DEAR MOTHER

It pains me to write this, but I must. I know I broke your heart. I know you pray to
God every night to bring me back into His light. I know our relatives accused you
of being a bad mother, letting your daughter go astray. Please forgive me.

You may think I stopped believing because you let me study in the States, or
because I was lazy or too weak to resist temptations, such as sex and alcohol. I
need you to know my reasons.

There was a time I needed to examine everything I’d been taught. I needed to do
it if I was to save my life, if I didn’t want to feel sinful all the time just because I
was born a girl, just because I wanted to experience everything that life had to
offer. I was told that eventually God would forgive all sins, except the sin of
doubting Him. For weeks I walked around dreading that I’d see nothing but
hellfire the moment I took off the glasses through which I’d viewed the world for
as long as I could remember.

But I needed to look beyond doctrines to figure out how I should live, if I could
practice the religion in a way that is aligned with my values of freedom and
equality, and I needed to free myself from the fear of sinning when doing so.

After I stopped seeing the world through religion’s lens, I revisited the story of
Musa and thought it was understandable that the pharaoh considered himself a
god. He, and his fathers before him, were raised to think he was. Never once did
an Islamic teacher tried to make us understand why the antagonists in the stories
of the prophets became that way. As children we were told simply that the
pharaoh was the enemy because he didn’t believe in our God. Little was
mentioned that he enslaved people because they were of a different race. When
it was mentioned, it was framed as originating from the primary evil of not
believing in our God.

I can understand why today in Indonesia so many Muslims view others based on
their God, not their actions; why so many believe that one’s good deeds don’t
matter if they don’t believe in the right God.

Do you really think I’m lost?

When my plane takes off I still whisper Bismillahir rahmanir rahim. But faith is like
a mirror, and mine is cracked into a thousand pieces.

BLESSING
My memories of Ramadan and Eid have always been happy. As a child I couldn’t
wait to practice fasting. The first time, I was eight or nine and fasted until 10 am.
The next year I fasted until noon. I felt proud whenever I could complete a full
day of fasting. Nearing Eid, my parents took me shopping for a new dress, we
cooked ketupat, semur, sambal goreng, kari kambing, and so much more.

This year during Ramadan I read Taqwacore by Michael Muhammad Knight – a

novel about Muslim punks. I thought, maybe there is a way that I can still
practice Islam.

In that novel, we see women leading Friday prayers, we hear a story of Aisyah
standing up to the Prophet Muhammad, we see people reciting Quran to rock
music – conversations and practices that I need to see happen in my community.
And all the characters in that novel proudly proclaim themselves Muslims.

I’ve known people like the novel’s characters – they were my friends and lovers.
But we always felt inferior to our more conservative friends. We promised to
reform when we get older. We deferred to conservative ulamas for guidance.
Now I’ve met bold, outspoken Muslims who present inclusive and empowering
religious views, yet how many are recognized and accepted as leaders in our
communities?

There’s so much resistance to religious reinterpretations, but we don’t help things

if we feel we are less worthy, less fit to be leaders than our more conservative
peers.

When will we – when will I – get over this inferiority complex and rise to lead?

TO SAY OR NOT TO SAY

After my grandmother died, I thought of death a lot.

In my final moments, as the waves loom over me, will I succumb to the fear of
the unknown and whisper La ila ha illallah, just to be safe?

Perhaps God will choke me before I could finish the sentence, the way He did
Musa’s pharaoh. Perhaps He’d know I was only saying it as an insurance policy
and He’d gather my ashes from the dolphin sanctuary where they’ve been
spread, and torture me anyway.

He’d discount all the points I’d collected by living as well as I believed, for losing
faith at the last minute in how I’d decided to live my life, for thinking that God
could be manipulated so easily.
I could say a thousand La ila ha illallah and it wouldn’t matter.

Or, will God understand the weakness of His creation and forgive me?

AFTERLIFE

Either civilizations perish before they become advanced enough to create lifelike
simulations, or they become advanced enough but choose not to, or we live
inside a simulation, say some scientists. One advanced civilization can create
billions of simulations, therefore the odds are overwhelmingly on the side that we
are living inside a simulation – a game in an alien kid’s computer.

A kid with blue furs and golden eyes.

Perhaps, after he simulates the end of the world, he would revive us, line us up
and judge us. When my turn comes, he’d say, You didn’t obey me.

I’d look at him and it would all make sense. Why many rules seemed arbitrary,
egocentric, unfair, cruel; or why sometimes I felt the universe was watching over
me and other times I felt completely abandoned. Perhaps in those times, he had
to get up and pee or do his homework. After all, he is just a child.

Or perhaps he’d say, You didn’t really understand me. You didn’t interpret my
words with enough compassion! How could you think I’d want my creations to do
such cruel things!

He’d toss me into another simulation – a red world with spiky red hills awash with
red clouds.

Standing tall as flames soar before her, the resurrected woman remembers that
she used to be me on earth, but I wonder, in that new simulation, she may have
my memories but does she still have my soul? Will I feel her pain or will I already
be at peace?