by Aina Khan

This piece was originally published on chaiwallay.com.

As I passed by you earlier today, you spat out astaghfirullah (I seek refuge from God) with the ferocity of a Muslamic MC, simultaneously shaking your head from side to side like the dog in that Churchill advert.

Why, may I ask, did you do this?

I find your use of terminology, to put it lightly, very puzzling; puzzling like why David Cameron won the 2015 UK General Election, or puzzling like why Zayn Malik left One Direction.

Are my sartorial choices that un-Islamic to you that you seek redemption from God on my behalf?

Perhaps, there was something wrong with the physical aesthetic of my hijab.

Did I violate the unofficial code of conduct for Acceptable Hijab Wrapping Standards (2015), by wrapping my hijab around my head the ancient Egyptian mummy style?

Were there too many pins stuck in my head so that I resembled a walking pin cushion, or worse, a voodoo doll?

Maybe it was the Iranian hijab style I adopt, which makes me look rather like a female reincarnation of Elvis Presley wearing a hijab, what with my hair jutting out like a quiff at the front.

I flatter myself, but perhaps, the sight of my beauty was so spell-binding, so breathtaking that you were attempting to dispel lustful, haraam (Islamically unlawful) thoughts that erupted into your mind.

But a word of sisterly advice if I may, my dear Brother.

If your intention was to compliment my beauty, why on earth did you use the word astaghfirullah?

There are many Muslamic (Muslim-Islamic) alternatives for you to incorporate into your vocabulary, if you want to win the heart of a lady with religious rhetoric.

Instead of astaghfirullah, why not subhanallah (glory be to God), inshallah (God willing), or better yet, mashallaaaaaaaaah (God willed it)?

It is a fact that is universally acknowledged that every Muslim woman has received at least one elongated mashallaaaaaah from a cat-calling Brother during her lifetime, but alas! There has been little evidence to suggest such interactions have blossomed into fruitful Hollywood-esque romantic comedies.

But believe me when I say that unless you want a woman to think you are a senior member of the Haraam Police, mashallah is a far superior alternative to astaghfirullah.

Yes, I know. Society likes to portray Muslims as one giant convent of medieval monks and nuns, spending our lives separated from the opposite sex as if they were the Bubonic Plague. The fact that Muslims are equally culpable of this makes you feel as if romantic eloquence of the tongue can only be acquired through what you perceive to be the ‘halal’ pickup line that is astaghfirullah.

But to quote something a wise Shaykha (Islamic scholar) by the name of Taylor Swift once said, “Haters gonna hate.” Muslims are, and certainly can be, just as romantic as anyone else.

Sure, we might not have Muslim equivalents of Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan starring in romantic comedies such as ‘Sleepless in the Masjid,’ to guide us through our tumultuous romantic lives.

But, if anything, the vast number of halal pickup lines that we 21st century Muslims have created, such as: “I want my children’s jannah (heaven) to be under your feet,” is testament to our romantic prowess.

And if you think bestowing mashallah upon a woman is sinful, fear not! As my mother likes to say, there’s nothing wrong with admiring God’s creation, right?

You don’t have to be a Muslim Shakespeare to capture the heart of the ladies, my dear Brother, nor do you have to be a Haraam Police, astaghfirullah-spitting individual. Unfortunately, we can’t rely on cupid to prick people with love arrows because (let’s face it), that would actually be totes haraam.

With the holy trinity of subhanallah, inshallah, and most especially, mashallaaaaaaah at your disposal, how can you possibly go wrong?

So the next time you want to drop an astaghfirullah on a sister, just remember, that won’t make you her mister…

Best Wishes,
Elvis Presley Hijabi

Featured Image Source. 

Aina Khan is an avid writer, piano player and chai enthusiast who lives in the UK. A linguist by day, Ms Marvel by night, she battles the forces of good and evil wielding her hijab as a Weapon of Mass Seduction. If all attempts at launching a career in journalism fail, she intends on succeeding the naturalist David Attenborough as his Desi protege.

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“Confessions to a Moonless Sky” is a meditation on the new moon and guilt. I wrote it when I was living in Dallas and was driving back from a dusk prayer. The new moon terrified me on that drive. I was diseased by the knowledge that my partner, at the time, had seen the worst parts of me. There’s immense shame in this piece—it seized my self-image. If the moon could become brand new, then I could start over.

