What Converts Can Teach Other Muslims, Part 2: Our Collective Shahadah Story
When I embraced Islam in 2006, public shahadah stories were extremely popular. You would see them at big conferences and MSA events. It was an entire genre of YouTube videos. Often, telling your story was a matter of course when introducing yourself to a new group of Muslims. These more personal interactions even had a tendency to turn into mini halaqas, as people would often gather around once they realized you were talking about your conversion. However, the trend has since died down. Personally, I have not told my shahadah story in quite some time. And if you search for "shahadah story" on YouTube today, you'll see that the most watched videos are many years old now.
This is a positive development. Shahadah stories, while inevitably profound, created an artificial divide within many communities. The divide was not one of solidarity or empathy between converts and born-Muslims. Rather, it created the false perception for everyone that deep theological questioning and struggles with religious practice are reserved for converts prior to their embrace of Islam--that, once within the fold of Islam, even if you entered by birth, such things were off-limits.
In practice, this meant that, usually, I would tell my story to an extremely attentive audience, get to the end of it, and recognize a kind of vicarious catharsis in their eyes. The moment of embracing Islam felt good for them to hear. At first, this led me to expect a story in return because, I assumed, born-Muslims were identifying with my story. I assumed they had been through similar struggles in their own lives to find God and worship Him with sincere intention. But these stories never came. In fact, it was extremely rare that I would hear anyone who was not also a convert say, "You know what? I've been through something like that myself." It was as if most born-Muslims were capable of basking in the revelation of "iqra" without enduring the pain of Jibreel's squeeze.
For many years, I assumed, in my naivety, that the majority of Muslims who were born into Muslim families simply grew up practicing Islam and believing in God without any hiccups. Then I began working in the Muslim community full time and I learned better. Born-Muslims deal with profound struggles of faith, practice, and community. And they do so just as deeply as any convert. The difference is that they tend to do it in silence. So while shahadah stories may be a thing of the past, the perception that underlies them is still very much with us: that serious doubts about God, struggles with practice, even major sins are for some Muslims and not others.
The problem with this perception is that it is not, in fact, what our religion teaches. Indeed, the process that most converts go through--of questioning God, rejecting certain ideas about Him, accepting others, and struggling to implement them through worship--is something that scholars of the past recognized as the beginning of the spiritual path for anyone seeking God. Sidi Ahmad Zarruq, a 15th century Moroccan scholar, referred to this process as takhliyah, emptying oneself of falsehood and wrong actions. Moreover, he argued that this must precede any acceptance of the truth, or tamliyah, filling one's heart with devotion to God.
According to Sidi Ahmad Zarruq, we can see this process in the story of Abraham's, peace be upon him, confrontation of his father Azar, an idol-fashioner, and the people of his nation. In chapter six of the Qur'an, Abraham attempts to guide his people through a process of emptying themselves of their idolatry so that their hearts might genuinely recognize the existence of God:
And mention when Abraham said to his father Azar, "Do you take idols as deities? Indeed, I see you and your people to be in manifest error." And thus did We show Abraham the realm of the heavens and the earth that he would be among the certain in faith. So when the night covered him, he saw a star. He said, "This is my lord." But when it set, he said, "I like not those that set." And when he saw the moon rising, he said, "This is my lord." But when it set, he said, "Unless my Lord guides me, I will surely be among the people gone astray." And when he saw the sun rising, he said, "This is my lord; this is greater." But when it set, he said, "O my people, indeed I am free from what you associate with Allah. Indeed, I have turned my face toward He who created the heavens and the earth, inclining toward truth, and I am not of those who associate others with Allah.”
God is inviting us here to engage in a radical form of questioning. What is it that you worship, really? Abraham's nation, the Sumerians, worshiped the sun, the moon, and Venus (also known as the evening star), among other deities. Their process of takhliyah would require them to empty themselves of the worship of created celestial bodies before turning toward the Creator of the heavens and the earth. What about us? What are our idols? Identifying them can be a painstaking process not only because we are rejecting things we have always held to be true, but also because of the social consequences of doing so. Abraham's people catapulted him into a pit of fire for blasphemy! Yet this is what our very creed call us toward: we must say "la ilahah," there is no god, before we reach "ila'llah," except for God.
From what I have observed, the reason so many born-Muslims suffer through their own processes of takhliyah in silence is because of social pressure. I mentioned in my last article that "I sense among many of my friends and students the anxiety of accepting someone else's judgement of them--where their interactions with God are no longer a secret between them and their Creator but, rather, open to the interpretation of others." Like our Prophet Abraham, many of us feel, often correctly, that our community would be more than willing to throw us into the fire if our journey toward God transgressed social norms. This is a particularly dangerous situation because takhliyah, which we could easily translate as "purging," is usually a loud and messy process that is difficult to conceal. Doing so in a non-supportive environment seems to have convinced many Muslims that it ought not be done at all--that the only acceptable form of growth is tamliyah without takhliyah. Yet this is not how God created us. Try to fill a glass that is already full. Try to say the shahadah without "la ilahah."
This type of social pressure is not simply a detriment to healthy spiritual growth, it is the false god itself that many young Muslims today need to purge. Many young Muslims today do not distinguish between God's judgement and the judgement of their community. This may sound like an extreme thing to say. However, I see this in how they voice their fear and anxiety during moments of crisis. Young Muslims today who stop praying, or remove their hijab, or question the existence of God are afraid first and foremost of what their parents or the other students at their MSA will think of them. When I ask what they think of themselves or, more importantly, what they believe God thinks of them, it is almost as if that question does not register. They have no notion of God apart from the expectations of others. Indeed, most of my work in these situations is convincing them of the takbir, that God is greater than this. Then takhliyah may begin. Then they may begin to say "la ilahah" to these expectations and judgements. Afterwards they usually do indeed reach "ila'llah." And from this prayer and other forms of healthy practice also usually emerge.
One of the most profound skills we could learn, as a community, is looking upon each other with a merciful gaze. I mean this quite literally. So much of the judgement that many young Muslims feel in their communities today comes not from explicit remarks, condemnations, or interrogations about their religious lives, but, rather, from looks that invite self-judgement. How would our communities change if entering the average American mosque felt like a homecoming to a loving family? This was the practice of our Prophet ﷺ and it remains the legacy of our pious predecessors. Once, Abu Yazid al-Bastami was walking with his disciples along the Tigris River in Baghdad when they saw a number of people on a the river enjoying a pleasure cruise. They were drinking and singing loudly. The shaykh's disciples said, "O shaykh, pray against them!" He responded, "O Allah, as you have made them happy in this life, give them happiness in the next!" When they questioned him, he simply asked them, "Who am I to challenge the mercy of my Lord?" For their happiness in the next world would necessarily entail their repentance and spiritual growth during this life.
I look forward to a day when I can swap shahadah stories with Muslims who never knew another religion. When did you first realize that there truly is nothing worthy of your worship, your ultimate concern, except God? Our collective shahadah story means that we don't serve anyone to the detriment of our service to God. The shahadah is a liberatory statement in this way. Through all the pain of spiritual growth, we come to realize that we have only one true Lord, and that what we do for Him ultimately is our secret with Him. And God knows best.