After Dhaka and San Bernardino, This Was My Saddest Ramadan

Politicians across the world are out there to question me, my character and my patriotism, writes Farook Kalpana.

A drunk man in a suburban restaurant in Idaho yelled at his friends during a misplaced banter — “Allah is the only God”. That was enough, according to the Daily Mail, to send panic-stricken diners running through every door, with their purses on the chairs and cell phones on the table.

This incident, I think, was the culmination of this years’ blood-soaked month of Ramadan. It showed me a mirror, it showed me how a man in a remote village in North America or Europe will react if a dikr (short prayer) or takbir that comes naturally to my tongue goes little louder. I don’t want to trivialise by calling it Islamophobia. It is mistrust or fear. Millions of fellow human beings whom I would never meet in my life fear me and my prayers. Nothing ever saddened me more than that realisation, ever.

Ramadan isn’t the same anymore. As a student, my ustad used to tell me that Ramadan is the month during which Allah locks up the evil Satan and asks his angels to shower blessings on his mortal creatures. Now, for the millions around the world Ramadan is a lunar month during which killers go on a spree and score their best. 

Police and intelligence officers will soon be denied days off during Ramadan, fire brigades and medical services will be asked to stay alert. It pains me to imagine what they would discuss during their internal meetings.

Questioning a Muslim’s Patriotism

Politicians across the world are out there to question me, my character, my patriotism. Donald Trump blames me for “failing to report” about San Bernardino or Florida shooter. I don’t blame him because I understand business. He is investing on the insecurity of people to get maximum returns. But San Bernardino killer, really!!

I don’t even know how a Muslim from Chechnya looks like nor do I know what food to offer if he stumbles upon my iftar. When I visited Florida last time, I searched for three hours for a mosque for my Friday prayer, and still couldn’t find one. To be honest, I don’t even know whether or not any Muslim lives in Florida at all, let alone a murderous one.

I have never met anyone who supports ISIS nor have I met anyone who knows someone who supports ISIS. Like most Muslims, I don’t even know what they stand for. I receive hundreds of mail for charity during Ramadan but none from ISIS, not even in my junk folder. Yet many think I share the responsibility in making these monsters. It pains me and my heart sinks.

Raising a Voice

I used to condemn murderers on Facebook or on Twitter. I am not doing it anymore. Whatever I do, the killings continue. Whatever I do, there are people out there to blame me for not doing anything. I don’t blame them either. Who else can they blame for this mess? Whenever there was a breaking news about a shooting or a blast, I used to pray for a non-Arabic name, but my prayers were seldom answered. I stopped watching Fox News.

When I read newspapers online, I take extra care to not to slip into the readers’ comments section, which my father refers to as ‘gutter’. He is not on WhatsApp and so doesn’t know that an online gutter stinks more.

My friends in Cairo and Istanbul, who work in the hospitality and tourism sector, say they have had almost no food during iftars this year. Tourists don’t want to travel to Muslim nations. They fear us. They fear those hapless children selling Chinese pyramids to wealthy Europeans for half a dollar. I don’t blame the tourist. Would I have made another decision if I were to be in their shoes? No, I don’t think so.

“A lot louder,” my deeply saddened consciousness tells me, “You should have shouted much louder when the monster was just growing”. I know, and I don’t disagree.

(The writer is a professional based in Doha, Qatar. This is a personal blog and the views expressed above are the author’s own. The Quint neither endorses nor is responsible for the same.)

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