LATEST UPDATE: Stories From Converts To Islam
My Reversion From Emptiness
I was born into a family that loved me but didn’t know how to express that love.
Like most Eastern immigrant families, my father didn’t make enough money for my mother to be able to stay home and take care of the children. In order to make it up to us, my mother and father both slaved away their youth working hard so that their children could have the best material items, go to the best school, and have better opportunities than they did. From the time I was six weeks old, I spent the time I woke up until late evening with someone who was paid to feed me, clothe me, and act like my mother. This continued until I was 5 years old and allowed to attend Kindergarten. I woke up at 5am to get on a bus that travelled an hour and a half outside our neighborhood so that I could attend the “best” school my parents could afford. When school finished at 3pm, I would stay working on homework (mostly reading) until a teacher leaving for the day was free to drive me to the bus stop (my parents didn’t want me to stay home alone, so they thought the best idea was for me to ride the bus late so that we would arrive at home around the same time.)
This continued until I reached the age of 11, where I switched schools and was allowed for the first time to stay at home by myself. Staying home never bothered me since I was alone most of the time anyways, even when I stayed late after school. Around this time, my family purchased a television and a computer. For the first time, I was exposed to mass media—MTV and reality talk shows. Questions formulated in my head and I wanted to find out more, so I did that through the internet. It was chat rooms that answered my questions on gender roles, sexuality, how to dress and who to impress. I even exchanged phone numbers with some of the people I was talking to and would spend hours chatting on the phone—all my new “friends” being men six years or older than me.
Unfortunately the new public school that I went to (my parents unable to pay for my schooling at the time) only offered basic and remedial classes. I found them to be tedious and disinteresting, so I never went. When I did go, I believed I was too mature to deal with my fellow classmates. Instead of acting like a “normal” 13 year old, I flocked to different universities, pretending that I was an undergraduate in college reading Proust and Plath, attending lectures such as ethics in the biological sciences and introduction to terrorism studies. Under the pretext of a lie, I formed different identities to try to attract men there. I craved for attention; for someone to compliment me and call me smart. I still kept my virginity but I would have gladly sold it to any bidder that wanted it.
Nobody did want it until I was 17 and went to college in the United States. I graduated early from high school and was accepted into a full scholarship program with all expenses paid for at a prestigious university in the U.S. I have no idea how I accomplished this since I was mostly self-taught. Then again, I was happy to be guided in a positive direction beyond my control and I jumped at the opportunity.
The first person to greet me and make me feel at “home” was, of course, a boy. For three months I gave myself to him and when he didn’t want me anymore, it was over. This continued for a year until I decide that my ebb and flow of men was because I personally was unattractive. If I could just work on myself (my body, that is) then I could keep a man. So I lost 40 pounds but gained a false sense of self-esteem. Of course no one could resist me now—not even a man ten years older that I met in a bar. I put school on hold to move to a different city with this man, giving him my body freely and my entire devotion. When he yelled at me, it was because of my mistakes. When he hit me, it was because he loved me. For a year I was poisoned by this man, allowing him access to my deepest and darkest fears and secrets that he continuously used against me.
When I found the courage to escape, I realized the only place I could go was far away. I had taken courses in Arabic and Middle Eastern culture at my university and decided that I could go back to school and manipulate my scholarship money so that I could take a research sabbatical in the Middle East. I chose Jordan for no particular reason. All I knew was that I needed get away. Luckily, I was granted permission and did.
For the first few months, I was happy. I had the chance of a fresh start. I moved into an apartment with two other female expatriates. Yet things quickly turned sour. I met a man and then another. I spent more time with them than I did on my studies. I snuck out in the middle of the night to sleep over at their houses. I paid for overpriced alcohol in overpriced bars. I dined in exquisite places and flew to the most expensive cities around the Middle East, searching for someone to fulfill a void in my heart that was there ever since I could remember.
Eventually, as expected, the money ran out.
