I live in Houston and rode out the storm in my stepson’s apartment downtown.  Contrary to the logic behind evacuating from our Clear Lake home, downtown Houston turned out not to be the safest place, as it also suffered significant damage from Ike.  I live now in a city marked by disaster, where my neighbors happily announce that Sam’s Club now has milk and meat and where cows wander the barren streets of the Bolivar peninsula.

My hurricane Ike experience is a story of memory and sadness, of questioning and doubt. I start by thanking Allah that I suffered no more than minor home damage and no more than a couple of days without electricity,  and that I need little gasoline to go from home to work and back.

Ike’s aftermath reminds me of the days following the September 11 attacks. Obviously the nature of the two incidents share little in common, and I’m not asserting that they do. The September 11 attacks killed thousands and were the work of men; hurricane Ike killed dozens and was purely the work of God. My purpose is not to draw comparisons between the events and their outcomes, but rather to describe how each affected me personally.

On September 11, 2001 I lived in my hometown of Montclair, NJ, which is about 15 miles west of Manhattan. The events of that day were personal for everyone I knew. (zorafestival.org) We saw the buildings burning from our front steps. We worried over those who were missing, especially among suburban commuters to NYC.  In the hours after the world trade center buildings were attacked, things became chaotic. Phone, internet and TV service were spotty. At my daughter’s school, they made an announcement overhead that any students whose parents worked in the city should report to the office. By afternoon, there were still some children who did not know if their mom or dad (or both) would be coming home.

Although I was spared direct loss of death, job or home, I couldn’t avoid the knowledge that thousands around me had suffered and were suffering. During the week following September 11, I was unable to escape the sight of smoke continuously pouring from the spot where the world trade center had been. It seemed like it would never stop. I was unable to escape the sight of the ugly fracture in the skyline I had grown up with. The memorials and prayer services went on for days and weeks. Several weeks after the attacks I took the Hoboken ferry into the city; plastered all over the dock were posters with photos and “Have you seen this person?” “Missing: So-and-so; please call with information,” and so on and on.

In the same way, in these days after Ike’s landfall I pass long rows of cars whose drivers are waiting for gas or waiting their turn at the local PODs. I see news reports showing the virtual obliteration of places like Crystal Beach, of  discovered corpses and air rescues.  I wake up every morning knowing that I am surrounded by a world making its way through catastrophe at worst and hardship at best.

The after-effects of September 11 were profound for me in other respects than trying to manage my response to the grief. I went to several interfaith prayer services in the weeks that followed, and it was at one of those that my religious faith was rekindled. This subsequently led to my return to being a practicing Muslim.

In sad contrast, over the last week or so when I search for a sense of spirituality I come up bone dry. I don’t think it’s related to the hurricane, although I’d feel better if it was. I just don’t have the feeling, and its dearth has gnawed at me throughout this month of Ramadan, a time when my faith should be not just strong but overwhelming.

I went to the grocery store at 6:30 this morning in hopes of avoiding a line, which I did.  Of course, most of the produce section was empty, but I came across some lovely vine tomatoes. As I selected the ripest, it occurred to me that I never thought I’d be so happy to see tomatoes in my life, and that thought brought tears to my eyes. Then I realized that during Ramadan we Muslims go without fruits, vegetables, or food of all kinds, and although we do so by choice, the sense of sacrifice is still there, along with the choice to mourn or hope for the things we miss. Maybe in this post-hurricane world, a world where some are devastated and some are spared but all experience some loss, there is a Ramadan lesson for me which I just have to find a way to embrace.