We Have Different Expectations For The Holy Month

Mixed Company is a collaboration of three friends from very different walks of life who are venturing to do/say/write things with one another that they would normally only do/say/write in the safe space of their particular communities. This month Gulu, a Muslim-American-Desi woman, and lifelong participant in Ramadan invites Natalia and Kalonji as non-Muslim guests to take part in the month-long fast from dawn to sunset. Here they reflect on their respective spiritual backgrounds and what they expect to learn during the Ramadan journey.

Gulu

SubhanAllah

I’ve fasted for Ramadan since I was 6 or 7, starting with half-days and basking in the compliments of my parents, aunts, uncles, and cousins who were so impressed with my efforts. My early memories of the Holy Month are not crisp like the winter days in which they took place — they come in flashes: a grey-blue silk shalwar kameez bundled under a coat, gloves, and scarf; carefully wrapped samosas frying in sputtering oil; my mom’s extended hand placing a date between my lips at sunset; extra browsing time in a quiet school library during lunch; my older sister lining up all the younger cousins behind her to pray.

This has been a month out of each of my 30 years. I know I will be fine fasting. I’ll be tired. I’ll be cranky. I’ll indulge in nostalgia. These summer days will be long. I’ll nap too much and lament not praying more. I’ll set some personal goals, mostly meet them, vacillate between being both too hard and too forgiving with myself.

But will I be OK writing about my experience of Ramadan? “Mixed Company does Ramadan” was not my idea. I had planned on writing to reflect this month, but have now committed to frequent and public* sharing about my religious and spiritual experience of the Holy Month (it’s not the “Holy Month” to me). I often write about how I experience the world as a Muslim, but don’t think I’ve shared anything about how I experience myself as a Muslim.

I write because I’m compelled to make meaning of my life with narrative arcs — I publish my writing because these arcs seem missing in the public’s imagination of Muslim women. I feel so unencumbered by my faith that I would find portrayals of Muslim women laughable if they weren’t so… encumbering. I write in response to Islamophobia, Orientalism, Patriarchy, Capitalism — everything that tells me I should be silent, passive, a recipient rather than a creator. And yet my hands are tingling and my stomach is churning at the idea of writing about my relationship with my Creator.

My dad told me a story of a bird deep in the woods who used his little sweet voice to sing praise of Allah day and night. He sang it proudly, passionately, and it lifted the spirits of those who happened by. One day, a man** passing through heard the bird and and stopped him mid-song. He corrected the bird’s pronunciation of a word in his song. The bird thanked him and continued to sing. But now he was anxious — What if he still didn’t have the pronunciation right? What if others copied his mistake? What if no one understood? His voice quavered and he sang more and more quietly, worried he would get something wrong. Until, finally, the woods no longer rang with the praise of Allah.

Dad’s point here was to not be like the man — when we take issue with others’ acts of worship, we discourage them from the beauty they might otherwise offer the world. Dad always insisted we learn to just leave others be regardless of the depth of our own belief.

But today I remember this story because I’m relating to the anxious bird. This is a little because of the men out there who have told me I’m believing or behaving incorrectly. I am most free to worship when I don’t have an audience, when I don’t have to account for my beliefs or behavior to anyone but God. I feel so absurdly uncomfortable even writing that sentence, because how could my words possibly encompass a relationship I sometimes feel at a cellular level and other times feel very little?

Who are you, my reader, to even attempt to understand my faith? What if you take what I write and extrapolate it to 1.6 billion other people? Muslims are encouraged to be careful of what they say, particularly about faith and practice, to avoid leading others to bad places. How does one write honestly when it’s possible their truth be misconstrued or misunderstood?

This is the Holy Month of Ramadan — a month of literal and spiritual hunger, divine agitation and self-reckoning. My words won’t do my — or any Muslim’s — experience of it justice. But I’m going to try to write anyways. I won’t go so far as to say the world needs my story on this front. I think, though, I need to write this story — to give a narrative shape to what I’m worried to share; to think deeply about the actual and perceived effects of my words; to be honest (because can’t lie during Ramadan) about what I will and won’t share of myself.

I take seriously the fact that I will be held accountable, by God, for my actions in this life. In some spaces, I’ll be honest, I’d feel silly saying this because 1) it doesn’t come up and 2) it’s so far removed from the way most people I know reflect on themselves. I won’t claim this belief guides all of my behavior, but it is what I strive for. I don’t know how responsible I am for where someone else takes my words, but I come from a tradition in which we believe the pen is mightier than the sword. Will I wield it carefully here?

*I might post daily on my personal Medium page because one of my Ramadan goals is to develop writerly discipline.