I would dress up at night to go to bars or a shopping mall, hoping a man would notice me to strike up a conversation. If I was lucky (and I usually was as a single woman that didn’t ignore their advances), the man would offer to take me somewhere to eat, to a party, for a night of fun. I always said yes—no matter the man, no matter the place, no matter if the restaurant was classy or a dive. Why did I do this? Because I was hungry. I was hungry for food just as much as I was starving for company. I became the lowest form of a prostitute. We picture rich prostitutes on television and in Times Square who charge their clients thousands of dollars, exerting complete “power” and “control” over their bodies. The lowest form of prostitutes, the ones that are never visible to the human eye, have no control at all. Their situations are dictated by their stomach and their immense emptiness and search for love.
I had completely lost hope in myself and my future. I reached the conclusion I would never find love but if I could survive by selling my body, then everything would be okay. I forced myself to be desirable. Above all, I was too ashamed to go home and face my family—the family that loved me so much they sacrificed their lives working to make sure I would never be in this position.
There was one man and his family that I will forever be indebted to. They owned a small convenience store next to the university. Whenever I was hungry, I was welcome to go and sit there. It was there, sitting on the floor with this Palestinian refugee and his sons that I was first exposed to Islam—to compassion and honor. Here was a family that had little material possessions but were content and happy with each other due to the grace of Allah (swt).
They didn’t care about my situation and welcomed me as a human being. They didn’t look at me like vultures staring at a piece of meat but treated me as a woman who should be respected. They let me cry while I told my story to them without horror and disgust.
They shared stories with me too, stories about the Prophet Muhammad (pbuh) and his companions, how they travelled for years with dedication and purpose of exposing truth and correct conduct. Even after the prophet’s death (pbuh), scholars were so devoted that they spent their lives travelling across deserts from town to town just so they could hear fragments of stories to later pass on to their students. All of them were filled with a purpose of not material wealth but learning and teaching. Gender, social class, and previous lifestyles did not inhibit their mission in growing closer and teaching others to grow closer to Allah (swt). A few weeks later, I gathered only the notes I took on the stories they told me, a bi-lingual copy of the Quran, and a small suitcase full of clothes. I decided to leave all the rest behind, beginning a new life with purpose and dedication–learning and teaching others the true meaning of Allah (swt)’s love.
But my story doesn’t end there. Islam, to many reverts, is a process. We are exposed first, experiment with it in our lives, and then choose to accept or dismiss it later. Upon my return to the United States, I gave in to my lusts. I married the man whom a year earlier I ran away from. Of course our marriage was tumultuous, destined from the beginning to fail. I didn’t know how to love, and unfortunately, neither did he. We separated during my final semester at university and I got back into my old habits of searching for anyone who would give me a boost of “love”, however artificial it may be.
It was at this time that I discovered how close I lived to an Islamic center. For reasons I can’t explain, I missed the stories I was told about the prophet (swt) and his companions. I missed a sense of community and shared vision that I experienced breaking bread with the Palestinian family. I felt compelled to visit the masjid, so in May I began to sit in on early Thursday morning sister-only seminars. I felt a sense of ease when I went there—protected almost. Here I was allowed to freely discuss ideas without feeling that I had to impress any male. I began to dress more modestly, eventually covering my hair. Something as basic as a change of dress style made me feel like I was more respected by members of the opposite sex—Muslims in the Masjid and those outside of it on the street.
I volunteered for the center’s summer program and found out that my passion was teaching children. We learned about Islam together. I taught in the mornings and then joined the children when they went to hadith and quran classes. Together we memorized the fatiha and quizzed each other on duas. It was during this period that I was re-born. Reverts always describe themselves as feeling like newborns or “clean.” I personally experienced this rebirth through my volunteering of a 3-5 year old class, where I was not only their teacher but also their equal. My students and I were learning how to be good people for the first time.
A few months later, I took my shadada on my wedding day. Allah (swt) sent me a man that loved and (most importantly) respected me despite my former sins. Islam has fulfilled my life and given me a purpose. I am no longer thirsty for love nor do I have to search for acceptance. Instead, I am a writer, a teacher, and a mentor. Most importantly, I am and always will be a student, striving to Allah (swt) for pure guidance on the new path he has put me on. The past is now the past. Allah (swt) has granted me true love.
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