I want to share a powerful post from my friend Najeeba Syeed about how to survive academia as a woman of color. Check it out.
Yesterday there was a horrific attack on the Charlie Hebdo offices. With the ensuing public discourse on freedom, religion, violence, and of course, pictorial representations, it was an ecumenical sort of day. So during a trip to the public library, I picked up a kids’ picture book about St Francis and St. Clare. My daughter enjoyed it very much, especially the artwork.
Suddenly, she ran up to me, and, wide-eyed, showed me a picture where God was represented. Guess how. Yep. BEARDED MAN.
Personally, I’m not intensely opposed to pictorial representations of e.g., the prophets, angels (though I used to be, when I was younger, and more frightened). But this encounter reminds me of how our mental maps can be shaped by such images and how culturally specific and gendered notions become deeply entangled in theological understandings. Yes, I know, they are ALREADY deeply entangled, but for such minds as children’s, there are levels and layers of entanglement.
People have to decide on their own how to proceed vis-a-vis imaginings of the Infinite (and, for instance, pictorial representations of the Prophet) but people will also keep trying to
convert others to their thoughts of the Infinite, as in Rumi’s story of Moses and the Shepherd (link to The Islamic Monthly). Moses overhears the shepherd singing in the intensity of his love:
“‘O God! O Lord!’ he heard this shepherd say,
‘Where do you live that I might serve you there?
I’d mend your battered shoes and comb your hair,
And wash your clothes , and kill the lice and fleas,
And serve you milk to sip from when you please;
I’d kiss your little hand, and rub your feet,
And sweep your bedroom clean and keep it neat …'”
Moses, of course, corrects the shepherd for his theologically inaccurate talk about the Divine. When he next speaks to God, Moses is reprimanded for turning his loving shepherd away. God tells Moses that each person has her own manner of prayer and devotion even though one person’s prayer may seem blasphemous to the other. God is untouched by any person’s blasphemy, and God is not made any more great by a person’s devotions.
“‘I know when men’s hearts have humility,
Even if they should speak too haughtily. ‘
The heart’s the essence, words are mere effects:
The heart’s what matters, hot air He rejects.
I’m tired of fancy terms and metaphors;
I want a soul which burns so much it roars!”
(Excerpt from Rumi, The Masnavi: Book Two, translated by Juwid Mojaddedi, Oxford World’s Classics, Oxford University Press (for July 2007), vv. 1724-1800), via The Islamic Monthly.)
I don’t know why scholarly recognition of my blog Koonj is especially heartening to me. I feel like my heart and soul got acknowledged by academe, – when typically, we academics work overtime to pretend we have only brains and our hearts are irrelevant to our professional lives.
To the middle-aged woman in a MOM sweatshirt sitting next to me during my long-awaited viewing of ‘The Battle of the Five Armies:’
Ma’am, I’m guessing you were there for your second viewing. Only this can explain the way you started reacting to dramatic moments just before they took place. Come to think of it, I’m not sure why you were there in the first place. When Galadriel grew dark with mighty magical power, you burst into uncontrollable giggles. When Oakenshield battled for his life toward the end, you broke into snorts of laughter. And why? Were you amused by how unrealistic the movie was? It’s a bloody fantasy. There’s CGI. There’s dwarves and orcs. For next time, allow me to recommend an independent movie, or maybe a rom-com where you can guffaw to your heart’s content.
Because the thing with movie theaters is, they are public places. You share them with people. You share them with hard-working fantasy fans, parents of young children who have been waiting for weeks and maybe months for this opportunity to watch – yes, a movie about a hobbit and elves. So if you are entertained by the death of a beloved character in a movie, how about keeping it to yourself? Or here’s a suggestion: wait for the DVD. Watch it in your living room and scream for hilarity if you wish. But in a movie theater, you are sharing space with me. I am paying for the dramatic pause, the suspense, the wonderment of theater. In movie theaters, there is a certain etiquette: generally, people watch silently. They gasp at times, and at times they jump and spill popcorn, but this applies mostly to horror movies. Sometimes people laugh, and this is usually in comedies.
If you are inspired by a source of amusement different from the majority of viewers, perhaps keep it down, as you would control the volume of belches and farts in public. To do otherwise is the equivalent of chewing loudly and getting into an argument over religious polemics in a restaurant. It is inconsiderate. It is narcissistic. As I tell my elementary-aged child, there are other people in the world. In a collective entertainment setting, we are individuals who balance our personal enjoyment with our consideration and awareness of the other individuals. This entails a degree of social awareness. If my 8-year old can keep her comments to an inaudible whisper, surely you, a middle-aged woman with teenaged kids in tow, can do likewise. This means being considerate and respectful of people who want to cry at the death of an imaginary character, and experience the solemn awe of imaginary magic. That’s why we’re there – to escape into imaginary experiences. And your blasted loud snorts of laughter destroyed my escape. You owe me $7.
My 8 year old asks me if I will attend the Holiday Celebration at her public school. “Of course I will.”
She asks me nervously, “You’re not mad that I’ll be singing about Christmas?”
This is the struggle of working toward becoming part of the discourse, of indigenizing minority faiths into Pluribus. The holiday celebration at her school which is, of course, in December, features a good deal of Christmasy elements, some Hanukkah, and some Kwanzaa as well. They have been rehearsing songs about Hanukkah, Santa, and Kwanzaa this year. She has begun to notice the curricular and extracurricular silence on Eid, Ramadan, and Hajj. What about Diwali and Holi? Nope, not them either. The school is living in demographics of the past, when the city, located in a college town, has large numbers of East Asian, South Asian, Middle Eastern, and other populations. The school library, she tells me, is displaying books about the holidays, and nothing about Muslim holidays.
