us that in the Qur’an.”
There was a thoughtful pause.
“Reem,” Dr. Goldstein said, prompting Reem to make eye contact, “I know how it feels to be misunderstood and to have others make assumptions about you because of your faith. And I know how it feels to carry the burden of presenting a positive image of yourself and your people to the world.” Her lips formed a thin line. “But know that’s not a burden you have to carry in my office. Here, you are free to be Reem, the human being, without the Saudi or Muslim label.”
Reem contorted her face in disapproval. This was exactly what she’d feared. In the name of therapy, being forced to give up the parts of herself that mattered most. “But that’s who I am,” she said defensively. “I’m a Saudi and Muslim, and I’ll never give that up, not even in here.”
Dr. Goldstein smiled knowingly. “And I’m not asking you to,” she said. “What I’m saying is, you have to allow yourself to heal. And to heal, you have to connect with the part that makes you human. Yes, you are Saudi and Muslim, just like I’m American and Jewish. But when we cry or stress because we feel overwhelmed, it’s not because we’re Muslim or Jewish. It’s because we’re human beings. And every human being struggles with carrying the weight of life’s burdens. This is what I mean when I say you are free to be Reem, the human being.”
Reem averted her gaze and started pulling at the threads of her abaya again.
“Oftentimes when we come from religious families, our religious label becomes a handicap,” Dr. Goldstein said. “I don’t mean that religion itself is a handicap,” she clarified. “Like you, my faith in God means the world to me, and I wouldn’t give that up for anything. But sometimes we confuse personal religious spirituality with public religious perception. And this is where our religious label becomes a handicap.”
“I don’t see being publicly Muslim as a handicap,” Reem muttered, yanking at a black thread that wouldn’t come loose. “I’m proud to be openly Muslim.”
“As you should be,” Dr. Goldstein said. “But being openly Muslim is about personal religious spirituality, not public religious perception. Being openly Muslim is a natural result of doing what you believe,” she said. “But how you’re perceived as a Muslim is rooted in how others understand and view your beliefs.”
“I can’t help what others think about me,” Reem said, annoyance in her tone. “So how is that a handicap?”
“When what people think about your religion matters more than your personal needs,” Dr. Goldstein said.
Reem folded her arms in a pout. “I don’t care what people think,” she said. “I do what I know is right.”
“But what happens when you don’t know what’s right?” Dr. Goldstein asked, narrowing her eyes curiously.
Reem shrugged. “Then I pray about it.”
“Give me an example of something you’d pray about,” Dr. Goldstein said, her tone conveying keen interest.
Reem shrugged again. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe if I should marry someone or have another child.”
“Did you pray about telling me what he did to you?” Dr. Goldstein asked.
Reem’s eyes widened, and her jaw dropped. “I can’t believe this,” Reem blurted in frustration. “Sayed told you already? How dare him…”
“Who’s Sayed?” Dr. Goldstein asked, genuine curiosity in her voice.
Reem shook her head and pinched her eyes closed, as if to will the confusion from her mind. “I mean, Jacob. Sayed must’ve told Jacob.”
“Jacob didn’t tell me anything,” Dr. Goldstein said. “Except that when a woman named Reem Muhammad calls, to make room on my schedule.”
Reem rolled her eyes irritably. “Then how did you know about Fahad?” She met the psychiatrist’s gaze challengingly. “And don’t tell me you’re psychic. I don’t believe in stuff like that.”
Dr. Goldstein drew her eyebrows together in confusion. “Who’s Fahad?”
Reem grunted. “You know exactly who he is,” she said accusingly. “You just asked me if I prayed about telling you what he did to me.”
Dr. Goldstein nodded as if in confession. “I did say that.”
“Then who told you about him?” Reem said as she met Dr. Goldstein’s gaze.
There was an extended pause, and Dr. Goldstein’s gaze grew distant momentarily. Reem sensed that the doctor was trying to find the best way to respond. “You told me,” Dr. Goldstein said finally, looking directly at Reem.
Reem opened her mouth to reply but realized she had no idea what to say. Had Reem herself mentioned her half brother without realizing it? Was her anxiety so bad that she was becoming forgetful? “I don’t remember saying anything about him,” Reem muttered defensively.
“You didn’t have to,” Dr. Goldstein said. “I could say it was a wild guess, but that wouldn’t be completely honest.”
“Then how did you know?” Tears stung Reem’s eyes, and her face was aflame in indignant mortification.
“I didn’t know,” Dr. Goldstein said. “But based on your symptoms…” She gestured toward Reem. “…those I see, as well as those you’ve shared, I know whatever happened to you violated something very personal. And with female patients, especially those from very traditional cultures, it’s usually something sexual.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “And often by a close relative, or a friend of the family.”
Arms still folded in a pout, Reem averted her gaze.
