Ramadan, part ten (Laylat al Qadr)

Sunday was Laylat al Qadr, the night observed during Ramadan as the anniversary of Allah revealing the first verses of the Koran to Mohammed -- but I don't remember this being mentioned at the progressive Muslim group's iftar I attended.

The iftar was held in a suburban townhouse in Virginia, where I arrived with my potluck offering of steamed green beans and peppers, along with a fellow I'll call BD, who picked me up in his SUV at the Metro. We arrived a few minutes late, and the religious roundtable had already begun in the living room off the foyer. I put my bags down and quickly shook hands with a couple of men who were watching the Redskins game off the other side of the foyer on the largest television I have ever seen in my life, before pulling a chair into the circle in the living room.

The group was in the midst of going around the circle explaining what Ramadan had meant to each of them this year. As I sat down, a woman who had converted to Islam four years ago was explaining how she often brings food to her colleagues in her office, and that this year, during Ramadan, she asked for donations for the food, and would be applying those donations toward feeding the poor.

Others talked about working harder this year to make it a priority to pray with their family, about feeling closer to God during Ramadan, or about their realizations about certain aspects of their faith -- such as how Allah has planned the Fajr well, making it the shortest prayer of the daily five, so it's easy to get up and do it quickly, and go back to bed, if you want to. One man shared that his new workplace is closer to a mosque than he’s ever before, so he's been able to pray with a community more often during the week. One woman shared that her work to coordinate holiday events for others had distracted from her own observance of Ramadan.

On my turn, I shared versions of thoughts that I've already written in this blog, including the note that -- while it might seem more pagan than Muslim -- Ramadan had connected me to the rhythms of the natural world, through paying attention to each day's sun-up and sunset, and through my initial sighting of the moon that had set the holiday in motion. The leader of the group, a convert from Christianity whom I'll call Richard, piped up to say that Islam is a "natural religion" and that noticing the sun and moon is part of it, "as long as you don't start to worship the sun – worshipping created things, instead of the Creator!"

I noted that this statement echoes almost word-for-word some instructions given by Paul to Christians in the book of Romans, and that led to a short discussion of Islamic/Christian overlaps. Richard then reminded the group that he had converted to Islam shortly after September 11, 2001, while he was a Christian Marine researching Islam in order to debunk it. A gregarious man with a loud voice, big smile and a lot to say, Richard delivered his punchline: "I picked up the Koran wanting to prove it wrong... And instead it proved ME wrong!"

Next, a woman spoke who had found her Ramadan to be difficult. She found that she couldn't eat after the fast, she said, because her "stomach shut down," so then she would be unable to fast the next day due to hunger. She would eat like normal that day, and then try fasting the day after that, and the cycle would begin again. She seemed somewhat ashamed of her failure to fast, and the group was instantly very supportive, offering Islam-sanctioned alternatives, such as feeding iftar to others who are fasting, or feeding the poor. There was lively discussion about what alternatives are acceptable, with group members deferring to an agreed-up on expert in the room, a woman I'll call Alia, who went on the Hajj last year.

Alia explained a complicated bartering system of equivalent actions that can cover for a day of breaking the fast, or multiply the days that you did fast, and so on, which I could not retain well enough to repeat. There was some laughter from the group about some of the barters, and Alia explained that "When you hear it explained in English it sounds like a point system, but in Arabic the word for it is 'reward.' It's a system for setting up your reward."

(This resonated with something I recently read regarding Islam. I read that once the Ramadan fast is over, if you fast for six days in the following month as well -- though there is debate about whether the days must be consecutive -- Allah will credit you with having fasted for an entire year. Knowing that the Yom Kippur fast is coming up next week, and that fasting can be appropriate for the Hindu holiday of Navaratri that starts tomorrow, I figure I will get some fasting in during October that may count for three different religions at once!)

Soon, it was sunset, and the dates were passed around before prayers were held in the basement. I volunteered to be on childcare duty upstairs with a couple of others who weren't praying, and once the group downstairs had returned, we all broke our fast, in the most convivial atmosphere I'd experienced yet for iftar.

