The Prime Minister, the Imam and Me: A Eid Reflection

By Shanon Shah

Today is the first of Shawwal here in Malaysia. I am now in my parents’ home. I am sitting at the computer in my new salwar khameez. One of my Indian Muslim friends told me it’s not called ‘salwar khameez’. ‘Khameez’ is for women, she says. I, on the other hand, have only ever known this as a ‘salwar khameez’. But this whole confusion is precisely what is so beautiful about being Malaysian – I am Malay, Chinese, Pakistani and Muslim all at the same time. Tomorrow I will be wearing my Chinese tunic. Don’t ask me what is the proper Chinese name for it. Even my mother won’t know, I’ll bet.

But I digress. I am writing this because I have just come home from the mosque. Eid prayers are special to me. When I was a child, they were special because they marked the beginning of a wonderful holiday – filled with food, laughter, hugs and television. When I was a teenager, they were special because they marked a period of truce between my parents and myself, during my turbulent and sensitive adolescence. When I was a university student, Eid prayers were a marker of my precious summer breaks in Malaysia – they marked the valuable time I had to savour with my family and friends before I returned to university for the new semester.

Eid prayers still form a big part of my personal and spiritual journey.

Every year, I go to the mosque feeling that the past year has been just as fulfilling as the one before, if not more. I go to the mosque to remind myself that even though I have limited capacity to change – myself and the world around me – I can still plant thoughtful and well-intended actions to transform the limits of my world.

But I am saddened now when I go to the mosque, not just on Eid. Last year’s Eid sermon left me shaking with anger and despair. The khatib last year basically went on a bitter and hateful tirade against the “Jews” and the “Americans”. Last year’s sermon was an unapologetic call for the politicization of Islam in Malaysia, and indeed around the world. It was the call for a very narrow, rigid and frightening ideologization of Islam.

So I was quite apprehensive about listening to this year’s sermon. Among other things, I have been on an accelerated journey to reclaim my personal relationship with, and understanding of, Islam. And during the past year I have learnt lots of things I had not known before. Also, we have a new Prime Minister now. I was listening to his Eid message just before going to the mosque. He sounds like a sensitive, caring and pious man. He was deeply troubled by the road accidents that seem to escalate during every festive season. He called for greater understanding and friendship amongst all Malaysians – Muslims and non-Muslims.

The Eid sermon took quite a different angle, though. The khatib started off by telling all of us that our Ramadan fast would not be counted valid unless we each paid our zakat. On a purely superficial level, I understood the content of this message. But it really left a bad taste in my mouth. It is always this problem that I have with sermons in Malaysia – whether they are presented during Eid, or Friday prayers, or during religious gatherings. The focus is always on the superficial rituals, and on invalidation of worship and subsequent punishments (sometimes gleefully recounted in graphic detail). There is never any probing discussion of the philosophy of Islamic worship. I want to know how the prophet fasted. I want to know what was the context of Ramadan during his lifetime. I want to know the structure of society at that time that was changed for the better by the institution of zakat. I don’t need to be told that my fast is not valid unless I pay the zakat. I want a critical analysis of my motives, not a blanket attack on their lack.

And of course, the sermon went on to lament how beleaguered we are as an ummah. About how we are being invaded, left right and center by non-Muslims who are intent on seeing the destruction of Islam. The argument was against the cultural invasion of the “West” into “Islam”. Of course, I agree that cultural invasion is a very powerful tool of oppression. But the way out of it is not to box ourselves in even further and retreat into what we imagine to be our “authentic culture”. There are non-Muslims who fight for liberation and who stand in solidarity with Muslims who are oppressed; just as much as there are Muslims who oppress fellow Muslims and non-Muslims. The argument is not about who is a Muslim and who is not, but it is about naming oppressive realities and trying to transform them.

