Communal iftar in a mosque
My earliest memories of Ramadan are in Pakistan. A child of seven, I would plead with my parents, ‘please, please, can I fast?’ It seemed exciting, such a grown-up thing to do. Mummy let me fast for half a day when I turned 10, but just for a day.
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I don’t know her.
I had never met her.
I don’t even remember her name. But yesterday, I sat with her, as she uttered the words, and entered the fold of Islam.
The Borough President of Brooklyn, Eric Adams, had summoned Debbie in his office.
“Debbie, we have a problem.”
She had no idea what was going on, what had happened, or why she had been summoned.
“We have a high turnout, and it’s a security problem.”
Last evening, a group of people congregated on the 7th floor community room of an apartment building on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. They had assembled to commemorate Holocaust Remembrance Day. So why am I writing about it? Gatherings were being held all over New York, all over the world for that matter. I am writing about it because this group was exceptional. A Muslim family had hosted it
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… we’d be praying 50 times a day.
Tonight was the night, 1,400 years ago, when God ordained that Muslims pray five times a day. But it didn’t start out that way.
Dearest Mummy,
There are times when I so wish you were here;
There are times when I am grateful that you are not.
Immigrants and refugees, that is. I was asked this question at the BBYO teen conference. “As a Muslim, how does the immigrant and refugee experience connect to your faith? How does your experience as a Muslim Pakistani-American inform the way you think about this issue?’
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What is your #1 worst bookclub experience? I am sure many of you belong to book clubs, some to more than one. I am sure most of you love your book club, or at least like it, or you wouldn’t be in it. We do have freedom of choice. Its not as if your boss requires ‘mandatory enrollment’ in his or her book club. Right? But I am sure there have been times when a book club meeting bombed.
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Sadly, now it’s our turn. Only three days ago, on a bright sunny Sunday, I had stood in Times Square among thousands, waving posters, “Today I Am A Muslim Too.” Except, that they were not Muslim. That day, they were proclaiming their solidarity with Muslims.
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“What can we do to help Muslims?”
This is the one question I am asked every time I do a book reading or give a talk on Islam.
I was in a church talking to a group of, oh, maybe 70+ people.