Kathy
Twelve hours old
"What am I doing down here? I wonder, my nose and forehead pressed to the
floor as I kneel in prayer. My knee-caps ache, my arm muscles strain as I try to
keep the pressure off my forehead. I listen to strange utterings of the person
praying next to me. It's Arabic, and they understand what they are saying, even
if I don't. So, I make up my own words, hoping God will be kind to me, a Muslim
only twelve hours old. OK. God, I converted to Islam because I believe in you,
and because Islam makes sense to me."Did I really just say that?" I catch
myself, bursting into tears. "What would my friends say if they saw me like
this, kneeling, nose pressed to the floor?...They'd laugh at me. Have you lost
your mind? They'd ask. You can't seriously tell me you are religious."
Religious... I was once a happy 'speculative atheist', how did I turn into the
past and attempt a whirlwind tour through my journey. But where did it begin?
Maybe it started when I first met practising Muslims.
This was in 1991, at Queen's University, Kingston, Ontario, Canada. I was an
open minded, tolerant, liberal woman. 24 years old. I saw Muslim women walking
around the international centre and felt sorry for them. I knew they were
oppressed. My sorrow increased when I asked them why they cover their hair, why
they wore long sleeves in summer, why they were so ill-treated in Muslim
countries, and they told me that they wore the veil, and they dressed so,
because God asked them to.Poor things. What about their treatment in Muslim
countries? That's culture, they would reply. I knew they were deluded,
socialised/brainwashed from an early age, into believing this wicked way of
treating women. But I noticed how happy they were, how friendly they were, how
solid they were, how solid they seemed.
I saw Muslim men walking around the international centre. There was even a man
from Libya - the land of terrorists. I trembled when I saw them, lest they do
something to me in the name of God. I remembered on television images of masses
of rampaging Arab men burning effigies of President Bush, all in the name of
God. What a God they must have, I thought. Poor things that they even believed
in God, I added, secure in the truth that God was an anthropomorphic projection
of us weak human beings. But I noticed how helpful these men were. I perceived
an aura of calmness.
What a belief they must have, I thought. But it puzzled me. I had read the
Koran, and hadn't detected anything special about it. That was before, when the
Gulf War broke out. What kind of God would persuade men to go War, to kill
innocent citizens of another country, to rape women, to demonstrate against the
US? I decided I'd better read the Holy book on whose behalf they claimed they
were acting. I read a Penguin classic, surely a trustworthy book, and I couldn't
finish it, I disliked it so much. Here was a paradise described with virgin
women in it for the righteous (what was a righteous woman to do with a virgin
woman in Paradise?) ; here was God destroying whole cities at a stroke. No
wonder the women are oppressed, and these fanatics storm around burning the US
flag, I thought. But the Muslims I put this to seemed bewildered. Their Qu'an
didn't say things in that way. Perhaps I had a bad translation?Suddenly the
praying person I am following stands up. I too stand
up, my feet catching on the long skirt I wear; I almost trip. I sniff, trying
to stop the tears. I must focus on praying to God. Dear God, I am here because I
believe in you, and because during my research of Christianity, Judaism, Islam,
Hinduism, Sikhism, and Buddhism, Islam made the mostsense. Bending over, my
hands at my knees, I try hard to reassure myself. God. Please help me to be a
good Muslim. "A Muslim! Kathy, how could you - a white western women who is
educated - convert to a religion which makes its women second class citizens!"
But Kingston's Muslims became my friends, I protest. They welcomed me into their
community warmly, without question. I forgot that they were oppressed and
terrorists. This seems like the start of my journey. But I was still an atheist.
Or was I? I had looked into the starry night, and contemplated the universe. The
diamond stars strewn across the dark sky twinkled mysterious messages to me. I
felt hooked up to something bigger than
myself. Was it a collective human consciousness? Peace and tranquillity flowed
to me from the stars. Could I wrench myself from this feeling and declare there
is no higher being? No higher consciousness? Haven't you ever doubted the
existence of God? I would ask my believing Christian and Muslim friends. No,
they replied. No? No? This puzzled me. Was God that obvious? How come I couldn't
see God. It seemed too much a stretch of my imagination. A being out there,
affecting the way I lived. How could God listen to billions of people praying,
and deal with each second of that person's life? It's impossible. Maybe a First
Cause, but one who intervened? And what about the persistence of injustice in
the world? Children dying in war. A just, good God couldn't allow that. God
couldn't exist. Besides, we evolved, so that disposed of a First Cause anyway.
