One of the things I love about Islam is the direct line to God. There are (technically) no middlemen; no one to tell you to say this many of this or that prayer and all is forgiven; no one authorized to condemn or condone you but the Almighty himself. Your words and actions, straight to Him, and His messages come right back.
On that note.
No, I don’t want hear your thoughts on how I can be a better Muslimah, Random Halima from ‘Round the Way. I don’t care how tight your scarf is tied, or how long your tonic (tunic) is, or how holy your neighbors swear you are. I don’t want your opinion, or your advice; I never asked for it, and I never will.
How dare you thrust your blind, regurgitated, unsolicited opinion in my face. First of all, who allowed you to come between the onion and its skin (albasala w gishrata)? Who gave you permission to speak to me about something so deeply private, so incredibly personal? I would have more right to run my mouth about your name than you would to talk to me about my faith; and yet you don’t see me doing that, do you? So who told you it was okay to talk to me about religion? You, who are so ignorant to the beauties of our deen that you thought it plausible that Islam ban women from praying in the mosque because someone said, “when they walk to the mosque, men will see them”; only to be pleasantly shocked when I pointed out the fallacy of that statement, based so simply in the fact that women go to Hajj and pray in the holiest of places, side by side, WITH MEN.
But you want to give me religious advice.
Secondly, ma’am, you don’t know me from Adam’s house cat (to borrow the term from the lovely selma-i). We never had a heart to heart, never confided in each other, never broke bread together, never even shared a stick of gum, not once, but you somehow deemed yourself close enough to not only know me, but to tell me how to worship God? Why? Because you’re in class with me twice a week? I repeat: how dare you. You don’t even know my last name! You have no idea who I am, where I’ve been, how I’m living, or what I believe to be in a position to tell me anything. Hell, you don’t even know your own self or where you’re going, how are you supposed to guide me anywhere? Sitting there like a broken lighthouse trying to shine your refracted, assumption-filled, stereotype-riddled, rhetoric-skewed “light” on me. Go sit somewhere, please.
If I wanted your opinion, I would have asked for it. But in actuality, the fact of the matter is it is nobody’s business how I choose to demonstrate or practice my faith. You know why? Because it is *my* job. It’s my job to figure out how to be the best Muslim I can be. It’s my job to figure out how to please and honor God the way He commanded, and the way He deserves. It’s my job to figure out what’s best for my faith and what isn’t. Not yours. Mine. All mine. When the time comes for the Big Roll Call in the Sky, God is not going to ask *you* what I did and why I did it, He is going to ask *me*. So stay in your corner, stranger, and let each tend to their own soul.
Allah ihdeena wa yahdeek yakh.