Race + Gender + Faith

Black Is Beautiful, Uh-huh!

2012-02-07T12:59:00.005+08:00

When given the opportunity to make my own images, they are black and Muslim!

These words make up the chorus of an audiobook that I play for my sons, ages 2 and 4.

When I received a vintage Fisher Price fire truck in the mail, before presenting the gift to my sons, I painted the firefighter's face brown.

Have I become my father, whose cry to his daughter sounds as vivid today as it did 25 years ago: "But Baby, your hair is beautiful!" His desperate words now echo softly through me.

It is an understatement to say that we've come a long way since the shouts of Black Pride in the '60s, but even now, the books and toys I regale upon my boys are overwhelmingly shadowed by white faces. How then could I miss the chance to paint a white face brown?

I am a daughter of the Nation of Islam. I carry the legacy with gratitude and wisdom, thanks to my parents, Imam W. D. Mohammed, and my loving community.

The other day I had the opportunity to present my research on women in the Nation of Islam to a small crowd in Eugene, Oregon. After sharing with them how much racism made little girls like my mom feel--she would sit in the tub for hours after playing in the hot sun to wash away the sun's mark--my favorite part was to share how transformed my mother was by the message Black is Beautiful:

It was one of the most beautiful and refreshing ideas that ever came to my mind.

It was almost like my mind was being unshackled—

To know that black was beautiful

That I’m beautiful

That brown was beautiful

That kinky hair could be beautiful

Thick lips could be beautiful

And it was wonderful because this was me.

And while I think it's absolutely important to teach and remind about our history, our suffering, and our strength in unbearable times, I am always relieved to wrap things up with a spirit of love and growth. Thanks to Imam W.D. Mohammed, I was able to do that in one of my talks to the mostly white crowd.

I began the talk with a reading from Dreams from My Father. Already I love this book because it is indescribably relevant, discerning, and poetic, but I love it even more that it gave me an opportunity to make the case for why black nationalism and Islam are critical to the souls of black folk, and brown and white folk too: Barack Obama spoke about it, and considerably.

"Ever since the first time I'd picked up Malcolm X's autobiography, I had tried to untangle the twin strands of black nationalism, arguing that nationalism's affirming message--of solidarity and self-reliance, discipline and communal responsibility--need not depend on hatred of whites" (197).

Obama's cogent analysis of the appeal but ultimate ineffectiveness of Black nationalism evoked again and again the spirit and wisdom of Imam W.D. Mohammed. He was a man before his time.

Twenty years before Imam Mohammed had begun the journey to teach and model Obama's gut belief, that one could adore kinky hair and love blue eyes too:

"How are we going to hate this world? How are we going to hate America and hate America’s progress and hate the white man? No! We should hate wrong whether it’s in a black man or a white man, or a red man or any man. Whether it’s in your family, or in your friend, or in your neighbor. Hate wrong! Hate evil! But don’t hate people. That’s against Islam."

Imam W.D. Mohammed had the awesome task of introducing his community to the correct understanding of God while also addressing the yearning that brought them to a black nationalist version of Islam in the first place. With wisdom he connected the two: the inherent nature to seek the Divine and the soul’s demand for a beautiful, dignified human identity.

“You want to make a people superior to you? Hold them back, and eventually they will be superior to you. Why? Because they are going to have a superior motivation working for them, and that motivation is to measure up to the dignity that God created them for.”

The Muslim is “obligated by God’s expectations. God expects me to do more. God expects me to assume more responsibility. God expects me to measure up or qualify for more responsibility…You know that a man struggling to get a grade “A” from God will definitely rise higher than a man striving to get an “A” from a white man.”

Imam W. D. Mohammed dedicated his life to nurturing the highest motivation for human excellence: the soul’s innate pursuit of God-given excellence.

"I am trying to get African Americans who still have the burden on them of [finding their] identity…to go back to your better identity. The better identity that God gave us is not our racial identity…or our national identity. The better identity for Muslims in Islam according to our Holy Book –[the identity that] God gave us—is our human identity, which is to be understood as the aim for excellence in the human nature….God created us for human excellence, and this is our common heritage. We should care more about this common heritage than we do the color of our skin or the nations that we come from….The racial classifications are temporary. They are not going to last forever. The national classifications are not going to last forever. What God will receive is our human soul and its excellence."

Focusing on this inherent, God-given potential, Imam W. D. Mohammed accomplished two things. First, he empowered his followers to reclaim the nobility that was taken away from them.

Second, Imam W. D. Mohammed instilled a motivation that, instead of reflecting a desire to achieve parity with another race, resonated with an inherent yearning to meet the standards that the Creator designed for all humanity. “Black nationalism...[or] Black Muslimism is just a strategy to accomplish the real thing.” The real thing is “answer[ing] the demands in my soul for respect to come for me and my people!”

**He shaped you and then formed you beautifully (Qur'an, 40:64).

Top 10 Things I Will Miss about KL, Malaysia

2011-05-22T19:25:00.008+08:00

Chinese New Year Decorations

10. Living in one of the wealthiest zip codes in the city.

My first weeks here in Malaysia, my thoughts often turned to the criticisms made about immigrants to the U.S. Some of the remarks of African American Muslims whom I interviewed for my book were quite intense like this one: “Immigrants have come here and have reaped the benefits to the point that it has killed their Islam. You come here for materialism, but you forget that you are Muslim, and you forget your responsibility to establish Allah’s din [Islam]. The immigrants should be putting forth more of an effort to utilize their resources towards the upliftment of the African American community.”

The African American community should be a priority because, according to this African American imam, “the most prominent spots to establish Allah’s din are those places where injustices and poverty exist.”

Our Condo Pool

My sentiments never exactly matched those of this outspoken imam; however, I admired those immigrant Muslims who did choose to live in African American neighborhoods or deliberately chose to connect with black people. And I continue to admire such people whom I highlight in my book, but now having been an immigrant in Malaysia, I better appreciate the struggles and choices of the average immigrant whose first priority is not to establish Islam or to fight against a certain injustice but to adjust to their new society and certainly do well financially. Why would they leave their home except to establish for their family their vision of a good, quality life?

I could never afford to live in an affluent neighborhood back home like the one I lived in here in KL, but the cost of living is cheaper here, and if you have a US salary or US savings, you can live among the rich. Given my fears of the things that come with low quality housing and the fear of the unknown about Malaysian living, I jumped at the chance to live in Mont Kiara, an expat area.

Chinese New Year

9. The lovely holiday decorations adorning the city for 7 months straight: Eid, Deepavali, Christmas, Chinese New Year.

8. Paying very little for health care. Without insurance, seeing a doctor only costs $6. And when it turned out that nothing was really wrong, they often let me go without a charge.

The down side to this is that doctors prescribe way too many drugs here. However, I’ve never been one to follow the doctor’s orders.

7. Muslims and non-Muslims share purity rituals: Everyone takes their shoes off when entering a home and bathrooms come with water hoses.

6. The lush landscape: the gardens, palm trees, fruits and flowers hanging low. Oooh, sounds like Paradise.

This photo was actually taken in Thailand, but I saw my first mango tree ever in Malaysia.

5. The popularity of rice, rice flour, and Australian wheat-free products makes it the best place to be for a gluten-free diet.

I came across other neat Australian products like goat-based infant formula, something I never found in the US but could be quite useful for babies allergic to cow's milk.

4. Prayer rooms at the mall and everywhere. Also, wudu stations in these prayer areas.

No worrying about what people think when they see me washing my feet in a public bathroom. No praying in fitting rooms or other obscure places out of public view.

Dragon Fruit

3. Exotic, sweet fruits and fruit juices: Malaysian, Thai and Indian mangoes, dragon fruit, mangosteen, unordinarily sweet papaya and pineapple, watermelon juice, longan, and more.

2. Halal meat everywhere!

1. Befriending people from all over the world.

In high school, I memorized Margaret Walker’s poem "For My People," and recited it before public audiences. I love this poem. I occasionally recite it to my children with the same conviction and heart that I did almost twenty years ago.

Raising two African American boys in Atlanta, GA, I will continue to have a special regard for and sense of accountability to the struggles of black people in America but now I truly understand what it means to say that all of humanity are my people.

