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TFT CURRENT ISSUE| March 09-15, 2012 - Vol. XXIV, No. 04
View By Aqsa Mahmud
The ignorance and mistrust that presently mark Jewish-Muslim relations is confounding to Aqsa Mahmud, who belongs to both cultures
Last summer, a Jewish household hosted a Muslim family during the latter's first trip to Israel. This was not a cultural exchange program or a headline in any media outlet. Instead, the journey was one based on blood, where my immediate family - American Muslims - visited our relatives - Israeli Jews.
The writer (L) and her sister take a picture marking their arrival at Ben-Gurion airport in Tel [Aviv]
The journey was one based on blood, where my immediate family - American Muslims - visited our relatives - Israeli Jews.
We felt no discomfort, spoke nothing of politics and spent the days revisiting memories and issuing updates. We were exactly as we appeared - a family reunion. Yet, for the rest of the world, our diverging faiths have been the source of animosity and, at times, bloodshed. Suicide bombers from either side have attacked the sites of the other. Each claims the pulpit of self-righteousness. Peace is stalled on the basis of faith. I do not understand this. If anything, my family composition has instilled in me the inability to comprehend the conflict between faiths. Instead of divergence, I find only commonalities. Under Orthodox tradition, I am classified as Jewish by birth and, in practice, I am a Muslim. Elohim, Allah - these are different words in different languages for one God. I find no contradiction in this.
The writer (R) and her sister at the Mount of Olives with the Al-Aqsa compound in the background
I was never taught anything but to love my grandmother, a Jewish woman who converted upon marrying my grandfather, a Muslim, in pre-Partition India. They, along with her immediate family, settled in the newly created Pakistan that at the time hosted a small yet thriving Jewish community. My mother and her siblings were raised alongside their Jewish cousins, aunts, and uncles with no thought to the difference in faith. Since then, our family has expanded and moved around the world. We have settled into a variety of communities and cultures within the United States, Canada, Israel, and throughout Europe. Yet the trend continues where each generation is raised under the veil of worldly ignorance and familial bliss. We only learn of the animosity after having loved our counterparts as our own. By then, nothing can be said to change our understanding of the compatibility of Islam and Judaism.
A picture of the writer's family. The older generation recalls their childhood in pre-partition India and years spent in Pakistan before migrating to Israel.
No one explained to my sister, cousins and me the difference in faith. Growing up, Judaism melded into our lives such that we never thought to question its presence. My fifth birthday was celebrated on the eve of Passover in my Great-Aunt Sophia's house; Uncle Eddie gave my sister and me an introductory course on the Torah in our kitchen; and no family wedding is complete without Cousin Rachel's attendance at the nikah, the Islamic rites of marriage. I know firsthand that Muslims and Jews can live together and create a functional community. There is that possibility, and I am always drawn to the parts of the Quran and hadith that provide for such: there is a congruency in the Kosher laws; a favored and optional fast with Jews on Passover; common prophets and stories of their religious strife and redemption; and, in both faiths, the path of spirituality is linked to the study of religious text to live a life for God and in His favor.
My family's composition has undoubtedly affected my faith, forcing me to address the Jewish-Muslim dynamic from both a spiritual and historical perspective. Islam promotes Judaism as part of a continuum, a preaching of the monotheistic message articulated by the men of God since Adam and through the time of the Prophet. This paraphrases the lesson each Muslim learns as a child through Tafseer. Yet, I have always been dissatisfied by such a brief summary and relentlessly questioned, "What happened next?" How did the singular monotheistic faith of Abraham diverge into the current understanding of three religions?
One side of the tension - the Wailing Wall, an important site in the Jewish faith, is the external side of the Western Wall of [the Jews holiest site, the Second Temple.]
In the past, I sought to decipher the evolution of Abraham's faith, chronicling the divisions so readily accepted by the rest of the world. This has launched me into a different circle of associates. For months, I made bi-weekly visits to a Religions professor who mentored my readings on Jesus and early Judeo-Christian communities. My closest of friends is a minister-in-training with similar questions and Protestant insight. My bookshelves play witness to my journey, housing titles related to God, Christology, and the Abrahamic religions. Above all else, my family's composition has prompted me to question the current status of religious institutions, but never God.
The other side of the tension - the writer and her parents stand in the Al-Aqsa compound which shares a wall with the [Jews' ancient Temple.]
I will not deny the differences between the faiths. However, I will argue that such dissimilarities fail to create insurmountable obstacles in the construction of a peaceful and functional society.
My family is an anomaly within the current state of Jewish-Muslim relations; yet it serves as a source of hope and ingenuity. When I look at my relatives, I see us as the contemporary children of Abraham.
Last summer, my trip to Israel commenced with a 2-hour questioning by airport security at Ben Gurion International Airport. The young Jewish security officer seemed perplexed.
"You are here to visit family?"
He seemed thoroughly confused at the prospect of Muslims traveling to see their Jewish relatives. He pointed at a map posted on the wall and asked me to trace my family's migration, locate the countries where my relatives reside, and list their religions.
At the end, he smiled uncertainly and said: "Well, if your family can do it, then maybe there is hope for us, too."