Over dinner, people seemed more eager and willing to discuss religion than at the previous week's iftar, so I asked Alia about her trip to Mecca. She talked about what it was like to worship with millions of people at once, and how in Saudi Arabia, when the call to prayer is sounded, people stop in their tracks and pray. She found the experience very moving, and while telling about it, she made mention that men and women pray together when the masses have gathered for the Hajj. I wondered aloud if this practice might sometime spread and become normative, if worshippers see that it is okay to mix the genders during such an important occasion as the Hajj. "I hope so," said Alia, and then she asked me when I had converted to Islam.

This was the most common question that others asked me at the iftar, and though Tish -- the hostess who invited me – had been very supportive when I clearly communicated that I am not involved in a conversion process, but in an exploration process, I found that the reactions I received at the iftar were definitely mixed, with some people registering a sort of "what are you doing here" look. Alia was not one of those, and she proceeded to ask me more questions about what I have been reading and doing, and how Ramadan has affected me.

I mentioned visiting mosques, both the primary Islamic Cultural Center, and the Ahmadiyya mosque. Alia raised her eyebrows at the mention of the Ahmadis. She listed off some of the Ahmadi beliefs, and then, referring to herself as a traditional Muslim, stated: “The Ahmadis don't think we are real Muslims."

We talked more about what the Ahmadis believe, and Alia echoed some negative sentiments I had already heard from BD in the car. "They believe that there were more prophets after Mohammed," said Alia. "But Mohammed was the last one. How can you believe there are more?"

Not having the same perspective on this issue as Alia, I mostly just nodded and asked her questions to learn more. When she got up to retrieve some more food, the woman who had been sitting next to her -- and whose name I did not catch -- leaned in to comment on my visits to mosques.

She was young and pretty and wearing a low-cut blue tunic with black leggings. She reminded me in appearance of a friend of mine with whom I waited tables years ago. She started out smiling.

"Are you going to get serious about becoming Muslim?” she asked me, her smile fading quickly into a scolding face. “Because you can't just go to any mosque you want to like some kind of religious tourist. Those people are there to pray."

She took issue with the beard I’m currently wearing, but I didn’t follow her implications of why it is offensive. She got up and walked away without giving me a chance for questions or a response, which both interested me and troubled me. I am sad that I somehow gave this woman the impression that I do not have good intentions. She avoided me for the rest of the night, so I had no further chance to ask about her thoughts. If I assume good intentions on her part, then I must accept that she felt a responsibility to protect the sanctity of other Muslims' houses of worship.

The evening went on, and I alternated between non-religious conversations and conversations beginning with the ubiquitous "When did you convert?" question. Eventually, I ended up deep in conversation with a man I'll call Basim on the topic of renewable energy and climate change. It was the friendliest and best conversation of the evening. We covered energy efficiency, solar gadgets, phytoplankton blooms as carbon sinks, tidal power, and more. Inevitably, Basim also found his way to the question: "When did you convert?"

He seemed unbothered by my explanation of exploration, and was eager to tell me teach me things he assumed I would not know – such as the existence of splinter sects with divergent beliefs.

"For example,” he said, “I belong to one of those other groups. I am Ahmadi.”

"Oh, yes, I know about Ahmadis," I replied. "I've been to an Ahmadiyya mosque. It was an accident; it's just the closest mosque to my work. I didn't even know Ahmadis existed until a few weeks ago."

Basim was smiling and delighted and twittering in that way people do when they want to tell you everything about a new topic.

He started in on explaining that Ahmadis “… believe that Jesus survived the cross and ..."

"... went on to die of old age in Punjab," I finished.

"Yeah!" said Basim. "And we also believe that Jesus' second coming was fulfilled by ... "

" ... Mizra Ghulam Ahmad, who was also the Mahdi," I finished.

"Oh my!" Basim exclaimed.

