See the Story Index for a chronological guide to the previous stories.
Previous chapters of this story: Ouroboros Introduction | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Parts 8 and 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16
When Muhsin shut off the engine, Hassan looked up to see that they were parked in front of a stylish looking restaurant with a sign that spelled out the word “Azraq” in wavy blue neon.
The interior, as its name implied – Azraq meant “blue” in Arabic – was all blues and browns, with hardwood furniture, large paintings of the sea, and a fountain that cascaded down one entire wall, filling a narrow pool that circumnavigated the interior of the eatery. The place was filled with the aromas of grilled fish and hot soup, coffee and chocolate.
Hassan waved off the hostess who tried to seat him. He wandered amid the booths and aisles, looking for Lena. Waiters and waitresses passed him, all wearing black slacks and dark blue dress shirts or blouses.
A waitress approached carrying a tray of drinks. She was slender – too thin, Hassan thought – and blonde, with frown lines on her forehead and crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes – one of those women whose faces were older than their bodies, so you knew they’d either lived hard or spent too much time in the sun. She was beautiful, but the severity of her face tempered her beauty, lending an air of gravitas. The top button of her long-sleeved shirt was undone, and Hassan saw a thin scar cutting across the front of her throat before disappearing beneath the collar.
Of course Hassan knew her. He could never fail to recognize her walk, the protective way she carried her shoulders, and the spare smile that said, “I’m only humoring you. You’ll never know what I really think.” She hadn’t changed much, really. He could still see the young woman who’d taken him to the mountains when he was only fifteen, and drawn a sketch of a mountain meadow.
She flashed him a genuine smile, but as she began to pass the smile faded, her face turning as white as a winter moon. She swiveled her head as she walked by, gazing back at him, her body on autopilot, her steps faltering. Hassan watched her pass, saying nothing, feeling beaten into stillness by the events of the last few days. His inner fires were banked. He was out of fuel. This moment, which should have been triumphant or nerve-wracking, or something, was hushed, as if he were still back in the pool by the Salamiyyeh Falls, diving deep, trying to find the bottom.
That was, he thought, the story of his life: always seeking the bottom of the deep, dark pool and never finding it. Never getting his feet on solid ground. Never knowing where he stood.
Lena, still trying to look one way and walk the other, tripped over her feet and fell. The tray went flying, the drinks tumbling to the ground. Her head struck the edge of a dinner table and she let out a cry.
Hassan began to move toward her, but the diner at whose feet she had fallen was already helping her up. Blood streamed from a cut on her forehead.
Looking at her, Hassan suddenly saw another image superimposed over the restaurant scene: Lena was lying on the wooden floor of a small apartment, her throat cut, in a huge pool of blood that spread around her like a negative halo. He stepped back, shocked. What was he seeing?
The images continued to come. The Western Door, burned to the ground. Karanlik… Oh, laa ilaha il-Allah… Karanlik. It all came back, erupting from the hidden chambers of his mind like Krakatoa, exploding, shaking him. His years in prison, his life in San Francisco, all his friends, Layth’s death – Layth! – and the battle in the Oakland warehouse. Charlie… Charlie.
The sound of the blood in his veins thrummed in his ears. A band of pain tightened around his forehead. His head seemed to expand to the point of splitting. His eyes felt hot and dry, and he couldn’t catch his breath. It was too much. His knees gave out, he fell, and the world turned black.
He returned to consciousness on a cot in a small room. A wet cloth lay on his forehead. His body was limp as overcooked pasta. Two blurry shapes hovered over him. After a moment they clarified into the faces of Muhsin – looking so worried one would think he was Hassan’s father – and Lena, looking angry, confused, and perhaps fearful, with a bandage on her forehead. Hassan had never seen this particular expression on her face. He couldn’t read it.
Once again he noticed the small portion of the scar visible across the front of her throat. Now he possessed the awful memory of what had caused that scar. He averted his eyes, trying not to think about it.
“Where did you go?” Lena demanded, getting right to it. “You abandoned me just when I needed you most. All this time I thought you were dead.”
“Wha…?” Hassan managed. “Where am I?”
“You’re in a backroom in the restaurant, brother,” Muhsin said kindly. “You collapsed.”
Hassan covered his eyes with his hands for a moment, remembering, then removed them to meet Lena’s eyes. Different, yet the same. Alive. He remembered everything now – all of his past – and didn’t know if he wanted to. But there it was, whether he wanted it or not.
Muhsin reached out a hand and helped him to a sitting position. Hassan patted the man’s hand, thanking him without taking his eyes from Lena.
“Lena, I’m so sorry. I came home and found you on the floor with your throat cut, and blood everywhere. I thought you were dead. I lost my mind, became catatonic. They put me in Karanlik, the mental hospital. It was a living nightmare. All these years I believed you were dead. But I never stopped mourning for you and missing you.”
All she said in response was, “Hmm.”
He reached out to her. “Can I – can I just feel your hand? Just to know you are real? I’m sorry, I know that sounds stupid.”
Slowly, betraying nothing of what she felt, Lena extended her hand and Hassan took it. Her hand was strong, her skin rough. The nails were trimmed short and clean, with a layer of clear varnish. A moment later she pulled her hand back and tucked it into her armpit, as if his touch had burned her.
“I don’t know where to start,” he said. “Who – how did you survive?”
Lena shrugged. “The apartment door was open. I guess you left it open, if what you say is true. That nosy neighbor, Mrs. Şahin who lived across the hall? She came snooping and found me. I barely survived. It was very close.”
“Who did it? Who attacked you?”
“Does that matter?” Lena snapped. “Why are you here, Hassan? Where have you been? Do you have any idea how badly you hurt me by disappearing like that? I thought you must have been killed; otherwise, why would you abandon me? I mourned you for years. And then I had to move on. That’s history now. Don’t try to resurrect it.”
Hassan had constructed dozens of scenarios in his mind, imagining again and again how his reunion with Lena might go. What he’d say, what she’d say, whether they could pick up where they left off, whether the chemistry between them would still be there. Whether the love would still be there.
This wasn’t like any of those scenarios. This felt like trying to punch through a wall.
Not knowing what else to say, he defaulted to another of the many questions crowding the back of his throat. “Tell me about Kamal.”
Lena’s mouth fell open. “You’ve been to my aunt’s house? Have you been spying on me? Who else have you talked to?”
“Lena, what are you talking about?” Hassan’s frustration boiled over and his voice rose. What a disaster this encounter was turning out to be. “I was trying to find you. I found your aunt first. Now for God’s sake, tell me about my son!”
Lena’s jaw was set. “A good boy,” she said matter of factly. “Clever, strong, happy. That’s all. If you wanted to know more then you should have been there to raise him. I did the best I could. If you want to hate me, go ahead. You can’t hate me any more than I hate myself.” This last statement was spoken in a mutter, as if more for herself than Hassan.
“No, Lena, no. I blame myself. How could I have left you? How could I have been so stupid? It must have been hell for you.”
His head pulsed with pain from the headache that continued to grow behind his skull. He gripped his forehead with one hand, squeezing, trying to force the pain down.
“What about you?” Lena’s tone mellowed slightly, as if conceding that perhaps Hassan was not entirely evil. “What has your life been like?”
Hassan sketched his life story in a few broad strokes – Karanlik, prison, life in San Francisco, the coma. “Alhamdulillah,” he said. “I’m grateful to Allah. He’s been kind to me.”
“Really? Doesn’t seem so. I no longer believe in God, but if it helps you, knock yourself out.”
Lena had never been especially religious, but it saddened Hassan to hear her say this. In his experience, atheism was never a rational, considered choice. It was always the product of disappointment and pain. It was the yin to faith’s yang – the flip side of the same coin. It was a person saying, “God, because you’ve let me down, I reject you!” The irony was that the rejection itself was an acknowledgment of God’s existence.
He didn’t know what else to say. The two of them lapsed into silence. Hassan gazed at Lena’s black shoes, noticing the worn soles and seamed uppers. They were shoes that had walked a lot of miles. Lena, meanwhile, looked at the doorway, distancing herself.
Lena nodded quickly, as if coming to a decision. “I’m glad things worked out for you. It hasn’t been so easy for me. I have to get back to work now.” She shifted her body weight subtly away from him, as if ready to move on.
“Wait. Lena, I’m sorry, I have to know. Who attacked you?”
She shook her head, a bitter expression turning down the corners of her mouth. “You men. All the same. Always. It was Anton, okay?” She practically spat his name. “Anton. He was in love with me. He wanted me to leave you, but I refused.”
“Anton,” he breathed. Not Sarkis, not Mr. Black. His imagination had filled in the blanks with the boogeymen he knew. And to think that he’d gone to Anton for help afterward.
“Hassan.” Lena’s tone softened now, became almost kind. “Rest here as long as you need. Let yourself out when you’re ready. I… I’m glad you came. Ma’ as-salama.”
He was opening the door of the taxi when Lena cried, “Wait!” He looked up to see her running toward him. He turned just in time to catch her as she threw herself into his arms.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and Hassan realized she was crying. “I’m sorry I was such a shrew. You don’t know how hard it’s been for me. I thought you were dead and I hated you for that, and I hated myself for hating you. I understand now, it wasn’t your fault. I don’t blame you.”
She pulled away slightly, her hands still on his shoulders, and looked at him. Her tears had caused her mascara to run, but she was as beautiful as ever. “Do you think there’s a chance for us? Could we start over, you and I? Do you think…” she began to sob, so that he had difficulty understanding her. “Do you… think… you could… love me… again?”
He didn’t know what to say. He cared for Lena – so much, really. It hurt him to think of the pain she’d been through. He wanted to see her happy. He wanted to help her. But you can’t base a relationship on wanting to help someone. He remembered the aunt saying that Lena was broken and no one could fix her. He might have discounted that as the mutterings of a lonely old woman, but he’d seen the same thing when he and Lena were married. From the time he reunited with Lena in Istanbul’s Galatasaray Square, their entire marriage had been one long episode of him trying to save her – and look how that turned out.
Also – he hated to admit this, even to himself, for it was unforgiving and mean – but a little voice inside him kept whispering, “She killed our son. She was high on heroin, and she killed little Kamal.” He’d just told her that he didn’t blame her, and he wanted to believe that himself – he wanted to be that kind, forgiving man – but… there it was.
With all of that in mind, he pushed her away gently and looked her in the eyes. “Are you still using?”
She tugged her sleeves lower on her wrists and crossed her arms. Her mouth was a flat line. “What right do you have to ask me that?”
He shrugged slightly. “I’m asking.”
