Kathy
Twelve hours old
"What am I doing down here? I wonder, my nose and forehead pressed to
the floor as I kneel in prayer. My knee-caps ache, my arm muscles
strain as I try to keep the pressure off my forehead. I listen to
strange utterings of the person praying next to me. It's Arabic, and
they understand what they are saying, even if I don't. So, I make up
my own words, hoping God will be kind to me, a Muslim only twelve
hours old. OK. God, I converted to Islam because I believe in you, and
because Islam makes sense to me."Did I really just say that?" I catch
myself, bursting into tears. "What would my friends say if they saw me
like this, kneeling, nose pressed to the floor?...They'd laugh at me.
Have you lost your mind? They'd ask. You can't seriously tell me you
are religious." Religious... I was once a happy 'speculative atheist',
how did I turn into the past and attempt a whirlwind tour through my
journey. But where did it begin? Maybe it started when I first met
practising Muslims. This was in 1991, at Queen's University, Kingston,
Ontario, Canada. I was an open minded, tolerant, liberal woman. 24
years old. I saw Muslim women walking around the international centre
and felt sorry for them. I knew they were oppressed. My sorrow
increased when I asked them why they cover their hair, why they wore
long sleeves in summer, why they were so ill-treated in Muslim
countries, and they told me that they wore the veil, and they dressed
so, because God asked them to.Poor things. What about their treatment
in Muslim countries? That's culture, they would reply. I knew they
were deluded, socialised/brainwashed from an early age, into believing
this wicked way of treating women. But I noticed how happy they were,
how friendly they were, how solid they were, how solid they seemed.
I saw Muslim men walking around the international centre. There was
even a man from Libya - the land of terrorists. I trembled when I saw
them, lest they do something to me in the name of God. I remembered on
television images of masses of rampaging Arab men burning effigies of
President Bush, all in the name of God. What a God they must have, I
thought. Poor things that they even believed in God, I added, secure
in the truth that God was an anthropomorphic projection of us weak
human beings. But I noticed how helpful these men were. I perceived an
aura of calmness.
What a belief they must have, I thought. But it puzzled me. I had read
the Koran, and hadn't detected anything special about it. That was
before, when the Gulf War broke out. What kind of God would persuade
men to go War, to kill innocent citizens of another country, to rape
women, to demonstrate against the US? I decided I'd better read the
Holy book on whose behalf they claimed they were acting. I read a
Penguin classic, surely a trustworthy book, and I couldn't finish it,
I disliked it so much. Here was a paradise described with virgin women
in it for the righteous (what was a righteous woman to do with a
virgin woman in Paradise?) ; here was God destroying whole cities at a
stroke. No wonder the women are oppressed, and these fanatics storm
around burning the US flag, I thought. But the Muslims I put this to
seemed bewildered. Their Qu'an didn't say things in that way. Perhaps
I had a bad translation?Suddenly the praying person I am following
stands up. I too stand up, my feet catching on the long skirt I wear;
I almost trip. I sniff, trying to stop the tears. I must focus on
praying to God. Dear God, I am here because I believe in you, and
because during my research of Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Hinduism,
Sikhism, and Buddhism, Islam made the mostsense. Bending over, my
hands at my knees, I try hard to reassure myself. God. Please help me
to be a good Muslim. "A Muslim! Kathy, how could you - a white western
women who is educated - convert to a religion which makes its women
second class citizens!" But Kingston's Muslims became my friends, I
protest. They welcomed me into their community warmly, without
question. I forgot that they were oppressed and terrorists. This seems
like the start of my journey. But I was still an atheist. Or was I? I
had looked into the starry night, and contemplated the universe. The
diamond stars strewn across the dark sky twinkled mysterious messages
to me. I felt hooked up to something bigger than myself. Was it a
collective human consciousness? Peace and tranquillity flowed to me
from the stars. Could I wrench myself from this feeling and declare
there is no higher being? No higher consciousness? Haven't you ever
doubted the existence of God? I would ask my believing Christian and
Muslim friends. No, they replied. No? No? This puzzled me. Was God
that obvious? How come I couldn't see God. It seemed too much a
stretch of my imagination. A being out there, affecting the way I
lived. How could God listen to billions of people praying, and deal
with each second of that person's life? It's impossible. Maybe a First
Cause, but one who intervened? And what about the persistence of
injustice in the world? Children dying in war. A just, good God
couldn't allow that. God couldn't exist. Besides, we evolved, so that
disposed of a First Cause anyway. We kneel down again, and here I am,
sniffing, looking sideways at my fingers on the green prayer mat. I
like my prayer mat. It has a velvety touch to it, and some of my
favourite colours: a purple mosque on a green background. There is a
path leading to a black entrance of the mosque and it beckons me. The
entrance to the mosque seems to contain the truth, it is elusive, but
it is there. I am happy to be beckoned to this entrance.