I was worried that I was being snotty by showing that I had done my homework on the Ahmadis, but Basim seemed clearly pleased that a random non-Muslim white boy would know something about his religion. He was familiar, of course, with the mosque I'd attended near my work, and the two of us talked for awhile about the book the imam had given me there. Basim's wife was getting ready to go, so eventually we had to cut our conversation short, but not before he explained why he was so happy to meet somebody who had been to an Ahmadiyya mosque.

"You see, there are all kinds of Muslims in the world," he said. "But mainstream Muslims, they reject us. They say we are not real Muslims."

Ramadan, part seven (iftar)

By the middle of the afternoon on Sunday, I was feeling recovered from the Equinox party, though hungry for dinner.

I'd planned to make a vegetable side dish for the self-described progressive iftar in the suburbs, but there were enough dates and tabouli leftover from the night before that I decided to take them instead. Around 5:30, I slung the same bag over my shoulder that I'd carried to the Shabbat potluck, with the same big, blue Tupperware bowl inside, and headed for the Metro.

I'd found this group of progressive Muslims online, and I'd been invited to the iftar by a woman I'll call Tish. I arrived early to the apartment building in Fairfax where the iftar was to be held in the community room, so I sat on a bench and scribbled in my journal for a few minutes while the sun was sinking. A few minutes before 7, I walked into the building, and found the room I was looking for labeled with a small sign by the door, just past the front-desk of the building. The doors into the community room were glass, with glass panels on either side, so I could see into the room, and saw that maybe 30 to 40 people had congregated.

Entering, I approached a waist-high bar by the small kitchenette, where the others had deposited their potluck offerings. I placed my food amongst the rest of the bowls, and introduced myself to the Arab woman behind the bar, and to the white woman standing by my side. After a short conversation with the white woman, who was busy getting things ready, I surveyed the room. A long dining table with seating for 25 or so sat to one side of the room, with sofas and padded chairs, in a sort of generic hotel or airport style, sitting in a circle off to the side with a low, blocky table in the center. The group appeared to be mostly Arab or black or multi-racial; only one or two other obviously white people joined the group. Of the 15 to 20 women in the room, perhaps four of them wore headscarves.

One man sat on the padded furniture apart from the sparsely populated table, while others stood in groups around he room. I joined the man and introduced myself and we began to chat about the fast. His wife joined a few moments later and greeted me in Arabic, which confounded me. I felt silly having to ask her to repeat herself, and then stumbled over my apology for not understanding. She instructed me on the appropriate Arabic response to her greeting, which I repeated to her and promptly forgot, and soon others joined our small group. The conversation spun away from me and my ignorance, moving on to topics like the upcoming progressive Muslim paintball outing, and who had lost or gained weight during Ramadan.

When the sun was down, someone announced with little fanfare that we should all get something to eat, and a woman in a headscarf circulated with a tray of dates as we queued up with our small paper plates. I lingered toward the back of the room, not wanting to be one of the first to eat. Making small talk with those around me in line, I asked a man if he could point out Tish to me, so I could thank her for inviting me. The man gestured toward a white woman in a flowered skirt, who was holding a child with bright eyes and bronze skin, and talking to a darker-looking woman in a black blouse and black pants. The woman in black was Tish.

After filling my plate, I returned to the circle of furniture and sat near where I had before, though the other seats filled in with a different collection of people. My interest here, of course, was religious and theological, but I quickly realized that the focus of the dinner was social, so I felt bad wanting to quiz everyone I met about their beliefs in God, or what they do at prayer time, or how their interpretation of the Koran informs their outlook on life. "What makes you progressive," I wanted to ask everyone, "and what do you find in Islam that conflicts with your values? What do you do when you find conflicts? What makes you want to be Muslim in the first place?"

I overheard the first white woman I had met by the food counter say to someone next to her the phrase "when I converted," and I also overheard that she is a vegetarian. Quickly, I formulated a plan to bond with her over the vegetarianism and then quiz her on her religious conversion, but I wasn't close enough to strike up a conversation. I limited myself to the conversation around me: a discussion about a photography class, for example, and someone confessing to breaking the fast to go on a hike.