**Because of course it was a man.

Natalia

I wanted to show my solidarity to Muslim people, but then I realized I didn’t know how

I think it was my idea. LOL. People close to me know that I like to suddenly commit to radical life changes, often to the surprise and profound inconvenience of those close to me. Recently I’ve been challenging myself by doing monthly challenges. In March, I committed to doing yoga every day. I wrote 5 days a week in April. And now I’m on a month of “being an artist” though this one has been a bit more slippery… But I’m still writing and doing yoga 5 days a week and getting in touch with my slippery artist self. I’ve learned I learn about myself and improve my practices through this system of monthly commitments. I hadn’t planned what I would do next, so when Gulu started talking about Ramadan at our semi-regular MC meeting, I blurted “let’s all do it and write about it!” And so, Mixed Company does Ramadan.

The very next day I panicked. I don’t think I’ll be able to do it! It’s not that I think fasting itself will be impossible. Years of experimenting with food regimens and calorie restriction have shown me that my body can survive and adapt to whatever feeding system I force on it. But I’m traveling a bunch and have these food centered meetings scheduled all month and I’m already vegan, to the inconvenience of everyone! Gulu says you don’t have to do it when you travel; just make up the days after. Okay. Gulu says it’s not just about the fasting. Also being more spiritual in other ways. Praying more. Being more charitable. Okay. She says if you miss a day of fasting, you can feed a person somewhere in the world by paying something called a fidyah . All these new rules and modifications, ways of being I know nothing about.

I like doing challenges but reason I want to do Ramadan is because I want to learn about Islam. I know almost nothing about it - mostly stereotypes, mainstream hear-say: God is called Allah, Muhammad is like the Jesus person, the Bible is called the Quran (you can already see what perspective I’m normalizing), women wear head coverings, Muslims pray in places called Mosques, the most important place is called Mecca, you can’t paint people so Muslim art has a lot of cool geometric patterns. Malcolm X was Muslim. Cassius Clay converted to Islam and changed his name to Muhammad Ali. That dude from that band I liked who disappeared “went Muslim” (Does one “go Muslim?”). Before Gulu, I’ve never had a close Muslim friend. I’ve had classmates and acquaintances, but it’s not the same. Those people you think your ugly private thoughts about (“How could this smart person believe in something so oppressive to her gender?” Or “Does he think I’m disgusting and going to hell?”) but the limited relationships don’t make space for genuine curiosity. From Gulu I learned that there are a lot of Muslims from India, that you can pray in an office (she once did next to me while I edited her Google Doc), that you can have a sense of humor about it all and mix it with acupuncture and ayurvedic medicine and critical race politics, and that during Ramadan there are cool night markets that sell food for breaking the fast, which sounds rad. Sometimes I get confused which things she does because she’s Muslim or Indian or because that’s just what her family is into, but then I remember that that confusion is good for me.

Gulu is nervous about writing publicly about her private relationship with God, but I’m pretty ashamed of revealing how ignorant I am about her culture (and also general world geography and history). After the election and then the travel ban, I wanted to show my solidarity to Muslim people, but then I realized I didn’t know how or what it even meant to be in solidarity with this set of practices, orientations, and beliefs.

I just read the Wikipedia page on Ramadan and literally learned 100% more than I knew before. Ramadan — the holy month — is one of the five pillars of Islam. Others include salat — daily prayers, a once in a lifetime pilgrimage to Mecca, required charitable giving, and the declaration of faith. That last one is the first and foundational pillar and the one I’m most uncomfortable with. You’re supposed to say there’s only one God and Muhammad is his messenger. That’s not my truth. I believe in all the gods and goddesses and their prophets, Zeus and the Universe, Buddha and Shiva, and Science, and I believe in none of them. I believe they’re all made up by the beautiful human collective mind to explain the unexplainable wild mysteries of life and death on this strange Earth. I like to read tarot cards but mostly because I think it’s fun to play with meaning-making.

But I do believe in experiential learning. For the holy month, I will center the truth of Allah — the supreme, omnipotent, and all merciful God of Islam. I will practice the rituals of his worship to see what I learn about religion, faith, and tradition, and through doing them, about myself. And I will share it with you, dear reader. Maybe like me you’re ignorant or curious. Or maybe you are a studied and devout follower of Islam and will find my discoveries shallow and offensive. I invite you to cheer or challenge me, and us, the Mixed Company crew, as we embrace this ancient synchronization of bodies to the moon and the sun, in pursuit of understanding and divine wisdom.

This experiment reminds of something I once did as a teenager called the day of silence. It was organized by the gay and straight alliance — an after school club I was a member of in high school. One day in spring, we all wore black t-shirts and didn’t speak all day, even if called on in class. If asked, we provided the inquirer with a card explaining how our speaking fast symbolized the silence and invisibility of marginalized LGBTQ youth. It was a powerful exercise, a way of being a body in solidarity, a way of feeling a version of the suffering and therefore the gratitude for privileges and comforts we benefit from in our dominant identities. Gulu says that for some Muslims, the holy month is about enduring hunger to empathize with those who do not have food. For me, it’s about empathizing with those who fast to empathize. So rather than asking, like I have in the past, silently and passively, why do these people keep doing these things that don’t make sense to me? I ask: What does it feel like to do these things that don’t make sense to me? How might they begin to make sense?