Yahya’s Malaysian "grandmother" is a sweet, generous Chinese woman who brought Yahya special treats. I had no association with Chinese and Japanese in the US. Islam does not ordinarily connect me with them as it links me to Indians and other Asians with large Muslim populations in the U.S.

In KL, however, they were my neighbors, the ones who smiled and greeted me and my boys on the elevator, at the playground and community center, at the food truck, and on the shuttle to the shopping plaza. They are now among my dearest friends.

I am forever grateful and truly transformed by my Malaysia experience. I now look forward to the next chapter.

Stay-at-Home Moms, Beauty Making, and More

2011-03-27T16:29:00.005+08:00

There are no mommy wars here. In the expat community in Malaysia, all of the moms are stay-at-home (SAHM). The exceptions include those in business for themselves, but even they are not beholden to a 9 to 5.

Residence in KL gave me an opportunity to further test the waters as a stay-at-home mom. But place matters in the experience. The unique feature of my SAHM experience in KL is that I have connected with women from all over the world, literally.

Yahya's young ears have already had close encounters with several world languages--Spanish, Portuguese, Arabic, Mandarin, Bahasa Malaysia, Bahasa Indonesia, Hindi/Urdu, French, Farsi, Japanese, Russian--as he plays with children whose mothers converse with me in English, interrupting to remind or guide their children in their mother tongue.

Connecting with other SAHMs, I've also discovered one of the more glorious aspects of staying at home: cultivating one's more artistic passions and talents. Two women especially brought this home for me at the same time that their friendships have helped me move beyond the boundaries of race that color my past.

The first is KJ. She represents the way in which I have connected with women from the United States whom I ordinarily would not have in the United States.

Yes, KJ is white. We met through our husbands who have both worked in the Islamic finance sector. Our last play date, I had the opportunity to visit KJ's home.

Her condo reminded me of one of my favorite translations of the Arabic and Qur'anic word "muhsin," or "beauty maker" as rendered by Shaykh Hamza Yusuf. The muhsinun are those of beautiful character and action. Shaykh Hamza's commentary inspired me to think of the muhsinun as those who make and create beauty in every manner. It inspired me to put extra effort in adorning my home, then in Chicago.

KJ is an artist, an illustrator of children's books. The art that she selected or crafted for her walls demonstrated her aesthetic appreciation. The impressive collection of children books, what I found at the heart of her son's play room, demonstrated her grasp that the cultivation of beauty should begin at the earliest.

I left KJ's home inspired again to be a beauty maker. I also thought how wonderful it was that she was blessed with the time and space to blossom as an artist. Something that she could not commit to if she worked a regular 9 to 5.

As I open myself to new possibilities, reflected in my newfound friendship with KJ, I admit that I am still easily drawn to the familiar, that is, black women.

But again, in this far land, that which seems familiar isn't at all. Here's where Anjelia enters. I first encounter her walking across the street from my condo. She is tall, coffee-complexioned, poised, and wears a natural afro puff that sits on her head as if to mark a queen. She is the only woman in Malaysia wearing this crown.

We are both delighted to encounter the other. Strength and warmth together color her voice. She introduces her daughter, almond-complexioned, long, curly hair.

Anjelia is from Brazil. She is married to a white man from Argentina. Her struggle with English is the earliest indication that we are black women from different worlds. I admire her ability to be different in this place. Perhaps she is my reflection.

The day I visited her home, it wasn't planned. "Come," she said, as we met on an afternoon stroll. The lobby of her condo was one of the finest, most tranquil on our block.

Pillows out of their jackets lie on her sofas wide enough to hosts several guests. She asked me to excuse the place as she quickly put cases on the pillows. They were the colors of the Brazilian flag. "I made them myself." My admiration for this woman grew.

When she showed me family photos, primarily of her white family, I couldn't get past the picture of her locking arms with her four sisters-in-law. This shows how far removed I am from black-white interracial couples in the United States, or black-white interracial friendships for that matter.

Blacks and whites are not separated in the same way as in the US, Anjelia tried explaining to me in her earnest English. While racism has its mark on Brazilian society, striking features of Brazil are the number of interracial marriages and the normalcy of its category mixed race.

Reared in a society in which black women are the least likely of any group, including black men, to marry interracially, I wondered what it would be like to see the world through Anjelia's eyes, racial lines blurred a degree, or several degrees, more than through my eyes.

Sipping on tea in Anjelia's living room, I noticed lovely paintings of a beach sunset and a flower garden. When I complimented them, she responded, "They are mine," in a manner both humble and proud at once.

"You painted them?"

"In Chile, I met with a woman who taught me."

Later in her kitchen as I snacked on a buffet of papaya, avocado, and pistachios, she told me again, "Come." I followed her to the room across from the wet kitchen, most likely designed for the live-in maid. Anjelia had reinvented it as her sewing room, a large table covered with fabrics and other supplies fit snugly in the room. Magazine pages of models on runways, black and white, splashed the walls.

"I made this handbag just yesterday." Totally impressed, I grabbed the bag to take a closer look. "How did you learn to make this?" She just smiled. She showed me more bags, the unconventional styles and fabrics gave away that they were customized.

"I love the handbags of the Japanese women. I want one so I made it myself."

I've also looked twice at the chic fashions of the Japanese women who dominate my condo, like the one in the photo at the top of this post.

As a stay-at-home mom in KL, I've also found some time to reconnect with my passion, and that is writing the stories of American Muslims. In the case of this blog, it has been my story, but I've also rediscovered my long-time desire to write about the beginnings of Islam in America for many, and it took a woman from a very different background to help me realize that it is something I must do.

In the last two months I've begun substantial work writing a book on the Nation of Islam. In graduate school, several of my term papers related to some aspect of the Nation of Islam, but my dissertation topic took me in a different direction.

However, almost all of the talks I give on the topic of Muslim women include an account of my mother's journey to Islam via the Nation, as does one of my publications, "Through Sunni Women's Eyes."

On my way to KL last summer, I received an email from a scholar in the UK inviting me to write a book with her on the Nation, and here I am on the other side of the world doing it. Google docs has made it all possible.

Twelve years ago as a young graduate student, if you told me that I'd be writing a book on the Nation with an Irish, non-Muslim woman, I would not have believed you. Back then, I was just starting to realize that black people were not the only ones writing about the Nation, and certainly not the only ones fascinated by it.

Everything comes full circle. I never imagined that all the way in Malaysia I'd return to my roots while connecting with others beyond my roots in such vast ways. What a treasure! I am reminded of the Alchemist.

This I Believe

2010-12-28T20:42:00.000+08:00

http://zleqha.blogspot.com/

That, with prayer, what is meant for you will not pass you by. Today at a mall in Kuala Lumpur, I saw a woman with a long, beautiful, elegant, dress and thought, I must get that for when I return to the U.S. But the woman was a few feet away and I was too busy with the boys to stop and ask where she got the dress from.

As she walked away with her friend, I said, "If it's meant for me, O Allah, please let me see her again to ask." I wasn't really counting on it, and it wasn't really a big deal, it was only a dress...but it was perfect for me. Two hours later, I went to the food court and decided to sit way in the back near the window so Yahya could have a nice view of the trains go by. It wasn't our usual seat. Normally we sit in the front.

About 10 minutes into our meal, I hear women friends chatting and laughing behind me. I turn around, and there is the woman! And this was no small mall, swarming with thousands of people.

She told me where to buy the dress online, zleqha.blogspot.com. Now I have to find the exact dress (though she has some other cool stuff on there), and figure out how to buy it. No job in KL!

Christmas in Malaysia

2010-12-27T10:04:00.000+08:00

And I thought the decorations for Eid in Malaysia were something to write about! Is it me and I just don't get out during the Christmas season in the States, or are the mall decorations way more elaborate here in KL? I mentioned this to a German woman whose son Yahya played with on the playground.

"No, you're right. All of the holidays they make a big production of here."

I'm intrigued at how they create such pretty winter wonderlands in the tropics. "Ooh, look at the Gingerbread Man," I pointed out to Yahya, the protagonist of one of his favorite stories.