Eventually bored, and sitting there sipping water with an empty plate in my lap, I got up to throw my plate away, and when I did, someone moved in to take my seat. I thought I would go find Tish to introduce myself, but she was deep in conversation and surrounded, so I floated back against the wall and observed. Feeling self-conscious, I decided I had to go the bathroom. And I did have to go... just enough to justify stepping out of the room for a moment. "Maybe Tish will be less busy when I get back," I thought. "Or maybe my chair will be free again."

I was in my stall, buckling my pants and about to flush, when the door to the restroom opened, and someone came in to wash his hands. I'm shy about running into people or talking to them in public restrooms, so I decided to linger in the stall a moment longer. Suddenly, the bathroom door opened, and I heard many more footsteps come in, with dozens of voices rising in a mixture of English and Arabic, until I could tell the restroom was full of men, and I realized that ritual washing was happening -- and quickly. There was barely enough time for a rinse of the hands -- nevermind a full cleansing of face and feet -- before the stampede was gone as quickly as it came, and I snuck out of the stall to wash my hands myself.

By the time I got back to the community room, prayers had begun. I couldn't see who was leading, and the first thing I noticed was that not everybody was praying. A group of men who were not praying had stepped out onto the patio. A group of women who were not praying sat chatting (chatting!) on the padded furniture. One man sat silently next to them. Those who were praying were arranged in rows, on mats, facing east. The men had all lined up in the front, and the women lined up behind them -- all now wearing headscarves. A pile of shoes sat by the door.

I slipped in and sat next to the only man in the room. He did not speak to me, and despite the example set by the women, I felt uncomfortable speaking during the prayers, so I kept silent as well. When the prayers were over, Tish pulled off her lavender headscarf and wrapped it around her neck. The iftar was winding down, and I slipped over to introduce myself. In addition to Sunday's iftar, she has invited me to her own home for study of the Koran as well as an iftar in one week, so we chatted briefly about the logistics of how to get there, and then I grabbed the rest of my tabouli and headed back to the Metro.

Ramadan/Equinox (Mabon)

Timing my meals to sun-up and sundown these past few weeks, I had been especially mindful that we were heading toward the Fall Equinox, as both suhoor in the morning and iftar in the evening have been creeping toward 7 o'clock.

I understand that Equinox goes by the name Mabon for many Wiccans who celebrate eight sabbats (or solar holidays) per year, but I did not manage to find a Wiccan celebration in my area. I will, however, put some energy into finding one for Samhain, the sabbat holiday that falls on Halloween/All Souls' Day, in between the Fall Equinox and the Winter Solstice.

Even without a Wiccan or other religious connection, I have been interested for some time in celebrating the turning of the seasons. My interest began with the Winter Solstice, which I have celebrated for the past six years by hosting a brunch at my house.

At first, it just seemed a pleasant way to strip away the in-your-face cultural trappings of Christmas (and respect the religious traditions of my non-Christian friends) while opening my home for a gathering around the "holidays." I have tended to prepare a large bowl of eggnog, and occasionally to hang mistletoe, but otherwise to avoid seasonal references at the Solstice brunch. It's nice simply to celebrate the lengthening of the light in a secular way before boarding a plane to go back home and celebrate Christmas with my family.

Once I had started with the Solstice brunch, I had always thought I should stretch the tradition throughout the year, and this past spring I discovered a very good reason to do so. At the Spring Equinox, it turned out we were facing a truly amazing religious pile-up, so I convinced one of my housemates that a pan-religious springfest would be in order.

Six months ago, Friday, March 21, 2008 represented the convergence of six different religious occurrences. It was: a full moon, the Equinox (Ostara for Wiccans), the Jewish holiday of Purim, the Hindu festival of Holi, the Zoroastrian New Year (Norouz), and Good Friday. I was observing Lent at the time by not drinking, so I decided to break my Lent with the Equinox party – specifically with the Purim part of that party, since Purim actually requires celebrants to drink.

