The blackberry vibrates again!
Oh it’s raining outside, isn't it? I didn't bother to go out for lunch and now this? Come on! Allah will understand. I attempt to give myself an excuse.
Hmmm, not a good excuse Farhan. Get up! Now! It will take 10 minutes, no more.
I pick up my blackberry and turn the auto popup off on the Salat software that I have set to vibrate instead of saying the Azaan loud. I had downloaded it and set it to play the Azaan without checking the volume and the first time it went off was quite a moment of embarrassment in the office.
Phone starts to sound something. Don’t know what it is. It’s getting louder. “Allaaaah u Akbar…..Allaaahh…..” Pick up phone, press the biggest button and hope for it to stop. No! It won’t stop! Oh my! Stop! STOP please!
Nah. Phones don’t listen to verbal requests. OK. Unlock phone. What was my password? Umm yeah! 234234, OK. Shux! That’s not it! Oh Ya Allah! Help me! That’s it! H.E.L.P.M.E….OK. Phew! This was only going to get worse.
Back live. I push my chair back, but it refuses to move, wheels stuck where they were, instead tilting back to an angle where I nearly fall backwards. Oh! Wowowow! Oooh! I recover. Who saw it? Did anyone see it? I look over my shoulder. No one saw it. Thank God! I stand up. Turn around. Natalia is smiling at me. I know why. I smile back and act like nothing happened. Good! That’s the confidence that got me the job. I can make this work, I tell myself. Falling flat on the back of my seat would have made me look like a complete idiot, not to forget hurt like something even worse. Should I take my shoes off? No need to, probably. But why else did I bring the thongs (slippers for Non Aussie readers) to work? Ok, just do it Farhan. Sit down. No one’s watching. Your feet are under the table anyway. Slip them off. Socks too!
I shove them in a corner under my table where they are hardly visible. Now to walk to the door with these thongs on. OK…1,2,3….Quick march. No! No arm movement, you goose! Just take it easy, it’s not a parade! Calm down, breathe. Look around in a carefree manner. Yes that’s the way. Out the door! Woohoo! Did I bring my keys and swipecard? Oh no! where is it? Oh, thank God its in here, I think to myself while tapping my pockets.
The wait for the lift is always a nervous time. Sometimes you want others to take the same life as yours. That’s usually the time you are afraid the lift will get stuck in the middle of floors. You don’t want to die alone. Most times, you wish your fellow passenger or should they be called “liftrider”, would be a pretty woman. But that’s a whole different blog.
Today is not one of those days. Today I want no one else coming out of any other doors for the lift. I do not want anyone to be in the lift when I take it. Gosh my toes are hairy! What the heck happened to them? What do I need to do to fix them? I can’t shave them, can I? Oh this is so embarrassing!
The lift arrives. Open sesame. Not one, but two girls from the marketing department! Oh my! Its that cute one with the big belt. I wonder why she always wears that belt. Maybe the undertaker gave it to her? Maybe she’s his daughter? No way. She’s way too cute for that. Is she looking at my feet? Is she admiring my shiny new thongs or is she actually looking at the hairy toes coming out of them? No God no! Why did she have to be in here? Stop moving your toes Farhan. What a nightmare!
Get out of the lift, turn right and hope no one’s occupying the access toilets. Finally, something’s gone my way. The toilets are vacant so I walk in and make sure I lock them up nice and good. Roll up the sleeves and pants. This is my time. I calm down like I was at home. The process of performing Ablution (The Islamic practice of Wudu before Prayer) is a real stress reliever and it “cleanses my aura” in a way to make me feel totally oblivious to my problems with the loudness of the azaan, inertia of the chair, amusement of the co worker, briskness of my walk, nerves of waiting, the hairiness of my toes, the size of the cute girl’s belt and her glance towards my new thongs. Its as if all of that did not even happen.
“I bear witness that there is no deity worthy of worship but Allah and I bear witness that Muhammad – Peace and Blessings be upon him – is the final Messenger and servant of Allah”
I get back into the lift after using the Paper towels in the toilets to dry my neck, arms and face. My feet are still wet. I should have dried them too. Once on my floor, I get out and go straight into the men’s room and use the paper towels to get rid of the moisture from my feet but more importantly the “Squish…squish” of the thongs. Mission accomplished.
Enter the office again. Did anyone notice I was missing? Nope. Has anyone noticed I’m wearing thongs? Nah! No one cares! Hmmm. No one cares? Seriously? Surely someone should. I slip on my socks and shoes and pick up my belongings. Asking them if anyone wants anything from the convenience store, I move towards the door. Jonno decides to join me on my trip down to take his Smoko. Nice! I’ve got a mate now. Surely my break is not that bad or unacceptable because he is going too. I exit the building to the right as he lights one up. “Faaharn!” he says. “That’s the seven-eleven, just there!”. I tell him I like to go to the convenience store ten shops down and start my fast paced walk.
Entering the back of the convenience store, I forget my worries and my only concern is Allah. I think of work matters, I think of my future, I think of things going from bad to worse in Pakistan where my parents are and I think of the Charity work I want to do. But all of those distractions bring me back to my Allah. Allah, my sole helper, the giver, the merciful, the forgiver. I pray for forgiveness for my digressions in prayer and leave the prayer room in a protective bubble. Its as if I have no worries in the world. I make sure I don’t burst this bubble; I indulge in zikr on my way back.
Would my boss notice my absence? What would he say? Oh I might get into trouble for this. My Allah will help me, I reassure myself. I turn the corner and see Jonno, cigarette in one hand and a coffee mug in another. What a bludger! I think to myself. Surely if he can do this, I’m fine.
Back in the office I get to my desk with a memo on my keyboard with a message from my boss to finish an urgent task. I get right down to it and finish it studiously. There’s a reason for this. My protective bubble gives me more enthusiasm to perform better. I have to work harder to prove my time at prayers was not a waste. Jonno walks in ten minutes later, and the boss notices him at which time he unleashes his customary brand of butter and flattery upon the main man. They discuss the suits they are wearing, the concert he went to on Saturday and the rain this morning. Everything but work being mentioned drowns away the indiscretions of my cappuccino sipping, tobacco smelling workmate who is just too good to be caught. Not my problem I tell myself.