When I was much younger I had a complete jigsaw picture of the world.
It fell apart sometime during the third or fourth year of my
undergraduate study. In Kingston I had reminded myself that I had once
been a regular churchgoer, somewhat embarrassed, since I knew that
religious people were slushy/mushy, quaint, boring, old fashioned
people. Yet God had seemed self-evident to me then. The universe made
no sense without a Creator Being who was also omnipotent. Leaving
church I had always had a feeling of lightness and happiness. I felt
the loss of that feeling. Could it be that I had once had a connection
to God which was now gone? Maybe this was the start of my journey? I
tried to pray again, but found it extraordinarily difficult.
Christians told me that people who didn't believe in Lord Jesus Christ
were doomed. What about people who never heard of Jesus? Or people who
follow their own religion? And society historically claimed women were
inferior because Christianity told us it was Eve's punishment; women
were barred from studying, voting, owning land. God was an awful man
with a long white beard. I couldn't talk to him. I couldn't follow
Christianity, therefore God couldn't exist. But then I discovered
feminists who believed in God, Christian women who were feminists, and
Muslim women who did not condone a lot of what I thought integral to
their religion. I started to pray and call myself a 'post-Christian
feminist believer.' I felt that lightness again; maybe God did exist.
I carefully examined my life's events and I saw that coincidences and
luck were a God's blessings for me, and I'd never noticed, or said
thanks. I am amazed God was so kind and persistent while I was
disloyal.
My ears and feet tingle pleasantly from the washing I have just given
them; a washing which cleanses me and allows me to approach God in
prayer. God. An awesome deity. I feel awe, wonder and peace. Please
show me the path. "But surely you can see that the world is too
complex, too beautiful, too harmonious to be an accident? To be the
blind result of evolutionary forces? Don't you know that science is
returning to a belief in God? Don't you know that science never
contradicted Islam anyway?" I am exasperated with my imaginary jury.
Haven't they researched these things?
Maybe this was the most decisive path. I'd heard on the radio an
interview with a physicist who was explaining how modern science had
abandoned it's nineteenth century materialistic assumptions long ago,
and was scientifically of the opinion that too many phenomenon
occurred which made no sense without there being intelligence and
design behind it all. Indeed, scientific experiments were not just a
passive observation of physical phenomena, observation altered the way
physical events proceeded, and it seemed therefore that intelligence
was the most fundamental stuff of the universe. I read more, and more.
I discovered that only the most die-hard anthrologists still believed
in evolution theory, though no one was saying this very loudly for
fear of losing their job. My jigsaw was starting to fall apart.
"OK, so you decided God existed. You were monotheist. But Christianity
is monotheistic. It is your heritage. Why leave it?" Still these
questioners are puzzled. But you must understand this is the earliest
question of them all to answer. I smile. I learned how the Qu'ran did
not contradict science in the same way the Bible did. I wanted to read
the Biblical stories literally, and discovered I could not. Scientific
fact contradicted Biblical account. But scientific fact did not
contradict Qur'anic account, science even sometimes explained a
hitherto inexplicable Qur'anic verse. This was stunning. There was a
verse about how the water from fresh water rivers which flowed into
the sea did not mix with the sea water; verses describing conception
accurately; verses referring to the orbits of the planets. Seventh
century science knew none of this. How could Muhammed be so uniquely
wise? My mind drew me towards the Qu'ran, but I resisted.
I started going to church again, only to find myself in tears in
nearly every service. Christianity continued to be difficult for me.
So much didn't make sense: the Trinity; the idea that Jesus was God
incarnate; the worship of Mary, the Saints, or Jesus, rather than GOD.