I was out of town during the Summer Solstice this year, but my housemates were on board when I suggested an Equinox/Ramadan occasion in our house this fall to continue marking the seasons with a display of hospitality and conviviality.

Guests were invited to arrive at sundown for iftar, and invited to stay as late as they liked to celebrate Equinox.

We prepared and served a mix of mostly traditional Middle Eastern food (tabouli, dolmas, falafel, baba ganouj, and so on), and I purchased some organic dates from the market, because I had read that dates are a traditional break-the-fast food for Ramadan.

Because I find the Equinox parties to be a good excuse for some sort of festive dress or change in appearance, I found myself thinking of what to wear as the sun was going down. At the Spring party, I had strung together a couple dozen tiny roses on a thread and tied it around my neck as a festive spring garland. For the Fall party, I selected an orange shirt from my closet to represent the changing colors of the leaves, and I wore it with jeans. I was lacing my sneakers when I was inspired by a memory of the cherry red toenail polish I saw one of my housemates wearing a day or two earlier.

I wandered down the hall to check what other colors my housemate might have, hoping I could match my toes to my bright orange shirt. She handed over a couple of colors that she thought might blend well together to become orange, and in fact they did. I ditched the sneakers for flip flops, and my toes were a shiny orange by the time our first guests arrived.

We had a gathering of eight for iftar, with most guests arriving much later; none of the other early guests had fasted. An Iranian friend (who is not Muslim, and who is more interested in pagan spirituality) arrived late for the iftar, having chosen to fast for one day in honor of the party. Mohammed arrived even later in the evening, having broken his fast at an iftar in the suburbs.

By midnight the apartment was full, and dancing had broken out in the living room. Mohammed had brought a bottle of fine scotch, which was shared amongst many guests who had already imbibed two bowls my housemate's rum punch -- as well as the various varieties of wine and beer on offer.

We closed up shop around 4:30 in the morning, less than an hour before devout Muslims would be showing up at the mosque for Fajr. One housemate had gone to bed hours before, and after cleaning up the house a bit with my other awake housemate, I stumbled intoxicated to my bedroom and slept until noon.

The next day was the first time I'd missed my early meal since Ramadan began, and the first time I'd missed my Fajr yoga session since I started it a few weeks ago. Though I had resolved to myself to wash at each prayer time on Saturday, after accepting the challenge from my friend, the former Muslim wife, I realized that I had missed both Maghrib and Isha on Saturday, as well as the Sunday Fajr.

I got out of bed at midday and did some more cleaning, feeling a slight hangover, and wishing I had remembered to eat a fortifying helping of leftover party food while I was putting it away in the wee hours. I wouldn't be eating again until iftar (at which point I planned to meet up with a group of progressive Muslims I met through Facebook).

An hour later I went into my bathroom to wash for Dhuhur. I soaped up my face and hands while standing before my sink and mirror, focusing on making myself come back to life after somewhat overdoing it the night before.

Then I stepped into my shower to wash my feet and surprised myself when I looked down and remembered my orange-painted toes. There are Muslim men the world over performing this exact same ritual today, I thought to myself. Are there any others who are chipping colored paint off their nails as they wash?

Ramadan, part one (my first post)

Welcome to my blog.

I intended to start this blog one week ago, on my 34th birthday, but it was not to be. I went to the beach for my birthday instead, and delayed the launch of the blog until I got back.

I'll keep this project going for at least one year, and if I don't get lazy on my intentions for the blog, I'll be updating it semi-regularly with thoughts and reflections about religion, and short narratives about experiences with religious communities. Over the next year, I will seek to:


1. accompany friends, acquaintances, and others to their various houses of worship,
2. visit various houses of worship alone, when no companion can be found,
3. read more about the religions of the world,
4. observe as many religious holidays as I can over the course of the calendar year, birthday to birthday.

