I converted to Islam in 2001, the summer before the Trade Center was attacked and exactly 1 year after moving to New York with my family. We had moved from Virginia, where I had spent the majority of my life, so that Karima could give birth to our second child in the city where she grew up. Having been raised between Harlem and Senegal she never really felt at peace living below the Mason Dixon line. Karima comes from a long line of African women, inheriting a spirit that does not easily fit into notions of race in America, women who communicate volumes by saying nothing at all, women who make only occasional eye contact with those they meet, hesitant to trust anything too far removed of what they know. Women who whisper thoughts coded in 3rd world languages, their accents act as their defense, protecting them from inevitable encounters with 1st world callousness. Women who proudly stare into the face of bigotry, unafraid to speak truth in their native tongues for they measure their value by their connection to tradition, not by how well they speak colonial languages.
To be forced to absorb the notion that everything about them is contrary to the norm, that they are the antithesis of feminine beauty is a crime against humanity. It is a crime in which we are all complicit, giving our consent by allowing beauty to be defined in tones of beige, forcing us to concede to blatant attempts to filter beautiful shades of brown in a frantic effort erase traces of blackness. We remain silent as connections to a continent get hastily removed from our consciousness, devaluing women who for centuries have shouldered the burden of white exclusivity while being told that their uniqueness is a spectacle, worthy of contempt and marvel, undeserving of respect.
Karima learned at an early age about the reality of being both African and American. I immediately noticed her gift for alchemy, for her ability to transform negative sentiment into something precious, how she navigated her worlds with a grace that would teach me what it means to love. It would be love that would serve as my guide, awakening my spirit to its inheritance, fulfilling the of promises of those who had come before me. It would be an African woman who would walk into my life and inspire me to evolve, she would be the answer to prayers that I didn’t even know I had made, she would pry open my heart to create space for the essence a religion to be poured in.
Before accepting any religious doctrine I had to hold service and assemble as a congregation of one at the alter of inner honesty. It would be here, in conversations with my heart that I would learn that each seeker’s path is unique, that the search for truth is personal and requires an intimacy that respectfully expects discretion. Our discovered sacred truths are not meant to be worn on our sleeves as badges of honor for to carelessly advertise our devotion is to empty all sincerity from the cup of our declared beliefs, thereby leaving our reflections to ring with arrogance and judgment. Respect for humanity grants us all the right to walk our path on which we learn from listening not from telling, a path on which we benefit from prayers for peace, not from mandating our interpretations of right and wrong onto those we claim to love. It would be in my inner sanctuary that I would receive the confirmation that this beautiful brown skinned woman would become my wife, that this sun kissed, dimple cheeked angel had come to me with a message from above, her presence would be a confirmation of God’s grace, of Allah’s (SWT) intention to bless me.
We would arrive in New York City to start a new stage of our life, not long after, I would take Shahada (declare Islam as my religion). I would learn so much surrounded by the richness of the city. Living among different people and cultures, I would conclude that the moment I say I’m Muslim with the smallest grain of false pride, with the slightest sentiment that could be perceived as an attempt to elevate my position above another, is the moment that I am no longer Muslim, trading away my religion, exchanging it for my ego’s desire to declare righteousness. The city would show me how easily we divide, how we can be so close but distance ourselves while claiming to live by similar lessons, lessons taught by our greatest teachers, who explained the hidden messages of our universe through scripture, messengers who came to reform religion when humanity had lost its way.
Standing at one of the highest points of Manhattan I would watch as the buildings fell, destruction fading into cloudless skies, concrete, iron, and ash dissolving to a grayish blue, ominously signaling that the innocent had been stolen from those who loved them. It was a declaration of war, an irrational battle against the instincts of love that make us human. The sacred words of my new found religion would be interpreted as a banner of terror but I knew this act was not about religion, it was about men who had been led astray, strangers to compassion, foreigners to their own hearts. Men who presumingly never experienced true intimacy, who knew not what it means to concede to the power of creation, who were likely unable to recognize the beauty of the women who birthed them, the women who lived among them or the women who might have been their advocates in the search for the divine truth they claimed to represent. Men coming from a land where repression is mistaken for righteousness, making the grave error that chauvinism is justified by religious law, that violence is an appropriate language in which to praise God.
I would become an immigrant on that day, an immigrant seeking asylum in Africa, a self declared refugee of a war against the unknown. Years later it seems the war rages on with retaliatory battles underway that employ similar tactics, attacking the innocent and terrorizing the “accused”, justifying irrational behavior resulting from perceived fears, fears of difference, of knowledge, of a woman’s greatness….. The tragedy that occurred that day appears to have turned many into exactly who “the enemy” perceives us to be, ideologues who promote intolerance, who rationalize racism and threaten the world with acts of violence. Sadly, religion is again being used as a banner, waved in support of misguided men who assume it is irreprehensible to have a blatant disregard for life, attempting to plunge the planet into despair for their own profit.
May we all see clearly the injustices before us, the injustices we knowingly and unknowingly profit from, past and present, and that we resist, for the injustices we ignore today, will be the injustices that will one day be our children’s to bear.
To those who know and respect love, to those who know that battles are won and lost, that compassion guides and love conquers, to those who know that the essence of the word lives within our hearts and that the final word is not ours to speak…. to those who know that prayer works and who continue to fight in their own ways, who know that there is nothing new under the sun and that brighter days will come, as promised…..
May we never stop loving….
Dedicated to the women of the world and to Africa, to four generations of Black Muslim Women from Senegal – Soukna Diallo, Marieanne Cisse, Soukeyna Boye and Karima Grant. Thank you for never compromising any piece of who you are, your spirits have guided me to happiness and I am eternally grateful.
Karima – your love is a gift, a blessing from God, my religious devotion and success is measured by my respect for you, I pray that I never take you for granted……
American Immigrant in Africa 