“See you all tomorrow”, I say to them just before swiping my card to get out. My boss tells me to wait. He joins me in the lift and mentions my absence in the late afternoon for about fifteen minutes. “I go for afternoon prayers around three, it only takes ten to fifteen minutes” I say to him. “How many days do you have to do it?” he asks.
5 times a day, 365 days a year. His eyes open wide and so do his lips with a smile. “That’s a lot of commitment Faahran, sorry Furr-Haan was it?” Yes, Fur like the coats, Han, like Hahn as in that german beer name. Farhan. I do my favourite phonetics speech. “Takes lesser time than a Cigarette and coffee I have calculated”, I say to him, tongue in cheek. He nods and asks me how a Prayer could be effective if your mind is not really into it. I have thought about this I know. My mind wanders as I gesture goodbye to him. How could it be effective, if my mind is elsewhere? Would Allah accept? Why do I pray? The protective bubble that surrounds me, is that a benefit? Are there more benefits?
Then I remember the words of a very wise man. A wise “Baba ji” I call him. His granddaughter asked why she had to wake up and pray Fajr (Pre dawn prayer) when her heart was not in it.
“Because, my lovely child”, he whispered, “a medicine works both ways. It works when you have it with a smile on your face and when you take it while you cringe, like you would a bitter pill. Its just better if you smile. That way you are happier on your way to health.”
The only safe ship in a storm is leadership
Serenity is not freedom from the storm, but peace amid the storm
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Sunday, September 14, 2008
An Apology - Heartfelt reflections on the passing of a legendary Black-American Muslim leader
On September 11th, 2008, while countless American flags whipped in the wind and the television and radio waves were dominated by remembrances, recordings, and stories about the terror attacks of seven years ago, I attended the funeral of Imam W.D. Mohammed (may God be pleased with him). For me, it was a somber day, but I found myself mostly lost in thought: about African-American Muslim communities, about the challenges ahead in American Muslim institution- building, and about the future of Islam in America. If you don't know who Imam WDM was, you should look him up. The Sufis say: "The true sage belongs to his era." And of the many gifts given to Imam WDM by God, perhaps the most obvious and beneficial one was the Imam's profound understanding of the principles of religion, and his adeptness at intelligently applying those Islamic principles in a socially and culturally appropriate manner befitting the everyday lives of his North American followers.
While carefully respecting sound, traditional jurisprudential methodologies of the Islamic religion, and the collective religious history and time-honored scholarship of classical Islam, he promulgated creative ideas and dynamic teachings across many domains of human endeavor, including theology, law, spirituality and even ethics and aesthetics, that together articulated a vision for a quintessentially "American Muslim" cultural identity. And he did all of this before anyone else, with quiet strength and unending humility—a true sage indeed.
So I stood before his final resting place, brokenhearted. And I suddenly began to feel the weight of the moment, realizing that when God takes back one of his dearly beloved friends, those who are left behind should cry not for the deceased, but rather for themselves. For the fact that they are now without one of God's friends in their midst, and, in a sense, they are orphaned. And the tears began to well up, for I became acutely aware that I was standing in front of the grave of my spiritual grandfather, who was himself a spiritual descendant of Bilal al-Habashi (may God be pleased with him), the mighty and beloved companion of the Prophet himself. Bilal was the first Black African to convert to al-Islam at the hands of the Prophet Muhammad (may God bless him and keep him) in the sands of Arabia nearly a thousand and a half years ago. Undoubtedly, some measure of that love, mercy, compassion, and spiritual stature that inhabited the heart of Bilal has found its way down through the ages, and I found myself begging God to transfer to my own heart some glimpse of these realities now laying before me.
Almost five years ago, my business partner, Preacher Moss (who is a member of the WDM community) founded the standup comedy tour "Allah Made Me Funny," and he invited me to be his co-founder. Needless to say, it has been nothing less than an honor to work with him on the project. But to many, it was an unusual pairing: a Black comic and an Indian comic? Both Muslims? Working together? And before we ever even announced our partnership publicly, we met privately and swore an allegiance to one another—a blood oath of sorts—which was this: No matter what happens, in good times and in bad, we have to be the brothers no one expects us to be. And built on this promise (and premise), we brought on our first collaborator, Brother Azeem (who is a member of Minister Farrakhan's NOI), with whom we toured for over two years (2004-2006) before parting ways amicably. Then we brought Mohammed Amer onto the team in the fall of 2006 (a Kuwaiti-born Palestinian refugee who grew up in a Sunni Muslim family in Houston, Texas). Mo, Preach, and I are still going strong together, and we are grateful for the unqualified support, love, and blessings that Imam WDM and the entire community have always given us.
But today, as I observed the funeral proceedings, I felt sad and heavy-hearted. Something wasn't sitting right. Something was physically paining my heart, and it felt like remorse, shame perhaps, maybe even guilt. I began to realize that the tears flowing from my eyes were as much a function of these feelings as they were any lofty spiritual aspirations of mine.
You see, I attended an interfaith event a couple of years ago on 9/11. A group had assembled to commemorate the tragic event, to honor those who perished that day, and to pledge ongoing inter-community support and bridge-building to fight ignorance, hate, and intolerance. At that event, there was this short, middle-aged, sweet, extremely kindhearted, White Christian woman. When she took the microphone to speak, she was already teary-eyed, and I assumed that she was going to make some comments about the victims of 9/11, as so many others already had that night.
But she didn't do that. Instead, she explained that she had become utterly grief-stricken by the constant barrage of news stories she witnessed about Muslims and Arabs being harassed, profiled, and mistreated after 9/11. She explained that she felt powerless to do anything about it, and that it made her sick to her stomach to hear of hate crimes against Muslims and Arabs, and especially to hear of Christian preachers denigrating Islam and its Prophet. She started to cry, and so did many others in the room, humbled by the magnanimity of this simple woman.