The priests told me to leave reason behind when contemplating God. The
Trinity did not make sense, and nor was it supposed to. I delved
deeper. After all, how could I leave my culture, my heritage, my
family? No one would understand, and I'd be alone. I tried to be a
good Christian. I learned more. I discovered that Easter was
instituted a couple of hundreds of years after Jesus' death, that
Jesus never called himself God incarnate, and more often said he was
the Son of Man; that the doctrine of the Trinity was established some
300 odd years after Christ had died; that the Nicene Creed which I had
faithfully recited every week, focusing on each word, was written by
MEN and at a political meeting to confirm minority position that Jesus
was the Son of God, and the majority viewpoint that Jesus was God's
messenger was expunged forever. I was so angry! Why hadn't the Church
taught me these things. Well I knew why. People would understand that
they could worship God elsewhere, and that there, worship would
actually make sense to them. I would only worship one God, not three,
not Jesus, not the Saints, not Mary. Could Muhammed really be a
messenger, could the Qu'ran be God's word? I kept reading the Qu'ran.
It told me that Eve was not only to blame for the 'fall' ; that Jesus
was a Messenger; that unbelievers would laugh at me for being a
believer; that people would question the authenticity of Muhammed's
claim to revelation, but if they tried to write something as wise,
consistent and rational they would fail. This seemed true. Islam asked
me to use my intelligence to contemplate God, it encouraged me to seek
knowledge, it told me that who believed in one God (Jews/ Christians/
Muslims/ whoever) would get rewards, it seemed a very encompassing
religion.
We stand again and still standing, bend down again to a resting
position with our hands on our knees. What else can I say to God? I
can't think of enough to say, the prayer seems so long. I puff
slightly, still sniffling, since with all the standing I am somewhat
out of breath. "So you seriously think that I would willingly enter a
religion which turned me into a second class citizen? I demand of my
questioners. You know that there is a lot of abuse of women in Islamic
countries, just as in the West, but this is not true of Islam. And
don't bring the veil thing up. Don't you know that women wear hijab
because God asks them to? Because they trust in God's word." Still.
How will I have the courage to wear hijab? I probably won't. People
will stare at me, I'll be obvious; I'd rather hide away in the crowd
when I'm out. What will my friends say when they see me in that?? OH!
God! Help. I had stalled at the edge of change for many a long month,
my dilemma growing daily. What should I do? Leave my old life and
start a new one? But I couldn't possibly go out in public in hijab.
People would stare at me. I stood at the forked path which God helped
me reach. I had new knowledge which rested comfortably with my
intellect. Follow the conviction, or stay in the old way? How could I
stay when I had a different outlook on life? How could I change when
the step seemed too big for me? I would rehearse the conversation
sentence: There is no God worthy of worship but God and Muhammed is
his prophet. Simple words, I believe in them, so convert. I cannot, I
resisted. I circled endlessly day after day. God stood on one of the
paths of the fork, tapping his foot. Come on Kathy. I've brought you
here, but you must cross alone. I stayed stationary, transfixed like a
kangaroo trapped in a car lights late at night. Then one night, I
suppose, God, gave me a final yank. I was passing a mosque with my
husband. I had a feeling in me that was so strong I could hardly bear
it. If you don't convert now, you never will, my inner voice told me.
I knew it was true. OK, I'll do it. If they let me in the mosque I'll
do it. But there was no one there. I said the shahaada under the trees
outside the mosque. I waited. I waited for the thunderclap, the
immediate feeling of relief, the lifting of my burden. But it didn't
come. I felt exactly the same.
Now we are kneeling again, the world looks so different from down
here. Even famous football players prostrate like this, I remember,
glancing sideways at the tassels of my hijab which fall onto the
prayer mat; we are sitting up straight, my prayer leader is muttering
something still, waving his right hand's forefinger around in the air.
I look down at my mat again. The green, purple and black of my prayer
mat look reassuringly the same. The blackness of the Mosque's entrance
entreats me: 'I am here, just as relax and you will find me.' My tears
have dried on my face and my skin feels tight. "What am I doing here?"
Dear God. I am here because I believe in you, because I believe in the
compelling and majestic words of the Qu'ran, and because I believe in
the Prophethood of your Messenger Muhammed. I know in my heart my
decision is the right one. Please give me the courage to carry on with
this new self and new life, that I may serve you well with a strong
faith. I smile and stand up, folding my prayer mat into half, and lay
it on the sofa ready for my next encounter with its velvety green
certainty. Now the burden begins to lift.
Women Tell of Coverting to Islam 
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