TEARS nearly filled my eyes as I read the e-mail. The words reminded me of all the converts to Islam that I had spoken to, coached, and counseled over the years. Some still held on to their faith. Some had returned to Islam after having stopped practicing for some time. Others simply let go and weren’t looking back…

Solace…

Yes, that’s what they needed.

Peace of mind. And tranquility…

An open door where others have closed. An open heart where others have hardened. An open mind where others had no capacity to understand.

And open ears where others offered neither time nor sympathy for the spiritual storms erupting in their hearts…

For they, these remarkable pioneers of Islam, had—after realizing its veracity, its undeniable truth, and its offer of internal peace—turned to Islam, turned to Allah…

And embraced His Religion…

Yet…

They were turned away and scorned by non-Muslim family and friends…

And by insensitive Muslims.

“Why should they own property here?” The Saudi girl contorted her face as she turned in her seat until she faced the expatriate classmate who sat behind her. “They should just do their job, and once they’re done—” She snorted in disgust. “Leave.”

Wounded, the expat drew her eyebrows together and opened her mouth to reply, but no words came out. It was obvious that she was hurt and confused and could think of no logical response to the Saudi. The comment was made all the more caustic because it was well known at the school that the Saudi’s family owned property in other countries—and held American passports in addition to their Saudi ones.

I stood in front of the classroom utterly speechless. I myself was deeply offended by the comment, but I had a lesson to teach—and this was completely off-topic. How the class discussion had spiraled to this point, I had no idea. But I had to intervene. This wasn’t a conversation that should be allowed to continue any longer than it already had.

“Girls,” I said raising my voice, lifting my hand to get their attention.

“Some people want to stay here though,” another classmate interjected, my own interjection having fallen on deaf ears.

“So what?” the Saudi said, still turned in her seat. “Saudi Arabia is for Saudis. Those workers can go back and live in their own countries. Why don’t they buy property there?”

“Even if they’ve worked here for like thirty years and have family here?” someone asked.

The Saudi shrugged. “What difference does th—”

“Excuse me,” I said, my voice rising, my tone threatening as I glared at them.

The girls quieted immediately and looked at me. The Saudi student stopped midsentence and glanced back at me, apology in her eyes.

“Enough,” I said. “We’re not going to discuss this during class.”

“But I think we should,” the Saudi student said, turning her body so that she faced the front of the room. Her tone was reserved and respectful as she spoke to me. “It can even be a topic for our debate.”

I shook my head, a smile forming on my face. “I don’t think so.”

“But, Miss, it’s really important.”

“Habeebati,” I said, shaking my head again. “It’s too sensitive.”

“But what do you think, Miss? You’re American. Do you think foreigners should own property in your country?” she asked. Her eyes were eager to hear my response, as were other students, who had sat up and leaned forward after the inquiry.

I chuckled. “Like I said, we’re not going to discuss this.”

Most of the students looked disappointed, having wanted to hear my opinion on the topic. Some folded their arms and slouched in their chairs, realizing we would resume the normal lesson.

I paused before adding, “But I’ll just say this to give you something to consider when discussing this in the future: Many expats come here because they wish to live around Muslims and have difficulty practicing Islam in their countries. Others come because they have very little opportunity back home to support their families. Either way, for me it’s not a question of who my country belongs to. It’s a question of who the earth belongs to.”

I turned some pages of the binder that held my lesson plans before saying finally, glancing up, a gentle smile on my face, “And the earth belongs to Allah.”

SOLACE , the e-mail said, is a new voluntary organization [that] has been set up to help revert sisters in difficulty.

How often do you think that these sisters get the help they need? And after their immediate problem is solved, who is there to follow up with the sister on a regular basis, just to see if she is okay?

I read on…

SOLACE , with the help of Allah, aims to provide comfort, companionship and practical assistance to these revert sisters.

Here…[are] the kinds of support SOLACE will provide, bi idhnillah;

“What color are you?”

Startled, my confident smile faded as I creased my forehead from where I stood in the living room of my suburban Washington, D.C. apartment. I was about ten minutes into a phone interview with a lucrative company in Riyadh. They had seen my résumé and were greatly interested in bringing me on board. They were impressed with my skills and experience and had called to see how soon I could come to the Kingdom. I was as good as hired.

I myself had been feeling really good about the interview and was already imagining the solace I’d feel living so close to Makkah and Madinah…

“Excuse me?” I said, switching the phone to my other ear. I was certain I must have misheard. There was no way that this man could be asking me what I thought he was…

“What color are you?” the representative repeated, maintaining his professional cordiality, not a trace of hesitation or shame in his voice as he repeated the inquiry. His raised voice made it obvious that he was under the impression that our phones were experiencing reception difficulty due to the thousands of miles of distance between us.

Offended, I grew quiet. I didn’t know how to respond to this. I’d never in my life been asked what color I was during a phone interview.

I bit my lower lip momentarily.

“Well…” I said, sarcasm in my tone, “my skin is brown.”

“Oh,” he said, disappointment in even that sound. I also detected a trace of surprise.

After all, I sounded like a “real American.”

And, incidentally, I was a “real” American, for whatever it was worth—if it should be worth anything at all.

My family had been indigenous to the region for centuries…

My ancestors had actually taken the same boat across the Atlantic that this representative’s “real Americans” had…

Albeit on the lower deck.

Through the receiver of my phone, there was silence. Apparently, my interviewer was struggling with this new “dilemma.”

“Well…” he said, exhaling as if submitting to a fate over which he had no control. “…we prefer White. But…” He exhaled again, and I sensed he imagined he was doing me a favor. “…we’ll still take you.”