And then she did what I thought was a strange thing: she apologized. She prefaced her apology with all the logical disclaimers, such as "I know this may mean nothing to you," and "I know that I am not the one who did these horrible things," and "I know that you may dismiss this as empty rhetoric until you see some follow-up action on my part, but anyway," she continued, "I want to apologize on behalf of all the Christians and all non-Muslims and non-Arabs who have been attacking your communities, harassing your people, and accusing your religion of all these horrible things. I'm sorry. I'm very, very sorry." I was stunned. Speechless, in fact. Though all of her disclaimers were true, and my skeptical mind knew it, her apology melted our hearts. Here was this powerless servant of God sharing some of her most deeply felt emotional vulnerabilities, and she was apologizing to Muslims for something she didn't even do? Jesus (may God bless him and keep him) once famously remarked: "Make the world your teacher," and so I immediately took this woman as a lesson in humility. Admitting her powerlessness made her incredibly powerful.
And this brings me to the point (and title) of this essay. I would like to unburden myself of something that has been sitting like a ton of bricks on my heart for my entire life. I want to apologize to my Blackamerican brothers and sisters in Islam. I know that this apology may not mean very much; and I know that our American Muslim communities have a LONG way to go before we can have truly healthy political conciliation and de-racialized religious cooperation; and I know that I am not the one who is responsible for so much of the historical wrongdoing of so-called "immigrant Muslims"—wrongdoings that have been so hurtful, and insulting, and degrading, and disrespectful, and dismissive, and marginalizing, and often downright dehumanizing.
But anyway, for every "Tablighi" brother who may have had "good intentions" in his own subjective mind, but behaved in an utterly insensitive and outrageous manner toward you when he suggested that you need to learn how to urinate correctly, I'm sorry.
And for every Pakistani doctor who can find money in his budget to drive a Lexus and live in a million-dollar house in suburbia, and who has the audacity to give Friday sermons about the virtues of "Brotherhood in Islam," while the "Black mosque" can't pay the heating bills or provide enough money to feed starving Muslim families just twenty miles away, I'm sorry.
And for every Arab speaker in America who makes it his business to raise millions and millions of dollars to provide "relief" for Muslim refugees around the world, but turns a blind eye to the plight of our very own Muslim sisters and brothers right here in our American inner cities just because, in his mind, the color black might as well be considered invisible, I'm sorry.
And for every liquor store in the "hood" with a plaque that says Maashaa' Allah hanging on the wall behind the counter, I'm sorry.
And for every news media item or Hollywood portrayal that constantly reinforces the notion that "Muslim=foreigner" so that the consciousness of Blackamerican Muslims begins even to doubt itself (asking "Can I ever be Muslim enough?"), I'm sorry.
And for every Salafi Muslim brother (even the ones who used to be Black themselves before converting to Arab) who has rattled off a hadith or a verse from Koran in Arabic as his "daleel" to Kafirize you and make you feel defensive about even claiming this deen as your own, I'm sorry.
And for every time you've been asked "So when did you convert to Islam?" even though that question should more properly have been put to your grandparents, since they became Muslims by the grace of God Almighty back in the 1950s, and raised your parents as believers, and Islam is now as much your own inheritance as it is the one's posing that presumptuous, condescending question, I'm sorry.
And for every time some Muslim has self-righteously told you that your hijab is not quite "Shariah" enough, or your beard is not quite "Sunnah" enough, or your outfit is not quite "Islamic" enough, or your Koranic recitation is not quite "Arabic" enough, or your family customs are not quite "traditional" enough, or your worldview is not quite "classical" enough, or your ideas are not "authentic" enough, or your manner of making wudu is not quite "Hanafi," "Shafi," "Maliki," or "Hanbali" enough, or your religious services are not quite "Masjid" enough, or your chicken is not quite "Halal" enough, I'm sorry.
And for every Labor Day weekend when you've felt divided in your heart, wondering "When will we ever do this thing right and figure out how we can pool our collective resources to have ONE, big convention?," I'm sorry.
And for every time a Muslim has tried to bait you with a question about the Honorable Elijah Muhammad, trying to force you to condemn him—turning it into some sort of binary litmus test of true iman—with reckless and irresponsible disregard for the historical fact that he was among the first Black men in America to ever do anything meaningful for the upliftment and betterment of Black people, I'm sorry.
And for every time you've heard of an African-American brother who tried to bring home a South Asian or Arab sister to meet his parents, only to learn that her parents would rather commit suicide than let their daughter marry a "Black Muslim" (a/k/a "Bilalian brother"), even as they cheer hypocritically at stadium style speeches by Imams Siraj Wahhaj, Zaid Shakir, Johari Abdul Malik, or others—or get in line to bring one of them to speak at their multi-million dollar fundraiser for yet another superfluous suburban mosque, I'm sorry.
I'm sorry. I'm very, very sorry. From the bottom of my heart, I want every African-American Muslim brother and sister to know that I am ashamed of this treatment that you have received and, in many cases, continue to receive, over the decades. I want you to know that I am aware of it. I am conscious of the problem. (Indeed, I am even conscious that I myself am part of the problem since curing hypocrisy begins by looking in the mirror.) I am not alone in this apology. There are literally thousands, if not tens of thousands of young American Muslims just like me, born to immigrant parents who originate from all over the Muslim world. We get it, and we too are sick of the putrid stench of racism within our own Muslim communities. Let us pledge to work on this problem together, honestly validating our own and one another's insecurities, emotions, and feelings regarding these realities.
Forgiveness is needed to right past wrongs, yet forgiveness is predicated on acknowledging wrongdoing and sincerely apologizing. Let us make a blood oath of sorts.