Her expression turned into a snarl. “You can’t expect someone to give up heroin for life. It doesn’t work like that. But I can control it. I only get high every few months, that’s all.”
Her voice softened. “Maybe I could stay clean with your help.” She was as changeable as the eddies of the wind. Had she always been that way? “I could change,” she continued, “if you stayed with me. If you loved me.”
At one time in his life, this meeting and those words would have been a dream come true. Lena alive, and the two of them together again.
Now, though… He remembered other things. He remembered Lena’s secrecy when they’d been together, the constant lies, the mood swings, the times when she would shut herself in a dark room for days… He recalled the drug addiction, the fights, and the accusations that he had abandoned her in Lebanon. Somehow he’d forgotten all of that, or put it out of his mind. Instead he’d created an idealized image of their lives together, with Lena as a lost angel – all encapsulated in the photo he’d carried in his pocket for so many years.
In a way he still thought of her as the older, wiser woman who had tried to rescue him from the mindlessness of war. She was beautiful, and possessed a fierce creative energy that masked her underlying fragility. There was much to love in her.
But did he want the pain and heartache that would come with it? Did he want to thrust himself back into her endless drama? Could he truly forgive her for the death of their son? And even if the answer to all these questions was yes, was she even halal for him? An atheist?
He stood on the busy sidewalk, people streaming around them, as confused as he had ever been in his life. Only now did he begin to realize that any desire he might have to be reunited with Lena stemmed from a combination of guilt and fantasy. It wasn’t what his heart needed or longed for. It wasn’t real.
If he was truly honest with himself, the phrase “true love” did not elicit an image of Lena in his mind, but of someone else. It had been that way for a long time. Coming here… he’d needed to know, to see Lena in the flesh; to explain, apologize, and understand. But his heart already belonged to someone else. Now that his memories had returned, he knew this to be true.
He couldn’t bring himself to say no to Lena. He didn’t have the strength to say the word.
It didn’t matter. She read it in his face. She snorted bitterly and shook her head. “You don’t want me, Hassan. I don’t know why you came here or what you want, but it isn’t me.”
He met her angry eyes with a deeply apologetic look. “I care about you, Lena. I always will.”
For a moment Lena seemed to drop all her masks. The anger, bitterness and self-pity vanished, and she gave him a look of such profound sadness that he thought his heart would crumble into dust. She seemed so lost – so forlorn and confused.
Tears welled in his eyes and ran down his cheeks. He wanted to take her in his arms, promise her that he would stay, banish her demons, heal her, save her, and never abandon her again.
He made no move toward her, however. Pity wasn’t love. He couldn’t save Lena. All of their lives were as fragile and fleeting as leaves, and none but Allah could save anyone. Any belief to the contrary was self-delusion and arrogance.
“My soldier boy,” Lena said sadly. “It wasn’t all bad, was it Hassan?”
“The Topkapi Palace.”
Lena nodded. “I remember that day.”
“Let’s hold on to that.”
Lena made no reply. Her shoulders slumped and she tipped her head almost to one shoulder, as if too tired to hold it up.
“Goodbye, Hassan.” Lena’s reply was so soft that if Hassan hadn’t seen her lips move he wouldn’t have understood her.
Feeling like a deserter, but knowing this was the only move for him, Hassan turned his back on Lena’s reproachful visage and got into the car.
With Lena disappearing in the side view mirror, Hassan sat back in the passenger seat and closed his eyes as Muhsin drove him to the airport.
He’d already said his goodbyes to Gala and Muhsin’s family early that morning. Gala had been lost to him for so many years; he didn’t like leaving her again. But obtaining a visa would take time – a visa to the West was like a lottery ticket in Lebanon, something everyone craved and few received – and Gala insisted she was happy in Muhsin’s household. The youngest child was already following her around and calling her Teta, which in the Lebanese dialect meant Grandma. Even Abu Layla seemed happy, no doubt because his stomach was satisfied.
Hassan’s mind was spinning so much that it felt like the taxi was circling a roundabout at high speed. It was only hitting him now – really sinking in – that Layth was gone. Killed for my cause, Hassan thought. Killed by men who came after me.
He’d never had a chance to mourn. He hadn’t even seen Layth’s body. He’d glimpsed the ambulance pulling away, rushed to Oakland to rescue Jamilah… then slept for two years. Layth gone. Kadija a widow.
Charlie too. He remembered the monster that Charlie had become. He’d seen him with his own eyes, recognized him like he’d recognize his own reflection.
And yet… these memories did not wound him as deeply as they should. He felt grief, sure, but it was muted, like the impact of a bullet slowed by water.
He loosened his grip on the leather seat. Gradually, the feeling of disorientation slowed. He opened his eyes and looked around at the Beirut traffic. His gaze roamed over the pedestrians talking, laughing, and arguing, and the new buildings going up, one civilization atop another. In fact the very same generation who still lived was busy layering new plaster and paint over their own past – a past that lay beneath the surface like bruised muscles beneath the skin.
Slumber. Sleep. In a flash of insight, he realized why he was not more traumatized by the fates of Layth and Charlie. It was the coma. He hadn’t been asleep, had he? He could still remember the dark scenes that had unfolded before his inner vision again and again while he lay unmoving. He’d relived those scenes until they lost their power to paralyze him.
And he’d had help. Jamilah. He remembered the first time he met Jamilah properly – the day her bike was stolen. The way she shoved the bike thief in the chest, heedless that he was twice her size… Her vow to start practicing Islam properly, and the way she’d stuck to it even when she was fired from her job as a result… The time she bought that used chair on Market Street and struggled for half a day to haul it – by herself, refusing all assistance – up to her apartment on Nob Hill… He grinned, thinking of that crazy day.
He remembered too, the way she’d stood above him when he was wounded, ready to fight and die for him. The way she’d championed him for two years, taking him under her wing, believing in his strength, defying the naysayers.
Ah, Jamilah, he thought. I don’t deserve you.
At the Beirut airport, located in the southern suburbs of the city, Hassan surveyed the departures board. After a moment he found what he was looking for. There was a flight to Istanbul in two hours.
He had unfinished business in the capital of the world.
Istanbul was even more crowded and hectic than Hassan remembered, if that were possible. He found Mehmet looking only a little changed. His hair was as white as the snows of Mount Ararat, and his chin noticeably more jowly, but he looked happy and healthy. Mehmet was overjoyed to see Hassan. His former employer embraced him for a full minute, and called a waiter to bring two coffees. The older man couldn’t get over how strong and fit Hassan looked.
“I’ve been so worried about you all these years,” he said, his hand resting on Hassan’s arm. “You were in such a terrible state, then you disappeared.”
Hassan filled him in, gazing admiringly at the café as he did so. The Western Door bustled with customers and staff. Mehmet had purchased the building next door and knocked down the interior wall, doubling the size of the café. The menu featured trendy new coffee drinks, including “superfood” blends with blueberry and açai. Something called “world music” played on the stereo.
“You have to keep up with the times,” said Mehmet. “I have a poetry jam every Saturday night.” He grinned. “You want your old job back?”
Hassan laughed. “Thank you, Amca,” he said, using the Turkish word for uncle. “I’m only here to visit.”
To Hassan’s disappointment, his old friend Jihad was gone. A nurse at the clinic said he’d gone back to Iraq several years before. Another insisted he’d emigrated to New York.
He visited the spot on the Bosphorous where he’d thrown Daniel’s dog tag into the sea. He stood watching the strait as ships passed by and seagulls cried overhead. A salty wind ruffled his hair, and a huge white pelican skimmed the surface of the waters, its chest thrust forward proudly. Black and gray cormorants perched atop a row of rotting wooden pylons, one bird per post, observing Hassan as a jury might observe a defendant on the stand. We find you guilty, they seemed to say. Guilty in your intentions, and guilty in your deeds.
Hassan brought his mind back to the reason he’d come here. “Peace, Daniel,” he said softly. “I haven’t forgotten you and I never will. Have no fear for me. Allah has my back.”
No sooner had he spoken the words than a tall black stork strode past him in the shallows. Hassan had never seen one like this, and he observed it with fascination. Its wings, neck, and head were black; its underside white, while its long legs and beak were as red as blood. The overall effect was grim, almost spectral – which was perhaps appropriate for the final task Hassan had to perform.
He spent a few days stalking the streets and parks around Teksim Square, bribing the street level drug dealers for information. In the end he learned that Anton had fallen hard. He’d spent several years in prison and come out a broken man. He lived in a run-down flat in the Beyoğlu district, and was a pimp now, running a few past-their-prime prostitutes on Tarlabaşı Bulvarı.
Hassan found the flat and kicked in the door, surprising Anton in the middle of shooting heroin into his thigh. He was apparently sharing his high with an overly made-up woman who looked old enough to be a grandmother.
“Get out,” Hassan commanded the woman, and she did, pausing only long enough to snatch up her heroin works, not even casting a glance back at Anton.
The apartment reeked of body odor and rotting food. Trash was strewn on the floor. Anton gaped at Hassan, his drugged eyes full of confusion.
Hassan considered leaving the man in his own filth and misery. Perhaps this scabrous life he led was enough of a punishment.
But then he remembered Lena – pregnant with Hassan’s child – lying on the floor in a warm bath of her own blood. He’d let Anton live once before, and the man’s vicious attempt to murder Lena had been the result. Some things could not be forgiven.
“Hello Anton.” Outwardly Hassan was calm, but his body felt like a mountain about to avalanche onto this devil. His arms were as relaxed and powerful as whips. He could, he knew, crush Anton’s throat with a single blow. “You should have killed me back then when I came to you,” he continued. “I know what you did. Make your peace with God. You’re done now.”
A combination of terror and contempt filled Anton’s eyes as he recognized the man before him. Predictably, he reached into his pocket and drew a knife. He came forward with a cry and a lunge.
It occurred to Hassan that Anton might have cut Lena’s throat with the very same knife he held now. The thought filled him with a crimson rage.
In Hassan’s heightened state of awareness, the attack was childishly easy to deal with. He caught the junkie’s arm and wrenched the knife out of his hand. He lifted the Greek bodily into the air and slammed him down to the ground, then sat atop the man’s chest and placed the point of the knife against his throat. He pressed slowly until the knife point barely pierced the skin, drawing a trickle of blood. Though he wanted to continue driving the knife in, something held him back. He’d come here intending to kill Anton, but couldn’t get his hand to obey his command. His arm shook. He bellowed in anger, spittle falling onto Anton’s face.