Now a parent, I can't help but think about how our first-generation Muslim parents did much to make us feel that we weren't missing out during the Christmas season in the States. I now wondered if Malaysian parents feel that their children's religious identity might be threatened by Santa Claus, the Gingerbread Man, and plastic candy canes.

I doubt it because Hari Raya Aidilfitri still reigns supreme here. Nonetheless, I should ask my handful of Malaysian friends. I would hope that they share my sentiments that it's cool to be in a place where multiple religious holidays receive wide public display.

But while I celebrate this religious pluralism, I can't ignore that capitalism drives much of it. First the Eid al-Fitri sales, then the Deepavali sales, and now the Christmas sales. But who's complaining about endless sales?

In all seriousness, though, I'm treading close to Malaysia's greatest political debate, that is, how to maintain the primacy of Islam as the official state religion while also safeguarding the rights and interests of the country's substantial religious minorities (40% of the population).

My Chinese real estate agent was the first to share with me concern that some of the religious bills introduced in parliament increasingly alienate non-Muslims. My hope is that the zealots will not prevail in the Malaysian government.

Rather the country will take lessons from the best achievements in Islamic civilization. From the literary renaissance in Islamic Spain to the Taj Mahal in Mughal India, various cultural and religious traditions collaborated and coalesced under Muslim rule.

The Qurayza Jews: Not a Topic I Would Choose for a Short History of Islam

2010-12-17T15:25:00.001+08:00

When teaching the biography of the Prophet Muhammad, I am keen to point out that at the same time that the Qur'an demands that we redress wrongs, commanding the early Muslims to fight (9:13-16), it also urges us towards the higher road of forgiveness and patience (42:36-43).

"There is no cause to act against anyone who defends himself after being wronged, but there is cause to act against those who oppress people and transgress in the land against all justice...though if a person is patient and forgives, this is one of the greatest things" (42:41-43).

I was moved by Shaykh Hamza's 2010 Eid sermon when he reminded us that the Qur'an instructed the Prophet Muhammad to argue with his enemies in the most beautiful way. As we face attacks against Islam in the current climate, we should respond to them in the footsteps of our beloved Prophet, with forgiveness, forbearance, and patience.

I thought to share the sermon with my friend Rebecca (see previous post) who I had been meaning to write since moving to Malaysia.

This was her response:

"Thank you for your thoughtfulness and the link to the utube message. I have been reading the Qur’an rather slowly but also have a book called Islam in Context: Past, Present, and Future by Peter Riddell and Peter Cotterell. In one of the sections as it gives some of the history of Muhammad’s life it tells of the massacre of the Qurayza Jews. I am confused by what Shaykh Hamza Yusuf said in the first part of his message (7.40) “…you saw how the Messenger of Allah behaved. You read his Sirah. You saw how he dealt with his enemies. You saw how he dealt with them with magnamity.”

"I am not trying to find fault with his talk, I just wondered how what he said can be reconciled with this event. I do not know if this subject is brought up often by critics because I really only have a limited knowledge of Islam, so it is an honest question of mine."

Here's my response:

I was very happy to receive this thoughtful response from you. I won't be able to respond to everything in this short note. I wanted to write to at least let you know that you and your questions are important to me.

The question about the handling of the treason of the Qurayza Jews is not an issue in the forefront for everyday Muslims. In other words, this event is certainly not foremost in how we understand and love the Prophet. The traditions and stories of his generosity and mercy are most emphasized.

The Qur'an states that he was sent as a mercy to humanity. Also, the Qur'an repeatedly tells Muhammad not to grieve over the fact that his tribe does not initially accept the message. (And remember, we believe the Qur'an is God's word, speaking to Muhammad, his tribe, and all humanity.) God tells him this over and over because he is saddened by the consequences they will face if they continue in their unjust, evil ways. Muhammad's concern was not to dominate people with his religion, it was to bring them a message that would save them from hardship in this life and the next.

I'm not escaping your question. I hope to get to the issue. Just wanted to emphasize that Sh. Hamza's appeal to Muslims to remember Muhammad's mercy and love is one that resonates with us and softens the hearts of many. Muhammad's gentleness is how Muslims most know him.

Also, everyday Muslims don't engage in the process of reconciling the Qurayza story with other more beautiful traditions about the Prophet because many don't even know about the Qurayza massacre. Again, it's not what is emphasized which means that it doesn't immediately instruct or inform our behavior as Muslims.

I did not learn about the story of the Qurayza Jews until I read a biography of the Prophet for college (and remember, I was born Muslim). And I thought about this topic more when I taught the biography of the Prophet and how I would explain it to students.

To really understand this topic from my perspective and other academics, Muslim and non-Muslim, would require a paradigm shift in how you think about a sacred figure. The author Karen Armstrong, a non-Muslim, is most useful in helping you do this. I assign her book Muhammad: Biography of a Prophet to my students, and I recommend that you read this book carefully, especially the chapters "Holy War" and "Holy Peace."

But in a nutshell, what Armstrong encourages Christian readers to do is take a moment to realize that unlike Jesus, Muhammad is both a sacred figure and a political leader. He is forced to become a political figure because his tribe persecutes his community simply because they want freedom to practice their religion. They seek asylum in Medina, but even there, they are not safe from their tribe determined to wage war. What makes matters worse, the Jews of Medina who signed a contract to never go to war with Muhammad and his followers, secretly help the enemy tribe attack the Muslims. In other words, they commit treason.

If you look up treason on Wikipedia, you find the following:

"In English law, high treason was punishable by being hanged, drawn and quartered (men) or burnt at the stake (women), or beheading (royalty and nobility)."

Death as one of the crimes for treason is almost universal, and especially in the premodern societies of which Muhammad's community is one example.

I understand that Muhammad was actually enforcing the Jewish punishment since he was dealing with Jews, and it was actually a close ally of the Jews, now in Muhammad's community, who came up with the punishment, but of course Muhammad approved.

But the point is that Muhammad had to make some tough political decisions that most Christians are not used to seeing associated with a sacred figure.

Even still, as a political figure, he made overwhelming concessions and demonstrated mercy countless times. This is why you should read "Holy Peace" in Armstrong's book.

Also I can't help but note that the pre-modern English Law savagely killed women traitors. In the case of Qurayza, the women and children were spared.

If you study Muhammad's life, you will find that he made several reforms in several areas including war, women's rights, orphan's rights, and slave rights. And while these reforms do not always measure up to our post-enlightenment American ideals, they actually surpass what Europeans and Americans were doing as it relates to women and slaves in the 19th century. (For example, Muhammad did not abolish slavery, but he ruled that once a slave woman had a child by her master, the child was no longer a slave.* This prevented slavery from becoming generational. Imagine how that ruling would have totally reduced the scope and impact of slavery in the US.)

I hope this helps. I have to run. Here is a short clip of Armstrong on understanding Muhammad:

This concludes my letter.

* When commenting on the Islamic legal ruling on the children of slave owners, I made a mental note to check and see if there is a Prophetic tradition on this matter. My sources indicate that the ruling came about later but is often linked back to the Prophet's precedent with the slave woman Mariya.

A Race-Conscious Hijabi: Prelude to a Letter on the Prophet

2010-11-22T18:55:00.001+08:00

In KL, Malaysia, I improvise story time with my sons at a Borders.
Wouldn't it be cool to see Islamic artwork for sale at a
Borders in Atlanta?

When I made plans to attend story time at a nearby library in Atlanta last April, I didn't give much thought to the social implications, that is, that I would be socializing with other moms.

The library was in a recently gentrified neighborhood. My first time attending, I was the only black mother there. But Yahya wasn't the only African American child. All of the other black children there were with a daycare provider.

The rest of the children were all white and with their moms, and a couple of dads. (I should note that I've been to other story times in predominantly black areas in Atlanta, and there were many children with their mothers. Also, at another story time in a mixed neighborhood, the dominant participants were black and Latina nannies with white children.)

After the story, read by an African American librarian, it was coloring time. Trying to draw Yahya's attention from the buttons on a nearby radio to the paper and crayons, I noticed the other women socializing.

This wasn't my usual crowd, and I wasn't initially outgoing, but I looked forward to the opportunity to cross lines of difference.

For me, the dominant line of difference between me and the other women was race.

