Cracks in the Pavement: Building the Ummah in Unexpected Places

Not every place is built to garden, yet even in the most unwelcoming concrete we find signs of life. Whether it is stray grass or wandering flowers reaching to the world above from underneath, through cracks in the pavement we know there are ecosystems that thrive. Where there is life in unexpected places there is also a message for our ummah.

A few years ago I was bussing home in the pitch of a cold night in Washington, D.C. It was the time of night that parents warn their teenagers not to stay out till, but I was neither a teenager nor living with my parents at the time. The novelty of this coming of age independence quickly wore off in moments like these. The bus was empty, the neighborhood was eerily quiet, the driver was jaded, and the only thing I knew was the bus I needed to take to get home. My phone battery was also on its last leg. 

Here I was a visibly Muslim woman who ‘they’ had the chance to take out their resentment on.

Nothing about the bus ride in particular was unsettling, but my body whispered panic. I looked around me, staring at the empty seats, the bus driver, and the window with my reflection who spoke to me in my mother’s voice, “what brought you outside at this time, look at your hijab, do you think they’ll let you be safe.” 

‘They’ often changed depending on where I was. If I was at the masjid, ‘they’ were the Muslim men who buried alive the girls and women of their community with a burden that was not theirs to carry. If I was at a community gathering, ‘they’ would be the elders who saw my generation as a peculiar chimera raised in three worlds: the old, the new, and the world yet to come —  children who they wanted to box in to keep them from getting out. On the bus, ‘they’ were the hateful people of the unknown night who saw me as a caricature to torment. Here I was a visibly Muslim woman who ‘they’ had the chance to take out their resentment on. 

The bus stopped and a passenger boarded. I shifted in my seat prepared to perform my best “my phone’s not dying, I know where I’m going… and don’t talk to me” expression. The driver grunted at the sight of the person boarding. Emerging from the darkness was a disheveled middle-aged drunkard, putting one foot forward while his hand and weight shifted onto the rail. His words slurred as he greeted the driver who paid no mind to him, revealing a toddler’s missing keys kind of smile. 

The bus sped forward, slightly jolting the keyboard smile. With too many bags to carry and not enough hands, he stumbled. A few of his belongings trickled behind him and the others were thrown to the seat in front of him as if to prevent anyone else from taking it, even though the bus was nearly empty. 

I never felt more alive on the ground that I walked on like I did in those moments.

He locked eyes with mine. My performance didn’t work. I looked, then looked away, then looked back at him. His eyes held me. “As…salami” his grin widened. “Alakeem.” I smiled, my panic subsiding from hearing the familiar greeting. 

“Wa Alaikum Assalam.” He didn’t wait to hear my response. I soon disappeared from his mind altogether as he rustled through his belongings, kicking a bag to make room for his feet.

I found Islam in an unexpected place. 

Later that night, I told a friend from Baltimore what happened. She commented on the legacy of Muslims in Washington, D.C and didn’t think the man was Muslim, but that the culture he grew up in was Muslim by proximity. As I came to know D.C., I came to know Islam. Whenever my friends and I were out and about whether it was visiting Howard University in Shaw, walking through Logan Circle, or eating at Ben’s Chili Bowl (founded by Trinidadian Muslim Mahaboob Ben Ali) down by U-Street, someone would stop whatever they were doing – even if they were smoking – to say salaam. I never felt more alive on the ground that I walked on like I did in those moments. It was my first year wearing my hijab outside of prayer, and the old and young men who would say salaam to me on the streets of D.C. were public guardians. 

