What is it Like to Take Part in a Muslim Version of “Love Is Blind”?
“Yes, I’m in. Put me down.”
Late one night a few weeks ago, my friend texted me a link saying I think you should try this. When I clicked on it, I was taken to an Instagram page titled Eye Meets Soul. The description read “A low key blind social experience for Muslim Millennials that utilizes conversations of the soul to find a partner. April 18–22. Limited Spots.”
It reminded me of that Netflix show, Love is Blind. Have you seen it before? Well, if not just do a quick search and you’ll find tons of memes and articles all pretty much saying the same thing: it was a train wreck, but I couldn’t stop watching it. It really is the epitome of reality trash tv, but with a certain je ne sais quoi… call it endearing? Comforting? Inspiring? That certain something is the reason me and millions of other Netflix users latched onto it like a fish at the end of a well-baited fishing rod — hooked. I think the real attraction has to do with the fact that we are all low-key, hopeless romantics seeking validation for beliefs in fluffy ideas like soulmates and instant connections, with the biggest fluff of all being that love is blind.
As I’m the number one fan of the Hopeless Romantic Club, hopelessly single, and Muslim, I decided to sign up. I filled out a google doc form which asked a few basic questions: gender, city/state you live in, marital status, and religious sect (sunni or shia). It didn’t ask anything about education level or profession, religiosity or race/ethnicity. I thought this was a good sign because a lot of the guys in my community dock me for either being too educated, too religious, or too Black. The last of which I’m still sore about.
There are two predominant ethnic groups in the Muslim community within the U.S: Arabs (Middle Eastern or North African descent) and South Asians (Pakistan, Indian, or Bangladesh). Even though most of the guys I talk to for purposes of marriage are born and raised in America, they are often taught that they should want to marry someone from their same culture — an American Pakistani, or American Egyptian. As a Black and Latina American Muslim, whose parents converted to Islam before I was born, I just don’t fit the bill. So when they meet me I.R.L, through matchmakers, or on online platforms like Minder (yes, that’s Muslim Tinder), they aren’t sure what to do. Sometimes they consider me, falling for my bubbly personality and impressed by how well versed I am in their traditions having grown up in ethnically diverse communities. But at some point, they always snap out of it remembering I’m not really one of them, or that their parents would never really approve.
Part of me gets it. There is a natural, justifiable feeling in wanting to marry and raise children with someone who speaks your mother-tongue and can carry on traditions that would otherwise get lost in an Anglo-Saxon society. And yet, there is the louder part of me screaming that it is all a farce. That their decision goes beyond mere ethnocentrism. That their reason to exclude me as a possible marriage potential is based on something more sinister like racism. This type of racism is the ingrown toenail hidden beneath socks and shoes, that curves and grows into your surrounding skin slowly, for weeks, maybe even months without causing much pain. It remains hidden, and festers until the person is limping from the pain and unable and unwilling to rip off the shoe to admit that they suffer from something too gruesome to show. This racism within the Muslim community comes to light whenever I connect with someone who agrees that I otherwise check off all their boxes except that I’m Black American.
Being tired of running into the same old infections, I was eager to try my hand at this new type of matchmaking. I wanted the chance to see if that missing bit of information would more easily entice someone to fall in love with me. Would this experiment answer the question: is love blind in the racially/ethnically fragmented Muslim community?
A few days after I signed up, I got a call from an unknown number.
“Salaam, I’m calling from Eye Meets Soul.”
The woman on the other end, an energetic, friendly character who seemed eager to throw in a laugh where appropriate, told me that the pilot matchmaking service I had applied for went viral. A computer randomly picked twenty people to serve as contestants and I was amongst the lucky few chosen.
In order to move forward, I had to agree to the rules of the game: I needed to be available for five continuous days between 6pm to 7pm. Each day, the matchmakers would put me into a Zoom chatroom to speak freely with a guy for thirty minutes. I would talk to two guys per night. There would be no video calling and no photos shared. Only our chosen pseudonym would be used as an identifier. At the end of the fifth day, I would select my top two choices as to whom I wanted to continue the conversation with. If the person I listed also put me down as their top choice, the matchmakers would give us each other’s contact information.
“How does that sound? Would you like to participate?”
As someone who writes a lot about the Muslim dating world, and has had my own fair share of mixed bag experiences with various matchmaking services/dating platforms, I saw a few problems with this setup. First of all, this random selection process was definitely NOT what Netflix did. The media-services giant had carefully vetted the contestants, selecting the most attractive candidates who were able to hold a conversation, were educated (or at least for the men had decent jobs), and weren’t complete weirdos. Yet, in this Muslim version (with no television element involved), there was no screening process. It was all completely luck of the draw. Were these guys even practicing Muslims? Or were they the bad boy, horny, illiterate (as indicated by very poorly written texts) creatures I came across on Minder? Were they open to marrying someone of a different background? Was I setting myself up for disappointment? Probably. But I decided to take a chance and find out because well, I was stuck in quarantine, so wasting five hours of my life wasn’t a huge deal.
“Yes, I’m in. Put me down.”
