I was raised to be prepared for life's restrictions and disappointments. While I hoped for love and acceptance and a heart that could tolerate them, I certainly didn't expect it. The choices I made confirmed those early teachings. First Jesus and later Allah would give comfort, but never real life. The best I could expect would be to join with other women in our acceptance of life's disappointments, that "big girls" knew and accepted without flinching. I was the beyond childish hope that joy and love unfettered by the hard exchange of my body and my soul was possible.
My embrace of an Islamic path that sweetly demanded that my vocal chords serve the greater good did not seem strange. Given the beauty at the core of the deen (the Islamic way of life), it seemed a good and even godly trade. I give up my "selfish" desires for justice for myself and Allah would love me. As a friend once said, "fair exchange is not robbery."
Now I am lost, for love and joy have found me. I am not prepared. Again and again my immediate reaction to love and generosity is to only take a small piece of what is offered. I fear I will be cut off if I dream/ask too much. I was not raised to face unconditional love and opportunity without blinking. What do I have to trade when nothing is asked? What am I to do, when I must welcome joy and rather than disaster?
Welcome it.
Risky Behavior
by Ayesha Ali
not condoms
or clean needles
for me
risky behavior
is reaching out
beyond what i know
i know
smiling
hoping
loving
allowing myself
my self
to be the me
i dreamed
risky
i could be
hurt
killed dreams
killed again
but
i'm feeling old
and young and
i don't care
as much for
fanged fears
this halloween
risky
boo!
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Sunday, October 4, 2009
It May Be
it may be that
i will lose my hair
my teeth
and the
ability to move without
pain or help
it may be that
the faces of my children
become blurred and forgettable
unknown to me
the people i have tried to love
or tried to hate
but Oh Allah
allow me to have
a gummy smile
for no reason
and to say
"Thank you!"
again and again
and again
ayesha ali
10/4/09
i will lose my hair
my teeth
and the
ability to move without
pain or help
it may be that
the faces of my children
become blurred and forgettable
unknown to me
the people i have tried to love
or tried to hate
but Oh Allah
allow me to have
a gummy smile
for no reason
and to say
"Thank you!"
again and again
and again
ayesha ali
10/4/09
Friday, October 2, 2009
A Place for Women in Islam: With the Men or By Ourselves
In the Name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful
To abandon all that he has fashioned,
And hold in the palm of my hand,
The simple proof that he loves me,
That is the goal of my search.
- Rabi'a Al-Adawiyya (717-801) Female Sufi Mystic Born in Iraq; Ninety-Nine Names of Love: Expressions of the Heart, edited by Priya Hemenway
I believe that Allah is Most Gracious and Most Merciful. I believe that when Allah say’s in the Quran that “oppression is worse than slaughter” that it is not a conditional statement. I believe that Allah speaks to my heart and loves me. I believe that Allah loves me. I believe that Allah loves me.
Allah does not want 50% of his believers in basements, beside bathrooms, behind walls, in balconies, in separate buildings, or praying in hallways. Allah does not support apartheid whether it is based on race like the Jim Crow laws of southern states in America and South Africa, or on sex as in most masjids I’ve been to, prayed at, and supported. To support injustice and mistreatment of women in Islam under the guise that Allah tells us so is no different than white slave masters telling their slaves that like Joseph (Yusef), they should be good and faithful slaves and they will get their reward by and by.
I am not angry at Islam, I am not angry with Muslims though I am sad that I actively supported my own oppression and spent many years sitting in basements and behind walls while telling myself that women are “honored” in Islam. I want to pray with Muslims, I want to be able to see the prayer leader, I want to bring my whole self, my whole mind unencumbered by fear of hearing “I seek refuge…” when I speak my mind and heart.
This longing in my heart is not only about treatment in prayer halls, but the treatment of women in masjids is a startling example of the diminution of our voices and the discounting of our equality of spirit and mind that like white supremacy is so pervasive that for many women the ability to question it is limited by our lack of both language and a structure to address injustice. I have watched women fall into depression, including myself, and watched sisters focus their frustration in unfocused anger against their own sisters for lack of a language to express the deep alienation they feel with their communities.
Meanwhile, we stand mute as we watch brothers marry and abandon wife after wife. We are often aware of abuse of women and children through neglect, abandonment and sometimes physical abuse. We stand mute as we allow racism and classism to run rampant and allow our children to be devoured by these evils. Too often women even lead the fight against “uppity sisters.”
Meanwhile, we cover our physical and spiritual scars with wan smiles and Alhumdullilah’s, and no one seems to care as long as we keep “birthing babies,” wearing scarves and jilbabs, and serving food.