And so in the same breath that he extolled the universality of Islamic principles, our khatib also railed against Muslims who are more excited in memorizing the lyrics of pop songs than in worshipping in the mosque. Cultural invasion notwithstanding, I think the question needs to be turned around - what is it about our mosques and religious discourse that drives Muslims out into the arms of Hollywood blockbusters and reality television shows? (And really, is it so bad to memorize the lyrics of a song that makes you feel good?)

I was one of those people exiled out of my own mosque, because I could not stand listening to sermons preaching intolerance, fear, hatred and guilt. For a long time, I was ashamed to be Muslim, if indeed this was supposed to be the content of my faith. But I would not let go of Islam. I kept reading and I kept looking for people to discuss issues with critically and analytically. I discovered many wonderful writers, thinkers and friends who feel the same way that I do. My friends and I read and discuss the Qur’an, the Hadith, the works of classical and contemporary scholars of Islam, and we are so excited and enthusiastic about the things we discover. It is just so sad that all of this learning, all of this discussion, happens only when we are amongst ourselves. We watch television, listen to the radio, read newspapers and magazines, listen to public religious talks, go to mosques, and we do not find any space to explore these aspects of Islam. We are censored and silenced. We are forced to think in a certain way (read: in support of the status quo) and we are discouraged from asking questions that are open-ended. Questions like, “As a Muslim woman, am I allowed to run out of my burning house without asking for my husband’s permission first?”, are encouraged. Questions like, “What is the status of the matn and isnad of the Hadith that says women can’t be leaders in Islam?” are silenced and denounced.

I nearly cried when a Muslim jurist here in Malaysia told me that Imam Malik once said, “Diversity of opinion is Allah’s gift to the ummah.” I was so touched by the humility of Imam Malik – a man so fiercely intelligent and learned and yet so averse to imposing his opinions on others. And to think that now, we have so-called “imams” sprouting like mushrooms, with only a fraction of the piety and knowledge of Imam Malik, unabashedly telling the rest of us to conform to their views of Islam or else…

Hasan Zillur Rahim suggested a new blueprint for Friday sermons on these pages. He was simultaneously praised and reviled for his suggestions. As someone who has also contributed writings to MuslimWakeUp!, I was actually glad to read Hasan’s article. It did not go as far as I wanted it to go, but nevertheless, it was good to hear the voice of someone who is thirsting for knowledge and open discussion, just as I am. However, he wrote from the point of view of a member of North America’s Muslim minority. I am writing from the point of view of someone who is part of a Muslim majority.

Even here in Malaysia, Muslims still have the mindset of a hunted and disempowered minority. We shake with bitterness and hatred whenever people mention Palestine, Afghanistan and Iraq. The imams whip us up into frenzy by telling us that we Muslims have become the innocent victims of the new millenium. There is no further analysis that, oftentimes, Muslims too end up becoming oppressors. Muslims, too, violate the human rights and dignity of fellow Muslims and non-Muslims – sometimes in the name of Islam, sometimes not. It is too convenient to say that Muslims who oppress “are not true Muslims”. As far as I know, certain Muslim men who call for the stoning to death of “deviant” women claim that they are truer Muslims than I am. But try and ask ordinary Muslim women who live under such conditions – do they know what is oppression? Who do they think is the oppressor?

I have the impression that our new Prime Minister, Abdullah Ahmad Badawi, is a kind man. He is known for his honesty, his piety, and his firm belief in the principles of justice and compassion. In him, I see hope. The disconnect between his Eid message and the Eid sermon I just heard is actually a reason for me to rejoice in optimism. I feel that the Prime Minister, the khatib and I all want a better world for all of humankind. And I feel that the Prime Minister, the khatib and I all realise that there is no contradiction between celebration and reflection, between joy and humility, between Islam and the modern world.

But, as illustrated by my reaction to the Eid sermon, I feel that there are some ways of arriving at this realization that are more destructive (and dangerous) than others. On this Eid, I choose to reflect on this matter, and to somehow make my reflection count for something in the coming years.