Why do I have this tendency to view and assess a given context from the lens of race? That is, to note the racial makeup of a space and to imagine others seeing and relating to me a certain way from that lens?

Living with this lens as a black American woman is not the surprising thing, or at least it shouldn't be. Historian Evelyn Higginbotham describes this way of interpreting and relating to others as the the "metalanguage of race."

Because African Americans have been profoundly shaped by a society "where racial demarcation is endemic to their sociocultural fabric and heritage--to their laws and economy, to their institutionalized structures and discourses, and to their epistemologies and everyday customs," many African Americans see race as the dominant power dynamic in social relations ("African-American Women's History and the Metalanguage of Race" 254).

Seeing through this lens as a black American hijabi is what I'm more interested in thinking about. I should be more clear.

Why wasn't I conscious of my hijab when I joined the other mothers at story time? Why didn't I imagine or care about the assumptions they might make about me as a Muslim woman? Why was I more interested in an opportunity to break racial barriers than to teach or defend Islam?

Even in a context in which Islam is regularly misrepresented and misportrayed, I am not immediately conscious of my hijab.

Perhaps the reason for my relative hijab unconsciousness--and this goes for almost any space in the U.S. regardless of race--relates to the following:

1) I've been wearing the hijab for twenty years now.

2) Since I was a girl, wearing the hijab, or scarf as I normally call it, was modeled to me by pious, strong, beautiful, intelligent women like my mother. Associating the scarf with these qualities, I learned to wear it with confidence and pride. (Though, as a teenager, I must admit there was some resistance to wearing it at first.)

3) I haven't been made to feel that the hijab negatively affects how people respond to or treat me. Rather, it's brought positive attention, at least based on that which has been communicated to me.

But this ease with wearing the hijab could all change, as many fear with the growing anti-Muslim sentiment in the U.S. After all, in the days immediately following 9-11, while I did not remove my hijab, I modified it to draw less attention. Instead of wearing it draped around my neck, I wore the bun-style hijab, actually the way I wore it as a teenager--a style also worn by non-Muslim African Americans.

I didn't think about the fact that the other women at story time might especially take note of my hijab until noticing my reflection in the library window as I hurried Yahya toward the entrance.

And it wasn't until I had a conversation with one of the other mothers that I realized that my identity and presence might represent an opportunity to change perceptions of Islam.

The irony of this is that educating about Islam is a clear and obvious goal I bring to the classroom at Spelman. But in a different context, among white women whom I share the joy of motherhood, I initially imagined achieving something altogether different.

Rebecca initiated our conversation during coloring time, and if I recall correctly, my mentioning that my childhood Muslim private school was in the same area as the library opened a window to talk about Islam.

I was quite surprised and impressed with Rebecca's knowledge of Islam. She was familiar with some of the writings of a Muslim woman with anti-Islam sentiments. In that first conversation, Rebecca demonstrated a genuine desire for clarity on women's experiences in Islam. I was particularly impressed that she had started reading a copy of the Qur'an.

A few weeks later when I told Rebecca that I'd be traveling to Malaysia, she kindly offered to come to my house and watch Yahya while I packed. I liked the idea and, once again, thought in racial terms how nice it would be to break barriers and have a play date with a white family for the first time.

I failed to take Rebecca up on her offer, but fortunately the possibility of getting together outside the library gave us the opportunity to exchange emails. She also wanted me to pass along a few titles on Islam.

My new friendship with Rebecca, her questions about Islam, and the growing anti-Muslim sentiment in the U.S. make me realize that I should be more conscious about how my hijab brings opportunities to dialogue about Islam, perhaps a realization more obvious to other hijabi women who may not think about race as much as I do and who might also socialize with white women more than I do.

(I am just now reminded of a section in my book in which young American Muslim women respond to a lecture by Dr. Umar Faruq Abd-Allah in which he encourages increased outreach and education on Islam to white Americans. While one African American Muslim woman rejects the notion that we should direct da'wah efforts to "suburban whites" when they are not the people most receptive to Islam (African Americans are), a Bangladeshi American Muslim woman commented that Dr. Abd-Allah's suggestions were eye-opening. She realized that she hadn't thought before to give da'wah to white people, a realization she was now ashamed of because she concluded that her not thinking about white people in these terms meant that she really didn't care about them, a sentiment most likely influenced by her "resentment of what a white government has done.")

I can relate to Shaykh Hamza Yusuf's point made in a recent blog post that American Muslims need to educate ourselves on the extent of negative information on Islam and how this misinformation is more accessible to non-Muslims than is actual dialogue and friendship with Muslims. In his words, "try and experience what a person curious about Islam and Muslims is likely to find if he or she browsed the Internet or bookstore shelves."

Rebecca has given me a greater understanding of how many of the controversies surrounding Islam that I bring up in the classroom are disproportionately emphasized in popular books and media on Islam. The difference for my students is that they can count on me to provide multiple perspectives and to explain hard issues in the appropriate historical, cultural, or political context.

In my next post, I will share my answer to one of the questions that Rebecca recently posed to me over email about a controversial event in the life of the Prophet, prayers and peace upon him. Even there, though, I couldn't help but return to the "metalanguage of race."

Responding to Media Depictions of Islam

2010-11-02T08:50:00.003+08:00

I've discovered a forerunner blogger, Margari Aziza, who also reflects and writes on the intersection of Islam, gender, and race. Her latest post is an excellent letter in response to ABC's 20/20 regarding "Islam: Questions and Answers." View her letter here.

This kind of writing is critical, especially in the current climate of widespread misunderstanding and prejudice against Muslims.

If I were at Spelman this semester, I would use this letter as a model for students. A central part of my Introduction to Islam course is responding critically to media depictions of Islam and Muslims.

In my next post, I will share a recent letter I wrote to a new friend answering a difficult question about Islam, also an example of how I imagine my students taking knowledge from the classroom to better represent Islam to others.

Ramadan and Eid Malaysian Style, Part 2

2010-10-19T14:16:00.001+08:00

As Eid neared, I wondered what to expect of our first in Kuala Lumpur. Lonely, I imagined. But deep down inside, I dreamed that our friends Erwan and Feezah would rescue us.

The locals expected Eid, or Hari Raya, to be an occasion marked by family and good food, as are our big holidays in the U.S.

Most would be leaving KL to visit family in their hometowns. But before leaving for these more remote and traditional areas, they would take advantage of life in the big city for any last minute preparations and purchases.

Impressed by the crowds, my husband snapped the photo above in a department store two days before Hari Raya.

My family and I got lucky (blessed) again when friends let us use their car for the last few days of Ramadan. My husband convinced me that this was my opportunity to experience Ramadan in a KL mosque, I better take it.

Generally, I tend to think more about race than gender dynamics, except when I step into a mosque. Arriving at the courtyard of Masjid Wilayah, my Islamic feminist side was quite pleased. Families sat together to break their fast, in contrast to my experience in some U.S. mosques where gender segregation trumps family cohesion, (logistics and attitudes playing a part).

At the mosque, we prayed before having our main meal (for the relevance of this, see Part 1 of this post). A woman and her daughter befriended me as we left the prayer ranks, escorting me back to the courtyard for our meal.

They confirmed the good stereotype that Malaysians are the nicest Muslims in the ummah. In the self-serve food line, the daughter grabbed my plate and filled it with rice from oversize pots.

As for the night prayers, it was impossible for both my husband and I to perform them with the two boys. My husband suggested that we take turns. He prayed the last portion of the prayers while I watched the boys in the courtyard.

Ready to go home at this point, I watched Indonesian women workers bring out trays of food. I noticed one woman leaving her circle of family on a courtyard mat to help herself to the late night treats, beating the crowd of worshippers who would later line up for snacks after the prayer.

I eyed the green dessert she piled on her plate, but dismissed it. Up to that point I wasn't too excited about Malaysian desserts, many of which have the consistency of jello which I've never liked.

But gratefully my husband joined the food line and brought a plate of the green dessert, also known as seri muka, to me and Yahya, and I couldn't help but try. I was delighted to find a gluten-free dessert that I really liked. I ate at least three pieces.

I've since found a place to buy seri muka, which explains this photo of the dessert on my table. However, I'm still looking for a place to buy it in Mont Kiara. Anyone out there who knows a place, let me know.

