How I Went From Devaluing My Faith To Valuing It

We were in the middle of a serious cops and robbers game but unfortunately, it was 5 p.m. “Arooba, come downstairs, your Maulvi Sahab is here,” yelled my mom. I rolled my eyes and my nostrils flared in frustration. How long will this go on for? I sighed heavily. With eyes cast down and a frown on my face, I donned a long sleeve kurta, a plain white salwar and draped a scarf over my head. It was time for Quran class. I sat down in front of the Maulvi Sahab (Quran teacher) and recited the surah assigned to me from the previous day.

As soon as I said, “Kul huwal lahu...” the Maulvi Sahab shook his head and yelled “it’s qul, not kul!” I flinched. There was a distinction between (ك) kaaf and (ق) qaaf but at the age of seven, I was oblivious to the slight differences in pronunciation. I reread it out loud, this time emphasizing the “qul.” 

While all my friends played cops and robbers up on the veranda, I was shackled to an unfriendly Quran teacher. Each minute of the hour ticked sluggishly. My temples ached, my eyes felt numb and my mouth grew weary. As soon as the minute hand reached 6 p.m., I let out a sigh. Phew, it’s over! 

There was never a time to ask questions or learn the meaning of the words written in the holy book. It was just memorization and recitation. The Quran is in Arabic but my native language is Urdu. The Arabic words made no sense to me and it bugged me that I was forced to read them without comprehending the message they are trying to convey. 

When we came to the United States, the Quran classes came to a halt for sometime. And for that, I was grateful. When they did resume, each time I had to start from the Noorani Qaida (the basic version of the Quran) because my pronunciation needed to be revamped. As I sat with the students in Quran class, I heard the way many of them recited their surahs. Words were flowing out of their mouths Iike poetry. There was no hint of hesitation in their voices. It was fluid. Unfortunately, when it was my turn to read out the surahs to my Quran teacher, all I wanted to do was dart out the door. I always stumbled on some words. No matter how much I practiced, it felt insufficient. The teacher glared at me. Other students snickered. Why wasn't I allowed to make a mistake? Why did Quran class feel like detention? Why was I forced to go and suffer everyday? Why did the other kids have to be so mean? What was the point of all of this? My cheeks turned pink. My stomach churned. I deeply wished someone would come to my rescue. But no one did. After a certain point, I just sat in the back of the classroom. That way, my turn never came. No one bothered me. The isolation felt relieving.

Most people in my family had finished the Quran and I was lagging behind. When my parents would tell me, all your cousins have finished the Quran, you need to finish it too, internally I rolled my eyes. I hated being compared to others. Why did it matter if others did and I didn’t? The cherry on top was when some nosy aunties pestered me about finishing the Quran. Why does it matter to you whether I did or did not? Worry about your own children. Eventually, my parents stopped forcing me to read the Quran. I nearly gave up. It was not until a cousin of mine introduced me to a Pakistani drama called “Khuda Aur Muhabbat” (God and Love), that my perception on my religion began to change. The story revolved around a boy who came from an elite family and falls in love with a girl who came from a traditional Islamic family.

The drama had a powerful impact on me. I kept pondering over the connection between myself and my faith and what it meant to me. I realized I knew very little about Islam because I never went to a proper Islamic school, so I decided to follow several Islamic pages on Instagram and Facebook. Each day I came across a quote or a verse in a surah that made me question my own behavior, my actions, my thoughts and my words. And so, I began praying five times a day. Prior to watching “Khuda Aur Muhabbat,” I only prayed two or three times a day or if and when I felt like it. I don’t recall ever praying fajr (early dawn prayer) or isha (late night prayer). 

But I quickly learned that praying and making dua (request to God) in sujud (prostration) in the dark is soothing and liberating. I felt light. I felt at ease. I felt complete. I felt Allah (God) was listening to me. I even downloaded a prayer app so that I prayed each prayer on time.  

A few months later, I received a message on Skype from a Quran teacher regarding online Quran classes. I informed my parents and my mom asked me “are you sure you want to do this?” Her question surprised me but I told her “if I don’t learn it now, when will I learn it?” For once she was dumbfounded but she supported my decision. Again, I began from the Noorani Qaida but this time I recited the surahs many times on my own. Not only could I read the Quran properly and precisely but my pronunciation was spot-on.

Although my reading speed is not fluid even today, I can still read the Quran without any issues. I also listen to the Quran with the Urdu translation because I want to know what it is trying to say and why it is significant. There is still a lot of ambiguity and I don’t have the answers to many of my questions. But I learned that religion shouldn’t ever be forced upon us and we should never believe what our elders tell us blindly because many of the religious rules are man-made. Nor should parents force religion on their children or expect them to finish the Quran by a certain age. 

We never need to set limits on learning about our faith, because we have our whole lives to seek out its true essence. I realized our drive to learn about our religion is all that we need. Essentially, we should never rely on one ulama for the answers to our questions. We must question, read several books and listen to many Islamic scholars, converse with our loved ones and reflect on our own findings to seek out our own answers.