We kneel down again, and here I am, sniffing, looking sideways at my fingers on
the green prayer mat. I like my prayer mat. It
has a velvety touch to it, and some of my favourite colours: a purple mosque on
a green background. There is a path leading to a black entrance of the mosque
and it beckons me. The entrance to the mosque seems to contain the truth, it is
elusive, but it is there. I am happy to be beckoned to this entrance.
When I was much younger I had a complete jigsaw picture of the world. It fell
apart sometime during the third or fourth year of my undergraduate study. In
Kingston I had reminded myself that I had once been a regular churchgoer,
somewhat embarrassed, since I knew that religious people were slushy/mushy,
quaint, boring, old fashioned people. Yet God had seemed self-evident to me
then. The universe made no sense without a Creator Being who was also
omnipotent. Leaving church I had always had a feeling of lightness and
happiness. I felt the loss of that feeling. Could it be that I had once had a
connection to God which was now gone? Maybe this was the start of my journey? I
tried to pray again, but found it extraordinarily difficult. Christians told me
that people who didn't believe in Lord Jesus Christ were doomed. What about
people who never heard of Jesus? Or people who follow their own religion? And
society historically claimed women were inferior because Christianity
told us it was Eve's punishment; women were barred from studying, voting,
owning land. God was an awful man with a long white beard. I couldn't talk to
him. I couldn't follow Christianity, therefore God couldn't exist. But then I
discovered feminists who believed in God, Christian women who were feminists,
and Muslim women who did not condone a lot of what I thought integral to their
religion. I started to pray and call myself a 'post-Christian feminist
believer.' I felt that lightness again; maybe God did exist. I carefully
examined my life's events and I saw that coincidences and luck were a God's
blessings for me, and I'd never noticed, or said thanks. I am amazed God was so
kind and persistent while I was disloyal.
My ears and feet tingle pleasantly from the washing I have just given them; a
washing which cleanses me and allows me to approach God in prayer. God. An
awesome deity. I feel awe, wonder and peace. Please show me the path. "But
surely you can see that the world is too complex, too beautiful, too harmonious
to be an accident? To be the blind result of evolutionary forces? Don't you know
that science is returning to a belief in God? Don't you know that science never
contradicted Islam anyway?" I am exasperated with my imaginary jury. Haven't
they researched these things?
Maybe this was the most decisive path. I'd heard on the radio an interview
with a physicist who was explaining how modern science had abandoned it's
nineteenth century materialistic assumptions long ago, and was scientifically of
the opinion that too many phenomenon occurred which made no sense without there
being intelligence and design behind it all. Indeed, scientific experiments were
not just a passive observation of physical phenomena, observation altered the
way physical events proceeded, and it seemed therefore that intelligence was the
most fundamental stuff of the universe. I read more, and more. I discovered that
only the most die-hard anthrologists still believed in evolution theory, though
no one was saying this very loudly for fear of losing their job. My jigsaw was
starting to fall apart.
"OK, so you decided God existed. You were monotheist. But Christianity is
monotheistic. It is your heritage. Why leave it?" Still these questioners are
puzzled. But you must understand this is the earliest question of them all to
answer. I smile. I learned how the Qu'ran did not contradict science in the same
way the Bible did. I wanted to read the Biblical stories literally, and
discovered I could not. Scientific fact contradicted Biblical account. But
scientific fact did not contradict Qur'anic account, science even sometimes
explained a hitherto inexplicable Qur'anic verse. This was stunning. There was a
verse about how the water from fresh water rivers which flowed into the sea did
not mix with the sea water; verses describing conception accurately; verses
referring to the orbits of the planets. Seventh century science knew none of
this. How could Muhammed be so uniquely wise? My mind drew me towards the
Qu'ran, but I resisted.