“No, please!” Anton cried. He rolled onto his belly beneath Hassan. As he did so the knife drew a shallow red scratch across his neck. The junkie began to sob piteously. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. For the love of God, please don’t kill me.” His sobs degenerated into the wordless bleating of a terrified sheep.
Hassan suddenly felt like a man waking from a dream. His hair stood on end. What am I doing? I was about to murder this pathetic wretch in cold blood. What’s happened to me?
He stood and stumbled backward toward the door, throwing the knife into a corner. He left Anton lying there, weeping amid the detritus of his failed existence.
Almost as soon as he left Anton’s dirty flat, Hassan’s legs began to tremble. He put a hand against a grimy light pole with no bulb, supporting himself until the shakes passed. He didn’t understand it. He’d been in numerous life or death conflicts, but he’d never experienced battle stress like this. Suddenly his stomach heaved, and he bent over on the litter-strewn sidewalk and vomited in the gutter.
He had to walk a few blocks before he could find a taxi. To his surprise, a female driver in hijab stopped for him. He’d never seen a woman cabbie in Istanbul before.
Sitting in the back of a taxi on his way to the airport, he noticed for the first time that he’d gotten a bit of Anton’s blood on his hands. He took a packet of tissues from his pocket and wiped his hands compulsively, using the entire pack, stuffing the stained tissues in his pockets.
He was overcome with a sense of shame. The Kopis war was one thing: he’d been defending himself against trained killers. But Anton was half-destroyed already. Hassan told himself that the man was a pimp, ruining women’s lives. But that was a rationalization and had nothing to do with why he’d almost killed him.
Another image came to his mind: his own hands, breaking Mr. Black’s neck. Why had he done that? What had happened to the Hassan who had renounced violence, and had vowed never again to kill? The Hassan who had gone unarmed to face Jamilah’s kidnappers? The Hassan who helped people, rather than simply destroying? How had he gotten so far from who he aspired to be? How had he lost his way? How had he become this violent, two-dimensional ghost of his former self?
He felt soiled. The blood-stained tissues in his pockets condemned him. Would he appear before Allah on Yawm al-Qiyamah holding those tissues as a mark of his guilt for all to see?
“Driver,” he called out. “I’ve changed my mind. Take me to Masjid Beyazit instead.”
Beyazit, when he arrived, looked exactly the same, thank God. This was where he used to pray when he’d lived here. It was a relief to finally be in a familiar place. The hour was between prayer times, but there were always worshipers in Beyazit praying on their own, reading Quran, or sitting in circles, learning from the scholars who taught there.
Hassan flushed the blood-stained tissues down the toilet, then washed himself thoroughly. Unsatisfied with his wudu’, he repeated it three times.
In the soaring prayer hall he prayed his fard or mandatory salat, then proceeded to pray sunnah. His guilt was like a well of black ink filling his skull. He feared that he had hopelessly tainted himself. Was he any different from the Kopis or the Panas? All these years he’d struggled to overcome his mother’s indoctrination, to get away from violence, yet now he had fresh blood on his hands, literally.
Was he evil? How could he perform any kind of sincere tawbah? How could he take even a step toward the bright image of himself that lived in his own imagination?
He put his forehead down in prostration and stayed there, praising Allah, seeking forgiveness, and pleading for guidance. His arms grew tired, yet still he prostrated, vowing not to rise until he had an answer. He confessed his guilt, his arrogance in thinking that a human life was his for the taking, his shame for forsaking Lena, his grief for his son. He dropped all pretenses, exposing himself before Allah, hiding nothing, knowing that he could never hide from Allah anyhow. He found himself spiritually naked before the Lord of All, having nothing to offer in his defense. He felt withered and desiccated, like the charcoal that remains after a tree burns in a fire.
His arms and shoulders ached. He began to weep silently, not knowing what else to say to the Most High, nor how to redeem himself. Glory to You, he whispered. There is no God but You, alone without any partner. To You belongs the Kingdom and all praise; You give life and death; in Your Hand is all good; and You have power over all things.”
Still he stayed in sujood. His hands went numb, and his knee – the one that had been kicked by some predatory youths so many years ago on his flight to Syria – ached.
An image came to his mind: the lighted path that had led him out of the coma. This time he saw a person and a place at the end of that path. With a flood of relief and gratitude, he realized that Allah was offering him a way, saving him from confusion and death as He had done again and again. He did not know why Allah was so kind to him and did not need to know. Neither did he imagine he was forgiven. He knew only that there was a path forward – a path that might lead to forgiveness, in time. Accepting it, feeling love and gratitude for Allah, he completed his prayer, wiped his tears, and stood to leave.
It was time to go home.
He called Jamilah and asked if she and Muhammad could pick him up at the airport when he arrived.
“Uhh… I’ll send Mo,” Jamilah replied.
“What about you?”
“To tell you the truth, I was just about to get a ride to the bus station. I’m moving back to Madera.”
Hassan couldn’t say he blamed her. But he was done wasting time and holding back. “I understand,” he said. “But I’d still like you to come.”
There was a long pause, until Hassan wondered if the line was disconnected.
“Do I have a reason to?” Jamilah said finally.
“Yes. I think you do.”
Hassan had just ordered a coffee at Istanbul’s Sabiha Gökçen International Airport when his phone rang. He hadn’t been much of a coffee drinker before his coma, but these days he found the aroma intoxicating. Maybe he’d been asleep for so long that he now wanted to be as awake as possible.
“I thought about your words,” the caller said. It was Jasper, the afro-wearing, machete-wielding assassin.
Hassan felt a surge of anger and annoyance. “Did I not make myself clear? I said I never wanted to hear from you again.”
“No, you said you never want to see me again.”
“What do you want?”
“I told you, I’ve been thinking. You’re right. We Panas only know how to kill. It’s what we were trained to do. That’s why we need you. We need the vision of Kamal Haddad. We want you to lead us. Show us a better way of doing things. Show us how to change Lebanon the right way.”
Hassan sighed. “There’s only one problem with that.”
“What is it?”
“I’m not Kamal Haddad. I don’t have his vision. I don’t know how to change Lebanon.”
“But we need you. We have no leader.”
“I think you do.”
“You. The very fact that you’re ready to change tells me that you’re more than the sum of your training. Use your connections and discipline for the betterment of Lebanon. But do it the right way. Killing is easy.” Hassan felt like a hypocrite saying this, but plowed ahead. “Building something good is much harder. You were trained to destroy. Now you have to learn to build.” And so do I, Hassan thought.
“Well…” Jasper said, but Hassan could hear the change in his tone already. Hassan’s words were sinking in. The Panas had their leader.
“Besides,” Hassan said. “I have something more important to do.”
“More important than leading Lebanon?”
“Yes,” Hassan replied. “She is.”
Stepping out of the plane at San Francisco International, Hassan was met by two U.S. Customs agents. A bulky agent with a thick neck and a bald pate examined his passport and announced, “This is him. Come with us, sir.”
“Why are you detaining me?” Hassan demanded.
Hassan was taken to a detention room filled with Arab, Pakistani, and Persian passengers – young and old, male and female – all apparently “randomly” selected.
When Hassan’s turn came, he was led to a private room where the agents interrogated him for an hour. Why had he gone to Lebanon? Who did he see? Did he buy guns? Did he participate in military training? What did he think of Hizbullah? Hamas? Al-Qaeda?
Hassan answered their questions truthfully, telling them that he’d gone to visit old friends, and that he was not political. He neglected to mention that he’d participated in a shootout between two warring groups of secret assassins.
Just when he thought they were out of questions, two new agents in dark suits entered the room. They interrogated Hassan about the Mission Street massacre two years ago. What was Hassan’s role in that? What happened in the Oakland warehouse? How could he afford such an expensive apartment?
Hassan kept his answers vague, pointing out that he did not take part in the shootout, he assisted Inspector Sanchez when she was wounded, and he went to Oakland only to find Jamilah. As for the apartment, it wasn’t his. It belonged to a corporation called Zanshin Enterprises, which employed him as a property manager. Technically, this was all true.
In the end they let him go, though Hassan had no doubt that they would monitor him closely for some time to come.
Jamilah, Muhammad, Alice, and baby Anwar were waiting patiently when he finally exited customs. The dark-haired baby was still so tiny in Alice’s arms. He kicked his little feet, made gurgling sounds, and smiled at nothing in particular.
For an instant Hassan was almost glad that Layth was absent. Layth had understood him, and had been able to read him like no other. He would have taken one look and known that Hassan had done something terrible. He would have seen Hassan’s guilt and shame.
Then he felt guilty for thinking that. His face flushed, and he dropped his head to hide it.
Muhammad embraced him. “Five Niiiiiine!” he exclaimed. “Back in the 415.”
415, of course, was the San Francisco telephone code, but it took Hassan a moment to remember that “five nine” was his old messenger ID number. That life seemed like a thousand years ago. He searched his memory for Muhammad’s old number, and found it.
“Eight Oh Ooooooone,” he replied, imitating Muhammad’s enthusiastic delivery, and trying his best to hide his inner turbulence. “I’m clean at SFO. Whatcha got for me?”
“You have your memory back,” Jamilah said matter of factly. She looked serene, or maybe just composed.
“Oh, dude!” Muhammad exclaimed. He threw his arms around Hassan and ruffled his hair. “That’s awesome, Alhamdulillah!”
Hassan looked at Jamilah shyly. “You don’t seem surprised.”
She nodded slowly. “If dreams die, life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly. I knew you’d recover. I had faith.”
“Hey, that’s good,” said Alice. “Is that poetry?”
“What about Lena?” Muhammad interjected. “Did you find her?”
“Yes. A lot has happened. Some good and some bad.”
Alice puffed out her cheeks in exasperation. “Why does everyone always ignore me?”
“But what about Lena?” Muhammad persisted.
“She and I have gone in different directions in life. Anyway, I have no love to give her.”
“Why?” Alice asked.
Hassan mustered his courage. Jamilah would have been within her rights to cut him off after he left to find Lena. She’d been more patient, steadfast and loyal than he had any right to expect. This was no time to beat around the bush.
“I have no love to give Lena,” he said, looking at Jamilah, “because my heart is filled with love for someone else.”
Jamilah’s face flushed and she turned away, giving him her back.
“Aww…” Alice said, hugging Jamilah.
“Jamilah,” Hassan said inquiringly. When she did not respond, he repeated her name.
She turned back to face him, wiping away tears with closed fists. “What?” Her tone was questioning, almost fearful, while her eyes flashed anger.