On the first night of the experiment, I logged onto Zoom waiting nervously for my mystery man to appear, or at least his voice. When he finally came on he was shy and quiet. He was a hermit-like fellow with a nasally, meek voice. He wanted to use the suggested questions the matchmakers gave us to help inspire our conversation which were basic get-to-know-you starters like how old are you, where do you live, what brings you joy. I replied to each of them, and then asked him the same questions. His responses seemed normal, but I’m sorry to say, a bit dry. He told me his favorite book was Harry Potter and that he didn’t like to socialize much, but that he was ready to get married. Oh, boy. After he ran out of questions, we just sat there in silence because he didn’t have any other ideas about what to ask, and I didn’t care to continue the conversation.
The second guy that night was much more chatty, but we didn’t really “click.” He was born and raised in India and was looking for a potential spouse that was flexible with her career/living arrangement, so that if need be he could return to India to care for his parents — or even more worrisome, have them come to the U.S to live with him and his wife. Needless to say, I wasn’t interested.
Over the course of the remaining four days, the conversations ranged from dull and shrug-worthy to pleasant. I was pleased that all the men I spoke to were around my age (27), had impressive jobs, and seemed to at least pass the basic muster of religiosity: no drinking or smoking, and completion of their five daily prayers. There were a few social butterflies that made me laugh — a business analyst from Chicago who made jokes about boldly washing his feet in the bathroom sink at his job to prepare for salat. Also, there was the guy who said he previously worked for that t.v show The Voice and now was learning how to code to transition into the tech world. We bonded over our mutual love of California and international travel.
I was prepared to write those two guys down as my top choices, until I met the Chai Lover (that was his pseudonym). As fate would have it, he was my last call on the fifth day. I swear, I felt an instant connection from the first line he dropped: Hello! So this is our last round, eh? Ready to make it the best? He was personable, charismatic, and funny. During the first half of our conversation I found out he was 33 years old, a doctor, living in Texas (which is where I spent my formative years). We discovered we went to the same restaurants and mosques. He asked about why I chose the pseudonym The Writer, which led me to tell him that I’m a lawyer by day, but a wanna-be writer by night. He seemed to be really interested in this fact since he said that he too writes in his free time, and one of his topics of interest is about the Muslim dating world. I was really excited by our mutual interests. Overall the conversation was smooth, and free flowing without any of the bumps that disrupted the other ones. But then just as we were about to come to the end of the last thirty minutes, he got a bit more serious and asked me what I needed in a potential spouse. I listed off characteristics like committed, religious, and trustworthy. Then, he volunteered what he was looking for: someone that understood his humor, had open-communication, and who shared his culture. The last bit being most important. He said he didn’t always grow up embracing his Pakistani culture, but now he realized how much it meant to him, and how he wanted someone to foster that tradition with him.
I wasn’t sure what he thought I was. I had given no indication of my race, and I’m told that my voice and diction is a nod to my background as a preppy Bostonian. So I was pretty sure he didn’t know I was Black. I could have held my tongue and taken the chance that he wouldn’t care either way. Maybe he would embrace the most cited ayah that serves as proof that Islam rejects racism, tribalism, and ethnocentrism: “O mankind! We created you from a single (pair) of a male and a female, and made you into nations and tribes, that you may know each other. [49:13]” Maybe, just maybe he would remember that verse, ignore his prejudices, and pick me. But I didn’t want to take that risk. Worse than rejection now, would be rejection after the fact when we put each other down as a top choice, and he runs away finding out I’m not actually South Asian.
I took a deep breath and said, “Look, I just want to let you know, I’m Black and Latina. I don’t know if that will make a difference in your decision to want to connect offline, but it’s been a reoccurring issue.” There was a second of hesitation, maybe even a twinge of disappointment in his voice when he replied, “Oh wow, that’s a great mix. I’m sorry you’ve had so much trouble in the past. Hopefully, being in California you will meet more open-minded people.”
Ouch. I was hoping for something more like well, you don’t have to worry about that with me. Or thanks for letting me know, are you cool with marrying into a Desi household? But none of that. Our conversation continued for a few more minutes, until the Zoom timer went off indicating there was 60 seconds left. He didn’t realize it was ending, he was so wrapped up in telling me about what he was currently writing about that we didn’t even get to say a proper goodbye before the screen changed and the matchmaker put us into another room to say final remarks for the end of the experiment.
A few hours later, I received an email from the matchmakers asking for my top two favorite candidates. I put down the business analyst from Chicago as my number one choice. And for my number two? I wrote the Chai Lover. I know, that makes no sense. He clearly indicated that he wasn’t interested in me because I wasn’t Pakistani, but as I disclosed, I’m a hopeless romantic who hoped he had changed his mind, and wanted to give it a chance. Give me a chance.
The night before the first day of Ramadan, the matchmakers sent an email with the “results,” stating the two guys I picked did not pick me (although full disclosure, they did say there was someone else not on my list who chose me). Although I was upset and even a bit resentful, I didn’t hate the game. In the feedback survey I was sent, I suggested next time they screen out folks that are only interested in marrying within a certain ethnic group. Reading my response, they actually reached out to me by phone explaining that they were of East African descent and faced similar discrimination in the past, and therefore were fully committed to vetting people in the future to make sure no one feels lesser than because of their race or ethnicity.
So even though I’m still not convinced that love is blind, I am happy knowing that there are people committed to making sure that we challenge the social and cultural hazards that prevent love between people of different backgrounds from blossoming. I’m hopeful for the future of this experiment, and for all of us trying to find love in this modern age.