When the bulldozer came to place the final mounds of dirt over the tomb of Imam WDM, I was standing under a nearby tree, under the light drizzle that had just begun (perhaps as a sign of mercy dropping from the heavens as the final moments of the burial were drawing to a close), and I was talking to a dear friend and sister in faith, whose family has been closely aligned with Imam WDM for decades. She shared with me a story that her father had just related to her about the passing of the Honorable Elijah Muhammad in 1975 (the same year I was born, incidentally) . She told me that her father described the scene in the immediate aftermath of Elijah's demise: utter confusion and chaos within the NOI and the communities surrounding it. There was much debate and discord about what direction the NOI would take, and many were still in shock and denial that the founder had actually died. Out of the midst of that confusion arose Imam WDM, and along with his strong leadership came an even more, perhaps surprisingly courageous direction: the path away from the Black nationalism, pan-Africanism, and proto-religious beliefs of his father, and instead the unequivocal charge toward mainstream Islam, the same universal and cosmopolitan faith held and practiced by over a billion adherents worldwide. In this manner, her father explained, the death of Elijah Muhammad became a definitive end to a chapter in our collective history, and the resulting re-direction by Imam WDM marked the beginning of the next, far better, chapter in that unfolding history.
Maybe I am just an idealistic fool, or maybe Pharaoh Sanders was right about the Creator's Master Plan, but I sincerely believe that all we have to do—all of us together: Black folks, South Asians (Indians, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis) , Arabs from every part of the Middle East and North Africa, Southeast Asians (Indonesians and Malaysians), Persians, Turks, Latinos, assorted Muslims of all stripes, colors, and backgrounds, and yes, even our White Muslim brothers and sisters—is live up to a simple promise to one another: No matter what happens, in good times and in bad, we have to be the brothers and sisters no one expects us to be.
It is hoped that the passing of Imam WDM will also mark the end of a chapter in our collective American Muslim history, and perhaps now, in earnest, we can all look together toward The Third Resurrection.
May God mend our broken hearts, lift our spirits, purify our souls, heal the rifts between our communities, unify our aims, remove our obstacles, defeat our enemies, and bless and accept our humble offerings and service.
------------ --------- ------© 2008 Azhar Usman 10 Ramadan 1429 11 September 2008
[NOTE: Please feel free to forward this essay to others via email or post it on blogs. For permission to otherwise publish or print this essay, please email: Azhar@Azhar.com]
About the AuthorAzhar Usman is a Chicago-based, full-time standup comedian. He is co-founder of "Allah Made Me Funny—The Official Muslim Comedy Tour," which has toured extensively all over the world. He is frequently interviewed, profiled, and quoted in the press, and he is an advisor to the Inner-city Muslim Action Network's Arts and Culture programs. Mr. Usman is also a co-founding board member of The Nawawi Foundation, a non-profit American Muslim research institution. He considers himself a citizen of the world and holds degrees from the University of Illinois at Chicago and the University of Minnesota Law School. Born and raised in Chicago, his parents originally hail from Bihar, India.
DISCLAIMER: The views and emotions expressed in this essay are those of the author and are not necessarily held, advocated, or even endorsed by any of the institutions with which he may be affiliated.
While carefully respecting sound, traditional jurisprudential methodologies of the Islamic religion, and the collective religious history and time-honored scholarship of classical Islam, he promulgated creative ideas and dynamic teachings across many domains of human endeavor, including theology, law, spirituality and even ethics and aesthetics, that together articulated a vision for a quintessentially "American Muslim" cultural identity. And he did all of this before anyone else, with quiet strength and unending humility—a true sage indeed.
So I stood before his final resting place, brokenhearted. And I suddenly began to feel the weight of the moment, realizing that when God takes back one of his dearly beloved friends, those who are left behind should cry not for the deceased, but rather for themselves. For the fact that they are now without one of God's friends in their midst, and, in a sense, they are orphaned. And the tears began to well up, for I became acutely aware that I was standing in front of the grave of my spiritual grandfather, who was himself a spiritual descendant of Bilal al-Habashi (may God be pleased with him), the mighty and beloved companion of the Prophet himself. Bilal was the first Black African to convert to al-Islam at the hands of the Prophet Muhammad (may God bless him and keep him) in the sands of Arabia nearly a thousand and a half years ago. Undoubtedly, some measure of that love, mercy, compassion, and spiritual stature that inhabited the heart of Bilal has found its way down through the ages, and I found myself begging God to transfer to my own heart some glimpse of these realities now laying before me.
Almost five years ago, my business partner, Preacher Moss (who is a member of the WDM community) founded the standup comedy tour "Allah Made Me Funny," and he invited me to be his co-founder. Needless to say, it has been nothing less than an honor to work with him on the project. But to many, it was an unusual pairing: a Black comic and an Indian comic? Both Muslims? Working together? And before we ever even announced our partnership publicly, we met privately and swore an allegiance to one another—a blood oath of sorts—which was this: No matter what happens, in good times and in bad, we have to be the brothers no one expects us to be. And built on this promise (and premise), we brought on our first collaborator, Brother Azeem (who is a member of Minister Farrakhan's NOI), with whom we toured for over two years (2004-2006) before parting ways amicably. Then we brought Mohammed Amer onto the team in the fall of 2006 (a Kuwaiti-born Palestinian refugee who grew up in a Sunni Muslim family in Houston, Texas). Mo, Preach, and I are still going strong together, and we are grateful for the unqualified support, love, and blessings that Imam WDM and the entire community have always given us.
But today, as I observed the funeral proceedings, I felt sad and heavy-hearted. Something wasn't sitting right. Something was physically paining my heart, and it felt like remorse, shame perhaps, maybe even guilt. I began to realize that the tears flowing from my eyes were as much a function of these feelings as they were any lofty spiritual aspirations of mine.
You see, I attended an interfaith event a couple of years ago on 9/11. A group had assembled to commemorate the tragic event, to honor those who perished that day, and to pledge ongoing inter-community support and bridge-building to fight ignorance, hate, and intolerance. At that event, there was this short, middle-aged, sweet, extremely kindhearted, White Christian woman. When she took the microphone to speak, she was already teary-eyed, and I assumed that she was going to make some comments about the victims of 9/11, as so many others already had that night.