“I’m sorry. I had to go to Lebanon. I had to find the truth. But…” He shrugged and gave a crooked smile. “There’s no one for me but you. It’s as clear and bright inside me as the morning sun. I’m asking you to be my wife.”
“Aaaah!” Alice let out a shriek of excitement, then covered her mouth in embarrassment.
Jamilah studied Hassan from beneath lowered brows, her foot tapping the floor.
Hassan didn’t know if she was angry, annoyed or embarrassed. He wondered if he had been too forward. He could have reached out to her brother first… But no, Jamilah was her own woman. He knew her well enough to know that she’d just be annoyed with him if he asked her younger brother for her hand.
“You’re lucky I’m even here,” Jamilah said finally.
“How do I know you won’t go running off again?”
Hassan smiled. “Not without you, anyway.”
Jamilah shook her head slowly. “You know how to try a girl’s patience.”
“So… Is that a yes?’
Jamilah held up her thumb and index finger a millimeter apart. “Just barely, mister. Just barely.”
Outside the airport, a cold wind washed over Hassan like the waters of Salamiyyeh. Only in San Francisco could summer feel like winter. He could see his breath in the air; the fog condensed on his face like dew.
It didn’t bother him. The long winter of his heart was coming to an end. There was a time for all creatures to hibernate, to seek the safety of forgetfulness and maybe even self-imprisonment; and there was a time to awaken, to breathe in the crystal clarity of spring, the yellow warmth, and the urgency of growth – all of which was an expression of Allah’s mercy and love.
This was a time to truly live – something he’d done precious little of in the last two decades. This was a time to love.
The wedding of Hassan Amir and Jamilah Al-Husayni took place on an expanse of grass in front of the Palace of Fine Arts in San Francisco. It was a crisp autumn afternoon. The breeze coming off the bay rippled the lake as a flock of swans swam by.
In attendance were Muhammad, Alice, and their baby; Jamilah’s mother and brother, with her brother acting as her wali; Adel and Sahar, along with Sahar’s husband (a tall Iraqi engineer she’d married the year before); Sandra Dempsey, the nurse; Lieutenant Katrina Sanchez and her family; Fatimah (the young sister who took over Hassan’s martial arts class) and her family; and Kadija, who returned from Indonesia with all her children especially for the occasion.
Rather than the Western-style white gown and tux, Hassan and Jamilah donned traditional Arab wedding attire. Hassan wore a long Arab-style shirt and loose pants, along with a cloak embroidered in gold thread and a black and white checked keffiyeh.
Jamilah looked stunning in a black and scarlet brocaded dress embroidered with white beads; a flowing white hijab with real gold coins dangling from the fringes; and henna designs on her hands.
The Palace of Fine Arts was a public area, and Hassan noticed many tourists stopping to take pictures of Jamilah. He couldn’t blame them. His heart was filled with gratitude and pride. He didn’t know what he had done to deserve Jamilah’s patience and love, but he felt like a prince about to receive the hand of the most beautiful princess on earth.
The wedding was officiated by Imam Sulayman, who looked directly at Hassan as he mentioned a Hadith Qudsi in which Allah said, “O son of Adam, so long as you call upon Me and ask of Me, I shall forgive you for what you have done, and I shall not mind. O son of Adam, were your sins to reach the clouds of the sky and were you then to ask forgiveness of Me, I would forgive you. O son of Adam, were you to come to Me with sins nearly as great as the earth and were you then to face Me, ascribing no partner to Me, I would bring you forgiveness nearly as great as it.”
“The past is a wealth of experience from which we should draw lessons,” the Imam continued. “It is not a pool of regret from which to poison ourselves. There can be no happiness without forgiveness: the forgiveness of Allah for our sins; forgiveness for each other; and forgiveness for ourselves. Do not say, ‘If only,’ or ‘I should have.’ Look to the future and to the present moment. Look to your partner’s loyalty and kindness in sharing his and her life with you. Look at the kindness of your friends, here because of their love for you. Look to the mercy of Allah, who washes your heart and gives you the gift of life every day.”
It was a beautiful day. When it was over Hassan had a sweet memory to add to his mental storehouse, so that he could – day by day – balance the tide of pain and self-recrimination that still sometimes kept him awake at night.
Hassan didn’t want a honeymoon. He was tired of strange places and faces. Instead, he and Jamilah purchased an apartment in San Francisco’s Mission District and spent the first two weeks of their marriage fixing it up. It was a good feeling for Hassan: back in a neighborhood he knew, eating Mission burritos for lunch and Vietnamese takeout for dinner, and spending his days with Jamilah cleaning, painting, and furnishing. Just the two of them, working together, getting to know each other as husband and wife.
It felt right, which was an extraordinary thing for Hassan, because it wasn’t a feeling he was used to. For so long, life had felt wrong in one way or another. But all he had to do was look at Jamilah to know that he’d made the right choice, and that he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
A few days after the wedding, Hassan and Jamilah were discussing what colors would be best for the bathroom. Hassan – who felt strangely free and adventurous, at least as far as bathroom colors went – wanted light blue with white soap bubbles.
Jamilah laughed. “Believe it or not, Shamsi used to subscribe to a home and gardening magazine, and I read an article that said primary colors like blue are okay for bathrooms, but to calm it down with white trim. So who am I to deny your water and bubble dreams?”
“What about Shamsi, anyway? Why didn’t she come to the wedding?”
“Not just her,” Jamilah said, holding a color wheel up against the wall. “Her mom and sisters too. Ever since we let her go from Salsabil, she and I haven’t spoken. I sent her an invite, you know. She blew it off.”
“How did your mom react to that?”
“It’s funny. I expected her to be upset, but she shrugged it off and told me this whole story about how she and her sister Lutfieh – that’s Shamsi’s mom – never got along. Lutfieh always thought she was better than my mom because she went to university. Back then they all lived in a refugee camp in Lebanon, struggling just to eat. Everyone in the camp was suffering. When Mom graduated high school, she went to work as a house cleaner. She understood that she couldn’t indulge her own dreams. Her salary helped pay for Lutfieh’s school books and uniforms. Then she met my dad and got married. By the time Lutfieh finished school, the family had immigrated to this country. Lutfieh had opportunities my mom never had, but to her, my mom is an uneducated primitive who doesn’t understand the world.”
“Did you know all of that?”
“Not at all. I knew life was hard for my mother growing up, but I never understood how much she sacrificed. My adventures have always alarmed her. She clings so hard to what she thinks of as security. I think I’m beginning to understand why.”
Hassan atoned for breaking his vow to never again use a gun. Every day for a month he delivered supplies of food and clothing to the youth shelter on Larkin Street. He didn’t imagine that this would buy him forgiveness for the things he’d done. The best he could do was to follow evil with good, and hope that, as Allah said in the Quran, the good would wipe out the bad.
He did not renew the vow, however. He considered it – but – well, he just didn’t, and couldn’t say why. He skirted the subject, even within the privacy of his own mind.
Jamilah completed the last year of her law studies at Golden Gate University. Hassan sold his share of Hammerhead Courier to Adel, and went to work for a nonprofit that assisted needy Central American immigrants. The organization helped struggling immigrants apply for residency and work, provided referrals for low-cost medical care, and provided literacy tutoring. His salary was minimal, but that was irrelevant. He wanted the experience for something he had in mind.
He learned of the death of his friend Wolf under strange circumstances. Though no one was ever arrested for the crime, Hassan had his suspicions.
He also learned of the assassination of his father’s old friend, Dr. Basim. The timing of Basim’s murder implied some kind of involvement in the violence that had occurred two years ago. Hassan could not accept, however, that Basim had betrayed him in any way – as Jamilah and Layth had suggested two years ago. Instead he chose to believe that Basim died protecting him.
Muhammad and Alice remained in Gualala, where Muhammad continued to direct Salsabil while Alice ran her gift shop. They enjoyed raising a child in that peaceful place, and the income from the clinic provided all of them – Muhammad, Alice, Hassan, Jamilah, and Kadija – with a comfortable income. Alice, who had been on the edge of converting to Islam for a long time, embraced the Deen entirely.
Hassan had difficulty obtaining a visa for Gala to come to the U.S. Finally Gala told him gently that he need not try. She and Abu Layla were getting married. “He’s crusty as a boot heel,” she conceded, “but he’s lively. At my age one can’t be picky.” Hassan congratulated her, but at the same time he felt a little sad, as if he’d lost her all over again. He had imagined her living with him and Jamilah, being cared for. But it seemed she wasn’t done caring for others.
Just about the time that Jamilah received her law degree and passed the bar exam, she gave birth to a girl. They named her Ayah, after Jamilah’s grandmother. Hassan wept that day, partly out of joy for the blessing of his daughter, and partly for the the child he’d never met.
Kamal would have been eighteen years old if he had lived. What would he be like if he were alive? Hassan wondered. Would he love his little sister? Would he be a typical teen, staying out late and getting into trouble? Or would he be my right-hand man, someone I could count on?
The name Ayah, of course, meant a sign or a miracle. Seven and a half pounds, olive skinned, and black haired like her mother, Ayah changed him. Being a parent, he realized, was like splitting off the most important piece of your soul and passing it on to your child, where it took root, grew and changed into something new and wonderful. The child’s happiness, sadness or pain were all more important than your own. Just looking at Ayah made Hassan smile, and he knew that there was nothing he wouldn’t do for her, and that his life would never be the same.
Hassan finally visited Charlie, who was held at a secure federal prison hospital situated on the mountainous, windswept pass between the Central Valley and the Mojave Desert. Gaining permission to see him proved easier than he expected. In fact, they accepted his assertion that he was an old friend of “John Doe” at face value.
Charlie sat in a chair in a locked dayroom, unrestrained, gazing out the barred window at the brown hills. The right side of his face sagged, and the fingers on his right hand were curled into claws.
When Hassan sat in front of him, Charlie’s gaze shifted to meet his. His little brother, Mr. Green, the Crow – Hassan didn’t know how to think of him – regarded Hassan for an uncomfortably long time. Hassan imagined he saw anger in the man’s eyes, resentment and perhaps regret, but maybe none of that was true.
He held Charlie’s good hand, brushed the hair from the man’s eyes, and wiped the drool that leaked from his mouth. He whispered to him that he was sorry, and that he loved him. There was nothing else to say. He kissed his brother on the cheek and left.
Exiting the prison, he found four FBI agents waiting for him. They drove him to their Bakersfield office and detained him. What, they wanted to know, was his relationship with the notorious assassin?
Because he had no honest answers to give them, he said nothing. They allowed him to phone an attorney: he phoned Jamilah. She showed up hours later with the baby on her hip, tongue lashing the agents in a righteous rage, demanding that they charge Hassan or release him. They let him go.