I started going to church again, only to find myself in tears in nearly every
service. Christianity continued to be difficult for me. So much didn't make
sense: the Trinity; the idea that Jesus was God incarnate; the worship of Mary,
the Saints, or Jesus, rather than GOD. The priests told me to leave reason
behind when contemplating God. The Trinity did not make sense, and nor was it
supposed to. I delved deeper. After all, how could I leave my culture, my
heritage, my family? No one would understand, and I'd be alone. I tried to be a
good Christian. I learned more. I discovered that Easter was instituted a couple
of hundreds of years after Jesus' death, that Jesus never called himself God
incarnate, and more often said he was the Son of Man; that the doctrine of the
Trinity was established some 300 odd years after Christ had died; that the
Nicene Creed which I had faithfully recited every week, focusing on each word,
was written by MEN and at a political meeting to
confirm minority position that Jesus was the Son of God, and the majority
viewpoint that Jesus was God's messenger was expunged forever. I was so angry!
Why hadn't the Church taught me these things. Well I knew why. People would
understand that they could worship God elsewhere, and that there, worship would
actually make sense to them. I would only worship one God, not three, not Jesus,
not the Saints, not Mary. Could Muhammed really be a messenger, could the Qu'ran
be God's word? I kept reading the Qu'ran. It told me that Eve was not only to
blame for the 'fall' ; that Jesus was a Messenger; that unbelievers would laugh
at me for being a believer; that people would question the authenticity of
Muhammed's claim to revelation, but if they tried to write something as wise,
consistent and rational they would fail. This seemed true. Islam asked me to use
my intelligence to contemplate God, it encouraged me to seek knowledge, it told
me that who believed in one God (Jews/
Christians/ Muslims/ whoever) would get rewards, it seemed a very encompassing
religion.
We stand again and still standing, bend down again to a resting position with
our hands on our knees. What else can I say to God? I can't think of enough to
say, the prayer seems so long. I puff slightly, still sniffling, since with all
the standing I am somewhat out of breath. "So you seriously think that I would
willingly enter a religion which turned me into a second class citizen? I demand
of my questioners. You know that there is a lot of abuse of women in Islamic
countries, just as in the West, but this is not true of Islam. And don't bring
the veil thing up. Don't you know that women wear hijab because God asks them
to? Because they trust in God's word." Still. How will I have the courage to
wear hijab? I probably won't. People will stare at me, I'll be obvious; I'd
rather hide away in the crowd when I'm out. What will my friends say when they
see me in that?? OH! God! Help. I had stalled at the edge of change for many a
long month, my dilemma growing daily. What
should I do? Leave my old life and start a new one? But I couldn't possibly go
out in public in hijab. People would stare at me. I stood at the forked path
which God helped me reach. I had new knowledge which rested comfortably with my
intellect. Follow the conviction, or stay in the old way? How could I stay when
I had a different outlook on life? How could I change when the step seemed too
big for me? I would rehearse the conversation sentence: There is no God worthy
of worship but God and Muhammed is his prophet. Simple words, I believe in them,
so convert. I cannot, I resisted. I circled endlessly day after day. God stood
on one of the paths of the fork, tapping his foot. Come on Kathy. I've brought
you here, but you must cross alone. I stayed stationary, transfixed like a
kangaroo trapped in a car lights late at night. Then one night, I suppose, God,
gave me a final yank. I was passing a mosque with my husband. I had a feeling in
me that was so strong I could hardly
bear it. If you don't convert now, you never will, my inner voice told me. I
knew it was true. OK, I'll do it. If they let me in the mosque I'll do it. But
there was no one there. I said the shahaada under the trees outside the mosque.
I waited. I waited for the thunderclap, the immediate feeling of relief, the
lifting of my burden. But it didn't come. I felt exactly the same.
Now we are kneeling again, the world looks so different from down here. Even
famous football players prostrate like this, I remember, glancing sideways at
the tassels of my hijab which fall onto the prayer mat; we are sitting up
straight, my prayer leader is muttering something still, waving his right hand's
forefinger around in the air. I look down at my mat again. The green, purple and
black of my prayer mat look reassuringly the same. The blackness of the Mosque's
entrance entreats me: 'I am here, just as relax and you will find me.' My tears
have dried on my face and my skin feels tight. "What am I doing here?" Dear God.
I am here because I believe in you, because I believe in the compelling and
majestic words of the Qu'ran, and because I believe in the Prophethood of your
Messenger Muhammed. I know in my heart my decision is the right one. Please give
me the courage to carry on with this new self and new life, that I may serve you
well with a strong faith. I smile
and stand up, folding my prayer mat into half, and lay it on the sofa ready for
my next encounter with its velvety green certainty. Now the burden begins to
lift.
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