We Are Not a Monolith — Sabeeha Rehman

We, as in Muslims.
What if I were to stand at the corner of 42nd Street and Broadway and ask the passersby a question—if I can find a place to stand without being bumped by the touristy crowd—I would ask:
“When someone mentions a Muslim woman or man, what image comes to your mind?”
Won’t you agree most will answer, “a woman in a headscarf,” “a man with a beard?”
I would keep drilling down (if the tourist is not in a rush) and I hear: ‘dark skin,’ ‘Arab,’ ‘foreign accent,’ ‘African American’. . . . you get the picture.
In my fantasy, I take this conversation a step further and this is where I see it going:

“Have you ever met a Muslim?” I ask the woman. A brunette, she is sporting a Kansas City University sweatshirt.
“No.”
Do I dare make an offer? She looks no more than twenty, which makes her a likely risk taker.
“Do you have plans for dinner?” I ask.
She has this look on her face that says I think I know where this is going. Since I look pretty harmless, she shakes her head as in ‘no’.
“Come with me. We will take the F train to New York University and join the Muslim students for an iftar. It’s open to the public. And free! Oh! An iftar is the meal we take when we break our fast. By the way, you know that it’s the month of Ramadan, right? When Muslims fast every day? I guarantee, you will be in for a pleasant surprise. No trip to New York is complete if you haven’t had an iftar meal in Ramadan. And the arch in Washington Square Park is a not-to-miss sight—nothing like your city’s arch, but glorious in its own way. By the way, I am a Muslim. Don’t panic,” I chuckle.
She looks at her companion. He appears to be around twenty. Probably a student, like her. He shrugs with this what’s the harm look.
“Let’s go,” I nudge, and start walking towards the subway entrance.
OMG! They are actually coming along.
On the way down, I fill them in on the rituals of Ramadan: we fast daily from daybreak to sunset, every day for 30 days…. Now they are asking questions, “Not even water?”
“Not even water.”
“Did I forget to introduce myself? I’m Sabeeha.”
“I’m Katie.”
“Eric.”
“Do I need a scarf?” Katie asks.
“No you don’t.”
They are tourists from—you figured that out—Kansas City, Missouri.
I point out the arch in Washington Square Park and we enter the building on Thompson Street.
“Aren’t we going to a mosque?”
“No. The university has a program—Islamic Center at NYU—and they use the Grand Hall in this building for the iftars.”
We enter the hall and I lead them into an alcove.
“You have to remove your shoes.” I point to the wall-to-wall shoe-rack. Eric almost loses his balance trying to remove the shoe from his left foot.

The hall is half-full with women and men are seated on the carpet and imam Latif is at the mic, engaging the people in a discussion on setting your spiritual goals for Ramadan.
“Let’s sit here,” I find a spot for the three of us.
Katie and Eric are looking around and exchanging glances. I know what they are thinking.
It’s not what I thought.
First, more women than men. Second, some women have the hijab, some don’t; some appear to be Malaysian/Indonesian, some Pakistani/Indian, African American, Arab, European, and White American. Some young men have a fashionable trimmed beard, others clean shaven. The guys are dressed in jeans, the women in all sorts of garb: jeans, tee-shirts, long skirts, gowns.
“Are they all Muslims?” Katie asks.
“I would say 99% are. Most are students, some former students, and the rest people like you and me.”
The imam is speaking. “I would like you to turn to the person sitting next to you and get to know one another.”

We turn around to face the woman behind us.
“My name is Betty,” she introduces herself.
Now, Betty is not your usual Muslim name, but she is wearing the hijab. It’s my turn to be curious. By the way, Betty is white, as in very white, and appears to be in her thirties.
“How is your Ramadan going?” I ask.
“I am a new Muslim and this is my first Ramadan. It’s actually going much better than I thought. I just went about my business and actually got a lot of work done since I didn’t have to worry about meals.”
Eric is curious. “If I may ask, how long have you been a Muslim”
“Five months.”
“What led you down this path?”
She starts telling her story and we are all ears. She is still talking when the imam calls out, “O.k. who would like to share their thoughts?”

At the next pause, we turn to two women and a man in front of us.
“My name is Cusic,” she says. She must be no more than twenty, rosy pink cheeks, brown wavy hair.
“Is that Turkish?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Is your family in Turkey o.k.? Such a devastating earthquake.”
“Yes, thank you.”
“I am Marlene. I am from Senegal.” My she is gorgeous! Sparkling eyes, glistening skin and jet-black hair braided into a bun.
“I am Osama, from Saudi Arabia,” a young man in a green sweater and denims, probably in his thirties.
All three are Muslim, no scarfs, no beards.
As we trade fasting stories I can see Eric and Katie looking quite settled, comfortable asking questions, and enjoying the banter. Osama is a stand-up comedienne and is telling us some Muslim jokes. Now we are all peeling with laughter.

The hall has filled up. Probably around 500 people. Student volunteers are taping white strips diagonally across the room, three feet apart.
“What are they doing?” Katie asks.
“Creating lines for formation of the evening prayer. We will all line up along these strips.”
“Why are the strips diagonal?”
“Good question! When we pray, we face in the direction of Mecca, which happens to be diagonally across from us.” I pull out my compass on my iphone and show them the north-east direction.
Students start walking through the assembly, carrying piles of dates in trays.
“Take a date, but don’t eat it until it’s time to break fast.”
“When is that?” Eric asks, looking at the juicy date in his hand.
“At the strike of sundown at 7:11 pm today. 10 minutes to go. Tomorrow it will be at 7:12 pm. Each day we start earlier and end later as the days get longer.”
Student volunteers are setting up the tables with food trays and the aroma is whetting our appetites.

“We are going to have the call to prayer,” the imam announces.
“Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar…” a student standing in front of the mic calls the Adhan.
Women dig into their bags, pulling out their scarves, draping them over their hair.
As soon as the adhan is over, we stand shoulder to shoulder along the strips, leaving no gaps in between.
Katie and Eric give me this puzzled look as in what should we do?
“Just stand along with us and follow the movements. Do your own silent prayer or nothing at all. Eric, you move up two rows and join the men. Katie, you stay with me.”
Prayer over, the imam raises his hands in supplication praying for peace, wellbeing, and all the usual good stuff.

“Please line up against both walls, take your food and find a place on the carpet,” the imam announces. Meanwhile, volunteers have started rolling out white plastic sheets on the rug, creating a seating space.
They serve veggie pasta, meat pasta, and salad. We take our places on the rug and Eric and Karen start chatting up another group of young students sitting across from us. By now, they are on their own, making acquaintances, getting tourist tips from these New Yorkers, and making notes on their phones of places to see and the best place to get pizza and bagels. I have transitioned from tour guide to observer.

I look at my watch.
“You have to leave?” Eric asks.
I don’t miss the ‘you.’
I nod.
“O.K. Don’t let us hold you up. Please go ahead and we will make our way back. Nice meeting you,” says Katie as she and Eric turn back to their new Muslims friends.
“Nice meeting you too,” I wave and make my way to the shoe rack.