Uncertainly, she says such things as “I want to be reflected in the school,” and “It makes it hard for kids to believe in their own things.” She is too young, at times, to distinguish between various layers of identity, and mixes up “faith” and “country.” But she knows something is missing. Sometimes she’s just excited about singing about Santa in front of the whole school.
She also knows she doesn’t want to complain about the absence too loudly. She doesn’t want to be a misfit. I ask her if she’d like to perform a song about Eid. She seems embarrassed at the idea. My East coast American husband is uncomfortable with the idea of being too strident vis-a-vis the issue. He doesn’t like talking about his religion or his feelings in public. He doesn’t like the idea of coming across as demanding and entitled – because we are a minority, of course. And I am an immigrant from a Muslim-majority nation and sometimes, it is hard for me to wait for crumbs. Also, I immigrated to a country where the legal framework does include me, so why should I self-silence? My husband says we need to come up with a perfectly secular suggestion – a secular song about Eid or giving or Ramadan? Ideas, anyone? – that would be acceptable to the school, and in the absence of such a suggestion, perhaps we should just wait.
Waiting is hard. My 8-year old is growing up and I don’t want her to think of herself as always on the sidelines of the collective, never ‘reflected’ as she puts it. I want her to think of herself as a part of the collective, not apart from it. I want her to sing songs about Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Chinese New Year, Diwali, and Eid with her friends. I want this to be something that grows out of the school, not something that we raise as an Issue, a Problem. If/when Eid is incorporated into the Holiday Celebration – well, I cringe also at the prospect of the Islamophobia.
We Muslim Americans are a youngish minority demographic. We are still working on American cultural products that grow out of our communities. Even our mosques and Sunday Schools are struggling with the issue of indigenization. This will shift enormously, of course, over the next ten to twenty years, as US-raised Muslims will take on the tasks of Muslim community programming.
Christmas has had long enough – apart from being a majority celebration – to become cultural. I hear some of my White non-religious friends say they celebrate Christmas as a cultural holiday. What is lost in that rationalization is that many of these non-Christians were raised within Christian families and heritage, and over time, the religious associations with Christmas faded into culture. Muslims are still seen as a purely religious group, people who have religiosity in their DNA. Due to Huntingtonian notions of civilizational clash, both Muslims and non-Muslims fall prey to this essentializing of Muslims as a religious-and-not-cultural group. Christians and Jews are seen as having the capacity of secularity. As an immigrant from a Muslim-majority nation, I know we have secularity enow in our heritage, but we are always too busy playing Representatives of Islam.
Not to mention, we need secular-Muslim cultural products that will, like Santa’s on his way, Burn Little Candles, Oh Kwanzaa, easily slide through the church-state separation grille without clogging things up.
Also, I ask our district representatives the question, must the holidays in the Holiday Celebration be limited to December holidays? How about making it a truly inclusive Holiday Celebration?
The civil rights discourse I am using makes my kid a little nervous. She wonders if it’s about hostility, competitiveness, enmity. The discourse of inclusion can have that effect sometimes. So what do you do – overlook it all, swallow it meekly because you should be a loving and humble person of faith? What about the invisibility of your children in public discourse? It’s not healthy. Silence breeds the germs of hostility. I want to practice advocacy and inclusive discourse that is gracious, warm, and pluralistic to all.
“Of course I’m not angry,” I explain gently. “I do want them to reflect Eid too. I don’t want you to feel like you’re not reflected at school. But that doesn’t mean I’ll be mad about Christmas, Hanukkah, and Kwanzaa. They’re all our friends and we will sing songs about Christmas, Hanukkah, and Kwanzaa. Some day, at school, they’ll sing songs that include all of us, and you.”
She seems relieved. I’m glad we got that out in the open. I’m waiting to hear from the school district. I’m really hoping I hear back from them. We need to get moving with this business.
I had strange dreams last night. I know I was traveling to Pakistan, and I can’t recall anything else. This morning, when I opened my laptop, I was slammed by the news from Peshawar. My heart fell like a rock and I could not bear to think anymore.
As I went through my day, sluggish, irritable, always perilously close to tears, I thought, why is everything continuing to chug along as usual? Doesn’t anyone know that one hundred and thirty two children were killed in cold blood today, face to face, shot to death as they stood in their school uniforms, far away from their parents’ embrace? Images are clogged in my mind, the toadstools on this little girl’s black tights, the numb crazed look on a mother’s face as she screams near a coffin, stacked coffins in the hospital, a small body covered in rose petals as old men pray the funeral prayer over it, confused little faces of children being led away by soldiers, the anguished eyes of the mother who narrated how her son told her on his cellphone about the ongoing attack as she listened in horror to the sound of teenagers crying –.
This is the world we live in. Friends who are sending Pakistan prayers are a reminder of the continuing horror of slaughter for which we are raising lambs. I hear words of consolation from Palestinian, Iraqi, Malaysian, friends, who have their own wounds. I am ashamed, angry, grieving. We are united in our grief and our inability to be consoled.
But we’re not really consoled. We just move on to the next day and the next set of horrors.