I sat on the floor of my bedroom after Fajr prayer curled up in a ball. Another day of praying for a Muslim match - a love to last beyond the grave. Met with silence, I bawled.
Would I ever taste success in the realm of a romantic relationship? I feared being alone for the rest of my life. My soul could not register that low of an octave. I was pretty upbeat. My sisters in Islam had heard me hit the high notes. I took my Shahadah in graduate school and had attended spirited halaqas ever since. Islam was the gooey caramel, heartwarming center of my chocolate existence. My life changed when it was time for me to find a suitable partner to complete half my deen. No one showed up to play the part.
Life was more or less like a classroom. I felt pressure. Good grades weren’t guaranteed. Marriage is half your deen, as they say in Islam. In school, scoring only fifty percent meant failure on an exam, but I had to remind myself that I was not a failure in life. I had aspects of life I was proud of: my birth-given family, work history, educational background, travel vlog, and appreciation of the arts. You could almost always find me in a museum. I studied world-famous collections. My goal was to become a curator of Islamic photographic exhibitions. I had hopes of portraying the Muslim experience in a sacred, unconventional light.
As a budding photographer, I took portraits at a local mosque. I set up three-point lighting in the library and instituted a dark brown velvet background to demonstrate contrast. That day, the community lined up in a queue that extended outside the intricately designed building to have a professional photograph taken by moi, a Muslimah. Many different personalities, like colors of the visible spectrum, shone brightly individually and comprised a greater whole, collectively. Islam was the prism through which unity and diversity could be embodied in a language of faith. Women wore bold colors and men tended to sport neutral tones. The photographs would be on display in a museum, and the agreement was that the collection would tour around the globe. The exhibit was called “Facing Islam: The Lens of Faith.”
The night of our gala opening in the city, my friend introduced me to a slick lawyer named Qasim, who she said admired me from a distance. He was young and accomplished. I was enamored by his gentle, subtle smile. He wore a blue suit jacket with no tie. With a clean look and a washboard stomach, he stood towering over me. His staccato voice tore off the roof. He spoke with urgency and understanding. He gave me the moon and stars. His well-formulated questions landed, like a bird at the end of a branch. He was free to fly or rest. I would happily play his opposite. He complimented and complemented me. The “radiant smile” on my face spread my lips apart. I felt like a queen. Through this intense rush of passion, I lowered my gaze.
“Is photography a universal language?” he asked.
“Yes!” I breathlessly exclaimed.
We exchanged ideas about black-and-white versus color photography. He had an old soul. He appreciated black-and-white photographs. His robust laugh ricocheted throughout the hall. We entered into a conversation about motion pictures. I told him I preferred still photographs. He was quiet for a moment. Then, he held my hand and asked, “How do you capture a movement?”
I heard a symphony. My heart exited my chest on a butterfly’s wings. We spoke at length about protest poetry, subversive music, and social justice movements memorialized for generations to come.
Then, he apologized for being forward. He halted everything. The world stopped spinning. He did a magic trick. He stepped closer and pulled a coin from behind my ear. My turban-hijab allowed for this.
“Heads, I’ll see you tomorrow. Tails, in two weeks,” Qasim wagered.
With the flip of a coin, he wanted to determine when we’d meet again. He covered his hand and before I could see which way the coin landed, I had the strength to say, “Isn’t it better to remember to say in shaa Allah?”
He revealed the naked coin as if removing the silver lid to a gourmet meal. It landed on heads. Little did I know this special two-headed coin was to guarantee we’d see each other sooner than later. He had done this trick before. It ensured a favorable outcome. As we got to know each other, we learned each other’s secrets.
“In shaa Allah, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he warmly announced.
I was pleased. The next step on the agenda was for me to take a selfie with my new lawyer friend, Qasim. We celebrated with smiles, as refreshing as dipping in a cool stream of water on a sunny day. I called my Wali to explain the opportunity I had to be in a real romantic relationship. I’m a woman of small talk and profound depth. I can chat about the weather and cry out about how to end the never-ending procession of imitation. Very few are original. I longed for something new. I was naive and idealistic. Truly, a lightbulb lit up every time I walked into a room.
The imam, my Wali, recommended that I not neglect my prayers - the fard, sunnah, and ikhstihara. I wanted to be counted among those who rely on Allah Subhanahu wa ta’ala. It was He Who loved me and knew my true worth. It was the Qur’an I grasped with both my hands. Any shortcomings were mine. I practiced Islam, a way of life, where there were answers to a myriad of questions. I only wanted what was written for me. I hoped Allah was pleased with me. Without Him, I could not succeed.
Yerusalem Work
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