But she didn't do that. Instead, she explained that she had become utterly grief-stricken by the constant barrage of news stories she witnessed about Muslims and Arabs being harassed, profiled, and mistreated after 9/11. She explained that she felt powerless to do anything about it, and that it made her sick to her stomach to hear of hate crimes against Muslims and Arabs, and especially to hear of Christian preachers denigrating Islam and its Prophet. She started to cry, and so did many others in the room, humbled by the magnanimity of this simple woman.
And then she did what I thought was a strange thing: she apologized. She prefaced her apology with all the logical disclaimers, such as "I know this may mean nothing to you," and "I know that I am not the one who did these horrible things," and "I know that you may dismiss this as empty rhetoric until you see some follow-up action on my part, but anyway," she continued, "I want to apologize on behalf of all the Christians and all non-Muslims and non-Arabs who have been attacking your communities, harassing your people, and accusing your religion of all these horrible things. I'm sorry. I'm very, very sorry." I was stunned. Speechless, in fact. Though all of her disclaimers were true, and my skeptical mind knew it, her apology melted our hearts. Here was this powerless servant of God sharing some of her most deeply felt emotional vulnerabilities, and she was apologizing to Muslims for something she didn't even do? Jesus (may God bless him and keep him) once famously remarked: "Make the world your teacher," and so I immediately took this woman as a lesson in humility. Admitting her powerlessness made her incredibly powerful.
And this brings me to the point (and title) of this essay. I would like to unburden myself of something that has been sitting like a ton of bricks on my heart for my entire life. I want to apologize to my Blackamerican brothers and sisters in Islam. I know that this apology may not mean very much; and I know that our American Muslim communities have a LONG way to go before we can have truly healthy political conciliation and de-racialized religious cooperation; and I know that I am not the one who is responsible for so much of the historical wrongdoing of so-called "immigrant Muslims"—wrongdoings that have been so hurtful, and insulting, and degrading, and disrespectful, and dismissive, and marginalizing, and often downright dehumanizing.
But anyway, for every "Tablighi" brother who may have had "good intentions" in his own subjective mind, but behaved in an utterly insensitive and outrageous manner toward you when he suggested that you need to learn how to urinate correctly, I'm sorry.
And for every Pakistani doctor who can find money in his budget to drive a Lexus and live in a million-dollar house in suburbia, and who has the audacity to give Friday sermons about the virtues of "Brotherhood in Islam," while the "Black mosque" can't pay the heating bills or provide enough money to feed starving Muslim families just twenty miles away, I'm sorry.
And for every Arab speaker in America who makes it his business to raise millions and millions of dollars to provide "relief" for Muslim refugees around the world, but turns a blind eye to the plight of our very own Muslim sisters and brothers right here in our American inner cities just because, in his mind, the color black might as well be considered invisible, I'm sorry.
And for every liquor store in the "hood" with a plaque that says Maashaa' Allah hanging on the wall behind the counter, I'm sorry.
And for every news media item or Hollywood portrayal that constantly reinforces the notion that "Muslim=foreigner" so that the consciousness of Blackamerican Muslims begins even to doubt itself (asking "Can I ever be Muslim enough?"), I'm sorry.
And for every Salafi Muslim brother (even the ones who used to be Black themselves before converting to Arab) who has rattled off a hadith or a verse from Koran in Arabic as his "daleel" to Kafirize you and make you feel defensive about even claiming this deen as your own, I'm sorry.
And for every time you've been asked "So when did you convert to Islam?" even though that question should more properly have been put to your grandparents, since they became Muslims by the grace of God Almighty back in the 1950s, and raised your parents as believers, and Islam is now as much your own inheritance as it is the one's posing that presumptuous, condescending question, I'm sorry.
And for every time some Muslim has self-righteously told you that your hijab is not quite "Shariah" enough, or your beard is not quite "Sunnah" enough, or your outfit is not quite "Islamic" enough, or your Koranic recitation is not quite "Arabic" enough, or your family customs are not quite "traditional" enough, or your worldview is not quite "classical" enough, or your ideas are not "authentic" enough, or your manner of making wudu is not quite "Hanafi," "Shafi," "Maliki," or "Hanbali" enough, or your religious services are not quite "Masjid" enough, or your chicken is not quite "Halal" enough, I'm sorry.
And for every Labor Day weekend when you've felt divided in your heart, wondering "When will we ever do this thing right and figure out how we can pool our collective resources to have ONE, big convention?," I'm sorry.
And for every time a Muslim has tried to bait you with a question about the Honorable Elijah Muhammad, trying to force you to condemn him—turning it into some sort of binary litmus test of true iman—with reckless and irresponsible disregard for the historical fact that he was among the first Black men in America to ever do anything meaningful for the upliftment and betterment of Black people, I'm sorry.
And for every time you've heard of an African-American brother who tried to bring home a South Asian or Arab sister to meet his parents, only to learn that her parents would rather commit suicide than let their daughter marry a "Black Muslim" (a/k/a "Bilalian brother"), even as they cheer hypocritically at stadium style speeches by Imams Siraj Wahhaj, Zaid Shakir, Johari Abdul Malik, or others—or get in line to bring one of them to speak at their multi-million dollar fundraiser for yet another superfluous suburban mosque, I'm sorry.
I'm sorry. I'm very, very sorry. From the bottom of my heart, I want every African-American Muslim brother and sister to know that I am ashamed of this treatment that you have received and, in many cases, continue to receive, over the decades. I want you to know that I am aware of it. I am conscious of the problem. (Indeed, I am even conscious that I myself am part of the problem since curing hypocrisy begins by looking in the mirror.) I am not alone in this apology. There are literally thousands, if not tens of thousands of young American Muslims just like me, born to immigrant parents who originate from all over the Muslim world. We get it, and we too are sick of the putrid stench of racism within our own Muslim communities. Let us pledge to work on this problem together, honestly validating our own and one another's insecurities, emotions, and feelings regarding these realities.
