But Did Someone Teach Them About Love

Asma Iftikhar

You are old. You are sitting in your warm living room, a glass of milk in hand, remote on lap. You are watching EastEnders, or Coronation Street – something you’ve watched for the last thirty years or so.

Your child comes into the room. They sit down opposite you. 

You hear a sigh. You look up. Your child looks pensive.

You finish your milk and ask, “You OK?”

They nod. You look away again. Coronation Street is almost finished. Or EastEnders. One of them. Almost at the cliff-hanger. Almost.

Your child fidgets with their fingers, then tugs at their earlobe.

“Mum.” 

“Yes.” You are relaxed. You are content after a long, hard life of working – working early mornings, late nights, weird shifts, as well as cooking, cleaning the house, paying the bills. School runs. Ah, yes, school runs. Your children are grown-up now. It’s all been worth it. 

“What is it?” you ask without looking at your child. You miss the fear that flits across their face. 

You look at her. Or him. Their eyes are downcast. 

“I need to tell you something.” Their voice quivers, ever so slightly.

You’re a little concerned. But not overly worried. Kids always make a mountain out of a molehill. But your child is no longer a kid. She – he – is twenty-five. 

“You don’t usually warn me. What’s the matter?” You smile. You’re tired. You’d like to go to bed soon. 

Then you know what the problem is. Your baby has found someone they want to marry. That’s what they’re going to say. You’re excited. You sit up.

“Mum … I’ve made a decision. Please don’t be upset.” Your child’s voice is low, their eyes on the telly. He – she – is deliberately avoiding your gaze.

“What decision? Why are you so serious?” You’re more worried now.

There is a sigh. “I’m leaving Islam.” 

Blood rushes to your ears. You’re light-headed. You’d like to scream but shock stalls your wailing. Your child is not serious. This cannot be happening. Stay calm, you tell yourself. 

“Mum?” your child says. Does he want to tell you this again? Your heart won’t be able to take it.

You shake your head. You remember her as a baby. You remember his first day at school, and then her first day at college, and when he graduated. He was all yours. You remember her first Salah, her first day of fasting. It was a long one. Ramadan was in the summer. So long ago. So many summers have passed since then. By now your faith – and theirs – is a private affair. Neither of you knows what the other one believes any more. Or what they used to believe. You just know that you taught your children the rituals. You did your job. Or did you?

So what happened? What did you miss?

“But why?” you manage to croak.

He shrugs. His head is bent, and he plays with his fingers like he always did when he was nervous as a child. Then you ask the silliest question and he almost laughs. 

“Don’t you love me anymore?” Tears stream down your cheeks.

He stops laughing. He runs his hands over his face, sighs deeply again.

“Mum.”

That’s all she says. That’s enough.

“Is it for someone else? Someone you want to marry?” you manage to ask.

“No.”

“Then why?”

“Because I get it now. I get life.”

She’s making no sense. You are so confused. You sit up, and the milk swishes around in your belly. You want to throw up.

He tries to be gentle. She even smiles. Your son. Your daughter.

“I don’t understand,” you say. Your head hurts as you try to understand what your child is feeling.

“I thought you wouldn’t.” He looks a little annoyed. He moves to the edge of the sofa. “Look, Mum. Please don’t be upset. It’s not your fault. I just understand things differently now. I’ve done my own research. I don’t get … religion. All that stuff. I don’t get the reasons behind it all.”

“What?” You can hear him but he sounds so far away. You want to reach out to him, tell him to come closer, but when you look up at his face you don’t see your child’s face. What has happened to the face that has always been so familiar to you?

“It’s not your fault, Mum,” He gets up to leave.

“Wait!” You stand up too and take hold of her elbow. “Did I do something wrong?”

She shakes her head, “Mum ... I told you, it’s not your fault,” She’s tired of your reaction. She is tired of your childish behaviour, you can tell from her tired eyes, her tired voice.

She’s never looked at you like this before.

Now you think about everything you’ve ever taught him. And you can’t remember everything, because it wasn’t you who taught him. It was someone else. Someone you didn’t even know. You just drove your child to the person who taught them how to pray, how to starve for a month, how to give away money to unknown people in a faraway land. You realise you have no idea what they taught your child. 

So your child isn’t leaving Islam; she is leaving behind what the stranger taught her. 

Now you are powerless.

You wonder now what your child was told. Which words were used. You wonder if the word ‘love’ was used. Or did the teacher think that word was too complicated to use in front of your small child? 

I don’t get the reasons behind it all. 

Love can be the reason! You want to scream. But it’s too late to say that now.

Your mother taught you Islam. She sat you on her lap and told you stories about the Friends. She spoke of men called ‘Ibn Arabi, and Fudayl Ibn Iyad, and Bishr Al Hafi, and a woman called Rabia, and... Oh, there were so many, but you never mentioned any one of them to your son. Your daughter.

And now you want to take your child’s hand and tell him about Bishr the Drunkard, who spent his time indulging in immoral behaviour until one day he found a paper that had the word ‘Allah’ written on it. He picked it up, kissed it, perfumed it and placed it high up in a safe place. He went to sleep that night and dreamed that Allah spoke to him: “You perfumed My name in this world so I shall perfume your name in both worlds.” 

Or perhaps your child would be interested to know how Fudayl the highwayman gave up robbing people because the love of God entered his heart. 

Why did you never mention Rabia to your child? Rabia, the ascetic, who said that God should be loved for God’s own sake, not out of fear of hell, nor for want of Paradise. Did you tell your child this?

Your son looks at you cautiously. You take his hand but he pulls it away gently. 

You had to go to work; you had to work two jobs so that your children didn’t want for anything. You had no time to tell them that they should pray because of love, that they should fast because of love, that they should give their money away to strangers because of love. That love was reason enough.

Your child leaves the room. You are powerless.

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