It should come to no surprise the medicinal impact that Muslims, Black American Muslims, had on American society. James Baldwin commented as much when addressing the growing anxiety of Black and White Christian Americans towards the burgeoning Nation of Islam, writing in 1963 to the mysticism that followed Elijah Muhammad: 

 “Elijah Muhammad has been able to do what generations of welfare workers and committees and resolutions and reports and housing projects and playgrounds have failed to do: to heal and redeem drunkards and junkies, to convert people who have come out of prison and to keep them out, to make men chaste and women virtuous, and to invest both the male and the female with a pride and serenity that hang about them like an unfailing light. He has done all these things, which our Christian church has spectacularly failed to do. How has Elijah managed it?” — James Baldwin, The Fire Next Time

Baldwin was not Muslim, nor did he think Islam was the solution to America’s problem. Instead, he was commenting on the Nation of Islam as a separationist ideology born from the bosoms of racial division rather than justice. However, he did mention a profound shift in Black men and women who joined and were ‘liberated’ from the mental shackles of white supremacy which forcibly removed humanity from their creator, while setting on the liberation of others who have yet to join. Whether or not someone was Muslim, the impact of Muslims rippled outside of their homes and masajid. 

 

 

In reading Baldwin’s introspection of Muslims in the 1950s-60s, I can’t help but think, we don’t do Islam like this anymore. A longer essay would have to explain the spiritual migration from  centralized Islamic organizations, such as the NOI, to a decentralized Sunni Islam. Explorations of jameyas – Black Muslim socio-religious communities – would also require another project entirely. And there are plenty of scholars who have already written as much already. Anyone you ask would have their own reasons as to why American Muslims aren’t moving like they used to be. However, what they won’t tell you is, what is the American Muslim social program of the 21st century? Simply put, there isn’t one or at least not anymore. American Muslims are politically dispersed by race, class, community, and political party. Their political presence in society has been relegated to a hyphenation of identity among other hyphenations.

Dawah is not merely an invitation to learn about Islam, it is the invitation for Muslims to build societies on the concept of tawhid, the oneness of Allah and creation.

I can’t help but think of the prophetic examples of Prophet Musa (as) and Haroon (as) at this juncture we’ve reached. Musa returned from Mount Sinai to find Bani Israel worshiping a calf instead of Allah (swt). It’s known the mistake of Bani Israel is the diversion from worshiping Allah (swt), but what’s not always discussed is the fraction it caused in the community that crippled brothers. Who are we as a community in that story? Were we Bani Israel who chose to move away from knowledge and virtue for the shiny calves in our lives? Were we Prophet Haroon (as) who felt helpless at the state of our community and did nothing at all, paralyzed by our own circumstance? Or were we Prophet Musa (as) who seized others by their forelocks and asked for forgiveness? It’s in this story that I’m reminded that the ummah is not just for Muslims. If enlightenment were only for those of Bani Israel who did not stray from their path, then prophets would not have asked forgiveness for the entire population. 

We are responsible for life on earth. Allah (swt) tells us as much when He said, “Then We made you successors in the land after them so that We may observe how you will do.” (Sahih International, 10: 14). I understand this ayat and others in the Quran that have mentioned enlightened humanity as viceroys on earth with this exact responsibility. It is a sacred part of our life as Muslims. Dawah is not merely an invitation to learn about Islam, it is the invitation for Muslims to build societies on the concept of tawhid, the oneness of Allah and creation.

My unexpected encounter with the man on the bus is a reminder of this profound calling. Allah (swt) entrusted us with the earth. This responsibility is more than just personal practice and private piety. As noted by James Baldwin, Islam is a powerful social program that uplifts humanity and ends injustice, doing what the state cannot by virtue of its inability to heal wounds it inflicted. We are called to engage actively with the society that we live in and transform it with principles rooted in our way of life: community, mercy, and justice. This is the moral and ethical foundation of our message that benefits our species. Our role as Muslims reaches beyond personal worship, we are required to actively transform and build on the well being of our society in our lifetime. 

I’m sure many would scoff at the idea that a drunkard saying salaam to me on a bus nearing the middle of the night is Islam. I retort by saying that his temporary state is only a reflection of the work we have left to do, work that has been ignored by the same pious men and women who pray five times a day, but never walk by me in public reciting a greeting of peace.

 

---

---

Feature image courtesy of Sapelo Square staff.