Forgiveness is needed to right past wrongs, yet forgiveness is predicated on acknowledging wrongdoing and sincerely apologizing. Let us make a blood oath of sorts.
When the bulldozer came to place the final mounds of dirt over the tomb of Imam WDM, I was standing under a nearby tree, under the light drizzle that had just begun (perhaps as a sign of mercy dropping from the heavens as the final moments of the burial were drawing to a close), and I was talking to a dear friend and sister in faith, whose family has been closely aligned with Imam WDM for decades. She shared with me a story that her father had just related to her about the passing of the Honorable Elijah Muhammad in 1975 (the same year I was born, incidentally) . She told me that her father described the scene in the immediate aftermath of Elijah's demise: utter confusion and chaos within the NOI and the communities surrounding it. There was much debate and discord about what direction the NOI would take, and many were still in shock and denial that the founder had actually died. Out of the midst of that confusion arose Imam WDM, and along with his strong leadership came an even more, perhaps surprisingly courageous direction: the path away from the Black nationalism, pan-Africanism, and proto-religious beliefs of his father, and instead the unequivocal charge toward mainstream Islam, the same universal and cosmopolitan faith held and practiced by over a billion adherents worldwide. In this manner, her father explained, the death of Elijah Muhammad became a definitive end to a chapter in our collective history, and the resulting re-direction by Imam WDM marked the beginning of the next, far better, chapter in that unfolding history.
Maybe I am just an idealistic fool, or maybe Pharaoh Sanders was right about the Creator's Master Plan, but I sincerely believe that all we have to do—all of us together: Black folks, South Asians (Indians, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis) , Arabs from every part of the Middle East and North Africa, Southeast Asians (Indonesians and Malaysians), Persians, Turks, Latinos, assorted Muslims of all stripes, colors, and backgrounds, and yes, even our White Muslim brothers and sisters—is live up to a simple promise to one another: No matter what happens, in good times and in bad, we have to be the brothers and sisters no one expects us to be.
It is hoped that the passing of Imam WDM will also mark the end of a chapter in our collective American Muslim history, and perhaps now, in earnest, we can all look together toward The Third Resurrection.
May God mend our broken hearts, lift our spirits, purify our souls, heal the rifts between our communities, unify our aims, remove our obstacles, defeat our enemies, and bless and accept our humble offerings and service.
------------ --------- ------© 2008 Azhar Usman 10 Ramadan 1429 11 September 2008
[NOTE: Please feel free to forward this essay to others via email or post it on blogs. For permission to otherwise publish or print this essay, please email: Azhar@Azhar.com]
About the AuthorAzhar Usman is a Chicago-based, full-time standup comedian. He is co-founder of "Allah Made Me Funny—The Official Muslim Comedy Tour," which has toured extensively all over the world. He is frequently interviewed, profiled, and quoted in the press, and he is an advisor to the Inner-city Muslim Action Network's Arts and Culture programs. Mr. Usman is also a co-founding board member of The Nawawi Foundation, a non-profit American Muslim research institution. He considers himself a citizen of the world and holds degrees from the University of Illinois at Chicago and the University of Minnesota Law School. Born and raised in Chicago, his parents originally hail from Bihar, India.
DISCLAIMER: The views and emotions expressed in this essay are those of the author and are not necessarily held, advocated, or even endorsed by any of the institutions with which he may be affiliated.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Letter to Hamid Karzai - The flow of Folly
Dear Mr.President Hon Hamid Karzai !
I just heard in the news on BBC radio that you have said "Afghanistan has a right to self-defence". I could not agree more.
As every country has that right, I would like to point out that no country had that right in the first place to attack yours. Do you agree?
Afghan sovereignty and respect for its borders is as paramount as that of Iraq, the US, or in this case your neighbour Pakistan.
I once heard form a friend from Laghman that you had said we should do what we think the Prophet Muhammad SAW would have done in the situation. That is the perfect model.
Keep in mind that Afghanistan is currently suffering from what you call a "Right" that the US used or more accurately abused that "Right to self-defence" and justifying that by Pre-emptive strikes on your countrymen. Hundreds of thousand killed and a Million plus displaced, Afghans around the world are known as the eternal refugee Nation - people without a home. To give these displaced, dishonoured and disenfranchised people some hope, you need to be acting more responsibly. To "pursue Taliban across the border into Pakistan" is to do what the US did to Afghanistan. To show no respect to another country's Sovereignty, its borders and its citizens is not at all the example of the Prophet SAW, neither is it a good example to follow in today's world where diplomacy has come out to be the only solution to problems. Also bear in mind that in 2001, and 2003, the US has used such "Rights to self defence" to attack other nations (one of them yours) and totally destroy the infrastructure there. Neither is Afghanistan like the US, nor is Pakistan like Afghanistan in this case. Hence a retaliation could only harm, kill, maim and displace more of your countrymen, and its your duty to safeguard their lives, honours and properties.
The job of the Border security forces is to stop people from crossing them, and if held, these cross-border adventurists should be tried by law of the state. If your Border security forces are not able to apprehend a certain Mehsud or Mulla, then make sure you train them a bit better, or replace them with imported personnel. That is a failure of an administration in itself. Nowhere in the world do these forces cross into another country to pursue such criminals. That would surely only be the example of a certain GW Bush. That particular individual has done as much to discredit his nation in the world as could have been done. I sense a flow of folly from the ruler to the ruled here. The world-renowned folly of Mr.Bush has successfully flowed into your "ruled" mind. Rhetoric will not get Afghanistan anywhere. Good prudent actions will. Good luck for that Mr. President.
Kindest Regards
I just heard in the news on BBC radio that you have said "Afghanistan has a right to self-defence". I could not agree more.