When Ayah was weaned, Hassan made his proposal: that he and Jamilah move to Lebanon.
“Not only to Lebanon,” he said, clasping Jamilah’s hands between his. “But Tel-Az-Zaytoon itself. The same camp where your family lived. You can’t imagine the poverty and suffering there, Jamilah. Between your law degree and my experience, plus our money, we could do so much good. I want to set up an organization that will advocate for the rights of the Palestinians in Lebanon, as well as provide medical services, job training – “
“Stop,” Jamilah said. She put her arms around him and embraced him tightly. “You don’t have to convince me, my love. To help my people in some way has been my dream since I was ten.”
So they did. They purchased a two-bedroom apartment in southern Beirut, just outside the Tel-Az-Zaytoon refugee camp. Though the neighborhood was poor, their home was clean and well furnished, and they were liked and respected by their neighbors. They loved each other, and believed in their work. They were, on the whole, happy.
They kept a large photo album with a paisley-patterned cover on a coffee table in the living room. It contained photos of their wedding, Ayah’s babyhood, and assorted photographs sent to them by Muhammad, Alice, and Kadija. On the first page were the three photos of little Kamal. Hassan sometimes sat on the plush green sofa and slowly flipped the album pages, avoiding the first page the way one might avoid touching a wound.
Finally, taking a deep breath, he’d turn to that page and study those three photos. Looking at them, he built on what he could see, imagining what happened before and after the photo was taken. He imagined how Lena had to teach Kamal to hold the crayon properly, how his favorite colors were blue and brown, how Lena praised him and tacked the drawing to the wall…
Jamilah, when she saw him in these moods, would sit beside him and rub his shoulders. She was a torch in a dusky world, providing warmth and light. Hassan didn’t know what he would have done without her.
Slowly but surely, the organization they founded – which they named Hurriyyeh (Freedom) – grew until it employed forty people, all Palestinians from Tel-Az-Zaytoon or nearby camps. The Hurriyyeh model was based on marrying services to industry. They established a pencil factory in the camp; the profits from the factory paid for the social services.
One organization alone could never end the suffering of a nation, but a single life saved was a miracle, and Hassan felt that maybe – just maybe – he was redeeming himself day by day. Maybe Allah would forgive him for all he’d done, and maybe one day he would meet his Lord in peace.
They were blessed with another child, a boy this time. They named him Jamil, in honor of the brother who had been such a good friend to Hassan in El Reno.
Initially they spoke to Kadija, Muhammad, and Alice weekly on Skype, but over time the weekly calls became monthly, then bimonthly. It was alright. The five of them would always be best friends, but everyone was busy with their lives.
Once or twice a year Hassan and Jamilah brought the kids along to meet Lena for coffee and pastries on the Corniche. Hassan would have given up these get-togethers if Jamilah objected, but she never did. Rightly or wrongly, he felt responsible for Lena. He couldn’t abandon her altogether. He just wanted to make sure that she was keeping it together and getting by. Lena would chat about waitressing or art, while Hassan and Jamilah would tell stories of their old messenger days in San Francisco, or talk about the kids.
If Hassan pressed, Lena would sometimes share a tidbit of information about Kamal. She never spoke about her drug habit, and Hassan didn’t push. He wasn’t there to fix Lena. He was there to be there. Maybe that was the whole point.
Gala visited often. On one visit she informed Hassan that Muhsin had sold the Mercedes taxi and replaced it with a Hyundai that got better mileage and cost less to maintain. As a result he was now earning twice what he used to. Hassan didn’t mind. The brother knew best what he needed for his business.
Jamilah’s mother flew to Lebanon two or three times a year. She complained bitterly about their living conditions, haranguing Hassan to move his family out of the camp and “out of this crazy country.”
“Every one of these people would leave if they could,” she’d insist, jabbing her finger into the air. “No sane person chooses to live here.”
Hurriyyeh opened another branch in Ain Al-Hilweh, a sprawling camp of 120,000 Palestinian and Syrian refugees outside Sidon. For this branch they built a tuna-canning factory, using only line-caught albacore tuna packed in Lebanon mountain spring water. The product was popular, and soon they were exporting to much of Europe. Per the Hurriyyeh economic model, they used the profits to open schools and clinics. For some of the camp children, it was their first time setting foot inside a proper school. Some had never seen a dentist.
Hassan heard from the Panas only once. The Eid after Hurriyeh 2 opened, he received a card in the mail. It read, “You see? You are changing Lebanon after all.” It was signed by Jasper. What the Panas ultimately chose to do with their training and connections, Hassan did not know.
By the end of Hassan and Jamilah’s second year in Lebanon, Syria was being torn apart. Refugees flooded into Lebanon, bringing stories of horror and death at the hands of the cursed Assad regime. Hassan’s thoughts turned increasingly to Abu Yahya and Hamada, the grandfather and child who had taken him in when he was shot and left for dead in the Syrian countryside. Abu Yahya, if he was still alive, would be an old man now. Hamada would be in his thirties, perhaps married and a father.
Were they alive? Were they suffering? Hassan felt torn, knowing that Jamilah would go ballistic if he told her that he wanted to travel into Syria to search for them, but at the same time feeling compelled to do so.
That, however, is a subject for another story, another day.
This story will end with an excursion that Hassan and his family took to the beach on a May afternoon. Jamilah sat on a beach chair beneath an umbrella, nursing baby Jamil and listening to the radio.
Hassan sat about ten feet away in the sand near the waterline, watching his daughter Ayah chase seagulls, sandpipers and the occasional long-legged wading bird. The sand was warm between his toes, and he wore a keffiyeh draped over his head to shield himself from the sun’s early afternoon glare.
When Ayah tired of her game, she ran back to Hassan and threw herself into his arms. Her hand went immediately under the keffiyeh to his ear, where she began fingering his earlobe. This was something she’d done since she was an infant. She seemed to find comfort in it.
Hassan knew that Ayah would grow up fluent in Arabic, but he wanted her to learn English as well. So Jamilah spoke to the children only in Arabic (she needed the practice anyway) while Hassan used only English. So far it seemed to be working. Ayah could switch back and forth instantly. She was a bright child, articulate for her age – three and a half – and always curious about the world.
“Yes sweetie, it is wonderful.”
“Did your Baba take you to the beach when you was a kid?”
Hassan smiled. “Yes, many times.”
“But… where is your Baba? I want to see him.”
“Only Allah knows, honey, but I believe he’s in Jannah.”
Ayah put on her “I’m thinking about that” face. “Where is that?”
Hassan described Jannah, with its green grass, immensely tall trees and sparkling rivers.
“I want to go there!” Ayah said excitedly. “Can we go there Baba? Can we go on a plane or a choo-choo train?”
There was such a pleading tone in her voice that Hassan hated to tell her no. Ayah, he knew, didn’t understand the concept of death, and he didn’t want to explain it for fear it would upset her. So he said, “One day we can go there Insha’Allah, but not for a long time. When people get to the end of their lives, and they pass away, they go to Jannah to be with Allah. But you can’t get there on a plane.”
Of course not everyone went to heaven, but Ayah could learn about “the other place” when she was older.
“Okay. Baba, can we look for seashells together?”
A few minutes later, Ayah squealed with delight and held up a perfect little conical shell with a swirling purple and white pattern.
“Wow!” Hassan exclaimed. “Good job, sweetie.”
Ayah gave him a stern look. “Say ma-sha-Allah, Baba.”
Hassan grinned. “You’re right. Ma-sha-Allah!”
“What’s the name of it?”
“I believe it’s called a purple unicorn.”
Ayah stared at the shell in amazement, perhaps thinking that she’d found an actual horn of a tiny unicorn. She ran off to share her amazing find with Mama.
Hassan remembered a day when he’d visited the beach with his family as a child. Charlie was building a sand castle when an older boy came along and kicked it over. Hassan leaped up in fury, outraged that anyone would bully his little brother. He tackled the boy, who was even bigger than Hassan himself, stuffed a handful of sand in the bully’s mouth, and released him to run off crying. Their father came limping out quickly across the sand, supporting himself with two canes. Hassan was sure that their dad, who constantly preached the principles of pacifism, would scold him for fighting. But Baba only put an arm around him and said, “Good for you for protecting your brother.”
He hadn’t done a very good job of that in the end, had he? He turned away from his family, looking out over the sea. The sun sparkled on the waves like a promise of heaven. In the far distance, wooden fishing boats plied the waters for pandora, yellowfin or redfin mullet.
Maybe one day he’d be free of guilt. Maybe he wouldn’t be haunted by all his failures, all the people he’d let die or killed with his own hands. Maybe one day he’d wake up to find his heart healed like soft red wax – a miracle to start the day – and he’d be free as a cat, living his second life or fifth or ninth – who could keep track? – and he’d laugh and swing Jamilah into the air and celebrate like the fair had come to town. Maybe one day.
At least he could finally see the horizon. No more was he diving into the depths and finding only unanswered questions and unrelenting murk. Now, finally, he knew where he stood. He knew who he was, who he loved and who loved him in return. He could see the way before him like a mountain path, meandering but climbing, and disappearing over the horizon.
He turned back to his family. Maybe he couldn’t forgive himself just yet, but he could still swing Jamilah in the air, couldn’t he? Having fed, little Jamil – who was turning out to be a good-natured and energetic boy – slept in a covered baby carrier. Jamilah was opening the picnic basket, taking out a sandwich for Ayah.
Hassan lumbered toward them like a beast, swaying from side to side. “I am the Mediterranean sea monster,” he growled, “coming to get you.”
Ayah shrieked with delight and hid behind her mother, crying, “Baba’s the Manian sea monster!”
“Stop it, Baba,” Jamilah whispered urgently. “You’ll wake the baby.”
“I’m not Baba,” he growled. “I’m a sea monster!” Putting his hands on Jamilah’s waist, he lifted her right out of the beach chair and up over his head.
“Ya Allah!” Jamilah exclaimed, laughing now. “Have you gone crazy, Hassan?”
Ayah laughed as well, dancing around her father’s legs, saying, “Do me! Do me!”
Hassan put Jamilah down on her feet and looked into her smiling eyes. “Maybe I am crazy, oh wife of mine,” he said. “Would you have me any other way?” He caressed her cheek. “I have a lot of regrets, my love. But you will never be one of them.”
Jamilah punched him playfully in the chest. “Oh, stop it, you big fool,” she said. “Here, pick up your daughter and swing her around. And when you’re done, have a sandwich.”
And that’s just what he did.
