“Mum! Dad!”

It was the Saturday after the shahada and the ‘new me’ was on fire! My Mothers eyes widened in surprise as I paraded, proudly clad in my badly fitting salwar kameez (to this day I can only imagine what was going through her mind)!

My friend’s sister in law, a lovely lady called Parveen, had donated a couple of her salwar kameez to a good cause; me!

So, following well meaning advice from my Pakistani friends that I ‘needed to be a Pakistani now’, I had ceremoniously placed all my mini skirts, skinny jeans and crop tops into a black bin bag and dumped them outside a local charity shop; proudly embracing my brand new Muslim look. Unfortunately, because of the 4 inch height difference between myself and the kind hearted Parween, the salwar kameez, a shade of mustard yellow nylon with three brass buttons ended a good three inches above my ankle. No matter how much I adjusted the cord, they either fell down, or rested precariously at that level. I then perched the wafer thin Dubatta over my hair and was ready for action!

“Guess what!” I exclaimed enthusiastically to my astonished Parents, “I became a Muslim.”

Silence.

“Why on earth would you do that?” Mum looked inquiringly at me. “You’ll end up trapped in front of a kitchen sink, oppressed by some Muslim man and walking ten paces behind him in the street.” Her brows furrowed in worry.

I raised an eyebrow. This wasn’t quite the reaction I had expected from my usually liberal minded parents. In fact, I hadn’t really thought things through much but I thought they might at least be happy for me!

“Can you imagine that I will ever walk in the shadow of any man.” I laughed, meaning every word.

I had always been a tomboy as a child. I had hated the pleated tartan skirts I was sometimes made to wear to insufferable clicky dinner parties where I was expected to sit making polite conversation with prim pigtailed girls and their false high pitched giggles. My idea of fun was to be out racing up and down the street on Raleigh Choppers from dawn to dusk; climbing trees and falling off ponies. Indeed, on leaving school at 16, instead of pursuing the anticipated A Levels and university, I had joined the YTS scheme as a trainee mechanic, spending my days oily handed under car bonnets. I certainly wasn’t the type to be oppressed by any man!

Mum simply shrugged, and I sensed that was the end of the conversation. To them, it was a silly phase.

It was at that time I lived in a bed and breakfast hotel; a dingy Victorian building housing a hotel bar and shabby upstairs bedrooms containing referrals from the local housing office. Needless to say, it was not the nicest of places. At night, the passages would be filled with the staggers and belches of middle aged drunks on their way to sleep. But it was a roof over my head. Alhamdulillah.

It seems that da’wa was in my blood right from the start.

Now, dear reader, you are maybe having visions of a hijab clad sister giving gentle da’wa to elderly Christians in a church hall over a friendly cup of tea! Not even close. I didn’t yet even know what a hijab was. In fact, I was told again and again this is an Arab thing.

Working as a bouncer in the hotel bar was a thick set West Indian doorman who would sit beside the double doors; too well dressed for the squalid surroundings in his smart black suit, crisp white shirt and bow tie. One night, as I sat at the bar chatting to the landlady with my glass of coke (I had no idea that Muslims shouldn’t go in bars – I mean I’d seen so many Muslims in nightclubs, I figured that I just wasn’t allowed alcohol!!), he looked across at me.

“You’re white!” He observed kindly, “Why are you dressing like a Pakistani?” His mouth formed a quizzical smile.

“I’m a Muslim,” I replied confidently looking him straight in the eye. I believe the Allah is the One God and the Muhammed (Saw) is the Messenger of God.” My voice trailed off as that was really all I could remember.

He came and perched on a wooden bar stool.

“I’m a Jehovah witness.” He settled into his place and reached into his bag for a copy of the Watch Tower magazine, handing it over to me. He was in for the duration.

Hours flew by as I sat and debated with him. My knowledge was limited. My methods clumsy, my wisdom close to zero but my intention, was pure.

Following my reversion, The first months of the new Muslim me were passing. Like many new converts, I was a thorn in the side for many. I had suddenly transformed into a Muslim Evangelist. Annoyingly enthusiastic about my newly found faith, I talked ceaselessly about it to anyone who had ears to listen.

I would show up at my parent’s house with one thing in mind – save them – guide them – bring them to Islam. It was my greatest wish for them and everyone else around me to feel the wonderful light of deep faith that I was feeling. You could almost see their eyes roll in frustration when I produced yet another reason why they were so wrong and I was so right. When I did manage to draw my Father into debates, his wisdom would generally outweigh my ignorant enthusiasm and I would return home frustrated.

Little did I know I was alienating my parents with my enthusiastic ignorance and over the months I saw them less and less.

But the hotel bouncer was different. He had years of training behind him and I had none. So our debates, although they taught me a huge amount Alhamdulillah, generally ended with me feeling defeated and frustrated at my lack of knowledge. I knew that Islam was the truth but I simply couldn’t explain why. I thirsted for guidance, knowledge. I was desperate to learn; to know how to pray.

The Months passed and I moved on. I regularly fell to my knees and pleaded with Allah, ” Please. Help me to be a proper Muslim…”

Food For Thought

Often New Muslims do a lot of da’wa damage through well meaning preaching to family and friends. We should always remember the first principle of da’wa is one of quiet good example, being patient with any aggressive or negative reactions, and building the bridges of trust, not aggressive talk of Fire and Brimstone! Following this Sunnah will change hearts and your family will come forward with questions when they are ready. Remember, The Prophet (saw) and the Sahaba tolerated far worse than most of us and still remained patient – Allah (swt) tells us in Surah Furqaan ‘And when the foolish speak, return it with peace.’

How did your family react when you became Muslim and how did you handle it?

Are you going through this right now and finding it hard? Please PM me if you need any advice and support.