As every country has that right, I would like to point out that no country had that right in the first place to attack yours. Do you agree?
Afghan sovereignty and respect for its borders is as paramount as that of Iraq, the US, or in this case your neighbour Pakistan.
I once heard form a friend from Laghman that you had said we should do what we think the Prophet Muhammad SAW would have done in the situation. That is the perfect model.
Keep in mind that Afghanistan is currently suffering from what you call a "Right" that the US used or more accurately abused that "Right to self-defence" and justifying that by Pre-emptive strikes on your countrymen. Hundreds of thousand killed and a Million plus displaced, Afghans around the world are known as the eternal refugee Nation - people without a home. To give these displaced, dishonoured and disenfranchised people some hope, you need to be acting more responsibly. To "pursue Taliban across the border into Pakistan" is to do what the US did to Afghanistan. To show no respect to another country's Sovereignty, its borders and its citizens is not at all the example of the Prophet SAW, neither is it a good example to follow in today's world where diplomacy has come out to be the only solution to problems. Also bear in mind that in 2001, and 2003, the US has used such "Rights to self defence" to attack other nations (one of them yours) and totally destroy the infrastructure there. Neither is Afghanistan like the US, nor is Pakistan like Afghanistan in this case. Hence a retaliation could only harm, kill, maim and displace more of your countrymen, and its your duty to safeguard their lives, honours and properties.
The job of the Border security forces is to stop people from crossing them, and if held, these cross-border adventurists should be tried by law of the state. If your Border security forces are not able to apprehend a certain Mehsud or Mulla, then make sure you train them a bit better, or replace them with imported personnel. That is a failure of an administration in itself. Nowhere in the world do these forces cross into another country to pursue such criminals. That would surely only be the example of a certain GW Bush. That particular individual has done as much to discredit his nation in the world as could have been done. I sense a flow of folly from the ruler to the ruled here. The world-renowned folly of Mr.Bush has successfully flowed into your "ruled" mind. Rhetoric will not get Afghanistan anywhere. Good prudent actions will. Good luck for that Mr. President.
Kindest Regards
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Misplaced Pride
Misplaced Pride
By Farhan Arif
Recently, I received an email inviting me to join a web-group of Pakistanis interested in writing online about our beloved country and the threats facing it. This group incidentally call themselves "PakNationalists" and mention a certain "Nationalistic pride" they happen to share which shapes their hopes for the future. I read the posts on that group, and decided I for one, am not going to tag myself a "Nationalist". I am just a Pakistani. A plain Pakistani. And I love Pakistan. Period. The following was my response on that group, never to be approved, as expected from a "Proud Nationalistic Pakistani" upholding the rights of all to express their opinions without vilifying anyone.
We are proud Pakistani Nationalists! Yes we have pride associated to our homeland, our identity, our historical legacy and our forefathers who gave their lives to achieve the "Mumlikat-e-Khudaa-daad Islami Jamhoorya e Pakistan". That does not mean we are not Critical at all. Pride in identity is misplaced if it is not derived from Real history. Books have been written by the Education boards in Pakistan to serve a purpose, and there should be no denying that fact. I got a good taste of that here with a bitter-sweet experience with a close friend of mine.We grew up being told, and hence believing that Bangladesh (Our eastern Twin Brother country) was taken away from us by the sheer aggression of India and covert "Nationalistic Politics" being run from the other side of the border. I always considered Bangladeshis our brethren in a "Nationalistic" way than any other people. After all we were one people.
Having that false sense of brotherhood, I very nicely talked to a friend of mine from Dhaka in ways that I considered should have been more diplomatic, "but who is diplomatic with brothers?", I thought. Turns out I was wrong. They have read history books in which their "Freedom Struggle" and "War of Independence" were not fought in 1947, nor 1857. 1971 was when they were born. That's what the historians in Dhaka and Chittagong focus on. We were the oppressors then, and I must say I am not proud of that. Rather I am a strong proponent of Our Parliaments and Armed forces officially and Internationally apologising for the acts carried out by our "great" forefathers.
Apologising for errors makes for greatness. Ask Kevin Rudd, the incumbent PM of Australia. I might have been proud if I was a Neo-Nazi, but I am not. I am a Pakistani, not necessarily a Nationalist, if that requires being proud of the wrong-doings of our forefathers, political leaders and armymen. Our Parliament was very vocal and proactive to condemn the "Judicial murder" of Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto just after taking oath this time around, and I fully support that cause. Read the following account and decide who, if anyone needs to condemn and apologise for what happened then to millions in the name of "Nationalism".
According to Independent estimates that we as "Proud Pakistani Nationalists" will say are totally "out to get us" biased against Pakistan, here is an overview:
"On February 22, 1971 the generals in West Pakistan took a decision to crush the Awami League and its supporters. It was recognized from the first that a campaign of genocide would be necessary to eradicate the threat: "Kill three million of them," said President Yahya Khan at the February conference, "and the rest will eat out of our hands." (Robert Payne, Massacre [1972], p. 50.) On March 25 the genocide was launched. The university in Dacca was attacked and students exterminated in their hundreds. Death squads roamed the streets of Dacca, killing some 7,000 people in a single night. It was only the beginning. "Within a week, half the population of Dacca had fled, and at least 30,000 people had been killed. Chittagong, too, had lost half its population. All over East Pakistan people were taking flight, and it was estimated that in April some thirty million people [!] were wandering helplessly across East Pakistan to escape the grasp of the military." (Payne, Massacre, p. 48.) Ten million refugees fled to India, overwhelming that country's resources and spurring the eventual Indian military intervention. (The population of Bangladesh/East Pakistan at the outbreak of the genocide was about 75 million.)"
Okay, let us for one minute put these events under the microscope. Let's say these authors exaggerated the real statistics to "break us up" and revel on the killings later. Just for arguments' sake, halve the numbers, if you're still thinking that's a bit too much, halve them again! Can you justify that act still? Slogans of pride in being "PakNationalists" are fair enough, but let's keep our eyes on the road. Let's be just. Let's be objective, look into our own eyes in the mirror, look at how many women were reported raped this year alone, and I stress on reported here. Look at what has happened to our "Proud nation" in the last 60 years. Pick out the proud moments and then yes, deservingly, we should take pride in them.