It's Ramadan right now.

Observance of Ramadan began during the most recent new moon, at sundown last Monday, September 1. Leading up to the beginning of the holiday, I knew only one primary fact about Ramadan: that the observance centers around a daylong fast, broken at sunset by a meal called iftar.

So, on Tuesday, September 2, I rose early to beat the sunrise, and to eat a somewhat larger breakfast than normal in preparation for the fast. I toasted a bagel, scrambled some eggs with cheese and tomato, and cooked some veggie sausage patties. I brewed what I realized would be my only coffee of the day, and read the newspaper over breakfast while the neighborhood outside my dining room window began its day in the dark.

It was around 6AM, and I'm rarely awake at that hour. I listened to even more NPR than normal that day as I prepared (unrushed!) for work, and eventually strolled leisurely to my downtown office, arriving by 8AM, the first one there. I normally arrive between 9 and 9:30, and yet I realized how much I really like the the slower-paced early-morning hour alone to organize my day, and to accomplish several tasks uninterrupted.

Already, on Day One, I found myself crediting Ramadan with the positives that came from forcing me to experiment with a new perspective, which seemed valid, if a bit premature or excessive.

At some point during the day, I began to wonder about the big breakfast I had eaten.

I knew a daylong fast is required for Ramadan, but I suddenly wondered if scrambling out of bed to beat the dawn was cheating. I wondered if, like a Yom Kippur fast, the abstinence is meant to extend from sundown to sundown.

The concern emerged sometime after midday, at a point when I was feeling good about the fast, but it troubled me because I know what a sundown to sundown fast feels like, and I was feeling nervous about sustaining that challenge for an entire month. So, I took a break in my day to look up the answer, and was relieved to learn that the early meal in Ramadan is absolutely permitted, and even has its own name -- the suhoor.

As I write, I am four days into Ramadan, and I see that I can definitely do this. Abstaining from food from sun-up to sun-down is entirely doable, and actually feels kind of good.

I have read that part of Ramadan is to practice patience and humility, and to identify with the poor, who may not have enough to eat.

This resonates with my four-day experience, in fact. "I'm a little hungry," I will think, "but I can wait." Hence the patience.

The humility bit feels as much like a recognition of mortality as anything -- not a morbid fascination or death-obsession, but simply a different kind of presence in the body, a presence that is a bit more constantly aware of the body's external needs, and therefore its frailty and limitations. Hence the humility.

And finally, yes, it's true (though it may seem hokey to some, including me) that only four days in to the observance I do feel a kind of newly and differently realized gratitude that I have always had enough to eat. I have never -- not as a child, and not ever as an adult -- had to know hunger, or to worry about the source of my next meal, or to figure out how to stretch a small amount of food to cover an entire day.

There again, I credit Ramadan with forcing a new experience upon me. During this month, I have been and will be thinking about how get maximum advantage out of a minimum amount of food, consumed at times not exactly of my choosing.

So, that's my experience of Ramadan so far. I am also attempting to read the Koran this month (but I'll save that for another post), and I have not yet connected the five daily Muslim prayers to the experience (though I understand that suhoor and iftar should cooincide with the first and fourth prayers of the day). The most glaring missing piece so far, however, is that I have not yet connected with a Muslim community, or community of other celebrants.

I hope to share iftar with other celebrants before the end of the month, and I've posted a message to a local Facebook group of progressive Muslims, so we'll see what comes of that, if anything. I would also like to share iftar with conservative Muslims or in-between Muslims or non-Muslims like myself who are experimenting with Ramadan, and I'm not sure how to do that.

If the Facebook group doesn't work out, perhaps I'll resort to Craig's List, or possibly, without community, perhaps I'll just have to make plans to go visit a mosque (or two) this month by myself.

In the meantime, I have been invited to Quaker meeting by a friend this coming Sunday, and I'm looking forward to adding an austere, silent, early-morning Friends meeting to the asceticism of the fast.