Tie Your Camel First, Then Court Change

People are conversing more than ever in the Internet Age. We pump emails, texts, blogs, and tweets into cyberspace at a prodigious rate. We talk, but we do not communicate. The result: misunderstandings abound.

Despite an almost-rabid desire to voice personal opinions, the world is tragically bereft of dialogue, a concern I shared recently with Halimah DeOliveira, an award-winning author and consultant who empowers professionals and entrepreneurs to achieve personal and business goals. Her podcast features Muslim women — movers, shakers, and change-makers from around the world — who share their views, experiences, and tips on how to achieve personal goals.

My episode, entitled “Why We Need to Empower More Muslims to Share Their Stories,” looks at the role of communication in our increasingly interdependent global community. If people, particularly Muslims, seek harmonious relations, they must contribute to that effort by sharing their stories. Besides being more vocal, everyone — irrespective of religion, profession, or gender — can benefit from listening to each other’s hearts.

I am what I call a “peacemonger,” someone who uses public speaking as a channel to promote harmony by building bridges of understanding. Since we cannot serve from an empty vessel, we cannot be empathetic toward others unless we first practice self-compassion. I promote the idea of cultivating inner peace to create tranquility in the world.

I am a Muslim feminist, who chooses to be intellectualized, not sexualized. Thus, I decide how much of myself I want to share with the world; I decide whom to invite into my personal life. Part of that privacy means that, although I do not use a face veil, I wear a headscarf.

Before 9/11, I loved wearing a black hijab — the headscarf and abaya, a long, loose-fitting gown favored by many Muslim women. The reason: black always makes me look 10 pounds lighter, and I can wear hot pink pajamas and bunny slippers underneath, and no one knows!

After 9/11, however, those benign garments became socially malignant. I was viewed as a terrorist — a disease that needed to be eradicated. I’ve probably heard every bigoted phrase in the Islamophobe’s playbook: “Go back home!” “Get out of my country, terrorist!” “Raghead!” I’ve heard every foul word imaginable — all in public. I’ve watched mothers pull their kids away from mine in parks and grocery stores. My 3-year-old son, Jibreel, witnessed his Mom verbally attacked so often that he became anxious being around people.

One time, a woman in a white SUV almost ran down Jibreel; my baby, Idrees, and me — all while yelling and cursing at us in a store parking lot. Terrified and in tears, I went to the police station to file a complaint. Although I provided officers with a description of the car and driver — even her license plate number — they dismissively told us to go home, noting that no one had been injured. “We’re sorry, but there’s nothing we can do,” a police sergeant said.

Being harassed in public, being singled out for double- and triple-checking by TSA agents while traveling alone with my kids, being told to take off my shirt because it “looks like a jacket” — I’ve experienced it all.

One night, when my husband was out of town for the weekend, I realized I had run out of milk. Terrified of the vitriol that lurked outside my door, I sat on the couch all night — tears streaming down my face, a child under each arm — as my boys, hungry and miserable, cried themselves to sleep. I developed such a phobia of white America that I became a prisoner in my own home.

That was the gist of my experience post-9/11, which I’ve also shared in Forbes, Toastmasters magazine, and my TEDx talk to promote understanding.

Initially, the deplorable terrorist attack that unforgettable day led to nightmare repercussions for Muslim-Americans. Due to Islamophobic attacks, I developed a severe social anxiety disorder and agoraphobia, an abnormal fear of crowds.

During the darkest moments of my despair — when I was on the verge of a breakdown — the only person I felt I could confide in without fear of being judged was my halaqa/Islamic teacher, Lobna Mulla. She reminded me of the promise: “Allah does not burden a soul with more than it can bear.”

That was an “Aha!” moment. I realized that if Allah’s words were true, then I could bear this. Perhaps I did not know my own strength. As the poet and philosopher Khalil Gibran once said: “Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.”

So, I decided that I was going to address my despair and anxiety — for myself and my family. After going from one disappointing therapy experience to another, I finally found an intensive anxiety program at Linden Oaks Hospital in Chicago. Dr. M. Joann Wright, my former therapist there, is blonde, light-eyed, and pale-skinned: the epitome of the white Americans I feared.

But she was different. Dr. Wright became teary-eyed every time I shared my story; she made me smile whenever I struggled to make eye contact; she offered to hug me when I cried. She is one of the most compassionate souls I have ever met.

I remember thinking: “What if there are more white people like her out there? What if I have been generalizing about all white Americans being Islamophobes, just as countless white people paint all Muslims as terrorists?”

In life, every painful experience carries a lesson; we continue to suffer until those episodes have taught us what we need to know. The biggest lesson I’ve learned since 9/11 is how easily humans succumb to fear, responding in debilitating and destructive ways. I developed agoraphobia; the people I feared also armored themselves with Islamophobia. In both cases, the emotion that drove our behavior was unbridled fear.