When I hung up, I was deeply hurt in a way I couldn’t fully comprehend at the time.

Of course, I didn’t take the job…

But I did take the hint…

“I lost my job,” my friend said, her calm expression concealing the pain behind that confession. She had lived in the Kingdom for years, having left America shortly after she became Muslim. She’d hoped to raise her daughter in a Muslim country and have her learn Arabic and Qur’an. Her daughter was almost a haafidhah…

“But…how?” another sister asked. “Didn’t they just say how valuable you were, and that you were doing an excellent job?”

My friend nodded absently. “Yes, but…” She looked away. “They said they need me to train the woman who’ll take my place.”

“What?” The sister shook her head in disbelief. “But why?”

My friend smiled grimly. “They said, You understand… After all, she’s the right color.”

… 

“I’m quitting my job,” my friend told me angrily, brushing past me without meeting my gaze.

“But why?” I asked. Still unmarried, she had recently lost her parents to illness and was the eldest daughter with no brothers; thus the responsibility of supporting her younger siblings had fallen on her shoulders.

“I went to the administration, telling them I had another job offer,” she told me, her eyes gleaming in upset. “But I told them I didn’t want to change jobs.”

She drew in a deep breath, trying to compose herself. “I told them how much the other job was offering me as a salary.” She looked at me. “And do you know what they did?”

“What?” I said, perplexed.

“They took out this stupid chart and showed me how they have a payment scale for employees.” She paused, meeting my eyes unblinking. “And do you know what it’s based on?”

I shook my head at a loss. I guessed it must be based on whether or not the worker held a degree in the field, and how many years of experience they had had prior to being employed…

“Nationality,” she said flatly, interrupting my thoughts.

I blinked in shock. “What?”

“Yes,” she said, turning abruptly to pick up her handbag and search for something she needed. She rummaged through the bag, leaning slightly toward the chair where her purse was. In her profile I could see her contorted, pained expression.

“And they had the nerve,” she said, and it sounded like she was speaking through gritted teach, “to skim down the chart and show me how my country was low on the scale. And that, Sorry,” she mocked their fake sympathy, “we can’t pay you any more than we already are.”

…

“I’m leaving,” the woman spoke quietly from where she sat crossed legged on the floor across from her best friend. Her gaze was lowered, and she played with the threads on her shirt. Her abaya lay in a heap behind her on the couch.

Her friend’s jaw dropped. “You can’t be serious.”

Tears filled the woman’s eyes as she shook her head, her jaw quivering. “I just can’t do it anymore, ukhtee. I can’t…” Her voice cracked until a whimper escaped. “I’m going back home.”

…

“You’re like our Sahaabah,” the sister said, beaming, as she looked at the Saudi women who sat with us on the floor couch lining the walls of the istiraaha. The sister had recently arrived in the Kingdom from America and was ecstatic about moving to the Muslim land.

I noticed that one of the Saudis, a friend of mine, averted her gaze. There was a distant look in her eyes as she held a small glass of Arabic coffee, a half-eaten date on a plate in front of her.

“MaashaAllaah, tabaarakAllaah…” The sister shook her head, her voice leaving her momentarily as tears filled her eyes. “I know you’re not perfect, but we look at you like the Ansaar and we’re the Muhaajireen.”

… 

“But we’re not like that.” Disturbed, my Saudi friend shook her head as she walked next to me later that evening as we talked alone near the grass. The chatter of the other sisters who were still at the istiraaha could be heard as if coming from a distance.

“Nobody’s perfect,” I told her, hoping to make her feel better. She was obviously troubled by how much faith the new American sister had in her people.

My friend drew in a deep breath before exhaling, her expression reflective. “I know we should be like the Companions of the Prophet, sallallaahu’alayhi wa sallam. But we’re not.”

There was a thoughtful pause.

“So many people come here expecting so much from us,” she said, her voice tight with emotion. “But we just can’t give it to them.” She sighed, tears filling her own eyes. “Because we have so many problems of our own.”

…SubhaanAllaah, I thought as I read the e-mail by the SOLACE team, in which they discussed the details of their United Kingdom based organization, which they said was supported by Muslim Research and Development Foundation (MRDF)...

If only expatriates had something similar to that in Saudi Arabia, I thought…

If only…

…

…The Prophet, sallallaahu’alayhi wa sallam, once said to the Companion Amr ibn Al-‘Aas, may Allah be pleased with him…

“Don’t you know that Islam wipes off all past sins, and Hijrah (leaving one’s home and comfort for Allah’s cause) wipes off all sins, and [that] Hajj wipes off all past sins?” (Sahih Muslim)

And in each of these noble actions, I reflected as I read the famous hadith, there is pain, hardship, and sacrifice…

And it would be such a blessing if converts to Islam and expats who had left their homes to settle in Saudi Arabia could have a support system…

To help them work through the conflicting and painful emotions experienced after settling here…

I don’t know if it’s SOLACE that we expats need here in the Kingdom to meet this need…

But we certainly need solace…

Something to provide us with peace of mind and tranquility, open doors and hearts, and open minds and ears…

…But for now, I find my solace in hearing the adhaan reverberating throughout the city for each prayer, and in my repeating after the muezzin…

And in raising my hands in supplication…

Asking Allah to give me and my family peace of mind, tranquility, and ever-open doors of opportunity and blessing as we remain in the Kingdom.

Umm Zakiyyah is the internationally acclaimed author of the novels If I Should Speak, A Voice, Footsteps, and Realities of Submission. To contact her, write to ummzakiyyah@yahoo.com or join her Facebook page.

Copyright © 2011 by Al-Walaa Publications. All Rights Reserved.