There were many reasons I was drawn to Islam. The suburban routine that worshiped the car was easier to bear when punctured by regular prayer. Consumption became sacred when I had the right intention. Even Ramadan sounded good — like a sanctifying of my inactive bulimia. I could fast and feast according to my religion, and even be rewarded for it, eternally, as long as I followed the rules.
My sick relationship with food could not have been all that wrong, then, if it so closely resembled a form of worship.
It was 2005, a year before I converted. I settled into my folding chair at the church in Berkeley, California, at my first and last Overeaters Anonymous meeting. We were seated in a circle, some chatting, others avoiding eye contact. The meeting leader introduced himself and told his food story, holding up a pair of jeans three times his width. We all took a turn, but by the time it got to me, I knew I couldn’t complain about my problems. While I could appreciate the struggles of my fellow overeaters, I couldn’t fairly compare my issues to theirs. Their eating disorders had endangered their health and relationships in ways I could never imagine.
My BMI was normal, no one commented on my weight fluctuations, and I was still able to land romantic partners whenever I felt like it. My weight fluctuated ten, twenty pounds, but I had never been either over or underweight. I wasn’t even sure I could technically call it a disorder because it didn’t seriously disrupt my day to day life, even if it did take a huge toll on me.
My emotional, compulsive eating was always tempered by emotional, compulsive starvation. Feast days and fast days was part of my weekly routine, even though the feast was torture and the fast was all self-hate.
I, in a spirit of self-reform, treated my first Ramadan like a diet. I broke my fast on plain whole wheat bread every night. By the end of the month I was lean and felt in total control of myself, and I wished it would go on forever. I felt like I could ignore my food issues as long as I only allowed myself access to bread, and only for the hour before I slept. I hadn’t formally converted yet, but
I was excited to get on the straight path so that I could continue this self-discipline. My food issues didn’t resurface as long as I forced myself to follow the sun’s command to eat or fast. I thought I was being healed by putting my body on such a tight rhythm.
By the next Ramadan, I was a substitute teacher in a local high risk neighborhood and had to keep my energy up. No more noon naps. No more opting out of activities because I was tired. No more long afternoons with my nose stuck in a book. I had to be standing and maintain intense focus most of the working day.
Substitute teaching is a taxing job without feeling like your stomach is eating itself. The angry Ramadan mommy memes aren’t so funny when you’re faced with 30 pubescent strangers who have no plan to listen to you. I would sit as much as I could, but I didn’t want to give the impression that I was weak or uninterested. It’s physically, emotionally, and psychologically draining, but I discovered that I could avoid famine and exhaustion by gorging before dawn. I can’t recall exactly what I ate, but I know it sat like a lump in my stomach during school hours, and hunger didn’t rumble until right before I broke my fast at Maghreb.
I would pretend that I ate with my work quality in mind; I didn’t want to disappoint my students. But I soon lost myself in the revelry of consumption. I loved and hated eating like that. I felt so close to satisfaction but I never reached it. There was constant yearning for fulfillment that was denied the further I buried myself in wrappers, peels, and dirty dishes. I kept one eye on the clock. The angel was always on my shoulder and I couldn’t let it down. This was ultimately a religious act now, and I had to make sure that I followed the rules. Following God’s rules were what made the binge holy.
Anyone with recurrent food issues like anorexia, bulimia, or compulsive overeating, knows that they will never totally go away. You have to eat to live. I could give up alcohol, cigarettes, and extra marital sex, and yes, I felt damn pious doing it. Or, not doing it, in this case. But I still had to eat, and without other stress relievers, food was my only respite. Islam’s advice on food made me feel ashamed of myself — A few mouthfuls? A third of the stomach for food? It sounded almost like a fad diet. I could feel how my eating deflated me spiritually; I felt defeated when I gave into urges, like Satan had dragged me across the table. With the threat of Hell looming, I knew I had to double down and give it my all.
It didn’t take me long to realize that most Muslims didn’t follow the Islamic Diet. Even the most prayer observant faithful, the regular fasters who memorized Quran and whose every third word was Allah, would consume massive heaps of white rice and red meat. Women from the Middle East seemed to have such a simple view of food: Allah had blessed us with bounty and we had the obligation to enjoy it. In a land of scarcity, this view seems perfectly valid. As an American, an heiress to bounty in every sense, I would have to endorse the most hedonistic of ideals to follow their line of reasoning. Consumerism is my birthright, and yes, we don’t fancy the old gilt style in interior decorating that is requisite of Arab homes, but what we lack in taste we make up for in quantity.
I believed at first that following Islam would heal the relationships between food, my mind, and my gut, but the practice that I was taught just reinforced my unhealthy patterns. It added extra layers of guilt when I binged, since every deed would count for eternity, and a nice coating of contempt for other Muslims when they so fragrantly neglected their spiritual duties to their bodies. At least I had a disorder I was fighting, I thought, they were just gluttons.
In retrospect, I think most people use emotional eating as a coping mechanism, especially when there is no creative outlet for stress. I know that I have been able to overcome much of my eating disorder by trying to listen to what my body is asking for, and it usually isn’t food. Imam Ali ibn Abi Talib said, “Whoever knows himself, knows his Lord,” and I know that for many years I buried my introspection with food.
The search for self knowledge is sacred and anything that stands in its way should be considered with suspicion. I denied the inner journey while I followed Islamic law with precision. Eating disorders went unnamed by people in the sixth century, and while overeating is denounced in prophetic narrations, there is no fatwa, or ruling, that declares it a sin. Allah knew I was doing my best to follow the rules that the scholars had laid out, and I certainly didn’t know enough to question the scholars. I found myself navigating the Great Lakes with an expertly drawn map of the Red Sea.
About a year ago, I realized that the Islam that I was following was doing more harm than good. Fanatically obsessing over every rule, panicking that I was doing things wrong, and favoring fear of God’s wrath over self-realization created a kind of inner sinkhole. The values and practices that called to me were continuously being thrown into the depths because they were not mentioned by Islamic scholars. I knew that I had to pull back, relax, and find out for myself what spirituality is about for me, rather than memorize the sayings of scholars who knew nothing about the life that I am living. Navigating these new waters has been challenging and rewarding, and, incredibly, I finally found that my food issues subside when I give myself creative outlets. This sort of self knowledge is the water that allows the soul to bloom.
Even after years of drought.