The sweetness of this sacred time and space didn't stop that night at Masjid Wilayah. We made plans to spend Eid with other expat Muslims at a brunch in a nice KL hotel.

We looked forward to our time with the other expats. We did not expect it to feel like Eid at home given that we are new to this community, but this would be the local ummah with which we would most connect and depend upon during our time here.

At the same time, we were granted the wish of an inside view into a Malaysian Eid when Erwan and Feezah came to the rescue as I secretly hoped. They invited us to Feezah's aunt's home the eve of Hari Raya. On Eid day, we spent the night at Erwan's parents.

As you can see, Feezah's aunt insisted that we feel at home. Lut and Yahya received Hari Raya envelopes with money as though they were children in the family. When I asked more about this tradition, I discovered that Malays generally don't buy Eid gifts for spouses and parents but focus on giving these money-filled envelopes to children.

This made me wonder about the extent to which Eid gift-giving patterns among American Muslims are influenced by our larger culture. With the Christmas shopping frenzy in mind, I asked, "If gift giving isn't the focus, then what about all the Hari Raya shopping and sales?" Feezah explained that this was a time for wearing new clothes to the endless Eid parties, called Open Houses, that go on for weeks.

After iftar, the family chanted the Eid takbir. It was during the dhikr that I felt most vividly how Eid traditions in Malaysia are linked more to family than community as I am accustomed. As the daughter of converts, the community was my Muslim family. My strongest Eid memories as a child are ones in the midst of community members, not in another family member's home. This is changing, I explained to Feezah and her mother, as my extended family members are increasingly Muslim. Yahya and Lut have Muslim grandparents and cousins on both sides of the family while I have none.

The next morning, we spent Eid prayer at Masjid Wilayah. Here a woman kindly takes a photo with me. Feezah let me borrow the scarf which is the latest hijab style here. Influenced by Indonesian hijabs (though some disagree about origins), it is commonly called the express hijab because there is no tying or tucking.

Lut sits in the arms of an expat Muslim from South Africa. Most of the expat Muslims here are from the UK, and most are of South Asian descent. As I find myself on the other side of the world among women with Indian features conversing in British accents, I think about the myth that Arabs dominate the global ummah. No, desis do.

Here we are at brunch at Erwan's parents' on the second day of Eid after spending the night there. Erwan's mother and her helpers were constantly preparing fresh dishes. With several hands to help with and engage Yahya, I rested in the guest room whenever I pleased, and woke up to delicious food. This I would miss.

The following weekend we attended an open house at an Indian Malaysian's home. The majority of Indian Malaysians are non-Muslim, but there are some who are Muslim. I'm curious to discover how their culture and outlook compare to others in the Indian Muslim diaspora.

"Have all the seri muka you like," the hostess of the party warmly told me.

What the Chinese and Bilalians Have in Common

2010-09-26T08:24:00.000+08:00

It took traveling to the other side of the world to figure this out, and I still didn't make the connection at first.

Anyone who's lived with me knows that I love beans. I bought a pack of red ones my first time in a grocery store in Malaysia. The packaging said used in salads and desserts.

Red beans in sweets? I thought that odd, but gave it no further thought.

During Eid weekend, I discovered a new dessert, sweet and sticky rice rolls wrapped in banana leaves. I was intrigued by the black-eyed peas mixed in this delicious treat.

I would have never thought of sweetened back-eyed peas and rice. Amazing how we eat many of the same foods around the world but season or prepare them differently.

The other night I took the boys to a celebration commemorating the Chinese Mid-Autumn Festival in the shopping complex next to our condo. At one of the activity booths, children made mooncakes out of green and red beans. Different, I thought. (Can you guess where I am going with this.)

Traditionally eaten at the Chinese Mid-Autumn Festival, mooncakes were served to all the guests. Yahya and I gobbled up one slice after another as though we hadn't eaten cake in ages. Actually, it had been some time because we both try to avoid wheat flour because of allergies.

The mooncake was delicious, and I went home still thinking about it. I checked the internet for the ingredients, and of course they are made with wheat flour.

Later while doing the dishes, a mental snapshot of the online ingredients resurfaced: beans, oil, flour...

Like BEAN PIE!!!!

This Nation of Islam original (or not so original) wasn't that odd after all. Sweet bean paste has been used in Asian cuisine for centuries.

Nonetheless, from what I understand and imagine, the originators of the bean pie came up with their sweet creation independent of the mooncake. The commonality simply shows that great human minds think alike.

I will continue to proudly describe the bean pie to my students as Bilalians' contribution to Islamic culture and history.

Oh, I should rephrase that: African Americans' contribution.

But I use the term Bilalian to draw attention to an important period in the leadership of Imam W.D. Mohammed when he turned his followers from the teachings of his father Elijah Muhammad in the Nation of Islam to the Islam taught by the Prophet Muhammad, prayers and peace upon him.

Bilal was an African companion of the Prophet Muhammad. Formerly a slave, he was chosen to call the people to prayer with his beautiful voice. I imagine that Imam Mohammed chose the name Bilalian for his community so as to connect us to the Prophet Muhammad (now his followers instead of Elijah Muhammad's) and to charge us to aspire toward the high status and noble contribution of Bilal, with whom we shared African heritage.

Our community used the label for only a short period. One day I will have to tell my Bilalian stories and how as a little girl I thought that all black people called themselves Bilalian.

Edward Curtis highlights the term Bilalian in his chapter on Imam W.D. Mohammed in his book Islam in Black America, but otherwise, the term has very little online coverage. I invite any historians of Imam Mohammed's legacy to comment on the term, why it was chosen and abandoned.

But back to bean pie, my initial attitude toward the idea of beans used in sweets here in Asia shows how American I am. In the same way that Americans turn their nose up at the idea of bean pie, I almost did the same here even though I grew up eating the black Muslim version of sweet bean pastry with Breyers vanilla ice cream every Friday night (a post-jum'ah ritual).

Ramadan and Eid Malaysian Style, Part 1

2010-09-19T17:41:00.001+08:00

Although this was a once in a lifetime opportunity, to spend Ramadan in Malaysia, I hardly expected the context to make it more exceptional.

For one, we didn’t have a car to explore the streets and mosques for an intense cultural immersion. Second, my small children kept me close to home. In my pre-parenthood days, I would have jumped at the chance to pray the special Ramadan night prayers in Malaysia's mosques. But now with a baby and toddler, it was more practical for me to pray in the comfort of my home.

Gratefully, I wasn’t the bit dismayed by my circumstances, partly due to the understanding that the true fruits and blessings of Ramadan come through increased worship and good acts, which one can work for anywhere.

And as for missing the opportunity to pray in the beautiful, grand mosques that distinguish Islam in traditional Muslim lands from Islam in America, I had already been blessed with this favor countless times before, including my first visit to Malaysia thirteen years ago but also in Mecca, Medina, Cairo, Istanbul, and Fez.

But of course, the mercy and favor of God exceeded my expectations. I was blessed with several opportunities to experience the culture of Ramadan and Eid in Malaysia, enough to both become enamored with this sweet Muslim culture and to draw comparisons as any good Muslim anthropologist would do.

Here I am on my first Ramadan excursion. My Chinese real estate agent, concerned that I experience a uniquely Malaysian Ramadan, called to tell me about the street vendors who set up food booths especially for this month. A friend drove us there on a Friday about an hour before iftar. This was a different scene for me as I was accustomed to buying meals from restaurants at malls or shopping complexes. As I debated whether I would buy any of the street food (cautious because of my sensitive stomach), it started to rain, cutting our first cultural excursion short.

The weather gave us no choice but to eat out at our usual spot, a restaurant in the mall. We arrived shortly before sunset.

Instead of candies in a basket, individually wrapped dates for breaking the fast lay in a tray next to the menu at the host station.

On our way to our seats, I could easily identify the non-Muslim tables. Not only did their non-Malay features (e.g., Japanese, European, etc.) distinguish them, but they also stood out because they were in the middle of their meals.

The majority of the tables were filled with fasters, waiting with dates and water. This was new and different, to see a restaurant full and almost everyone waiting to have their dishes served at the same time. The orders had already been put in.