Footnote: Writing this series has occupied a major part of my life for the last three years. Along the way I feel like I’ve come to know and cherish these characters as friends. I hope you feel the same.
I thank MuslimMatters.org for giving me the opportunity to share these stories with all of you. I thank Amy Estrada, who edited many of my stories. Amy, your help has been utterly invaluable. I also thank the readers who edited this last chapter: Amel Abdullah, Ifrah Kaleem, Khalida Jalili, Safa Al-Dabagh, Hind Marai and Saad Zuhaid Hashmi.
There are a couple of new stories already in the works:
1. Deadly Favors – This is a story about Layth and will take place after his conversion to Islam, but before his marriage to Kadija.
Synopsis: When Layth learns that his father owes large gambling debts and is being threatened by a bookie, he travels to Florida to help settle the problem. He soon finds himself in over his head with a gang of armed Muslims who use violence to settle scores; the local branch of the mafia; and a mother who keeps preaching Christianity and trying to feed him roasted pork shoulder for dinner.
2. The Chair – This story about Jamilah takes place in the two month period between The Deal and Kill the Courier.
Synopsis: When Jamilah finds a plush chair on sale for $10 on Seventh Street, she must have it for her still sparsely furnished apartment. Problem: how will she get the chair ten blocks up the hill to her apartment, passing through the worst neighborhood in San Francisco? Along the way she deals with a homeless runaway, a lovestruck liquor store owner, profiling police, a flock of annoying pigeons, and two marriage proposals.
The first story will Insha’Allah be combined with expanded versions of Pieces of a Dream and A Lion is Born, and published as an e-book and a paperback. I hope to release the e-book within four or five months. Similarly, the other stories published here will eventually be released as e-books and paperbacks.
Of Dreams and Shadows
A short story
By Saulat Pervez
Tears streaming down her face and her lips moving fervently in supplication, the lady’s terrified face spoke volumes. Watching the lady, she realized how closely this woman was viewing death. She herself always considered someone passing away as a reminder, casting a shadow on her consciousness, making her hyperaware of the transience of life, but the darkness would dissipate as the hours passed by, overtaken by the urgent demands of the mundane. For this woman, however, death was no longer an abstract concept: she stood mesmerized by the fear gripping the woman who could see herself being carried off in a coffin very soon.
That night, she wrote in her journal,
We often ask one another what we want to do with our lives, but rarely think about our own deaths. Perhaps it’s time for us to work backwards. Let death be the starting point and then find purpose in our lives – knowing that no matter how old/young we are, or whether we have a prognosis hanging over our heads or not, death is right around the corner. In our zeal to accomplish everything we want, are we cognizant of the fact that anytime our life can come to an end? Too often, there’s a disconnect and death – despite its certainty – comes as a surprise. Instead, I want to think about the person I want to be at the time of my death and then figure out everything I need to do to be that person.
“So, how were the latest test results?”
“Not good. Her kidneys are getting worse, and now the liver is affected too.”
“And, how old did you say she was?”
“Oh, so she’s old,” she casually said, shifting her eyes to the computer screen.
He realized it was the end of that conversation and looked at his notes for the tasks to be accomplished for the day, pushing his ill aunt in a faraway country from his thoughts. Lurking in his mind, though, was the question: Can we decide when it’s okay for someone to die? To say that they have spent enough time in this world?
“Anything new today?” she asked.
He lay there, staring into space. A grandchild sat some distance away, a coffee cup next to her. From the window, he could see the hospital next door. Somehow, it looked really flimsy in his slanted gaze, as if the slightest jolt would crumble it into a miserable heap. His glance returned to the coffee cup for a fleeting second. He could taste the mocha latte in his mouth, but felt no appetite for it at that moment. His granddaughter looked up from her phone and caught his eye. “Would you like anything, Nana?” she asked, leaning forward.
He shook his head quietly and felt his son’s hand slip into his with a squeeze. He looked around the room and saw his family spread out before him, standing, sitting on the sofa handle, slouching on a couch, reading, whispering, praying. He felt a sudden burst of love. He closed his eyes and saw the words that he was thinking: Am I ready to leave all this? He winced before sleep mercifully overtook him.
Her husband had been in a coma for only two days but the doctors were already recommending that he should be taken off the ventilator. His brain had been damaged – his heart had stopped beating for a couple of minutes before the paramedics had managed to revive it. His organs had started failing soon after the heart attack.
She was horrified. How could she take such a huge decision? Wouldn’t she be ending his life if she agreed to pull the plug? What if he woke up in the next minute, day, week…? Taking his life was not a decision for her. She would refuse.
The doctors told her that she was only prolonging his pain. Let him go. But, to her, he didn’t look like he was in pain. And she wondered if they had ulterior motives – did they want to give his bed to someone else? Was he costing the insurance provider a fortune? Did they want to salvage whatever organs that remained intact? All sorts of thoughts kept plaguing her. Oh God, why are you putting me through this? She held her head in her hands.
She sat next to him. His heart was beating, he was breathing. She knew that if they removed him from the respirator, he would deteriorate very quickly. To her, the machine was keeping him alive and they wanted to take it away. But, then, a thought crept up to her: Had his soul already left his body? Was he even alive?
She remembered reading somewhere that a baby’s heart starts beating within the first few weeks in the womb. But her faith taught her that the soul isn’t breathed into the baby until the 12th week. So, technically, the heart could be beating without any soul. She let this sink in. The conflicting thoughts in her mind gradually grew quiet.
She looked at her husband and decided to listen to the doctors. I will let his life take its course. If he is meant to live, then he will survive, somehow.
Their house had an eerie silence, casting long shadows on everything it touched. Unless they were fighting, which happened quite a lot lately. It always began with whispered fury, as if their son was still living in the next room, but would escalate inevitably into a crescendo that would topple the silence into smithereens. Followed by a lot of sobbing and slammed doors. It was their way of mourning their only child, who had left them as suddenly as he had entered their lives.
She didn’t think she had any maternal skills, but she knew how much he wanted a baby, and she had eventually given in. She would always remember the day she birthed him as the day a mother was born. He soon became their sun, their world revolving around his every need and want, years passing by. Of course, in her eyes, her husband was never as careful as he should be around him. And, to him, she was too overprotective and needed to lighten up. As he became a young man, though, the three had formed an endearing friendship and life seemed perfect.
It would’ve been an ordinary day in their mundane lives had tragedy not struck and snatched their grown child away senselessly. In the aftermath, they both found themselves standing on the edge of a precipice, their bodies weighed down by grief and blame. And then the letter arrived, yanking them back onto safe space.
It began with, “In the Name of God, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful. Exalted is He who holds all control in His hands; who has power over all things; who created death and life to test you [people] and reveal which of you does best––He is the Mighty, the Forgiving; who created the seven heavens, one above the other. You will not see any flaw in what the Lord of Mercy creates. Look again! Can you see any flaw? Look again! And again! Your sight will turn back to you, weak and defeated” (Qur’an, 67:1-4).
Written by a mutual friend who was thousands of miles away, it amazingly acknowledged their pain and anger while reminding them that neither could’ve changed the fate of their son. It exposed their raw feelings towards each other and demanded that they not let this tragedy cause further damage by pulling away from each other. That, in this time of unspeakable loss, they need each other the most. It spoke of life and death as something far larger than them, and nothing they could’ve done would’ve saved their son. At the same time, it encouraged them to invest their energies into causes that would prevent others from suffering like they were. And, it ended with, “Say, ‘Only what God has decreed will happen to us. He is our Master: let the believers put their trust in God’” (9:51).
They didn’t know how many times they read the letter and when they curled their arms around each other, tears flowing. And that’s when their long, torturous journey toward healing finally began. Together.
Inna lillahi wa inna ilaihi rajioon, to God we belong and to Him we return. She couldn’t believe the news: Was he really gone? As much as she wanted to deny it, she had to accept the reality. A sudden gloom settled in her. The distance killed her. She knew she wouldn’t be able to go for the funeral. Worse, she felt guilty for not visiting. She should’ve known, she should’ve gone.
She went about her day like a zombie. She was physically present, but mentally and emotionally, she felt completely numb. Flashes from her childhood kept distracting her. He had always loved her like his daughter. As she began imagining family and friends gathering to console the immediate family and prepare for the funeral, she felt lonely – tinged with poignant nostalgia, the detachment made the loss more pronounced, compounding her sorrow. She lost her appetite and everything around her became dull. Instead, she hungrily sought every detail around his death. She messaged ten people at once and waited anxiously for the responses. As they began pouring in, she began to cry, utterly desolate.
Through the layers of grief and loss, a voice managed to speak: Is this about him or you? She was caught off guard. She realized that she was so self-absorbed that she hadn’t even prayed for him. She started murmuring supplications, asking for his forgiveness and peace. She reached for the Qur’an and opened it to Surah Ya-Sin and began reciting. The lyrical verses gradually soothed her. Her mind began to fill with his smiling face and the happy moments they had spent together. She suddenly understood that what mattered most was the time they had shared when he was alive – the ways in which she was there for him, the things he had done for her.
It isn’t about him or me. It’s about us.
“What is the procedure for inducing here? How long after the due date do you wait?”
“We don’t wait. If you aren’t in labor by your due date, we schedule you.”
“Oh. My other two babies arrived late—”
“Why can’t we find the baby’s heartbeat?” The doctor said to herself as she walked over and took the device from the nurse, pressing and moving it firmly on her swollen belly.
She woke up in a sweat. This is how the dream always ended. Except each time the setting was different. Tonight, they were in a massive kitchen with the doctor and the nurse in crisp, white aprons; the device was a shiny spatula and she was lying flat on a counter.
Instinctively, her hand stroked her stomach, now flattened. In the bleak light, she looked at the empty corner where the crib had stood not too long ago and she wept, consumed with longing. For the umpteenth time, she asked herself, When was the last time I felt the baby kick? She could honestly not remember. The night before, she had been up late, worrying and waiting for her husband to come home from work. During the day, her toddler kids had kept her occupied until it was time to rush for the doctor’s appointment. She had just started her ninth month.
The truth of the matter was that she had never thought anything would go wrong. After all, her other pregnancies had been entirely normal and natural. She had stayed active and agile until it was time to go to the hospital. So, what happened? No one knew. There was a heartbeat, and then there wasn’t. If only I had sensed that something was wrong. What kind of mother am I?
Flashbacks, flashbacks, and yet more flashbacks. She was riddled with flashbacks lately. It’s incredible how suddenly the entire stage can be reset. One moment you have something and the next, it’s gone – and you’re left looking at your emptiness shocked with wonder: how did it happen? Just like that, life ends or a catastrophe strikes, and colors everything a different shade.