I decided to seek out more white Americans like Joann to overcome my apprehension. Giving them a chance to know me — a hijabi Muslim — would allay their fears, I hoped. This outreach has transformed my interactions with white people into positive experiences. I trust I have touched them, as well. For surely, in the deepest desires of heart and mind, we are alike.

I am an advocate of mental health awareness. While traveling to speaking engagements around the world, I have noticed that — unlike in the U.S. — the stigma associated with mental illness is much stronger in places like India and the Middle East, where the subject is taboo.

In many cultures, it is ingrained from childhood that vulnerability is a sign of weakness. It’s not surprising, then, that many of these people spend their lives subconsciously seeking constant acceptance, appreciation, and approval. This — in itself — can create stress, anxiety, and depression.

Yet we want to be perceived as we portray ourselves on Facebook and Instagram: perfect and happy. In reality, of course — being human — we are inherently flawed. If we can’t embrace the imperfections in ourselves, how can we accept the brokenness in others?

What I have noticed in Asia, the Middle East, and even some Muslim communities in the U.S., is the inability to empathize with people who are in pain. We can sympathize — “aw, you poor thing” — because that makes us feel better about ourselves. But do we dare say: “I feel your pain because I’ve been there, too” or “I understand because I’m going through the same thing”?

Empathy requires vulnerability, and that takes courage. Such vicarious understanding is sadly lacking in the world because we don’t have the courage to be vulnerable.

The treatment I received on my path to healing encouraged acceptance, mindfulness, and self-compassion. I’m a passionate advocate for embracing pain as inevitable. Suffering, however, is optional. When we label an emotion “negative” because it’s painful, we do anything to avoid, suppress, or ignore it. But life is about experiencing the full range of emotions — without being overpowered by any of them.

As an advocate for mental health, I emphasize that anxiety and depression do not mean a person is weak; pain is part of the human condition. But, since we experience suffering differently, some of us may need help to cope with those emotions.

With all of this in mind, and realizing we are social creatures, I helped launch a Muslim speakers program in California. Aside from breathing, communication may be our most important asset in the quest for survival. We communicate daily, whether we’re trying to persuade other people of our views or attempting to sell a product, service, or idea.

I reveal specific strategies for effective communication in my podcast, which premiers Aug. 19 on Boss Hijabi Preneur (http://bit.ly/Bosshijabipodcast)

To build understanding, we must abolish misconceptions and stereotypes; address racism, prejudice, and bigotry; dissolve those ghettos of the mind that separate us with fear and ignorance and mistrust. To accomplish that, we must hone our speaking skills so we can use language adroitly to inspire change.

If we don’t avail ourselves of every opportunity to share our stories — if we leave the work to organizations, activists, advocates, and community leaders — we place a heavy burden on a select few.

Inclusion is a collective dream — and responsibility. We can all effect change, regardless of age, status, or geography. Every time we speak — to a store cashier, another person in a waiting room, or a yoga partner at the gym — we share part of ourselves. If we communicate effectively, we dispel stereotypes and misconceptions about each other, without even trying. When we connect, we quickly realize that we have more in common than we thought. Much more.

It was in that spirit that Muslim Youth of Santa Clarita board members and I started American-Muslim Orators, the first club of its kind in Los Angeles County. Dialogue is an essential precursor to understanding and acceptance.

We talk to each other, but we do not take the time — or devote the energy — to understand, to commiserate. I am reminded of my favorite hadith, a pearl of wisdom from the Prophet Mohammed (peace be upon him).

One day, the Prophet saw a Bedouin leaving his camel untethered. When questioned, the nomad replied that he had no need to tie the camel because he placed his trust in Allah. “Tie your camel first,” the Prophet said, “then have tawakkul (trust) in Allah.”

Last year, I was invited to deliver an inspirational speech at a mosque. I talked about my mental health struggles and the therapeutic coping skills that have helped me deal with my anxieties.

Suddenly, a lady in the audience interrupted, exclaiming: “A true Muslim doesn’t suffer from anxiety and depression or need treatment because he or she knows that reading the Qur’an daily is the only cure.”

I calmly replied: “A true Muslim also knows that the Prophet, salallaahu alaihi wasallam (peace be upon him), said: ‘Tie your camel first, and then have tawakkul in Allah’.”

Whether we struggle with mental health issues or relationship challenges, we must do our part first by seeking professional help, then have trust in God or our Higher Power that everything will be okay.

Likewise, if we want a better world, we can’t expect things to magically change. We must put in the effort to make a difference, then “let go and let God.”

And, before resorting to the mailed fist, as some of us — sadly — are prone to do, remember: truth will silence the apostles of fear who divide us. Tell your story, and the understanding that emerges will leave the world a kinder, gentler place.

-Sarah Khan, American Muslim Peacemonger