“In the nine years that I’ve had this private practice, I’ve had only two Saudi female patients,” she said. “You being the second. And I know it takes tremendous courage to seek professional help and talk to a stranger about something like this.”
“It’s not like my family is going to kill me if they find out I’m here,” Reem mumbled. She wiped the moisture from her eyes with the bottom of her palm. “They’re not like that.”
“When I said courageous,” Dr. Goldstein replied, “I don’t mean your physical life is at risk. I mean your sense of self, your cultural and religious pride, and your psychological and emotional safety.”
Reem started to respond, but the words got caught in her throat. She lowered her head and wiped her eyes again, hoping to hide her tears
from the psychiatrist.
“And I’m not going to lie to you,” Dr. Goldstein said. “Talking to a therapist, or to anyone for that matter, is taking a risk. How do you know you can trust me? How do you know I won’t judge you? How do you know I even care?”
Reem tucked her chin to hide her face. She tried to discreetly wipe away the tears again, but they filled her eyes and slipped down her cheeks before she could stop them. Her nostrils moistened, and she sniffled as she rubbed the flat of her hand under her nose.
Reem heard slight commotion before she felt something being placed on her lap. Instinctively, she held on to it to keep it from slipping. In her blurred vision, she saw that it was a box of tissues. Chin quivering, she was overcome with shame as she pulled a tissue from the box. Her head was still lowered when she wiped her nose.
“And the scary thing is,” Dr. Goldstein said, “the answer to all of those questions is, you don’t know. Even if I were to assure you that I am trustworthy, that I won’t judge you, and that I care, you can’t be sure that any of that is true.” Her voice was soft and empathetic. “This is where you have a difficult decision to make, and it’s one you have to make alone.”
Reem wiped her eyes again. It was embarrassingly cliché to cry in front of a therapist.
“Before you come to a follow-up appointment,” Dr. Goldstein said, “ask yourself two questions. Do I want to heal, and can Dr. Goldstein help me in this?”
Reem nodded hesitantly, indicating that she understood. But she didn’t try to respond.
“And even I can’t claim to know the answers to those questions,” Dr. Goldstein said. “So this is something you should pray about.” She paused thoughtfully. “But I’ll go ahead and ask my assistant, Fredrick, to book you for the next available appointment, which is about three months from now. That will give you enough time to decide what you want to do.”
“What if I want to come before then?” Reem said weakly, avoiding Dr. Goldstein’s eyes.
“Then I’ll tell Fredrick to book you before then, even if it’s an hour earlier than I usually open.”
***
“No!” Aliyah said, laughter in her voice as she spoke into the wire mouthpiece as she drove from work Tuesday afternoon to pick up Ibrahim.
“I swear to God,” Salima’s voice said through the earpiece, humor in her tone. “I called you right after I hung up with Jasmine.”
“Does Larry know?” Aliyah asked curiously, her tone serious.
“I don’t know,” Salima said, as if exhaling her words. “I was tempted to call and ask him, but I figured I’ll wait till I got home from work. But I assume he’s the first person she called.”
“You’re still at work?” Aliyah said.
“Unfortunately,” Salima said, lighthearted sadness in her voice. “I’ll probably be here for another hour.”
“The onsite childcare center stays open late?” Aliyah said, her voice rising in admiration.
“Only until six o’clock,” Salima said. “But I usually bring Haroon to my office if I stay later than that. Unless my brother gets off before me. Then he picks up Haroon.”
“Well, mashaAllah,” Aliyah said after a moment’s pause, her voice reflective and subdued. “May Allah preserve her.”
“Ameen,” Salima said noncommittally. “It’s just hard to believe, that’s all.”
“I know…” Aliyah agreed. “But only Allah knows what’s in people’s hearts,” she said, obligatory deference in her tone. “So we have to assume the best.”
“That’s true…” Salima said. “The timing is just funny.”
“Is there a wrong time to become Muslim?” Aliyah asked rhetorically.
“I know, right?” Salima said, laughter in her voice. “I’m just worried because Larry’s parents have been trying to convince Jasmine to use her relationship with Larry to make him leave Islam.”
“I know…” Aliyah sighed. “But once someone says the shahaadah, we have to assume they’re Muslim,” she said. “Unless their words or actions prove otherwise.”
“That’s true,” Salima said, as if regretful. “I just can’t help thinking about the ayah in Ali’Imraan where Allah says, Waqaalat taa-ifatUmmin ahlil-kitaAbi aaminoo billathee unzila ‘alallatheena aamanoo wajhan-nahaari wakfuroo aakhirahu la’allahum yarji’oon.”
As Salima recited the Arabic, Aliyah silently prayed that Allah would bless her to know the Qur’an like that someday.
“The general meaning is,” Salima said, “some of the People of the Book tell each other to believe in Islam at the beginning of the day, then disbelieve later so that it will encourage the Muslims to leave Islam.”