As she wallowed in her sorrow, she was yanked out yet again by the same verse: Not a leaf moves without His knowledge. She shook her head, amazed by the simple phrase that sprinkled her conversations so casually: insha’Allah, if God wills. She would say it and yet expect certain outcomes. This time, when He had other plans, it hit her with such force that she felt completely dwarfed.
She sighed. She whispered quietly, inna lillahi wa inna ilaihi rajioon.
She got up and went to check on her kids. As she kissed them and sat by them, she reminded herself: You are an amanah, a trust, from God. I do not own you. And I am ever so grateful that He has given you to me. I promise to take care of you. But, ultimately, we all return to Him, for every soul must taste death.
She returned to bed, taking refuge in this moment of comfort, knowing full well how elusive it was. But it’s what kept her afloat and she held on to it dearly.
Saulat Pervez has come of age, both as a child and an adult, between Pakistan and the United States. She has taught English Literature in Karachi, worked remotely for Why Islam, a project of the Islamic Circle of North America, and is currently an Associate Researcher at the International Institute of Islamic Thought (IIIT) in Herndon, Virginia.
As a result of her diverse encounters here and abroad, and grounded in her experiences in teaching, writing, and research, she is committed to investigating ways to cultivate reading, writing, and thinking cultures both locally and globally, especially in multilingual contexts.
Saulat has been writing stories since she was a newly arrived immigrant and middle schooler in Central Jersey. Most of her adult life, however, was spent writing journalistic pieces and website content, with a few children’s books published in Pakistan. She has also mentored six teenagers in the writing of a collaborative murder mystery, Shades of Prey, which is available on Amazon.com.
This particular short story — made up of discrete yet connected pieces — has been a labor of love which she hopes the reader will find intriguing and thought-provoking. Much like her life, it has been written between places, with snatches of time both at home and during travel.
To Decorate Or Not To Decorate – Is That The Ramadan Question?
As Ramadan approaches and we prepare our hearts and homes, decor brings meaningful reflection.
As a Muslim born and raised in America, I strongly believe in making my religious holidays feel as special and magical as non-Islamic mainstream American holidays. The broader American culture and society that I grew up in definitely informs this conviction as well as my love of crafting and decorating.
However, I have noticed a troubling trend on my social media that reminds me of some of my favorite scenes from the year 2000 film How the Grinch Stole Christmas (when Martha May’s light-affixing gun and Cindy Lou Hoo’s mom causing a traffic accident after stealing a traffic light for her home’s Christmas decorating). All the Facebook groups with a bunch of strangers posting about their decorating and activities has really led me to ask–to decorate or not to decorate for Ramadan and Eid?
Well, that’s not really the question! It’s a lot more nuanced than that, which leads me to the real questions I want to ask myself and all of us–why to decorate or not, how to decorate or not, and what are the ramifications of decorating or not.
Why Decorate or not to Decorate
There is a complex cultural issue here for Muslims living in America. What are the many cultures we identify with and how do they interact with each other? I identify as a Pakistani-American Muslim and I also feel a strong pull towards the other hyphenated-American and international Muslim communities and the histories of the Ummah around the world. Which cultures do we identify with and how and why do they signify and mark upcoming festivities and holidays? These two questions are essential for us to ask ourselves when we consider why we choose to decorate, or not, during a special time like Ramadan or a holiday like Eid.
But one reason a person should never decorate is that they feel pressured into it because of those around them or other social or cultural factors. Just because our social media feeds are blowing up with cute and amazing Ramadan decor or the local halal meat store has some Eid decor for sale does NOT mean that we should feel like we need to decorate ourselves. It is so easy for us to feel pressured into doing things because we “see” (or think we see from others’ projections of their lives on social media) all of these people we know doing them. Truthfully it sounds so simple when we talk about teenagers feeling peer pressure at school or with friends, but do we actually consider the types of peer pressure we experience as adults in our cyber-lives? (And we have not even talked about advertising posts from different companies or small business owners, and these can sometimes be from friends who are affiliated with certain companies or products.)
Yes, it’s great to share ideas and get inspired from many different sources, but when it crosses the line from inspiration to feelings of guilt or compulsion or from fun to serious jealous competition it is dangerous and compromises our happiness, mental and emotional health, and spirituality. These decor posts are so decontextualized because we really don’t know the details of everyone’s lives, but we still get intimate glimpses into their personal spaces. It doesn’t matter that every Muslim mom is making an advent calendar for their kids or that the one Instagram posting-enthusiast built a miniature masjid in their living room. Similarly, it doesn’t matter that people generally engage in hanging up wreaths or sprinkling confetti on the dinner table as a cultural norm if we don’t understand the use of it, are uninterested in doing so, or have some sort of convictions against it.
The other issue I have with feeling compelled to decorate is when it seems like a piece of Ramadan or Eid worship that is mandatory or given a higher priority than other mandatory acts of worship. What other people do in their spiritual lives or their worship regiment is none of our business and nothing we should be concerned about generally speaking. There could be a friend or two we have a close mentoring relationship with, and in that special case, we might share details of our spiritual lives with them. But now let’s think about something as trivial as decorating the home for Ramadan–is it really something any of us should take so seriously in a comparative way? If the whole point of decorating for Ramadan is getting ourselves and our families in the “Ramadan spirit” or to be excited about celebrating Eid, then isn’t it an act of worship with the right intentionality? So if we go around comparing our acts of worship to others,’ is that something our Prophet or scholars have advised us to do in any way?
Sure, it is very easy to compare my decor with someone else’s because it is something with an obvious outward manifestation (just like I can compare my modest clothing practices to another woman’s.) But is it healthy or good in any way? And just as a final note–if our decorating is causing us to commit sins, like missing prayers or being rude or unkind to family members, or overshadows other Ramadan preparations for mandatory worship, like getting in some practice fasts or seeking medical attention for health issues related to fasting, we really have our priorities wrong.
How to Decorate or not to Decorate
It’s common sense that we should have a set of considerations for anything we do, and I want to bring a high level of intentionality to this issue, even though it may seem trivial. Now is a great time to air these considerations out as the American Muslim community (and generally Muslims living in the West) is embracing the practice of decorating for Ramadan and Eid at the moment.
The crux of this issue is simple to me: if we are treating decorating for Ramadan as a voluntary act of worship, what are the conditions that should be met for God to accept this deed? Basic religious principles such as prioritizing obligatory acts of worship over voluntary or simply permissible ones, not violating anyone’s rights or hurting others, etc. should be part of the considerations, as well as practical logistical issues.
The reason why I think it’s important to be mindful about decorating is because I fear this phenomenon will become shallow and meaningless very quickly in our lives, and if we want decorating to be part of our Ramadan/Eid worship we should be as thoughtful about it as other acts of worship.
- Budget. How much money do I have to put aside for a non-essential expense? Am I justified in spending money on a non-essential expense if I have debts, loans, or other financial obligations? Should I use the money for another cause, like donating to a charity? Am I going into debt to fund this project or engaging in a questionable activity religiously to finance any purchases? For my means and lifestyle, would any of these expenses be considered israf or unnecessary/over-the-top?
- Effort and Ability. How much effort and time do I want to spend myself or expect my family to invest in order to achieve the end result? Do I or others in my family enjoy doing stuff like this, or is it going to be a miserable task which will actually make me and others feel stressed out or have negative feelings about Eid or Ramadan? Am I taking too much time from obligations (mandatory prayer, mandatory fasting, spending time at work looking up decorating ideas instead of working, etc.) or from other good opportunities (taking care of family members, visiting the sick, exercising or getting healthy amounts of sleep, reading Quran, etc.)?
- Ethical Concerns. What types of items will I purchase to decorate with and what is the background of how they were manufactured (environmental impact, sweatshop factory, funding oppression, one-time use or going to be kept for decorating for multiple years, etc.)? Would God be happy with the purchase I made based on how it was created?
The Ramifications of Decorating or not Decorating
So, a family has decided to decorate! The next question is–how do we interact with our decorating after it’s been completed? There are two relevant areas here: inside the home/for the direct intended audience and outside the home/for a broader audience.
It is important to remember that these efforts were undertaken for the people inside the home who are in fact the ones meant to benefit from these decorations and festive atmosphere. I’m not sure how others interact with their decorating efforts, but limiting the engagement to simply passive or highly useful actions seems to make the most sense to me. For example,
- Useful: an item with the supplication for breaking the fast written on it and having one family member read the supplication out-loud before everyone breaks their fasts
- Not useful and cumbersome: setting an elaborate tablescape with decorations every night which make eating difficult
- Neutral: spending a minute turning on decorative lights near nightfall for a festive feel
- Passive: spending half an hour hanging up a sign and a few paper lanterns somewhere visible and just leaving them for the remainder or Ramadan and/or Eid.
I think knowing what will be useful or neutral or annoying falls into common sense and knowing which type of person you are–someone who needs to restrain themselves or someone who could push themselves a bit more to be more enthusiastic–will help us easily decide what to do.
Another thing to keep in mind is evaluating the effectiveness of your decor once or twice during Ramadan (or Eid). Is what we’ve done in our home distracting from or counterproductive to mandatory or highly recommended acts of worship? (Such as only turning on decorative lights and candles so that a family member who wants to read from the Quran does not have enough light to read.)
Are the efforts we’ve put together so demanding that they are squeezing us in detrimental ways? (Such as setting the table in a specific way causes us to delay our fast-breaking or a family member’s lack of willingness to participate is causing tension in the household.) We often evaluate how our diets or hydrating plans are working for our energy levels in Ramadan and how our commitment to prayers and other acts of worship are influencing our spirituality or sleep schedules, and I think extending an evaluation (maybe just a quick one) to our decorating set-up is worthwhile. Is what I’ve done to my home actually of any benefit to me and my loved ones at this sacred time? That’s a question we need to ask ourselves.
Divine Decor: Worshipping Through Decorating
The other area–the indirect audience outside of the home–is one that I think mostly has to do with the idea of publicizing our good deeds to each other and/or showing off. If we have all agreed to the underlying premise that decorating for Ramadan or Eid is an act of worship that we’d love to be rewarded for from God, then we can compare this action with other similar actions (such as praying or helping an injured animal). If I find a large stone in the middle of a walkway and decide to remove it, should I go around and tell people what I did for the rest of the day? If I generally am regular in my prayers and visit a mosque to perform one, should I make my prayer longer than normal to seem more pious or connected to God because I’m no longer alone? If I am feeling charitable, should I broadcast a live video on a social media platform and show those I know how much I am donating to a certain cause? No, of course not. We know that publicizing our good deeds can ruin our good intentions and compromise any act’s validity in the eyes of God. We also know that this can go a little further and compromise the integrity of our spiritual state by encouraging us to develop spiritual diseases, such as becoming arrogant or unnecessarily competitive for material things.
