What the Chinese and Bilalians Have in Common

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

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

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

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

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

“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)

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.