Salams, my name is Eman, not Amy, not Ann. “Iman” is an Arabic word that means faith. Honestly, I never thought about whether or not my name was spelled or pronounced correctly growing up. Back in the day when I was in elementary school, no one was interested in calling me by my name, so they used Amy, it was more familiar name to them.
I just went with it, since my actual name would
either get me in trouble, or get me questioned by strangers. When my family had
moved from Egypt to America, I was in kindergarten. There wasn’t a single
Arabic-speaking kid in my area, nor an Islamic school, where I would’ve been
able to meet kids who shared the same faith or culture.
In public school, I became familiar with all kinds of
cultures and religions, all except for my own. When I shared what I thought with
my family, my mom offered to help. She suggested that we send a book to the
school library or do a little class presentation about any Islamic religious observances,
like Ramadan or Eid. The first suggestion was immediately off the table,
because the school policies didn’t allow religious books in classrooms. My
mother was concerned, so she asked if there were any multilingual activities or
books offered in school; the answer was yes, but the Arabic language was never
included. When she kept pushing and asking more, there was never a clear
answer.
I loved how my teacher would push me to participate, and how, to the best of her ability, she tried to offer a welcoming space where I would
feel seen and included.
After we got approval from the school principal, my mother
was able to share a book about Arabic letters and their phonetics.
As Ramadan approached, there was a need to let the teacher
know that I needed some form of accommodations, as I would be fasting half of
the school day (as a kid, my parents were training me to fast bit by bit
first). The teacher found this information to be an invaluable opportunity to
educate my classmates about cultural differences among students.
It was a truly great parent-teacher collaboration. The
teacher instructed my mother on what to expect, and they worked together on her
presentation, and coming up with activities to engage the class; my mother even
offered to bring in some homemade treats. I would say that all was nice and
swell, that is until she left.
When she came to pick me up later at the end of the school
day, I kept silent, no words, no eye contact, no “how was your day” and no
discussions with my mother until the very minute we were out of the school
building. I burst into tears, releasing all of the anger I’d bottled up.
She hugged me tight, asking, “What’s wrong with you? Tell me
what happened! Why are you crying? Are you hurt?”
“Do you think Allah will be mad at me forever if I said that
He’s just not there?” I asked.
“Allah is Ghafour, He is the Utmost Forgiving. He suhanahu
wat’ala knows your heart, and knew you didn’t mean anything wrong. If you
didn’t mean it, He would forgive you. Why would you say so? What made you do
that?” she replied.
came to my bench during lunch and asked me a bunch of
questions; too many questions, questions that I didn’t have an answer for,
questions that I would never even think of asking, all the questions, all the wrong
questions. The types of questions that if I asked you, you would say that’s
haram to ask,” I explained.
“What did they ask you?” My mother calmly asked.
“Who is your God? Where is He located? Do you have a picture
of Him?” I replied.
“Ya Allah! Even a tissue won’t wipe out your running tears!
Calm down sweetheart! You don’t have to worry about what they think about what
you believe. We share our culture the same way they share theirs, and that’s
all there is to it. I’m curious how you answered those questions though,” my
mother remarked.
“I don’t know. I kept silent for a while, and when they
provoked me, I said, I don’t have a picture of my God. Because He is a God, He
is not a movie star!!!” I burst.
“Oh dear! That’s...a beautiful answer. That’s the
best answer! But I want you to remember that you don’t have to hide who you
are, and you don’t have to share who you are with those who don’t have good
intentions,” my mother pointed out.
“How am I supposed to know the difference?” I asked.
“You’ll see with time and experience. The more you focus on
the way people approach you, the way they ask their questions, the way they
react to whatever you’ve shared with them, you’ll start to see them for who
they really are,” she explained.
Twenty-five years later….
“Bye Eman!” Then she looked back and said, “I hope you have a
good weekend, Mo!” The Custodian at the school’s main entrance gate said
warmly.
“Thanks, Alice! You have a great rest of your week. And my
son’s name is Mohammed. It’s not Mo. Salams!” I waved my hand and left with my
son grinning cheek- to- cheek!
No comments:
Post a Comment