the spaces in between

Coming back to New York gets harder every year. People fill up my facebook wall with comments like welcome home, but I wonder what they are really referring to.  It certainly doesn’t feel like home.  The feelings that wash over me as I make my way up familiar roads surrounded by this Hudson Valley beauty are not the welcoming kind.  They are filled with the memories of hardship and alienation that I endured here.  I feel a bit of surprise to find myself back in a land that evokes no comfort.  I knew I was coming but still wonder what it is I am doing here, again.  It was an emotional risk stepping away from here, and returning only brings the sense that I haven’t become completely free.

I wonder for a moment if this is how other immigrants feel when they return to their homelands.  My mind is filled with images of the African artists I know who bring guests home with them each year. It’s not exactly the same I quickly realize. There is a fierce pride and love of their land that I am missing.  

I am here to visit family, reduced at this point to a single person. It’s not enough to fill up every day. I visit some of the friends that I’ve managed to maintain contact with over these years, but they are busy with their lives. In many cases it’s become an annual one day visit. I wonder if it’s worth it, though I enjoy the conversation and the reconnecting.  It’s not the visits I dread, but the spaces in between. The long and awkward days of wondering how to fill my time.

We visit parks and pools, swimming holes and beaches. I appreciate the open, public areas to while away our time. I appreciate the simple tranquility of playing in the green grass and feeling completely safe and sure.  Such an ordinary day at the park is not easy to come by in Kinshasa, but these outings make me more resolved to create them.  The truth is, we’re not here on vacation, so the typical spending money and sightseeing are limited options.   We don’t have a space to call our own or reliable transportation. Every day becomes a maze of determining what we are going to do and how we are going to do it causing the least inconvenience to others. The lack of independence troubles me. 

The empty spaces also inspire reflection.  At times, this can be helpful , but too much leads to depression. I’ve done enough looking back and want to be filled with bright light of the future. It’s hard to engage in forward thinking and planning from this state of limbo.  And I did resolve to take a true respite from work and not complete any major tasks during this break.  I promised to enjoy my children and be truly grateful for the time we have to share together.  I promised to be present in every moment. 

Many of our moments are filled with TV (the boys sound like commercials as we drive past places they’ve heard about- can we stop at Wendy’s?  They have a new fruit salad for only $2.99.) I am dismayed and overwhelmed by their constant requests for everything they see in the stores as we stock up on school clothes and supplies. Even the grocery store has become a series of unending demands for all the foods we cannot find in Kinshasa. 

It’s difficult to continue our sweet routines of stories and books before bedtime.  But we've come to accomplish a mission and if we are successful perhaps this will be the last trip of its kind. As with all challenges, I've learned a bit about myself this trip, who I am, who I want to be and who I want around me. Eager now to begin the business of filling in the spaces.

A conversation of faith

The woman across the desk paused in her writing. "Is he Muslim?"
"Yes, we are Muslim," I responded, emphasis on we. At that she cocked her head up and raised an eyebrow at me. I wondered if this was going to be a problem. I was at a lawyers office having some papers drawn up. She was an immigration lawyer of some foreign descent- Pakistani? Indian? She began to ask some questions about when I'd converted, commenting that I seemed uncomfortable talking about it.

It was my turn to pause. Was I uncomfortable? I remember the first time, after I had internally committed to Islam, that someone asked me my religion. I'd replied, "Nondenominational," and immediately felt overcome with shame and regret. I remember just as vividly the first time I replied with quiet confidence a more sure answer to the same question. "Religious preference?" Muslim. No doubts, no shame but a calm sense of dignity and truth. All was as it should be.  I've come a long way since those uncertain first few days- in my responses to others and my certainties within myself. So her question gave me reason to consider. Was I really uncomfortable? Surely it couldn't be.

More likely it was the tone in which she presented her questions. "Practicing? Are you a practicing Muslim? What is it that made you convert?" I wasn't really sure which position she was coming from, but I admit, initially, I believed she herself was a Muslim. I felt a bit as if she were testing me in some way, and this is what led to the reluctance to answer her questions. My journey to faith and acceptance is one that was truly enlightening and personal. I spent years researching, reading and cautiously skirting the edges. Finally, I read the Qu'ran and all of the pieces fell into place. Everything that had never really made sense or had tested my faith too much were suddenly resolved. This inner sense of conviction is not easy to translate into words. But I did try. "What is it that just made sense? What do you mean by that?" she queried as I wondered why she couldn't see, as I did, that this conversation did not belong in the middle of our legal business.

Words hardly seem adequate to express the clarity that enveloped me as I read the role of Jesus, a prophet, a man, not the son of God. I remember realizing how simple a mistake was made in the time that passed and the perspectives that changed as the Bible was written. Accepting the Qu'ran as the word of God, unchanged and directly spoken, left no room for doubt. I tried to explain how, as simple as this realization felt to me, I understood it to be something that caused wars between nations and - living in Congo as I do- could be the point of unresolved conversations and debates that stretched long into the night.

I began to hear words from her, even as she listened intently, phrases that signaled I'd misunderstood her intentions. "God as the trinity." She went on to explain her firm Christian beliefs and the fact that she'd been raised Christian in a Muslim society. I pointed out the difficulties of extracting culture from religion. I mentioned that, were I to compare her to a Christian growing up in mid-America, there would be differences. These differences related to circumstance and culture as opposed to actual tenets of the faith. She didn't seem to agree but her face was alight with the joy of her belief. Even as her words seemed to contradict this light. "The only salvation is through Jesus Christ, not through good works. There's nothing we can do." She didn't seem to see the irony. All I could think about was the importance of humans caring for other humans and wanting for their fellow borthers and sisters all they would wish for themselves. I resisted the urge to tell her my belief that when we can truly help and love our neighbors with genuine sincerity, would the will and wishes of God be fully realized.

I looked across at her beaming face as she shook her head and uttered words that seemed hopeless and full of darkness. "There's nothing we can do."  I'd worked hard to keep this conversation from becoming a debate or a struggle of wills, even as I began to wonder if she was trying to convert me. I couldn't synchronize her vision of our duties (or apparent lack of) in this world with the happiness she exuded.

"That's too bad," was all I could respond. We turned back to our legal matters and I felt oddly reassured about my faith.