Tonight I am thinking about the ebb and flow of faith. I am reflecting on the ways in which Ramadan has changed for me in the last 10 years. From getting dismissed from Islamic school early because the whole system was fasting to intentionally creating community in a new home.
I struggle. The people will see a time of patience in which someone adhering to [their] religion will be as if [they] were grasping a hot coal. This Ramadan, I am holding onto this coal. Although it feels more like a candle, a flame that flickers it’s way in and out of my life — lighting it up when I need hope, dimming during times of isolation. The weeks and months preparing for this Ramadan, I have felt the violence from this flame. It burns me and reminds me to stay humble. It tells me something is not right, maybe “you shouldn’t have said that, maybe you shouldn’t have gone there, maybe you will never be worthy enough of holding this flame”. This Ramadan, I pray the violence of this flame stops communicating fear to me, I pray the flame is never extinguished, though it may ebb and flow, naturally. I pray the heat building inside me, of anguish, of sorrow, mourning lives my birth country believes do not matter, suspicious of innocent people, threatened by anything that does not conform. I pray this flame grows strong, steady, in the name of Allah, in the name of justice, in the name of the indigenous land I stand on, in the name of Jesus, in the name of my ancestors in the slave trade and immigration raids.
I pray I am able to slow down. That I am able to see the wisdom of the flame when it dims, to return to myself, to return to solace and solitude. I pray that I am no longer afraid of rewriting narratives, building relationships, creating solidarity, and doing the work necessary to be better.
I pray for generosity. Guard yourself from the Hellfire even with half of a date in charity. If [s]he cannot find it, then with a kind word. I break fast with who I can these days. I give to those around me, but this Ramadan I pray for generosity and a spirit of giving — to myself. Compassion, affection, appreciation for who I am and who I can be, honoring the expansiveness of my experiences and respecting myself enough to understand perhaps others may not understand my journey, but it is my journey nonetheless. Honoring the ways in which my experience has blinded me from my own privilege, giving back to myself by stomaching hard-truth and reeducating myself on my history. Accepting the fear of rejection, insecurity. Giving dates to my non-Muslim neighbor and gifting myself a kind word, instead of criticism.
Is the reward for good [anything] but good? [55:60] A prayer for you and me on this Ramadan’s Eve — will you examine with me, what this ayah means? It maybe uneasy, investigating childhood definitions of right and wrong. Coded language for us to feel unworthy. But I am beginning to believe our goodness is wrapped up in each other’s liberation. What is your flame of faith trying to tell you? What is act of generous kindness will you hold yourself accountable to this month? Which of the favors of your Lord will you deny?
alia
