Sewing Seeds

Photo Courtesy of Mohammed Mertaban

Everything happens for a reason. I've got to keep remembering that. It's a vital piece to peaceful living. Surrendering to God's Will as it is, knowing that I must do what I need to do and the rest will just be.

It was almost like déjà vu except it wasn't an illusion. As the young seamstress knelt on the floor to hem my pants, I remembered the last time I had been in a fitting room: a week before my wedding, getting my gorgeous gold dress hemmed in a way that the visionary train would remain untouched. Even the women at the bridal shop were stunned at the Vera Wang dress they had never seen before, sparkling and flowing like a champagne wave. "Is this a good length?" the seamstress asked, tugging on my pants and tugging me back with them to the present. I looked down, viewed them from all angles and agreed they looked perfect. She marked them with her chalky soap, handed me the ticket and said they’d be ready in a week.

It felt like another long week but Thursday finally rolled around, and when I got the call to pick them up, I made a pit stop on my way home from work. The sales woman brought them out to me and was ready to just hand them off and bid me farewell when I asked if I could try them on just to double check. Now typically, that’s not my routine, but something in me said to ask. So I walked into the room and found myself utterly disappointed. The pants looked exactly the same, wiping the floor even with those five-inch heels on. I walked out of the room and to the sales lady and said, “Um, were these even altered?” She looked down with shock and said, “One second. Let me call alterations up.” Frustrated, I marched back into the room and waited. I was almost ready to get mad, wondering why Nordstrom had fallen short of their usual top notch service, but then the knock on my door came and I was reminded about fate.

“Alterations!” she said in a high pitched tone. I opened the door and there stood a sweet old woman whose face suddenly beamed with a smile of surprise. She walked in closer to me and said, “Oh my goodness! You remind me of the nuns I admired back in grade school!” I had never seen a stranger so happy to see me, like I had awakened a nostalgic love she had long forgotten. I smiled back, “Really?” She nodded. “Yes, the way you wear that, and it’s black and white. Just like them.” I thought the conversation had ended as she immediately began assessing the pants—but then again I should know my life by now. “You know, I always wanted to be a nun.”

I was caught off guard. Three seconds ago she asked if these were the shoes I usually wear to accurately measure length. “Oh yeah? Here in California?” She tugged and folded. “No, back in Mexico. I actually studied and I stayed in the sanctuary and I practiced for three years but then I couldn’t anymore. The isolation and lifestyle was too much, but I never got over their outfits. Turn. Is that better?” I turned but kept a tear filled focused stare at her. Something about her 30 second history lesson got to me and I knew exactly what it was.

She told me because the alteration error was on their part, she’d expedite the order for me and have them ready in 30 minutes. I thanked her for her work and told her I truly was grateful to have met her. She left me with a soft touch and told me she loved how the scarf beautified my face and that she was glad to have seen me wearing it. I drove home and realized there was indeed a reason why those pants had an alteration malfunction—I was destined to meet her, she was destined to meet me and we were destined to make an everlasting impression on one another whether we realized it or not.

It’s a miracle, to be honest. In the same week that three young, bright and beautiful Muslim students are murdered in Chapel Hill, NC, causing me to be told to genuinely reconsider the scarf I’ve worn on my head for 19 years due to safety issues, that I meet this woman. It’s a sign that I am to continue. That the seeds past and present human beings of goodness have sewn are to be benefited from and recycled. My mother didn’t show up to my school at the start of every new year and speak with the entire student body and staff about her young 8, 9, 10 and so on year-old daughter, with the sparkly clean white head scarf, so that one day I could take it off. The Greater Huntington Beach Interfaith Council didn’t stand beside my family every single second after 9/11 so that one day I could cower in the terror of racism. My father didn’t constantly raise me with the words “strength” and “sustainability” for me to turn around and demonstrate weakness and instability. And lastly, Deah, Yusor and Razan did not die in vain. Their death was not a call for us Muslims to hide with shame and fear. No. We remain because we are now enlisted into their mission; to take the flame that they lit, the flame of love and service, and carry it on with fierce pride. Their families have honored them with the title “Our Three Winners” and it could not ring more true. In one horrific tragedy, those three souls have ignited humanity with an inspiring love I have never seen before. They have sewn the seeds God destined them for and it’s our turn to water them as we sew more. More love, more service, more peace, despite what we face.

These are the seeds I pray will grow into the strongest of roots for the next generation of humanity. As I see photo after photo of those beautiful three filling up social media, my pride of their legacies grows. How does one consider stripping herself of the scarf that’s been her lifelong identity, a piece of her soul, when she sees Yusor and Razan each wearing hers with pride, fulfilling their mission to God?

Someone once asked me, “Haven’t you ever desired to just once take it off? Free yourself from the restrictions it puts on you?” I fell silent for 90 seconds and replayed the last 19 years of my life with hijab (head scarf). At the end of the film reel I looked back at the questioner with a stunned smile. It had just dawned on me that in 19 years I never once faced that dilemma, fell into that temptation, wondered that thought, or yearned to fall prey to that desire. “No. Not once, and I just realized that’s been a blessing from God.”