Sure enough, as soon as maghrib came in, waiters delivered food to all the tables at once, and the service was good. We were served immediately, and this was important for making prayer on time since we wouldn't pray maghrib until after we finished our meals.

This was one of the small differences about Ramadan in Malaysia: instead of breaking the fast with something small, then praying, and then having your meal as was my experience in the U.S., here you completely finished your meal and then prayed.

This is how they do it in Indonesia as well, according to my Indonesian friend who was with us. This contrast in practice led the scholar of religion/Islam part of me to reflect on the production and transmission of Islamic knowledge.

How does an entire culture (or region) develop a unique set of Islamic practices different from another culture? Did a particular sufi teacher integral to the Islamization process in Southeast Asia teach the new Muslims to break their fast this way? And was this the teacher's way of practicing Ramadan before he came to the region or was he sensitive to the customs or predispositions of the new Muslims and encouraged this practice to make Islam more practical for them?

My pondering aside, we took the nasiha, When in Rome, Do as the Romans Do. The prayer rooms at the malls helped tremendously in this case. As soon as we finished our meals, we headed in their direction.

When breaking our fast at home, we continued our normal practice of praying before our meal. But whenever we visited our Malay friends for iftar, we followed their practice.

Speaking of which, my family's Ramadan and Eid experience in Malaysia was deeply enriched by the generosity and kindness of our Malay friends Erwan and Feezah whom I wrote about in my last post.

Every weekend they picked us up to take us to a family iftar. We anticipated and treasured our time with this family, a break from our duties at home, including Yahya's potty training, and an escape from our expat residential area to experience the real Malaysia.

At the end of the second week of Ramadan, Erwan took us to his parents home in a town just outside of KL. His father wears traditional Malay garments that men don for prayer.

The third weekend we spent at Feezah's parents' home in Kuala Lumpur. Hud shows Feezah's father Native Deen videos as we wait for maghrib.

These trips were a treat for me because the two families truly made us feel at home. This particular time, Feezah and I stayed at her parents' with the kids while the husbands and parents went for prayer at the mosque. They returned with late-night snacks including the infamous durian fruit, known for its strong odor, that I had heard about since arriving. They insisted that we eat, constantly showering their hospitality on us until Erwan dropped us off back home well after midnight.

During my bonding time with Feezah, she graciously answered my host of questions about everything from having a live-in-maid to birth practices in Malaysia to the ingredients in the savory traditional dishes.

It was during my first iftar at Feezah's house that I began to realize one of the most striking differences about Ramadan in Malaysia, and perhaps in any majority-Muslim country: the anticipation and preparations for Eid.

Our husbands were out at the mosque. Sitting with Feezah, I heard fireworks.

"What's that for?"

"Oh, it's because of Hari Raya," Feezah answered.

"This early?"

She smiled and explained that celebrations for Hari Raya (short for Hari Raya Aidil Fitri), how Malaysians refer to the holiday after Ramadan, begin early here.

As I reflected on the cultural performances (anthropologist jargon, by the way), naturally my frame of reference was how Americans prepare for Christmas. It was exciting to see for the first time Eid treated as the biggest celebration of the year on a mass public scale.

On our way to an iftar at friends living in a nearby building, I saw Ramdan/Eid lights for the first time. And this was in an expat area where mostly non-Muslims live. I later realized that this was the norm everywhere. They eventually put up lights and decorations at my building.

Decorations at the complex near our condo.

I immediately thought of Christmas when I saw this ad in the paper in the second week of Ramadan.

Look forward to my next post when I describe the "sweetness" I discovered at a KL mosque in Ramadan and how my family spent Hari Raya. You can guess that Erwan and Feezah made it special. May Allah reward them and their family always.

Iftar at a Malaysian Home

2010-08-24T08:34:00.002+08:00

If you haven't noticed, my interaction with Malaysian Muslims has been limited. My third and final post on race/class and residence in KL will shed greater light on this unanticipated aspect of our Malaysian experience.

You can imagine, then, how excited I was to attend an iftar at a Malaysian's home for the first time. The brother who invited us, my husband met at a Suhaib Webb lecture in KL. He noticed my husband searching for a taxi and kindly offered him a ride home. Again he demonstrated his kindness and generosity by driving us to his home for dinner. The food and fellowship were wonderful, and I loved the backyard.

I immediately connect with the brother's wife Feezah. We share experiences about our different lives as a Muslim minority (in the US) and a Muslim majority (in Malaysia). She planted the awesome tree behind us herself. And I love her jilbab. I was initially surprised when she referred to her dress as such because it is much more fashionable than the stereotypical image of the jilbab. See Feezah's selection here.

Donning the white kufi, my husband's kind friend reminded me of the Islamic singing group Raihan. Our youth delegation representing Imam W.D. Mohammed discovered this group on my first visit to Malaysia in 1997. Their songs became a hit in the WDM community in Atlanta overnight.

Yahya makes a new friend in the backyard garden. May they both be among the people of the Everlasting Garden.

Before iftar.

Iftar time! And they sent us home with food to savor the experience.

Pious. Intelligent. Beautiful

2010-08-20T09:44:00.000+08:00

These are the words that come to mind when Muslim women seize the opportunity to capture and portray our diverse images and voices through our own media.

I seek to do this in my own scholarship, but not without the example and leadership of mentors like Tayyibah Taylor, editor-in-chief of the award-winning magazine Azizah.

Watch Tayyibah’s CNN interview and [re]discover the intelligence and light of a thoughtful Muslim woman, especially one radiating the blessings and benefits of Ramadan.

I had been waiting for the right moment to share this photo of a Malaysian Muslim woman bank employee. Don’t you love her uniform, both modest and chic?

As Tayyibah notes in her interview, this is not the image we ordinarily see of Muslim women, that is, powerful, strong, happy, blessed, radiant. That’s why we have no choice but to show the world who we really are.

Mary-Frances Winters Comments on Park51 in Light of Ramadan

2010-08-20T09:39:00.000+08:00

Memorable to me about the days after 9/11 was the way in which people of other faiths spoke out on behalf of Muslims to separate the terrorist attacks from the teachings and practices of Islam.

Today, we find a similar trend as non-Muslims speak out to support Park51. I would especially like to highlight the words of my aunt, Mary-Frances Winters, president and founder of The Winters Group, as she blogs about the debate.

I think her commentary is particularly valuable as she nicely uses her understanding of Ramadan as a non-Muslim as a way to encourage others to reconsider their opposition to the mosque. See her comments here.

"Like Michelle Obama" - Race and Residence in KL, Part 2

2010-08-10T17:05:00.000+08:00

“I was going to say that you favor Michelle Obama,” the Indian stranger said with warm cheer. She and her friend, who nodded in agreement, ate from curry dishes at a table we shared at the IKEA cafeteria. I smiled and laughed with them, accepting the compliment.

I had come to expect this kind of encounter. After telling the friendly women that I was from the United States, they were confused about how a person looking like me could be American without recent roots elsewhere. “Like Michelle Obama,” I explained to them. And as usual, my disarming analogy brought great cheer and laughter.

Honestly, I initially thought to use the “Like Michelle Obama” line as an educational tool for people who just didn’t seem to get the idea that Americans are not all white. It was also a way to have this conversation about my origins without giving a history lesson on U.S. slavery. Instead of referring to Kunta Kinte, I could speak of Michelle Obama.

But it wasn’t until I learned a few things from my real estate agent Patricia, a Chinese Malaysian, did I realize that “ Like Michelle Obama” not only educated others but also empowered me, in this case, by increasing my chances of renting a condo of choice.

Yes, the property owners in Malaysia do discriminate based on nationality. And of course, Americans are among the most preferred renters. (We have a reputation of keeping homes well maintained.) But of course, when Malaysians think of Americans, most think of white people. And, yes, Nigerians are undesirable renters (see earlier post). Due to all of the above, and to avoid any surprises, my agent told condo owners up front that we were black Americans. She often followed with an attempt to persuade them to consider us as renters.

One condo owner told Patricia, “I don’t want any Africans, even if they were migrants to the States first.” Patricia struggled to explain to her that our case was different, that not even our parents, grandparents, or great-grandparents migrated from Africa. “So, Jamillah, I told her what you told me. ‘She’s like Michelle Obama.’”