“SubhaanAllah. I remember reading the tafseer of that,” Aliyah said. “Isn’t that when some of them would pray Fajr with the Muslims then disbelieve later that day, so some of the Muslims would think they realized some contradiction in Islam that made them apostate?”
“Exactly,” Salima said. “Or just something generally wrong with Islam.”
“Let’s just assume that’s not what Jasmine is doing,” Aliyah said, her voice firm in reproach. “Calling a Muslim a disbeliever is a serious sin.”
“It’s not Jasmine I was thinking of,” Salima said. “It’s Larry’s parents. Even if Jasmine is sincere, they’ll probably try to convince her to use her affiliation with Islam to steer Larry back to Christianity.”
“Allahu’alam.” Aliyah sighed as she propped an elbow on the driver’s side window seal, gripping the steering wheel with her other hand. “But I think about stuff like that when I read all those stories online about people leaving Islam. I mean,” she said rhetorically, “how many of them are just doing what Allah is talking about in the Qur’an?”
“Allahu’alam,” Salima said, acknowledging that Allah knows best. “But today, we have enough real Muslims leaving Islam that they don’t have to rely on that method too much.”
“You think so?” Aliyah said doubtfully. “I think they use that tactic today more than they did in the past.”
“Maybe,” Salima said noncommittally. “But the Qur’an also talks about people who believe then disbelieve, so both are possible.”
“But how can someone leave Islam?” Aliyah said, contorting her face. “I mean, I understand getting weak and struggling to hold on to your emaan. But giving up entirely?” She shook her head. “That doesn’t make any sense to me.”
“How can kufr ever make sense?” Salima said. “The whole concept of throwing away your soul is inconceivable,” she said. “But if you understand how it feels to struggle in your faith, it’s not too hard to understand giving up entirely.”
“I see what you’re saying,” Aliyah said thoughtfully. “It’s just scary to think about.”
“Yes it is,” Salima said, sincere reflection in her tone. “But life has a funny way of making the most harmful things feel like the right thing to do. That’s why most people never enter Paradise.” She grunted then added, “After they knew full well that Islam is true.”
“May Allah protect us,” Aliyah said.
“When I was in undergrad, I took off my hijab,” Salima said as if lost in thought. “At the time, I really felt I was doing the right thing.”
Aliyah was quiet momentarily, unsure if she had a right to ask what was on her mind. “Had you memorized Qur’an at the time?”
“Oh yeah,” Salima said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “I finished the Qur’an when I was nine years old.”
“MashaAllah,” Aliyah said, admiration in the tone.
“But I’m not sure that made much of a difference,” Salima said. “I don’t mean there’s nothing special about being a haafidhah, because mashaAllah, obviously there is. But I’m saying memorizing the Qur’an doesn’t automatically protect you from spiritual struggles.”
There was an extended pause. “But why did you take off your hijab?” Aliyah said. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
Aliyah heard Salima sigh thoughtfully. “I don
’t know,” Salima said. “I guess I just felt there was too much emphasis put on it, you know? It was like everywhere I went, all that seemed to matter was who wore hijab and who didn’t. And even if you wore hijab, Muslims were always nitpicking about right hijab and wrong hijab. I got sick of it. Especially when imams did lectures on how decorative hijabs are a fitnah for men,” she said. “And how if men are attracted to us, it defeats the purpose of hijab.”
Aliyah rolled her eyes and shook her head. “I know what you mean,” she said. “I don’t listen to those lectures anymore. It makes me feel like the whole measuring stick of correct Islamic modesty is whether or not some random guy thinks I look good.”
“I wish I had thought to stop going to those lectures,” Salima said. “That makes a whole lot more sense than doubting that Allah sees me as a human being.”
“SubhaanAllah,” Aliyah said. “Did you really feel like that?”
“To say the least,” Salima said, lighthearted sarcasm in her voice. “I actually started to think the whole purpose of hijab had nothing to do with me.”
“I’ve felt like that sometimes,” Aliyah said, shame in her tone. “But I made a lot of du’aa and asked Allah to purify my heart and make me understand His religion better. Now, if I hear a lecture about hijab that talks about men’s struggles instead of Allah’s instructions or women’s souls, I just turn it off or leave,” she said. “Staying and listening causes too much spiritual confusion.”
“I wish I had thought of that back then,” Salima said. “But when you’re young, you’re so trusting of people who seem to know more than you. So I just figured Allah only created us to serve men and make their lives easier, and it made me feel distant from Allah,” she said. “It sounds funny now, but back then, I felt that taking off my hijab would draw me closer to Allah.”
“Do you feel like it did?” Aliyah asked. “In retrospect, I mean?”
“No,” Salima said. “But, Wallaahi,” she said, swearing by Allah, “at the time, I felt like it did. I felt freer. I felt better about myself. And I even felt like I loved and appreciated Allah more.”