What people often mistake is that the hijab is intended to restrict women and prohibit them from certain things in life, well, everything in life. We can unfortunately thank a great deal of misinterpretation, backwards cultural traditions and ignorance for that. I remembered the seamstress’s words, how that isolation lifestyle was too hard for her to handle. It is, and yet those women and their choices are not criticized, humiliated, harassed or subjected to violent hate crimes, nor should they be. But Muslims—and Muslim women who have chosen to practice this aspect of their religion—are. Why? Because our faith (when practiced and understood correctly) actually inhibits the social nature in it? Asks men and women to work together for a better society?

As humans, we are naturally social beings. We need to be out and about with others, interacting, learning and sharing. Even in the Qur'an God says, “Oh mankind, indeed We have created you from male and female, and made you peoples and tribes that you may know one another. Indeed, the most noble of you in the sight of God is the most righteous of you (49:13).” The hijab does not prohibit me from doing any of the above. The hijab never stood in my way when I wanted to write and publish a book, perform bold poetry in front of hundreds of people, give lectures to various corporate staff, work out at the gym, take a road trip down PCH, make a midnight run for a burger, take dance classes, get married, get divorced, go to college, get a Master’s degree, research PhD. programs, have social media accounts, plan events, volunteer with the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department, attend a service or event in a church or synagogue, and so much more.

At an interfaith event that I was attending I was asked to answer an impromptu question on stage about hijab. My heart dropped and my knees were shaking as I made my way to the podium. I’m not a public speaker—that’s my mom’s department. She can whip up an impeccable on the spot lecture in three seconds, but me, I need three weeks. “It’s a very simple question, can you identify to the crowd whether or not the Islamic head cover is a tool to make the woman invisible?” I chuckled, literally, and simply said, “Exhibit A,” as I gestured to myself. “I believe the head cover does quite the opposite. It makes us more visible and I like that. It zones in on who we are, what we are capable of, what our talents and abilities in life are, and allows us to manifest those in our daily lives rather than being fixated on what we look like.”

On the drive home I replayed my words and told my mom, “If I had more time, I think I would have done a better job.” Ah, my inner critic! But to be honest, I think I hit the nail on the head. Islam is not geared at making the woman disappear. We are not meant to simply be marginalized into “behind the scenes” roles. We are just as front line as any other person, and that’s what this seamstress was yearning for. Not necessarily to convert religions, but to simply wear the “Godly” outfit of modesty that intrigued her since she was in elementary school while still living life. It had never hit me so hard how amazing this balance is that I am graced with. To be able to worship my lord internally as well as externally, and knowing my life can still be livable.

That was the seed she sewed into me today, and that’s just one of the many seeds I pray God grants me the strength to continue sewing with every remaining breath, and with the hijab I proudly chose to wear and will continue to proudly wear till my last breath.

Subliminal

The words “I Love You” glittered across the silky white backdrop like an ironic slap to my face. What was supposed to be a symposium on love and affection in faith suddenly shifted into a discussion on domestic violence. It only took a few words, a few metaphors, and I was suddenly in shivers, trying to avoid eye contact with my mother, whose own eyes were already filled with concern. I shot her a fake smile in hopes of fooling her, as well as myself, into thinking that I’d be okay. But I wasn’t. Not when the speaker began dissecting the nuances of emotional, psychological and verbal abuse. “Unlike physical abuse, that you can observe as it heals, emotional and psychological abuse often goes unnoticed at first. It builds up on the inside overtime, causing destruction as it resembles an overbearing mountain.”

To the outside world it seems so common sense to leave, to abandon that relationship that makes you feel like you carry a boulder wherever you go and destroys your everything internally. But the cycle continues because it’s harder, so much harder to leave, than everyone assumes. The further she described the weight, the heavier my tears got until they spilled over and down my cheeks uncontrollably.

As if being the only woman in shambles at the mosque wasn’t bad enough, a few women approached me, not to recognize my tears but to recognize me as the bride from last summer. “Congratulations!” they squealed with happiness, ignorant of the fact that that Summer bride, turned into an Autumn divorcee and a Winter survivor. I bit my tongue to force back the newly born tears and found I had no strength whatsoever to even utter the words, “It’s over.” Instead I smiled sheepishly and rushed to my car in hopes of finding refuge.

That plan was an epic fail the moment Taylor Swift’s terrifying new hit “Style” blasted through my speakers as I turned on the radio. I instantly slammed the power button and headed home disgusted. The first time I heard that song, I wanted to vomit. Literally, from the flashbacks of struggling with that never ending cycle that became harder and harder to tolerate and hearing it get so fluffed up in a demented song. I got home shaking from how horrible it was—on all levels. How is it justifiable for a once female empowering role model to now sing in glory of very dysfunctional and abusive relationships? Because she’s still managed to keep her clothes on? That was the reason I got to why she remains in upheld standards of mothers everywhere.