According to Patricia, the owner was overcome with laughter. Apparently she thought it quite “clever” of me to liken myself to the First Lady. I hope that her laughter was also an acknowledgement of her initial ignorance.

After sharing this story with my husband, he remarked, “This begs the question, ‘When do we become just American?’”

My thoughts raced to a memory of a second-generation Egyptian American student at Duke who posed this question to me in class after I kept referring to the children of Muslim immigrants as Arab American, Pakistani American, etc.

I now realize that I didn’t take his question to heart or validate the set of experiences that motivated it. Instead I defended my choice of terms based on my experiences and studies as a black Muslim woman graduate student.

Using the modifier African or black before American has been important to me for many reasons including the way in which it brings attention to the fact that race continues to matter in the United States. In particular, this practice resists notions of America as a colorblind society where racial and ethnic identifiers have no place. To promote the idea that we are “just American” is to conceal the race and class disparities persisting in our society.

In my book I highlight the ways in which immigrants of color downplay structural racism against African Americans and ascribe to ideologies such as color blindness as part of the process of trying to be white. For this reason, I have looked critically at their appeals to be seen as “just American.”

However, the recurring question about origins—“Where are you really from?”—that I encounter abroad has made me better understand why the children of immigrants in the U.S. find it crucial to call themselves American without referring to their sub-ethnic identities. Because of the discrimination that they have encountered because they do not “look” American, they must assert their American identity, even if at times it means to momentarily drop other ethnic identifiers.

Intellectually I understood this and raised related points in my book. But now I really get their perspective. Certainly I’ve encountered the question about origins before during visits to other places abroad, and even in the U.S. due to my hijab, but I took the question as a sign of ignorance that I could easily brush off suffering no harm or injury.

Now living in a foreign country, it is different because it is the first time I have been denied specific privileges based on others' perceptions of my national origins. In other words, I live in a context in which Americans are granted certain privileges but I am sometimes denied them simply because I don’t look like others’ image of an American and because my ancestors are from Africa.

And is not this what distinguishes racism from prejudice? Racism is the removal of rights and privileges based on people’s prejudices. Not until I experienced racism on account of national origins could I truly identify with my student’s question, “When do we become just American?”

Regarding the condo owner who discriminated against my family, the irony of her remark is that God has placed a family in the White House whose members are both the descendants of enslaved Africans and of a relatively recent African migrant to the United States.

The unimaginable hardship of our ancestors who survived the Middle Passage was not in vain. Their great-great-great grandchildren deserve the full rights and privileges of American citizenship. "Like Michelle Obama" is one way that I claim mine.

Good Hair in Malaysia (A failed attempt to microblog)

2010-08-04T08:52:00.000+08:00

I’ve returned to my blog after having been in the trenches writing a grant proposal, setting up and attending play dates, fighting the subsequent colds, and even saving my son’s life after he fell facedown into a fountain. (That was a bit scary.)

I am in the process of gathering my thoughts for my next post Race and Residence in KL, Part 2. I’m excited about it because I’ve had an aha moment about race and ethnicity in the United States.

When I talk to my husband about the coming post, he teases, “Don’t make it too long." I am incapable of microblogging, he concludes. “You have to write a report.”

I take his light taunt with an ounce of pride. “That’s because I’m an academic.” To prove him wrong, I’m sending this shorter post in the meantime.

The photo is that of a woman I met at the bank today. When she sat next to me, you know I had to say something. “I like your hair!” But my wide eyes and smile must have said, “How in the world did you get braids?” “I’m married to a Nigerian,” she answered. “Is this your first time having them?” “No, my tenth time.”

I will refrain from any analysis and allow you to draw your own conclusions about the amazing era in which we live, as people, ideas and practices crisscross the globe.

By the way, she is half Malay and half Chinese. Noticing her natural Asian hair under the weave, I couldn’t help but think of the part in Chris Rock’s Good Hair when he tries to sell black hair (as opposed to Indian or Asian hair). A Korean shop owner responds saying that no one wants to look like Africa.

My Malaysian acquaintance is likely to differ. And that’s why hers is my pic of the week.

Race, Class, and Residence in KL (Part 1)

2010-07-12T18:39:00.000+08:00

“I hope they do not discriminate against us!” I almost cried out to my husband after speaking on the phone with a real estate agent in Kuala Lumpur for the first time. She was a Chinese woman.

Before I had the chance to ask more about the condo, she asked a series of questions: “What is your husband’s occupation? And your race? Where are you from?” Black was the first word that came to mind, but I dare not say it. Plus, she really didn’t mean race as we use it in the U.S., I assured myself. She wants to know my nationality. “American,” I responded with confidence.

We had been warned that the color of our skin could make a difference in KL. Our generous host whose condo we currently reside, a Pakistani American, told us to expect racism in Malaysia in more direct forms than what we are accustomed to in the States. He has experienced it as a brown man in KL, my husband should definitely anticipate it as a black man, he promised us.

I wondered where this racism might come from. From the Malay Muslims who, among black American Muslims, hold the good stereotype as the nicest, most color-blind people in the ummah? Or from Chinese or Indian Malaysians whom I knew very little about?

We also had been warned that black people in Malaysia might be looked upon suspiciously. It was said that this is because a group of Nigerian immigrants to Malaysia in the mid-90s were known for selling drugs.

Our American friends in KL, a couple of Iraqi and Arab-Indonesian background, reinforced my concern. When they did their apartment search a year ago, several agents directly asked if they were Nigerian.

Did I have to travel to the other side of the world to face racial profiling on account of my African features, except this time it was not because of the criminal actions of a group of black Americans but black Nigerians?

My connection to Africa always came to the forefront when I traveled abroad. I was accustomed to the question, “But where are you really from?” In Medina a young shop clerk asked where I was from but stole from me the voice to answer. Immediately he moved his body in to bully me, calling out a series of African countries. In the moment of his harassment, I thought, America, America, America, if only he know. But it would be both futile and hypocritical to correct him. What would I imply: No, I’m not that kind of black; I am a black American. Without a voice, my American citizenship could not protect me. Instead it was another man who saved me—a stranger who gently moved the ignorant youth away.

But now, over the phone speaking with KL real estate agents, I could assert my national origin and use it to my advantage, I imagined. Every agent with whom I spoke, always a Chinese, asked me where I was from. At some point, I must directly ask them the point of this question. What assumptions do they make when they find out I am American?

A few have been quite direct. One agent told me, “Honestly, this place wouldn’t suit you because it’s where the locals live.“ It is true that Westerners are used to certain amenities that are not available in most Malaysian homes. Even in the expat areas, where I currently reside, people don’t necessarily use a clothes dryer.

When I happened to mention to one agent that I was living in an expat area, she answered, “If you are now living in Mont’ Kiara, the view here will not suit you. Mont’ Kiara is where middle and upper people live. Here is where medium and low people live.” Trusting her, I crossed out the condo listing.

My thoughts turned to immigrants in the U.S. and how they go about choosing a residence, a topic I explore in my analysis of black and immigrant relations. I anticipated that my status as a “foreigner” in Kuala Lumpur would make me revisit some of the perspectives and points made in my book.

(There I spend a lot of time discussing the way in which choice of residence influences African American and immigrant relations in the American ummah, or Muslim community. For an idea of this, see an excerpt from my book.)

The Liberated Muslim Wife

2010-07-05T09:16:00.000+08:00

And imagine if I didn't have any help. Such was my thought as I escaped from mothering for a quick shower. My two year old is sick with a fever, and the baby also has a cold. But at least I have help with cooking, cleaning, and the laundry.

I love it here in Kuala Lumpur because the idea of a middle-class woman having help managing her household is not a radical one.

And yes, this topic brings out the Islamic feminist in me. Western women think that we are more liberated than women in Muslim societies. But when it comes to women's work, I do not consider it liberating that women have similar work responsibilities as men but also assume the larger part of parenting, cooking, and cleaning. This sentiment relates to a common complaint I've heard from African and Asian immigrant women in the U.S., that is, that "back home we had lots of help."