Aqsa Mahmud graduated from the University of Michigan Law School and currently practices in Washington, DC. Prior to law school, her research included a focused study on rural women in Pakistan's Punjab province. Her work has previously been published in academic-related journals and magazines. She can be reached at aqmahmud@gmail.com
View By Aqsa Mahmud
The ignorance and mistrust that presently mark Jewish-Muslim relations is confounding to Aqsa Mahmud, who belongs to both cultures
Last summer, a Jewish household hosted a Muslim family during the latter's first trip to Israel. This was not a cultural exchange program or a headline in any media outlet. Instead, the journey was one based on blood, where my immediate family - American Muslims - visited our relatives - Israeli Jews.
The writer (L) and her sister take a picture marking their arrival at Ben-Gurion airport in Tel [Aviv]
The journey was one based on blood, where my immediate family - American Muslims - visited our relatives - Israeli Jews.
We felt no discomfort, spoke nothing of politics and spent the days revisiting memories and issuing updates. We were exactly as we appeared - a family reunion. Yet, for the rest of the world, our diverging faiths have been the source of animosity and, at times, bloodshed. Suicide bombers from either side have attacked the sites of the other. Each claims the pulpit of self-righteousness. Peace is stalled on the basis of faith. I do not understand this. If anything, my family composition has instilled in me the inability to comprehend the conflict between faiths. Instead of divergence, I find only commonalities. Under Orthodox tradition, I am classified as Jewish by birth and, in practice, I am a Muslim. Elohim, Allah - these are different words in different languages for one God. I find no contradiction in this.
The writer (R) and her sister at the Mount of Olives with the Al-Aqsa compound in the background
I was never taught anything but to love my grandmother, a Jewish woman who converted upon marrying my grandfather, a Muslim, in pre-Partition India. They, along with her immediate family, settled in the newly created Pakistan that at the time hosted a small yet thriving Jewish community. My mother and her siblings were raised alongside their Jewish cousins, aunts, and uncles with no thought to the difference in faith. Since then, our family has expanded and moved around the world. We have settled into a variety of communities and cultures within the United States, Canada, Israel, and throughout Europe. Yet the trend continues where each generation is raised under the veil of worldly ignorance and familial bliss. We only learn of the animosity after having loved our counterparts as our own. By then, nothing can be said to change our understanding of the compatibility of Islam and Judaism.
A picture of the writer's family. The older generation recalls their childhood in pre-partition India and years spent in Pakistan before migrating to Israel.
No one explained to my sister, cousins and me the difference in faith. Growing up, Judaism melded into our lives such that we never thought to question its presence. My fifth birthday was celebrated on the eve of Passover in my Great-Aunt Sophia's house; Uncle Eddie gave my sister and me an introductory course on the Torah in our kitchen; and no family wedding is complete without Cousin Rachel's attendance at the nikah, the Islamic rites of marriage. I know firsthand that Muslims and Jews can live together and create a functional community. There is that possibility, and I am always drawn to the parts of the Quran and hadith that provide for such: there is a congruency in the Kosher laws; a favored and optional fast with Jews on Passover; common prophets and stories of their religious strife and redemption; and, in both faiths, the path of spirituality is linked to the study of religious text to live a life for God and in His favor.
My family's composition has undoubtedly affected my faith, forcing me to address the Jewish-Muslim dynamic from both a spiritual and historical perspective. Islam promotes Judaism as part of a continuum, a preaching of the monotheistic message articulated by the men of God since Adam and through the time of the Prophet. This paraphrases the lesson each Muslim learns as a child through Tafseer. Yet, I have always been dissatisfied by such a brief summary and relentlessly questioned, "What happened next?" How did the singular monotheistic faith of Abraham diverge into the current understanding of three religions?
One side of the tension - the Wailing Wall, an important site in the Jewish faith, is the external side of the Western Wall of [the Jews holiest site, the Second Temple.]
In the past, I sought to decipher the evolution of Abraham's faith, chronicling the divisions so readily accepted by the rest of the world. This has launched me into a different circle of associates. For months, I made bi-weekly visits to a Religions professor who mentored my readings on Jesus and early Judeo-Christian communities. My closest of friends is a minister-in-training with similar questions and Protestant insight. My bookshelves play witness to my journey, housing titles related to God, Christology, and the Abrahamic religions. Above all else, my family's composition has prompted me to question the current status of religious institutions, but never God.
The other side of the tension - the writer and her parents stand in the Al-Aqsa compound which shares a wall with the [Jews' ancient Temple.]
I will not deny the differences between the faiths. However, I will argue that such dissimilarities fail to create insurmountable obstacles in the construction of a peaceful and functional society.
My family is an anomaly within the current state of Jewish-Muslim relations; yet it serves as a source of hope and ingenuity. When I look at my relatives, I see us as the contemporary children of Abraham.
Last summer, my trip to Israel commenced with a 2-hour questioning by airport security at Ben Gurion International Airport. The young Jewish security officer seemed perplexed.
"You are here to visit family?"
He seemed thoroughly confused at the prospect of Muslims traveling to see their Jewish relatives. He pointed at a map posted on the wall and asked me to trace my family's migration, locate the countries where my relatives reside, and list their religions.
At the end, he smiled uncertainly and said: "Well, if your family can do it, then maybe there is hope for us, too."
Aqsa Mahmud graduated from the University of Michigan Law School and currently practices in Washington, DC. Prior to law school, her research included a focused study on rural women in Pakistan's Punjab province. Her work has previously been published in academic-related journals and magazines. She can be reached at aqmahmud@gmail.com