Kalonji

I think I’m in an open relationship with god…

Every time I come into contact with a new God I’ve never met before, I instantly become curious. I still remember the first time I learned about Jah as a college student. Watching YouTube videos of Bob Marley interviews, I learned that Jah had reincarnated into the body of an Ethiopian Emperor in order to lead a global Black uprising. I instantly wanted to become a Rastafarian. The religion fit so well with my fundamental spiritual concern in 2005 — being the wokest Black man in America. Today, the dreads dripping from my head are remnants of the lasting ways that Jah touched my spirit when I was in my twenties. But Rastafarianism didn’t last long.

I’m a sucker for falling in love with new Gods. Once I hear a little bit of info about Lakshmi’s four arms (Hinduism), or Yemaya’s mermaid tail (Yoruba), the curiosity kicks in. Before long, I want to be intimate with her spirit; late at night, under the subtle glow of candlelight, caressing the pages of H.E.R. holy book. When it comes to Gods: I get around.

Sometimes people ask me which religion I practice. The best way to describe my relationship with spirituality is that I am in a polyamorous relationship with a whole pantheon of Gods. Deep in my heart I feel that we weren’t meant to love just one God. And so I walk the Earth constantly willing to be wooed by the next deity that crosses my path. Perhaps I have attachment issues?

In fact, one of the reasons that I am interested in doing Ramadan this year is because I have had a crush on Allah for a while now. I have admired Him from afar. I like the way He likes to be worshipped. I like His regiment of 5 prayers a day and that he requires wudu ablutions even before you call his name. Sometimes He seems a little high maintenance, but there is something about the devotion He requires that makes me think He will bring out the best in me, and give me that glow you get when you are in a new healthy relationship.

As I write about my intimate affairs with Gods, I realize that describing religious devotion using a sexy metaphor is just asking to receive scolding comments from offended readers. I can hear the haters now:

PiousShawty1989: “Who do you think you are? Don’t speak of God like he is your lover. Only two people are permitted to do that: Lauryn Hill and the lady that wrote the chapter of the Bible called Song of Solomon.”

QuranSpitta: “Don’t act like you love Allah, and then in the same breath insinuate that more Gods exist. Are you kidding me bro? Allah literally means one true God. I think?”

I understand that I am problematic. My spiritual practice, which is rooted in an ethic of free love, can be so offensive to people who think differently. But this is what makes it so hard to write about religion in Mixed Company. The simple fact that my belief system exists is an affront to your reality. And vice versa. Your deepest truths conflict with mine, and force me to question things I’d rather just feel in my heart.

Many people think that because I am poly(theistic), I don’t know what it is like to truly feel God’s grace. They think because of my bohemian style I must not really be serious about religion. They will look at these words and the tone with which I speak as coming from someone who is irreverent, someone who thinks loving God is a joke, someone who has no respect for the sacred. They are wrong. They are wrong as shit. Within the last year I have had holy ghost moments reading the Bhagavad Gita. I felt my soul catch fire while watching Moonlight. I find gods everywhere; in the prosperity gospel of Rick Ross (“my bank account done caught the holy ghost”), and the mindful compassion of the Zen Buddhism. But when it comes down to it, I cannot decide which one is my true love. When I am with each one they bring out different parts of me. And each of the aspects of Kalonji deserve to be expressed.

But I wonder if my promiscuous lifestyle has any drawbacks. Am I ever really getting to know these Gods and Goddesses to the same extent that someone in a long-term exclusive relationship is? Is this openmindedness also rooted in a deeper fear of commitment?

After three decades of sowing my wild oats, this year I turned 33. The same age Jesus was when he died on the cross. The same number of prayer beads on a Mishaba, counted three times to invoke the 99 names of Allah. At the age of 33, I have learned how useful consistency is in various aspects of my life. I wake up at the same time every day and eat the same two over-easy eggs and buttered toast and sit down in the same chair to lotion my feet before I lace up my kicks. As W.H. Auden once said, “Routine in an intelligent man is the sign of ambition.” The older I get the more I know how true that is.

And now, after years of wandering from sutra to verse to surah, i’m wondering if I need the same type of consistency for my spiritual practice. One of the reasons I wanted to participate in Ramadan with Mixed Company was to spend some time pondering the following question: Do I need to settle down with a God — to find a true partner in life? Or am I okay with the adventure-seeking lifestyle of a spiritual nomad? In order to answer this question I have a feeling I will need to unpack the spiritual background (read: baggage) of my childhood. I will need to speak openly and nonjudgmentally with friends about their experience. And more than anything I must be willing to be open to where the journey takes me. Let the fasting begin. RAMADAN MUBARAK!!!