In KL, the full-time maid functions as a nanny, cook, and cleaner. I won't pretend that this arrangement is perfect. I've heard that sometimes maids are too busy with their nanny duties to complete other tasks. Or they are too busy with cooking that they don't mind the children as they should. Hmm....makes me wonder if expectations for the maid are unrealistic.

My musings have led me to the surprising conclusion that I prefer the term "helper," another way to refer to the maids in KL, because it is this aspect that I find empowering and worth blogging about. I celebrate the awareness that women cannot do it alone. It is the widespread cultural understanding that women need help that I find liberating.

On my first day in KL, I was offered part-time help. Mama Sarina, originally from the Philippines, helps twice a week. My husband's agreeing to pay for this service has partly to do with the fact that it is more affordable here than in the U.S. But affordability isn't the only issue. It's also an issue of mindset. Many American men imagine that the wife should be able to handle all of the household duties, especially if she stays at home.

Luckily I have a husband who, even before life in KL, was coming to understand that I needed help even when I was not going outside to work. He would occasionally pay for housekeeping services, or for a part-time nanny 2-4 days out of the month.

Mama Sarina is more than a helper. She has become family away from home. She calls me Mama so I call her Mama. She spoils Yahya like any grandma would. Yesterday we drove around in our host's SUV with Mama Sarina and her two Filipino friends helping us find a condo to rent. When we stopped by a mosque to pray, my husband and I went in while Mama and the others watched the children.

Before leaving for KL, my mother's dear friend Sister Khayriyyah made a prayerful comment that Allah would bless me with the support I was accustomed to from my mother and aunt in Atlanta. I never imagined that it would come from these kind Filipino women.

The Beauty of the Ummah

2010-07-01T16:55:00.000+08:00

"This is what we do for each other in the Ummah." These were Khadijah's gracious words after I thanked her for so generously offering to let us stay in her condo in Kuala Lumpur for our first two months. I refer to her and her husband Sulaiman as our hosts. Sulaiman is a second-generation Pakistani American and Khadijah is a second-generation Filipino American convert.

Islam’s ability to bring together people of diverse backgrounds who might not ordinarily interact, I find very compelling, so much so that I wrote a book about it (smile). What's awesome is that Khadijah and I have yet to meet in person. A mutual friend in the US introduced us after hearing that I was traveling to Malaysia. Khadijah’s and Sulaiman’s kindness and trust to let us stay in their condo while they visit the US demonstrate the beauty of sisterhood and brotherhood in the Ummah (Muslim community).

When we first drove up to the condo building, it felt as if we were at a resort. We are very happy with our accommodations, and we love the view of the swimming pool and luscious landscape. May Khadijah, Sulaiman, and their family always be blessed with the most beautiful accommodations in this life and the next.

Duke Yearbook Picture

2010-06-28T10:02:00.000+08:00

My mother scanned this picture from our Duke Yearbook and sent to me and my sister who's at the center. This was taken in 1998 or 1999. Both my sister and I had travelled to Malaysia by this time. What's neat is that behind me in the background are two of our Malaysian friends. I've already contacted one since I've been here. Duke was a special time for me because it broadened my understanding of Islam in multiple ways, in the classroom but also through my interactions with Muslims from around the world.

A Friend from Home

2010-06-27T18:07:00.002+08:00

On our first full day in Kuala Lumpur, we hang out with other Americans. They are Balgees and Idris, an Arab Indonesian American and a second-generation Iraqi American couple. Balgees cooks us a traditional Indonesian dish as I write from my ipad in her living room.

Balgees, who moved to the United States when she was fifteen, remembers meeting me once in Virginia. But in KL we have become more than acquaintances as Balgees and Idris have become our family away from home. They have driven us to grocery stores, malls, and major tourist sites. They play with Yahya and hold Lut as my mother, aunt, or sister would.

I laugh heartily as Balgees fascinates me with stories of her immersion in black culture while living on the South Side of Chicago and attending a majority-black university. It's as though we've been friends for a lifetime.

We both sigh with relief when we are welcomed by familiar scents and sights in the new malls that draw expats and tourists. We long for home. But when prayer comes in, we take advantage of Muslim space. Instead of stealthily praying in a dressing room as we would back home, we pray comfortably among our Malaysian Muslim sisters in the mall suraus, or prayer areas. The natives put on their traditional Malay prayer garments, submerging their fashionably covered bodies in a sea of modesty. But Balgees and I ignore the prayer garments set aside neatly in bags for surau worshippers. We are fine with praying in our everyday clothes.

Asia for Dummies

2010-06-25T18:08:00.000+08:00

We picked the right place, I discovered today at breakfast at The Coffee Bean. We met a Muslim expat family from the UK: Tanzeela, Shahid, and their two daughters. Tanzeela told me that they call Malaysia Asia for Dummies. If you’re living abroad in Asia for the first time, Malaysia is a nice introduction because you can find many of the amenities we are accustomed to back home.

It's also a place to get the flavor of Chinese and Indian culture, the two largest minority groups in Malaysia. I learned that the largest Chinese expat community resides here.

It wasn’t until my family and I arrived at the China Airline terminal at LAX that I truly realized that I was about to step into Asia. I’m used to confronting my minority status in certain locations in the US. (It may sound ironic to say "certain" since most locations in the US are majority white; but remember, I live in a black neighborhood in a majority-black city, I work at a black college for women, and I attend a black mosque). But this was different. I wasn’t a black woman in a sea of white people, but a black woman in a sea of Asian people. And add my hijab to the mix.

Just when I was about to put on my ‘People are looking at me because I am different’ hat, a Chinese woman (at least I think she was Chinese) came up to me to tell me in her broken English how adorable my 4 month old is. I was carrying him in my Mei Tai, a traditionally Asian-Style Baby Carrier, as a matter of fact. Lut was staring up at me cooing. The Asian woman was so amused by Lut, and she said with a hearty laugh, "Oooh he is trying to talk to you." She was extremely tickled. She kept saying it over again, laughing, "Oooh, baby is trying to talk to you."

So she warmed me up and I tried on a different hat, the “try not to make assumptions” hat, the one my husband always tries to get me to wear but I usually resist : “I’m an anthropologist. I have to make observations and draw conclusions.”

When we arrived in Taipei, it was very clear to us that we were no longer in the States, confused about where to go to make our connection and frustrated by the not so user friendly arrival and departure monitors. But we had to admit, we traveled with the privilege of English as our native tongue. Yahya, my two-year old, was beaming with a bright smile. He had no clue where we were or where we were going, simply happy to be out of the house and zooming through the airport via train. We finally made it to our terminal for Kuala Lumpur. Not only Malaysians were traveling to KL, but all of Asia was traveling there.

I am in Asia, it truly hit me. Starting to feel like the minority again, I am embarrassed as Yahya decides to put on a show, twirling and shouting in the middle of the terminal. Lut is screaming too, and what usually calms him down, breastfeeding, doesn’t work this time. Many eyes are on us. A woman with a toddler plays with Yahya. An old man warmly tells Yahya, “Your brother is hungry.”

Once arriving in KL, on the airport train again, Yahya became a celebrity among a group of young Asian tourists. They pulled out their cameras to take pictures of him and with him. I talk to one sitting next to me. “Where from?” “Taiwan.” I try to tell her where I am from. “United States…America.” She shrugged her shoulders to say “I don’t know that place.” But when we all lined up to exchange our money at the closest bank, the young tourists pulled out USDs as did we.

KL, certainly a top tourist destination for Asia and the Gulf. I checked out the women from different places in diverse, stylish, beautiful outfits, travelers and flight crews. I sat in the immigration office as we waited to get my husband’s student visa approved. I thought of all the Muslim men and women immigrants in the US that I interviewed and their stories about arriving in the US. I had a newfound empathy. A new chapter in my life begins.

Dr. Jamillah Karim's Blog

2010-06-25T17:58:00.000+08:00

I am a professor of religious studies but an anthropologist at heart. This explains my blog title. I am fascinated by the way in which we understand and live Islam based on our different cultural locations. Sounds like a cultural anthropologist, right?

My blog begins with my experiences in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. I arrived here a week ago. How did an African American Muslim girl from the ATL end up in Southeast Asia?! Well, that's one of the perks of being Muslim in the global era.