Today I was invited by a good friend of mine to witness and take part in a non-Muslim woman “converting/reverting” (whatever the currently fashionable and acceptable term might be) to Islam. Despite the scariness of the term, it does not involve any surgery, ritual circumcisions and kissing the sacred chicken’s bottom – although it would be fun to make someone do that – it is actually as plain and simple as saying the “Shahadah”. This is a declaration of faith, which translated means “I bear witness there is no god but Allah and I bear witness that Muhammad is His servant and Messenger.” So all that you really need to do is say these words, and shazam, one is transformed quite magically into a bearded lion if a man, or a black-clad ninja if one is a woman.
In all seriousness, all that is required is a firm, true belief in those words, and any recitation of them is to be from the heart and not just from the lips. Your mouth can form the words, first in Arabic, then in English, without you actually believing in them, and often many who are perpetually Muslim do not dwell on their significance; but for Tracey today, every single word was important, carrying a weighty, life-changing significance that only Arabic seems to carry, forcing her to form the Arabic words by over-pronouncing, stumbling and eventually reaching their destination.
We met at the door with Amanah’s mother-in-law, a friend she had brought along for the experience and Tracey; the two Aunties were already in the house, waiting in anticipation for Tracey to arrive so we could claim her for our own. They waited inside, with a friend of theirs whilst we made short, polite, very English introductions; Amanah being white and English helped here; we kept it brief, shook hands and tried to enter the house – simultaneously.
Often I wonder in all the ardent hospitality that so positively colours our Asian culture why we fail to allow others to step inside a room before us, waiting politely for the guest – in this case Tracey – to enter before barging in ourselves. So while Amanah’s mother-in-law and her friend got stuck in the doorway together, Tracey and I waited politely, in our very English fashion whilst they kissed and hugged the internal occupants. I smiled at Tracey, in manner I hoped was encouraging rather than psychotic to prompt her to enter the house before me; Auntie Arifah (not my real aunt of course, but all ladies who are old enough to be our mothers are our Aunties) made sure to welcome Tracey with hugs and kisses on both cheeks and I entered and dutifully hugged and kissed all the occupants, making sure everyone was sufficiently kissed and hugged so as not to offend anyone. It’s a wonder we Muslims ever get anything done with all the hugging and kissing one is required to do – but I digress.
Once Tracey was safely seated amongst us all, the conversation started. I was expecting some kind of ritual action to be taking place, having never witnessed a conversion so up close and personal before, I was on tenterhooks, waiting for an explanation. But Auntie Samia and Auntie Arifah offered none and continued to talk to Tracey asking her questions about life, where she lived, worked and how she had met Amanah, our token white Muslim, now complete with twins. All of a sudden, in hushed tones, Auntie explained the meaning and significance behind the words that Tracey was to utter. She quietly explained what exactly Tracey was going to declare after Tracey had quite candidly told us that she had researched Islam, read the Bible and discovered that she felt Islam was the truth. The Aunties nodded in appreciation and then the quiet, modest conversion began.
We all leaned in as Auntie Arifah said each and every word of the Shahadah – the Muslim declaration of faith, our creed – separately and Tracey repeated each word. When Tracey stumbled Auntie Samia picked her up, dusted her off and set her off again, repeating the phrase slowly so she could correct herself. It was as though time had stood still as we leaned in closer subconsciously, as though the world had stopped turning for all of us, held in stasis, knowing very little about each other and yet sharing a moment so close, so intimate that to speak would be to desecrate the sanctity of the space. I held my breath as the declaration drew to a close; the whole thing was over in less than one hundred and twenty seconds, but it felt like an eternity, a vast open space in which we were all held close together, united by our occupation of the sacred space where the smallest, most significant things had happened to Tracey. As the words drew to a close, we all leaned back in our seats, as though the world started to spin again on its axis, as though the clock breathed and continued to tick, marking the significant seconds that passed us by.
Tracey was shaking, the transformation she had undertaken so immense that it lit up her whole face. She looked to us all and glowed with happiness as she said, “Thanks, Jazakallah Khayr my sisters!” To everyone’s delight, Amanah had been quite dutifully teaching Tracey how to express gratitude using Arabic and Islamic phrases. This was followed up with another round of hugging and kissing to congratulate Tracey and welcome her into the folds of our community.
The ceremonial hugging, kissing and tearful congratulating was followed up with the giving of gifts. Auntie Samia produced a Jane Noir bag in a shocking pink colour full of scarves and other covering outer garments that Tracey was to wear during prayer. Amanah had prepared a bag, in real Amanah-style with a scarf and I could quite significantly see poking out the top her guide to prayer she had so lovingly produced to help other people when she knew she herself had struggled so much with the words of prayer.