It is only when we change our dress, as in my case, or choose not to ever wear the scarf that causes people to ask “What’s wrong with you?” I am an African-American Muslim woman. I now join the phalanxes of black women who are given tribute in Maya Angelou’s poem, “Still I Rise,” and while the particulars of the poem speak to my history, the universal message of the poem speaks to all women and certainly Muslim women.
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
I am a woman, I am a person, I am a creation of Allah and I reject the notion that I can only be Muslim if I am willing to give up my dignity and my voice. Allah gave a message to Prophet Muhammad that called all women and all human beings to rise! Rise!
Ayesha Ali
10/1/2009 7:05:32 AM
To abandon all that he has fashioned,
And hold in the palm of my hand,
The simple proof that he loves me,
That is the goal of my search.
- Rabi'a Al-Adawiyya (717-801) Female Sufi Mystic Born in Iraq; Ninety-Nine Names of Love: Expressions of the Heart, edited by Priya Hemenway
I believe that Allah is Most Gracious and Most Merciful. I believe that when Allah say’s in the Quran that “oppression is worse than slaughter” that it is not a conditional statement. I believe that Allah speaks to my heart and loves me. I believe that Allah loves me. I believe that Allah loves me.
Allah does not want 50% of his believers in basements, beside bathrooms, behind walls, in balconies, in separate buildings, or praying in hallways. Allah does not support apartheid whether it is based on race like the Jim Crow laws of southern states in America and South Africa, or on sex as in most masjids I’ve been to, prayed at, and supported. To support injustice and mistreatment of women in Islam under the guise that Allah tells us so is no different than white slave masters telling their slaves that like Joseph (Yusef), they should be good and faithful slaves and they will get their reward by and by.
I am not angry at Islam, I am not angry with Muslims though I am sad that I actively supported my own oppression and spent many years sitting in basements and behind walls while telling myself that women are “honored” in Islam. I want to pray with Muslims, I want to be able to see the prayer leader, I want to bring my whole self, my whole mind unencumbered by fear of hearing “I seek refuge…” when I speak my mind and heart.
This longing in my heart is not only about treatment in prayer halls, but the treatment of women in masjids is a startling example of the diminution of our voices and the discounting of our equality of spirit and mind that like white supremacy is so pervasive that for many women the ability to question it is limited by our lack of both language and a structure to address injustice. I have watched women fall into depression, including myself, and watched sisters focus their frustration in unfocused anger against their own sisters for lack of a language to express the deep alienation they feel with their communities.
Meanwhile, we stand mute as we watch brothers marry and abandon wife after wife. We are often aware of abuse of women and children through neglect, abandonment and sometimes physical abuse. We stand mute as we allow racism and classism to run rampant and allow our children to be devoured by these evils. Too often women even lead the fight against “uppity sisters.”
Meanwhile, we cover our physical and spiritual scars with wan smiles and Alhumdullilah’s, and no one seems to care as long as we keep “birthing babies,” wearing scarves and jilbabs, and serving food.
It is only when we change our dress, as in my case, or choose not to ever wear the scarf that causes people to ask “What’s wrong with you?” I am an African-American Muslim woman. I now join the phalanxes of black women who are given tribute in Maya Angelou’s poem, “Still I Rise,” and while the particulars of the poem speak to my history, the universal message of the poem speaks to all women and certainly Muslim women.
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
I am a woman, I am a person, I am a creation of Allah and I reject the notion that I can only be Muslim if I am willing to give up my dignity and my voice. Allah gave a message to Prophet Muhammad that called all women and all human beings to rise! Rise!
Ayesha Ali
10/1/2009 7:05:32 AM
A Heart’s Journey
In the Name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful
And when the sun rises we are afraid
it might not remain
when the sun sets we are afraid
it might not rise in the morning
when our stomachs are full we are afraid
of indigestion
when our stomachs are empty we are afraid
we may never eat again
when we are loved we are afraid
love will vanish
when we are alone we are afraid
love will never return
and when we speak we are afraid
our words will not be heard
nor welcomed
but when we are silent
we are still afraid
So it is better to speak
remembering
we were never meant to survive
- from the poem “Litany for Survival” by Audre Lorde
I am a very hard woman. When I am not hard I can be soft. Both the hard and the soft have come from fear. I have grown tired of being afraid, like Fannie Lou Hamer, “sick and tired of being sick and tired.” I have discovered by my true heart leans toward love and compassion. That is where I find my rest.
