Ring of prophecy

This month, Dave Belden hands his column to Omair Ahmad, a young Indian Muslim now resident in America.

At the Rosslyn Metro station in Washington DC, I lean against a pillar, waiting for the subway train. My feet ache in formal shoes, and I ease the pressure off one and then the other. It has been a long day after a night of fitful sleep in an unfamiliar bed. It has been one of a little optimism and a creeping fear.

I am in Washington DC looking for a job during the worst market that this country has seen in more than a decade. I am a Muslim in a country unsure of whether it is at war with Islam; a citizen of another land trying to compete with Americans for jobs that require half of my qualifications. It is an uphill task, and hard on my pride, but I have massive student loans, and am reaching the limit of my credit cards. The pride that is getting such a beating is the same that insists that I put on a smile, and spout the words while I push my resumé into unsuspecting and often unenthusiastic, hands. It has been a long day of possibilities, no replies and inane situations.

Where I’m from?

Half-dozing, I do not realise that a woman has walked up to me. It takes me a little by surprise when she enquires, “May I ask you a personal question?” She is an African American woman a few years older than I am. Her creamy-chocolate skin is rich, glowing, lambent and her features miss being pretty by only a little. Her clothes are informal, a pair of jeans, a T-shirt with a jacket hiding whatever is written on its front, and a bag slung over a shoulder. I am taken a little aback by her question, but am too tired to do anything except say, “Sure.”

“May I ask where you are from?” she questions, copying almost exactly the phrase she has just used and as I answer I notice what it is that keeps her features from being pretty. She has a knowing look, as if she is in on a secret, as if she is listening to music played by an internal band. It is disturbing, and I am a little wary as I respond, simply, “India.”

At this her small smile widens a little and she says, “I knew it. I said to myself that’s a beautiful man standing over there, he must be from India or Pakistan.”

What I do

I have been raised in a society that goes a long way to disassociate from the superficial, and I associate remarks on personal beauty with shallowness. So I duck my head and say a simple, “Thank you.” “What are you doing here?” she asks. “I am looking for a job,” I say, hoping the taint of my unemployment will deter her.

Instead, she asks, “What do you do?”

I do not want this conversation to continue, but a glance at the sign shows me that I have to wait only a few minutes before the train comes. I have no quick answer which could kill this conversation, so I opt for the truth, or as close as I can make it, “I work in conflict resolution.”

It is as jargon free a name as I can think of, but I feel that it may not register with her. Her clothes and manner of speech indicate neither higher education, nor an interest in international relations. After some years in this discipline I have come to recognise some traits of those who are working in it, those who are interested, or those who could not be bothered. She seems to rank with the last. A blank look on her face after my answer confirms my guess.

She says instead, “I bet you cannot guess what I do.”

What she does

I look at her blearily, and wonder how to answer. Continuing this conversation is becoming more and more like an appointment with an over-enthusiastic dentist, one after another things are being wrenched out. I hear myself say, unsurely, “A teacher?”

She smiles conspiratorially and reveals, “I am a spiritual warrior.”

Suddenly some things make sense, and I glance down at a small gleaming crucifix. I take a moment before I answer, unsure of what to say. My initial reaction is to run for cover. Over the last couple of years the majority of words I have heard from evangelists have been abuse aimed at my religion. Both its flag-waving and its assertive stand on religion are beyond my understanding. Such surety seems a little insane to me, and frightening. Then I think, “What harm can it do? Let her be happy in her life, it does not have to impact on mine unless I let it.”

So I ask, “And how do you do that?”

“I use the Bible,” she replies. “And what Jesus taught. Some people are demonically possessed, or under attack by the Enemy, and I fight against the Enemy.” The knowing look in her eyes deepens, and she says, “I don’t need to tell you who the Enemy is.”

It is an interesting turn of phrase and reminds me of a book I read in high school entitled This Present Darkness. The story endeavoured to show the actions of angels and demons acting in the background of human action, a Christian thriller, I think the phrase is. Frankly I liked it. I may not have agreed with it, and find myself amused by how threatening the ‘born again’ Christian community finds New Age spirituality, but the book is a good memory. In all, my experiences with Christians and Christianity in general have been good; it is only the doomsayers on television and newspapers that frighten me. So when she asks me, “And what is it that you want?” I reply as honestly as I can.

“I just wish people would stop behaving like children, like spoiled children, fighting and grabbing for things, and using excuses, and the names of good things to justify their misbehaviour.”

She leans towards me and asks, “Do you have faith?”

What do I believe

This conversation has already spiraled out of my control. But I have been raised in truth, and find it difficult to tell an outright lie. “Yes,” I reply, moving from tentative to sure in the space of that one syllable. I cannot tell precisely what I have faith in, or how it works, but I am sure that I have faith.

“Then you will get what you want,” she says, with absolute certitude. It has the ring of prophecy, and it is not an unusual one. Two people before in my life have said exactly the same thing in the same tone of voice. To hear it repeated here, by her, is bewildering.

In this moment of confusion, the train arrives in a surety of steel and electricity.

As I board, I make sure that there is a row of seats between the woman and me. I do not want to talk anymore. As the train moves from the station I close my eyes and think of faith, and what I want. There is little enough that I could say I have faith in, and incredibly little that I want for myself. What I want for the world is beyond assessment.

In thought one station passes, then another, until mine approaches. As I rise to go towards the gate, I lean towards the seat that the woman is sitting in.

“Thank you,” I say.

If nothing else, her words have renewed my faith in myself, and given me hope, a hope that I had almost lost over the last few months.

There is an aunt of mine who sees angels everywhere. In Islam it is believed that angels can take on human forms to guide us to safety, or our destination. Do I have faith?

No matter what I believe, I know that hope can be found in the most unlikely quarters. Even at the end of a long day, as the clock marches to midnight, at the Rosslyn Metro station.