I approached Tracey to bombard her with my own gift, a modest one, used, second-hand, with a cracked spine: a copy of “From My Sister’s Lips” by Naima B. Roberts: the story of the conversion and transformation of a woman from her past life to her Islamic life. I thought it better to give Tracey something she could possibly relate to rather than the “fire and brimstone” dictum contained in many books about Islam – I actually own a book called “Descriptions of Hell”, it’s an uplifting and lyrical piece that is sure to help your children sleep at night.
“I’m sorry it’s not completely new Tracy; it’s a well-read book that I have passed around to people, but it’s always come back to me. I read it myself ages ago and then put it away. I was hoping you would like it.”
The rabbit-caught-in-headlights look had not left Tracey’s face since the first bag of gifts was thrust upon her. “Oh, that’s so nice of you,” she managed.
“It’s a book written by a lady who converted to Islam herself and then she wrote about her experiences. Sorry it’s not new,” I made sure I added again, apologetically, conscious that all eyes were on me.
“No, that’s great,” said Tracey, genuinely grateful and taken aback by the loving gestures she had received from complete strangers.
“That’s the English teacher in her coming out,” Amanah chimed in, cheerfully; she was clearly glowing with post-conversion bliss, possibly remembering her own conversion over ten years ago.
“Yes, I have a book to mark every occasion,” I quite proudly announced to the room in general, not realising that this was something no one else could possibly relate to. Tracey laughed, hopefully to save me from embarrassment as everyone started at me.
As always, each occasion is marked ceremoniously with a small feast and we had one prepared: tea, homemade cakes, a giant brioche-type-dough-cake, Bombay Mix and newly-discovered gram flour crisps. We ate and made sure we provided Tracey with as much as information as she could soak up and Auntie Samia started a rather positive conversation about the scientific material contained in the Qur’an and how modern science is starting to catch up with things already described 1400 years ago, from the mouth of an illiterate camel herder. Bizarrely, one of the ladies present – a friend of Auntie Arifah’s I assume since she was already in her house – asked about adultery and the fact that in Islam, a woman’s testimony was only worth half of a man’s. The conversation took on a scary tone as Whipping, Stoning to Death and their friendly brother, Testifying To Adultery all entered the room and quite rudely squatted on the coffee table.
Tracey followed the conversation quite closely, not offering comment, and I tried quite unsuccessfully to lighten the atmosphere, chiming in with, “Yes, but as I understood it, you need four witnesses to prove adultery, which means four people have to be in the room with you while you’re at it. I’m sure that would put anyone off adultery in the first place!” Thankfully, my vocabulary did not become colourful and nor did I describe any acts of love-making to provide a distraction from a topic I thought was a wholly inappropriate way to welcome Tracey to Islam. It seemed to say, ‘Welcome to Islam sister, please leave any pork, alcohol, foreskins and adultery at the door. If not, you shall be given 100 lashes and/or stoned to death. Have a nice day.’
Sadly, my cunning diversion sent the wrong message to the rogue Auntie, she was undeterred. There was a knock at the door and our three unwelcome friends were joined by their equally unsuitable sister: Rape.
“So you’ve got the testimony of four men, testifying to rape, why did these four men do nothing to stop it?” Auntie Rogue asked; it was phrased rhetorically it seemed, not referring to any incident in particular, not even tying in nicely with another topic of conversation, just randomly squatting on Auntie Arifah’s polished coffee table amongst the remnants of our tea party.
I panicked, fearing that Tracey would run screaming from the room, I searched out Auntie Samia’s eyes and tried to give her a signal that said “Change the subject, talk about flowers and bunny rabbits, scarves, prayer, anything!” Instead, I think I just ended up looking scary and psychotic, but eventually, Auntie Samia said something to placate the rogue Auntie and I made sure I deftly added a conversation starter about the joys of being a Muslim woman.
I described in detail about how liberating it was to have the luxury of not having to work, choosing instead to stay at home, pursuing other avenues if one wished. It actually helped to say out loud that it was a luxury to be a Muslim woman, as Islamically what we earn is our own, and if we share it with our family then it is considered an act of charity. I finished up with my famous line, “And quite frankly, I’m looking forward to getting married and spending someone else’s money for a change.”
Sadly, Amanah had to go and feed her babies so the magic of the late afternoon conversion had to be drawn to a close, reluctantly by all involved, thankfully, even Tracey looked sad to leave; Rape and Adultery had not ruined the party. She had stopped looking so bewildered, so to make sure she was taken aback some more we all offered her lifts to take her home. Tracey looked around at all of us, eagerly holding our car keys, leaning in towards her, making sure our hospitality was not left incomplete. The bewildered look returned. I helped by declaring I would be taking Tracey home as I wanted to see where she lived.
As it happened, the flat she rented was literally around the corner and quicker to walk to rather than drive, so we set off on foot, my new friend Tracey and I, on a journey less significant than the gargantuan one she had just undertaken.
