When I sat down to write this, I thought about my experiences as a Muslim. I thought about my contentious relationship with my religion. It seems there are only two ways to be a Muslim these days. On one hand, we’re told to fit into this mold of a Muslim who prays regularly, wears modest clothing, and listens to their parents’ every wish. On the other hand is the image we see often on our screens of what a “good American Muslim” is — a brown man played by Kumail Nanjiani or Aziz Ansari, completely rejecting their family’s way of life, seeing Islam as something to cut ties with and leave behind.
But what about those of us who fall somewhere in between? What if I don’t fall into a stereotype of either extreme; if my Islam is something more personal and understanding?
When I think of Ramadan itself, I think of people drinking sherbet, passing around dates, feasting on biryani. I think of the grogginess of waking up a few hours earlier than I ever believed I could. I think of laughter, of prayer, of ritual, and spirituality. What I do not think of is feeling alone in my practice, a feeling I often have the rest of the year, too.
In the months that aren’t Ramadan, I struggle with my Islam. I want it to be louder — more political and intuitive, closer to the brand of Islam I saw in Muhammed Ali. I want it to be queerer — a place where janaat is truly for all, and surahs about the Prophet Lut are not thrown at folks for their gender or sexuality. I want it to be intersectional, where the diversity of the ummah is celebrated, and everyone’s struggles are supported; a place, not for the righteous and devout to flex their sanctimony, but for the sinners and the renegades to find their peace. I know this is not possible the rest of the year, but during Ramadan, it all seems within reach.
“In the months that aren’t Ramadan, I struggle with my Islam. I want it to be louder — more political and intuitive, closer to the brand of Islam I saw in Muhammed Ali. I want it to be queerer — a place where janaat is truly for all.”
The rest of the year we divide ourselves, divide down racial lines, between Sunni and Shia, the devout and the kaafirs, liberal and conservative, so on and so forth. And yet, any time I sit down at a table to break my fast, those lines seem less relevant. We can come together. We can accept these differences. All there is, is joy — joy to sit down with a group of folks who want to sit together, and to break bread together.
In moments like these, I feel closest to God. Maybe that’s my own fault. I am critical of organized religion. I think it often makes us slow to change and can be easily manipulated by bigots who demand blind devotion.
I feel enraged and bitter every time I am told women are not allowed to bury our dead, be it our parents, our siblings, or our friends. I fume at lollipop analogies (if you’re not familiar with this already, save yourself the horror). I have questions and hesitations. All that baggage makes it hard to feel close to God. I long for my faith to be more like myself. But I haven’t given up religion yet, thanks to those moments.
Those moments, of breaking my fast with my community, they’re the ones that keep me believing. They make me hopeful, that even if I’m not A Good Muslim (™), I can still be a Muslim. After all, isn’t religion a way of life that is supposed to help someone be a better person, and make the world around them a better place, while searching for God? And maybe a little bit of that happens whenever we come together, sit together; share a table at sundown.