And this is exactly where I find a conundrum in showing off our decor for broader audiences outside of the home–is our act of worship still sincere, will our good deed still be accepted, and is our spiritual state still pure? I’m not even beginning to broach the topic of social media usage in general and what are healthy ways to interact with it–I’m simply concerned with keeping any good deed we might be engaging in a “good” deed after all.
The Prophet ﷺ said, “He who lets the people hear of his good deeds intentionally, to win their praise, Allah will let the people know his real intention (on the Day of Resurrection), and he who does good things in public to show off and win the praise of the people, Allah will disclose his real intention (and humiliate him).حَدَّثَنَا مُسَدَّدٌ، حَدَّثَنَا يَحْيَى، عَنْ سُفْيَانَ، حَدَّثَنِي سَلَمَةُ بْنُ كُهَيْلٍ،. وَحَدَّثَنَا أَبُو نُعَيْمٍ، حَدَّثَنَا سُفْيَانُ، عَنْ سَلَمَةَ، قَالَ سَمِعْتُ جُنْدَبًا، يَقُولُ قَالَ النَّبِيُّ صلى الله عليه وسلم وَلَمْ أَسْمَعْ أَحَدًا يَقُولُ قَالَ النَّبِيُّ صلى الله عليه وسلم غَيْرَهُ فَدَنَوْتُ مِنْهُ فَسَمِعْتُهُ يَقُولُ قَالَ النَّبِيُّ صلى الله عليه وسلم “ مَنْ سَمَّعَ سَمَّعَ اللَّهُ بِهِ، وَمَنْ يُرَائِي يُرَائِي اللَّهُ بِهِ ”.
We’re generally encouraged to keep our good deeds secret and private and inviting a non-intended audience into our homes with pictures and videos seems to go directly against that principle. There is a fine line between sharing how we’ve decorated our homes with others in an encouraging way to them that does not push us towards a culture of unhealthy peer pressure or competition, just like there is a fine line between sharing how we’ve decorated in a way that does not compromise the validity of our potentially good and rewardable deed. (We’ll leave decorating for Ramadan or Eid parties for another day.)
How to Teach Your Kids About Easter
Don’t tell my dad this, but growing up, I was sure I wanted to be a Christian. It had nothing to do with the theology though, it was – really and truly – all about the chocolate.
Don’t tell my dad this, but growing up, I was sure I wanted to be a Christian. It had nothing to do with the theology though, it was – really and truly – all about the chocolate.
Don’t get me wrong, I did not grow up in any sort of conservative, chocolate-deprived bubble. My mother was – and still is – a Christian. My father was – and still is – Muslim, and our home was a place where two faiths co-existed in unapologetic splendor.
My mother put up her Christmas tree every year. We children, though Muslim, received Easter baskets every year. The only reason why I wished I was Christian too, even though I had no less chocolate in my life than other children my age, was because of the confusing guilt that I felt around holiday time.
I knew that the holidays were my mother’s, and we participated to honor and respect her, not to honor and respect what she celebrated. As a child though, I really didn’t understand why we couldn’t celebrate them too, even if it was just for the chocolate.
As an adult I’ve learned that I’m not alone in this conflicted enthusiasm for the holidays of others. Really, who doesn’t like treats and parties and any excuse to celebrate? As a parent though, I’ve decided that the best policy to use with my children is respectful honesty about where we stand with regard to other religions.
That’s why when my children asked me about Easter, this is what I told them:
- The holidays of every religion are the right of the people who follow them. They are as precious to them as Eid and Ramadan are to us.
- Part of being a good Muslim is protecting the rights of everyone around us, no matter what their religion is. There is nothing wrong with non-Muslims celebrating their religious non-Muslim holidays.
- We don’t need to pretend they’re not happening. Respectful recognition of the rights of others is part of our religion and our history. We don’t have to accept what other people celebrate in order to be respectful of their celebrations.
- The problem with Muslims celebrating non-Muslim religious holidays is that we simply don’t believe them to be true.
So when it comes to Easter specifically, we break it down to its smaller elements.
There is nothing wrong with chocolate. There is nothing wrong with eggs. There is nothing wrong with rabbits, and no, they don’t lay eggs.
There is nothing wrong with Easter, but we do not celebrate it because:
Easter is a celebration based on the idea the Prophet Isa was Allah’s son, who Allah allowed to be killed for our sins. Easter is a celebration of him coming back to life again.
Depending on how old your child is, you may need to break it down further.
Allah Created the sun, Allah is not a person whose eyes can’t even look directly at the sun. Allah Created space, Allah is not a person who can’t survive in space. Allah Created fire, Allah is not a person who cannot even touch fire. Allah is not a person, He does not have children as people do. Prophet Jesus [alayis] was a messenger of Allah, not a child of Allah.
Allah is also the Most-Merciful, Most-Forgiving, and All-Powerful. When we make mistakes by ourselves, we say sorry to Allah and try our best to do better. If we make mistakes all together, we do not take the best-behaved person from among us and then punish him or her in our place.
Allah is Justice Himself. He is The Kindest, Most Merciful, Most Forgiving Being in the entire universe. He always was, and always will be capable of forgiving us. No one needed to die in order for Allah to forgive anyone.
If your teacher failed the best student in the class so that the rest of the students could pass, that would not be fair, even if that student had offered that. When people say that Allah sacrificed his own son so that we could be forgiven, they are accusing Allah of really unfair things, even if they seem to think it’s a good thing.
Even if they’re celebrating it with chocolate.
We simply do not believe what is celebrated on Easter. That is why we do not celebrate Easter.
So what do we believe?
Walk your child through Surah Ikhlas, there are four lines and you can use four of their fingers.
- Allah is One.
- Allah doesn’t need anything from anyone.
- He was not born, and nor was anyone born of Him. Allah is no one’s child, and no one is Allah’s child
- There is nothing like Allah in the universe
Focus on what we know about Allah, and then move on to other truths as well.
- Christians should absolutely celebrate Christian holidays. We are happy for them.
- We do not celebrate Christian holidays, because we do not accept what they’re celebrating.
- We are very happy for our neighbors and hope they have a nice time.
When your child asks you about things like Christmas, Easter, Valentines, and Halloween, they’re not asking you to change religions. They’re asking you for the chance to participate in the joy of treats, decorations, parties, and doing things with their peers.
You can provide them these things when you up your halal holiday game. Make Ramadan in your home a whole month of lights, people, and happy prayer. Make every Friday special. Make Eid amazing – buy gifts, give charity, decorate every decorat-able surface if you need to – because our children have no cause to feel deprived by being Muslim.
If your holidays tend to be boring, that’s a cultural limitation, not a religious one. And if you feel like it’s not fair because other religions just have more holidays than we do, remember this:
- Your child starting the Quran can be a celebration
- Your child finishing the Quran can be a celebration
- Your child’s first fast can be a celebration
- Your child wearing hijab can be a celebration
- Your child starting to pray salah can be a celebration
- Your children can sleep over for supervised qiyaam nights
- You can celebrate whatever you want, whenever you want, in ways that are fun and halal and pleasing to Allah.
We have a set number of religious celebrations, but there is no limit on how many personal celebrations we choose to have in our lives and families. Every cause we have for gratitude can be an opportunity to see family, eat together, dress up, and hang shiny things from other things, and I’m not talking about throwing money at the problem – I’m talking about making the effort for its solution.
It is easy to celebrate something when your friends, neighbors, and local grocery stores are doing it too. That’s probably why people of many religions – and even no religion – celebrate holidays they don’t believe in. That’s not actually an excuse for it though, and as parents, it’s our responsibility to set the right example for our children.
Making and upholding our own standards is how we live, not only in terms of our holidays, but in how we eat, what we wear, and the way we swim upstream for the sake of Allah. We don’t go with the flow, and teaching our children not to celebrate the religious holidays of other religions just to fit in is only one part of the lesson.
The other part is to extend the right to religious freedom – and religious celebration – to Muslims too. When you teach your children that everyone has a right to their religious holidays, include Muslims too. When you make a big deal out of Ramadan include your non-Muslim friends and neighbors too, not just because it’s good dawah, but because being able to share your joy with others helps make it feel more mainstream.
Your Muslim children can give their non-Muslim friends Eid gifts. You can take Eid cookies to your non-Muslim office, make Ramadan jars. You can have Iftar parties for people who don’t fast. Decorate your house for Ramadan, and send holiday cards out on your holidays.
You can enjoy the elements of celebration that are common to us all without compromising on your aqeedah, and by doing so, you can teach your children that they don’t have to hide their religious holidays from the people who don’t celebrate them. No one has to. And you can teach your children to respect the religions of others, even while disagreeing with them.
Judaism, Christianity, and Islam are bound by a common thread, and there is much we come together on. Where the threads separate though, is still a cause for celebration. Religious tolerance is part of our faith, and recognizing the rights of others to celebrate – or abstain from celebration – is how we celebrate our differences.
Heart Soothers: Fahad Niazi
Qur’an Contemplations: Openings of Timeless Truths | Sh Abu Aaliyah Surkheel
More Baby, Less Shark: Planning For Kids In The Masjid
Etiquettes of Praying For Your Brother And Sister | Imam Omar Suleiman
Lesson 12 From Surah Al-Kahf
#UnitedForOmar – Imam Omar Suleiman Smeared by Right-Wing News After Opening Prayer at US House of Representatives
Ben Shapiro Gets Wrecked on the BBC for Racism Against Palestinians and American Jews
What Does Sharia Really Say About Abortion in Islam
Potential Retrial In Sight For Imam Jamil Al-Amin (H. Rap Brown)
What Fasting Demands From Us | Mufti Taqi Uthmani
#Current Affairs2 weeks ago
#UnitedForOmar – Imam Omar Suleiman Smeared by Right-Wing News After Opening Prayer at US House of Representatives
#Current Affairs2 weeks ago
Ben Shapiro Gets Wrecked on the BBC for Racism Against Palestinians and American Jews
#Islam5 days ago
What Does Sharia Really Say About Abortion in Islam
#Current Affairs3 weeks ago
Potential Retrial In Sight For Imam Jamil Al-Amin (H. Rap Brown)