I often ponder on the moon’s reflective nature and pairs of eyes. I’m hyper-fixated on how I am seen by others. Unfortunately, the brilliance of seeing your reflection in another person leads to negativity. After all, those who are too keen on their own reflection are the same people who suffer from it. It is possible to use shame to fuel one’s retribution and personal growth, without becoming consumed by it.

We can look to Shah Rukh Khan succumbing to alcoholism in his own sorrow and then later imbibing his sadness in Chandramukhi. “Confessions to a Moonless Sky” is a lesson for us: Don’t be Shah Rukh Khan in Devdas, instead embody pre-incarnation Shah Rukh Khan in Om Shanti Om!

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Confessions to a Moonless Sky

Sometimes when the moon abandons the sky, I wonder if I drove her away.

If she comes back, will she be the same? How I wish she would come back new, truly new! That way she’d have no memory of the sin I’ve confessed to her. You noxious insect. Sin-loving, ego-imbibing pest. You are no monster, for at least a monster has ideology, it sins with purpose. You sin just to chase ignominy.

But the moon won’t say that, she never does. She’ll just leave the sky and return days later, slowly. And I’ll wonder if she’s new, perhaps she won’t remember my past confessions. What does it matter? Were the moon replaced with one from a different god, I’d drive her away, too.

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“Take what you want//Take everything” reflects on a time with my partner and our cat, Layla. It’s a retelling of the chaotic night I adopted her. I didn’t know why Layla hid from me. When I chased her around, it scared her more. “Take what you want//Take everything” juxtaposes our first night, filled with misunderstanding, with the rest of the time we spent together. My fond memories call back to the loving moments Layla and I shared.

Such memories defined us; they reverberated in my partnership. I wonder if my partner, like Layla, only remembers her fear of me, over our shared moments of love. The title, a Kanye West lyric, is an acknowledgment that their happiness together–without me–destroyed my sense of self. When I see their photos, I wonder if I can see myself reflected in their eyes. I wonder if they still keep kind moments of our time together.

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Take what you want//Take everything

I remember when she would look at me from behind a laundry basket.

A small simple cat with green owl eyes. She was afraid of her new home and its owner. Shit, I remember the night I got her, she hid under my bed, in the middle just out of my reach for maybe 6 hours, watching me. She didn’t eat anything the entire day. When the night fell I was afraid she’d starve or come out and attack me. I was just scared. I didn’t have a childhood pet, I’m not white, I didn’t know what to do. I picked up the whole bed and yelled that she needed to move. I chased her into the closet with a vacuum cleaner. When she ran in, I called my lover and yelled to her that she wasn’t helping enough, she needed to be there to help me. That was our first day together, me and that cat. No one will ever have that memory but me and maybe her.

It was during Ramadan, my first year fasting.

Our problems had already begun by then. Enough so that I decided to fast and show retribution. I’d try to change into a more patient and understanding self. Like the Prophet (SAW) I guess. To become someone that my lover could feel safe around. Somehow, getting a cat felt like it fit into that picture. I’d be a cat dad, you know, gentle. We’d raise her. I’d fast and become New Again. Maybe I’d wrap an inked tasbih around myself and show I’m a man of God.

I don’t know how a cat remembers fear any more than I know how a lover does.

I know her body stored it. My cat’s must have stored it too. That first night, I wish I could tell her that I was afraid too. It doesn’t make sense that I was afraid really — I’m bigger, more threatening. We don’t speak the same language anyway, so how could I ever tell her? She learned to trust me though, in her own way. Her small bean paws would press on my chest in the mornings. She’d meow to berate me for locking her out some nights, or when I was away from home too long.

She lives with my lover now. They share photos with me, they’re happy together.

I saw my lover once, it was on 55th and 7th, Broadway shined blue performance lights over us. She wore a red sacral dress. She said her mental health has never been better. I think she was trying to tell me that she’s doing well, because she knows I care for her. I don’t think she was trying to say she’s happier without me. We don’t speak the same language. I actually think they are happier with just each other. And I loved them both, so it hurts. Sometimes, not all the time. And it doesn’t always hurt that bad. Other times it does get pretty bad, though. I probably owe it to myself to say that.

I look back at the photos, the ones of our life together, and the ones of their new life.

Two green owl eyes, and two brown moonlit eyes. I look for myself in them.

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