The hijab started as a sanctuary for me, a metaphor for a place of rest. Covering, head to toe, I withdrew from the world, taking myself from being an object to being a person. I was Allah’s and was not interested in proving my attractiveness. Likewise, separation from men seemed to serve my focus on Allah. But, for me, in short order my dress and my faith became a function not of my love of Allah, but integration into a Muslim culture that embraced me and at the same time sweetly demanded that I conform.
Strangely, development of the love of Allah was sacrificed in the name of community and slowly and surely I drifted from that first love. Classes, conferences, marriage, babies, working, cleaning, cooking were my life. Separation of the sexes in order not to be distracted became the separation of women because we did not belong. We were Allah’s auxillary branch.
I remember I cried alone. I performed strength when my first child died. I knew by then that they do not respect tears. Brokenhearted women are not women of faith and I wanted to be a woman of faith, even as I was losing mine.
So, I left my true love and performed for the audience in my home and masjid. These were bad performances and I wondered why no one asked, “How is she able to smile as she bleeds all over the floor?” but no one asked. We do not have these conversations.
Even my brush with Sufism, where I found beauty in zikr (remembrance of Allah), women were held at bay along with the realities of life. Perhaps that is why woman have to be held at bay—we bring LIFE with us. I certainly brought mine. I brought my sadness, my depression, and my scars. Neither my presence nor my realities were welcomed. Ecstasy found in Allah did not lend itself to issues of sex, race and class.
I have walked around in garments which had become a wall between me and myself like so much of the dogma had become a wall between me and Allah. I survived, but felt abandoned by the love that I had abandoned. No one cared that I was only going through the motions, caring only that I go through the motions.
I’ve been a hard woman and I’ve been a soft woman. I’ve been both types of women out of fear. Now, like Fannie Lou Hamer, “sick and tired of being sick and tired.” I have discovered by my true heart leans toward love and compassion. I return to my first love and my own heart. Uncovered, like the day I was born.
Ayesha Ali
10/3/2009 2:41:45 AM
And when the sun rises we are afraid
it might not remain
when the sun sets we are afraid
it might not rise in the morning
when our stomachs are full we are afraid
of indigestion
when our stomachs are empty we are afraid
we may never eat again
when we are loved we are afraid
love will vanish
when we are alone we are afraid
love will never return
and when we speak we are afraid
our words will not be heard
nor welcomed
but when we are silent
we are still afraid
So it is better to speak
remembering
we were never meant to survive
- from the poem “Litany for Survival” by Audre Lorde
I am a very hard woman. When I am not hard I can be soft. Both the hard and the soft have come from fear. I have grown tired of being afraid, like Fannie Lou Hamer, “sick and tired of being sick and tired.” I have discovered by my true heart leans toward love and compassion. That is where I find my rest.
The hijab started as a sanctuary for me, a metaphor for a place of rest. Covering, head to toe, I withdrew from the world, taking myself from being an object to being a person. I was Allah’s and was not interested in proving my attractiveness. Likewise, separation from men seemed to serve my focus on Allah. But, for me, in short order my dress and my faith became a function not of my love of Allah, but integration into a Muslim culture that embraced me and at the same time sweetly demanded that I conform.
Strangely, development of the love of Allah was sacrificed in the name of community and slowly and surely I drifted from that first love. Classes, conferences, marriage, babies, working, cleaning, cooking were my life. Separation of the sexes in order not to be distracted became the separation of women because we did not belong. We were Allah’s auxillary branch.
I remember I cried alone. I performed strength when my first child died. I knew by then that they do not respect tears. Brokenhearted women are not women of faith and I wanted to be a woman of faith, even as I was losing mine.
So, I left my true love and performed for the audience in my home and masjid. These were bad performances and I wondered why no one asked, “How is she able to smile as she bleeds all over the floor?” but no one asked. We do not have these conversations.
Even my brush with Sufism, where I found beauty in zikr (remembrance of Allah), women were held at bay along with the realities of life. Perhaps that is why woman have to be held at bay—we bring LIFE with us. I certainly brought mine. I brought my sadness, my depression, and my scars. Neither my presence nor my realities were welcomed. Ecstasy found in Allah did not lend itself to issues of sex, race and class.
I have walked around in garments which had become a wall between me and myself like so much of the dogma had become a wall between me and Allah. I survived, but felt abandoned by the love that I had abandoned. No one cared that I was only going through the motions, caring only that I go through the motions.
I’ve been a hard woman and I’ve been a soft woman. I’ve been both types of women out of fear. Now, like Fannie Lou Hamer, “sick and tired of being sick and tired.” I have discovered by my true heart leans toward love and compassion. I return to my first love and my own heart. Uncovered, like the day I was born.
Ayesha Ali
10/3/2009 2:41:45 AM
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