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