May  06 Newsletter

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American, and Muslim, in Palestine
Tricia Pethic

During my time in Palestine/Israel with Dr. Ibrahim’s students, I learnt that passports and crude questions can determine entry to mosques. I am an American with no Arab ancestry, who became a Muslim more than three years ago. Due to my scarf, I am often mistaken as an Arab, which was problematic in certain areas of Israel. Sometimes my American passport rescued me from any obstacle that my perceived “Arabness” or “Islamness” posed for me. Sometimes, but not always, as I will later demonstrate. At times I stressed my “Americanness”, at times my Muslimness, depending on where I was, though I’d never deny either. On my first attempt to enter the Haram Al Shareef, I encountered the usual perusal of my passport by Israeli soldiers, asking whether I was Muslim, and asking me to recite Surat al Fatiha as proof. I’d been told that they would ask me to do these things as a safety measure to prevent the massacre perpetrated there years ago by a Jewish settler. Despite thinking how odd it was that I was reciting the Quran to a man with a rifle, I cranked up the Muslimness full speed, but to no avail. Despite my decent Arabic recitation, I was denied access because as I figured out, my name was not “Muslim enough.” Because I have chosen to keep my non-Arabic name as proof that one does not have to become Arabized to be Muslim, my name was a cause for suspicion.  In my typically American way, I dared to ask the soldier “Why?” To which he repeated his instructions for me to enter by the general tourists entrance an hour later. I decided not to argue with a man with a gun, so I walked away dejected. Suddenly I was approached by an Arab man who asked me whether I’d been denied access. After I replied yes, he asked, “How many rakat’s are in dhuhr (midday prayer)?” When I gave the correct answer of 4, I seemed to have cracked some secret code, and he hurried me along to show me another point of access where I might fare better with the soldiers stationed there. The whole scene was comical, my religion hinging on my name, and how many rakats are in dhuhr prayer. Is this what religion has been reduced to? It seemed like one big test; a test which was absurd in its presumptions. How can anyone determine someone else’s religion based on these questions? How can anyone prevent another violent incident, if someone has their mind set on it?

            As I approached the second entrance, I saw the golden dome looming before me. It’s right there, I thought to myself. This time after the same questioning and after the guards hesitated long enough to achieve maximum squirm effect, I was inexplicably allowed entrance, proving once and for all that the art of determining someone’s Muslimness is not a well-defined procedure. Relieved, I proceeded towards the Dome of the Rock, only to have a Muslim guard from the waqf stop me before entering. “Are you Muslim?” “Yes.” The Muslim guard, like the Israeli before him, asked for my passport and puzzled over my name. When that happens I usually leave people in their confusion for a while. But frustrated with all the hindrances, this time I answered quickly, “I became Muslim three years ago!” “OH! Alhamdullah. Right this way….” It was as if the Wizard of Oz had just admitted me.

            I understand that people are not yet accustomed to Muslims with nasal accents and names like mine, so I’ve tried to avoid being indignant about it. Despite the small hassles I experienced, I hope that my odd presence will be one more fully represented in the future, one which people will become familiar with. My inhabitance of the seemingly opposing worlds of Islam and America allowed me into the confidence of many Palestinians, but also allowed me to be distant enough to broach the question of Hamas’ attacks on Israeli civilians and whether justifying it on the basis of Palestinian civilian deaths is not a form of relativistic morality which is not Islamic at all.

            I sincerely hope that I will never have to show my passport to enter a mosque again.  Some might say, “Enough! You won the battle, you got in and prayed. Stop complaining.” But the battle itself makes me feel as if I’m still trying to gain entrance to a proverbial mosque. After enduring the Holy Land and its quirky identity tests, sometimes it doesn’t feel that way. I feel blessed to have been one of few Muslims in the world who got to pray in this third holiest place. Nevertheless I’ll be glad to once again enter the mosque in my hometown of Rochester, New York. I will plant my right foot firmly in the entrance, and will be relieved when no-one asks me for ID.