I wondered where that girl from almost eight years ago went. The one I heard on the radio being interviewed at 7:30 a.m. on my way to finals. The girl that, when asked, if she feared her raw and stand up lyrics would intimidate men, simply said, “Well if he doesn’t want to be my next Track 12, he shouldn’t mess around.” I thought, hell yes! That’s what women need to hear and be inspired by. Those are the kind of lyrics that should get Grammy nominations.

Apparently with increased fame comes decreased values and so the torch bearing role model succumbed to the influences of a sexualized music industry and now her songs and videos are all about women not only accepting, but enjoying tumultuous relationships like a guilty pleasure. She knew he was trouble when he walked in and decided to dive in head first. She has a blank space and just has to fill it with the next “new money suit and tie” because “love’s a game.” Has anyone ever just sat and genuinely listened to these lyrics? Watched the recent “Blank Space” video? Yeah? That’s totally legitimate material for young adults today.

I fixate on this artist in particular because she has launched a movement and has a wonderful cult following that worries me. An artist this big, with such a loyal fan base, needs to recognize the influence she carries. An artist this in tune and involved with her fans, needs to tread carefully and launch a movement to inspire more secure and powerful individuals—both male and female. To glorify cheating, the cyclical pains of emotionally distraught relationships and the irresistible nature of sticking it through for that passionate heat that it still yields is not only sick but ridiculously unhealthy. I’ve been there, and it’s beyond awful. That back and forth lifestyle that leaves you feeling so worthless, so ugly and so useless is never something to chuckle about so cutely, like she does in both her new songs.

All this and yet she is praised as a young trend setter, because of her modest attire. Look, I’m not advertising that those artists who do reveal too much skin are so much better, but a perfect comparison is the unbelievably empowering lyrics Ariana Grande has revealed in her work. From “Problem” to “Love Me Harder” to “Break Free” she is advertising the recognition of her value and her worth as an individual and demanding that the man recognize it or else…. That’s what people need today (and notice I said need, maybe not want, which is sadly what drives the music industry and every other industry today).

We need more Adeles, Carrie Underwoods and may I even throw it in there, Evanescences (Amy Lee). I came across a post on Facebook that was a phenomenal summary of my point. It was a picture of a woman holding up a paper that read, “I need feminism because I am tired of having to dance to songs that degrade me every time I go out.” It’s true; absolutely positively true. People are subliminally being fed this information that, as can be seen by today’s devolving societies, is manifested into action. Whether or not one wants to believe it, these things are subconsciously being registered and normalized. How many people have sang along to Taylor Swift’s new songs in karaoke and found it to be utterly fun not realizing she’s literally saying this—and imagine it coming from your nine-year-old daughter or niece:

"And I got that good girl fig and a tight little skirt..."

"I say, I heard, that you been out and about with some other girl
He says, What you've heard is true but I can't stop thinking about you,
And I, I said I've been there a few times. Take me home. Just take me home.”

It’s great that Taylor Swift wants to expand her artistic talents and abilities beyond country. Kudos, really! But not at the price of losing soul, depth and decorum. Not when she’s becoming the fastest selling advertisement unconsciously raising the next generation of girls who will inherently gravitate towards the men who under appreciate them, use them, play them because it’s sexy to “love the players” and men will always be on board because they “love the game.”

Women need empowerment. Women need to be reminded of their value and their talents and what they are capable of doing. Women and girls don't need to see Taylor Swift smashing a jerk's car with his golf clubs in a mansion that she possibly inherited from her “long list of ex-lovers” with the "new money suit and tie" that she knocks out on the floor and sexually bites the lips of. Young girls don't need to sing along to verses that glorify infidelity and dysfunctional unhealthy relationships. They need someone to encourage them to recognize when it's time to go; when it's time to break that cycle and realize that just because there's attraction, lust and the James Dean look doesn’t mean you'll never go out of style. And men! Men need to hear about how these things hurt, not how these things are oh so sexy. Oh so dreamy. Oh so addicting.

I've got nothing against this girl personally—nor anyone else whose music isn't as kosher, shall we call it, as humanity clearly needs today—but for someone so influential and so involved with her fans, the expectation of setting a better example is there. Someone with her experience and paths should utilize this strength to lead women into roads of power and resilience that doesn't resort to sexualizing and beautifying the art of playing and being played. There's enough domestic abuse going on in relationships today that we need to educate, mitigate and prevent.

I used to be a fan but how can I be now? How much more do I betray myself after having done so in my relationship and then deciding to run when I found the chance? I loved the Taylor that sang “Mine” or “Eyes Open” but she lost me. And though I may be no one to her and an insignificant loss to the millions of cult followers out there, I won't remain quiet about this kind of music and entertainment. Not when it's coming from those our youth hold dearest.