Nawaz - Laughing All the Way to the Mosque

To my husband, Samiul Haque, who always consoles me with the words Sometimes grit is more important than talent.

And to my parents, Parveen and Ali Nawaz, who instilled that grit at a very early age and made me believe it was talent.

When I was seven, I went up to a little boy in the schoolyard. He was sitting alone on the swings, sucking on a jawbreaker. He had black wavy hair and was a little on the chubby side.

Davy, do you believe in God?

He shrugged.

Because its really, really important to believe in God.

Davy just wanted to be left in peace, but he could see the proselytizing fire in my eyes. As far as he was concerned, I was certifiable. He did what any kid faced with a raging, fundamentalist Muslim child would do. He made a Faustian bargain.

Ill believe in God if you push me on the swings for as long as I want, he said.

I agreed. My arms ached and recess was torture, but that was the price of saving Davys soul. A little while later, Davys mother invited me to his birthday party. I was thrilled. As I sat at their table munching on some snacks, she watched me with worry. I was afraid that he had told her about methe little Muslim kid who was trying to keep him from burning in hell. Youd think that shed be grateful. Instead, she walked up to me, her hands on her hips.

Dont eat that, she said.

But its yummy. I stuffed more food into my face.

Thats ham, and Im pretty sure pork is forbidden in your religion, she said, frowning. Arent you Muslim?

I stopped mid-bite. I couldnt believe my taste buds. The meat was so good, it felt like eating a piece of heaven. I stuffed the last pieces into my mouth as fast as my guilty conscience would allow. I looked sadly at the tray of cold cuts that she quickly removed from my hypnotized gaze.

Davys mother apologized to my mother when she came to pick me up later.

I just thought she would know what pork was, she said.

My mother looked at her greedy Muslim child and sighed.

We send her to the mosque, she said. But her attention span is limited.

I was a little insulted. At least I had gotten the God part right. Who knew that the pictures of cute pigs with a giant X through them would translate to tasty morsels on a platter?

Davy looked at me.

Are you going to hell now?

Of course not, said his mother, appalled. She made a mistake, and like we learned in church, Davy, God forgives.

Davy goes to church? I asked, disbelieving.

Of course. Were Roman Catholic. Davys a choirboy.

Will you still push me on the swings? he asked.

After that day, I still pushed Davy on the swings because it was the right thing to do, even if I had started for the wrong reasons. But I decided to pay more attention to my lessons at the mosque. Religion was a tricky business. God was probably teaching me a lesson: Worry about your own soul, which always seemed in constant peril. And if I was really, really good, Id get to eat pork in heaven.

Dear reader, Ive written this memoir so that one day, should you find yourself facing a pint-sized, self-righteous Muslim trying to save your soul, you will be armed with understanding of the other side. You will have all sorts of interesting ammunition to catch them off guard with, like Isnt there a prayer that youre late for? or As soon as you figure out the moon issue, Ill listen to you and the perennial Exactly how clean are your genitals? But please be kind to the crazy-eyed Muslim. Remember, each of us has to face our own demons, even if they are in the form of a piece of fried bacon.

Dear Muslim reader, dont think Ive forgotten you. First, stop sulking. This book could have had confessions about drug problems, strange sexual fetishes and criminal activitybasically the stuff of white-people memoirs. Although I enjoy reading them, I know you dont. There are no confessions of having sex while swinging from a chandelier. My husband says hed be very annoyed if his colleagues were laughing at him behind his back. So you dont have to be scared of this book. But I did include some of my misadventures in the Muslim community. Dont get me wrong, I love my people. But we have a bit of a contentious relationship. And I am tolerated because its not nice to throw someone out of a mosque. Although they did try once (see the Little Mosque in the City chapter).

When you grow up in the West, sometimes things get lost in translation. Plus, it doesnt help that Im a bit of a kook. This story will show you what I mean: The other month I was responsible for organizing the mosque community potluck. My friend Faeeza and I watched guests arrive with dessert after dessert, and no main courses in sight. She eventually turned to me.

How did you arrange the potluck? she asked.

I had decided not to leave the food up to chance, and sent out an announcement dividing the food based on last name, just to make it easy.

I asked the first half of the alphabet to bring dessert and the second half to bring a main dish, I replied.

You realize that the majority of Muslim last names fall into the first half of the alphabet, right? Ahmed, Abdullah, Ali

No, that had not occurred to me.

As the dessert table overflowed with trays of baklava and boxes of doughnuts, we were forced to pile the sweets under the tables and in various corners of the room. Discontent was brewing, though, as people started to get hungry. I could hear grumbling stomachs. I looked at the two chicken dishes on the table.

Order pizza, said Faeeza.

A few tardy Yusufs and Zakariahs brought a few more chicken dishes while we waited for the pizza. The potluck was officially two hours late, and even though we fast every year during Ramadan, our group of hungry Muslims couldnt wait any longer. The crowd devoured what protein they could scrounge and topped it off with ample dessert and tea. By the time the twenty pizzas arrived, everyone was in the throes of a carb-induced stupor and had no interest in the bright orange boxes.

What are we going to do with all this pizza? I asked Faeeza.

Sell it? she suggested.

I took to the microphone and made an announcement. We are raising money for a new mosque. Everyone who buys a pizza will be contributing to the fund. Theyre ten dollars each.

How much were the pizzas? I asked Faeeza after I came back from the podium.

Twelve dollars. Well take it out of the new mosque fund, which never seems to grow.

No one was volunteering to buy the pizzas, so I went over to where the men were sitting. I figured theyd still be hungry.

Ask my wife, said Wael. She makes all the decisions in the family.

You would have thought I was asking him to refinance his house. But it was no use. Faheem, Abdul-Rahman and Gamal said the same thing. I eventually gave up on the men and negotiated with the women. The women, of course, could smell our desperation. They took pity on us and bought the pizzas. I felt as victorious as if I had found families for homeless puppies.

A week later, my husband, Sami, let me know that a complaint had been emailed to the board of the Islamic Association.

Oh no, I said, worried. Someones upset that there wasnt enough food?

No, said Sami. One of the men felt that there was a woman who was fraternizing with the men too much. He wrote that the standard of the mosque potluck has fallen with all the lascivious gazing going on between the genders. How we can continue to call these events Islamic is beyond the pale.