Look at how ethnicity, sectarianism and tribalism has divided and destroyed our beloved Pakistan.Look at how bad the social conditions of those are, who have no access to this article whatsoever.Ever ponder who you will take your grievances to, in case someone robs you in the street tomorrow? Unless you belong to the social class where it does not matter if your mobile phone got snatched or your car, you can just get another one from daddy's money, you will feel the pinch. That might wake you up from the dream; A Euphoric national Pride that is nowhere to be found outside speeches and Military school handbooks. Taking pride alone shall not change anything though. The pride has to be coupled with actions to achieve greater heights, or to get out of depths, in our case.
A nation where the national pastime happens to be "Bragging" about everything material, and immaterial, we need to shed some pride to realise where we stand.
- This is the first blog the writer has written.
By Farhan Arif
Recently, I received an email inviting me to join a web-group of Pakistanis interested in writing online about our beloved country and the threats facing it. This group incidentally call themselves "PakNationalists" and mention a certain "Nationalistic pride" they happen to share which shapes their hopes for the future. I read the posts on that group, and decided I for one, am not going to tag myself a "Nationalist". I am just a Pakistani. A plain Pakistani. And I love Pakistan. Period. The following was my response on that group, never to be approved, as expected from a "Proud Nationalistic Pakistani" upholding the rights of all to express their opinions without vilifying anyone.
We are proud Pakistani Nationalists! Yes we have pride associated to our homeland, our identity, our historical legacy and our forefathers who gave their lives to achieve the "Mumlikat-e-Khudaa-daad Islami Jamhoorya e Pakistan". That does not mean we are not Critical at all. Pride in identity is misplaced if it is not derived from Real history. Books have been written by the Education boards in Pakistan to serve a purpose, and there should be no denying that fact. I got a good taste of that here with a bitter-sweet experience with a close friend of mine.We grew up being told, and hence believing that Bangladesh (Our eastern Twin Brother country) was taken away from us by the sheer aggression of India and covert "Nationalistic Politics" being run from the other side of the border. I always considered Bangladeshis our brethren in a "Nationalistic" way than any other people. After all we were one people.
Having that false sense of brotherhood, I very nicely talked to a friend of mine from Dhaka in ways that I considered should have been more diplomatic, "but who is diplomatic with brothers?", I thought. Turns out I was wrong. They have read history books in which their "Freedom Struggle" and "War of Independence" were not fought in 1947, nor 1857. 1971 was when they were born. That's what the historians in Dhaka and Chittagong focus on. We were the oppressors then, and I must say I am not proud of that. Rather I am a strong proponent of Our Parliaments and Armed forces officially and Internationally apologising for the acts carried out by our "great" forefathers.
Apologising for errors makes for greatness. Ask Kevin Rudd, the incumbent PM of Australia. I might have been proud if I was a Neo-Nazi, but I am not. I am a Pakistani, not necessarily a Nationalist, if that requires being proud of the wrong-doings of our forefathers, political leaders and armymen. Our Parliament was very vocal and proactive to condemn the "Judicial murder" of Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto just after taking oath this time around, and I fully support that cause. Read the following account and decide who, if anyone needs to condemn and apologise for what happened then to millions in the name of "Nationalism".
According to Independent estimates that we as "Proud Pakistani Nationalists" will say are totally "out to get us" biased against Pakistan, here is an overview:
"On February 22, 1971 the generals in West Pakistan took a decision to crush the Awami League and its supporters. It was recognized from the first that a campaign of genocide would be necessary to eradicate the threat: "Kill three million of them," said President Yahya Khan at the February conference, "and the rest will eat out of our hands." (Robert Payne, Massacre [1972], p. 50.) On March 25 the genocide was launched. The university in Dacca was attacked and students exterminated in their hundreds. Death squads roamed the streets of Dacca, killing some 7,000 people in a single night. It was only the beginning. "Within a week, half the population of Dacca had fled, and at least 30,000 people had been killed. Chittagong, too, had lost half its population. All over East Pakistan people were taking flight, and it was estimated that in April some thirty million people [!] were wandering helplessly across East Pakistan to escape the grasp of the military." (Payne, Massacre, p. 48.) Ten million refugees fled to India, overwhelming that country's resources and spurring the eventual Indian military intervention. (The population of Bangladesh/East Pakistan at the outbreak of the genocide was about 75 million.)"
Okay, let us for one minute put these events under the microscope. Let's say these authors exaggerated the real statistics to "break us up" and revel on the killings later. Just for arguments' sake, halve the numbers, if you're still thinking that's a bit too much, halve them again! Can you justify that act still? Slogans of pride in being "PakNationalists" are fair enough, but let's keep our eyes on the road. Let's be just. Let's be objective, look into our own eyes in the mirror, look at how many women were reported raped this year alone, and I stress on reported here. Look at what has happened to our "Proud nation" in the last 60 years. Pick out the proud moments and then yes, deservingly, we should take pride in them.
Look at how ethnicity, sectarianism and tribalism has divided and destroyed our beloved Pakistan.Look at how bad the social conditions of those are, who have no access to this article whatsoever.Ever ponder who you will take your grievances to, in case someone robs you in the street tomorrow? Unless you belong to the social class where it does not matter if your mobile phone got snatched or your car, you can just get another one from daddy's money, you will feel the pinch. That might wake you up from the dream; A Euphoric national Pride that is nowhere to be found outside speeches and Military school handbooks. Taking pride alone shall not change anything though. The pride has to be coupled with actions to achieve greater heights, or to get out of depths, in our case.
A nation where the national pastime happens to be "Bragging" about everything material, and immaterial, we need to shed some pride to realise where we stand.
- This is the first blog the writer has written.
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