“Wait, say that again…” I exclaimed, blinking a few times to make sure I was focused on what he was saying.
“Yeah- you can tell the quality of an Pakistani-Indian restaurant by how well they cook their chickpeas,” he replied, smiling and nodding.
“I never would have guessed that, but I guess it makes sense!”
Mohammad and I had just settled into our seats when we started talking about what to order. I had picked a fairly nice Indian restaurant because I wanted to make sure wherever we ate was halal. Mohammad seemed both pleased and nervous as he looked at the menu.
I was a bit nervous too, actually. Its understandable for both of us to feel that way. Although we went to the same high school and college, we had never spent any time together. We chatted in college a few times because we had a class together. But it was one of those 300-person classes so we rarely saw each other.
I reached out to Mohammad three weeks before meeting up for dinner. I had an assignment to complete for a seminary course and all of my other plans to hang out with other Muslim friends had either not materialized or were canceled last minute. I earnestly wanted to catch up with Mohammad, but this was also my last chance to complete the requirement for class.
I watched Mohammad look at the menu out of the corner of my eye. I was trying to determine what the status quo for ordering at this dinner would be. Having spent time in both India and Malaysia, I was familiar with how Muslims interact with ordering food: often times I would not order but they would order for me as a way of being hospitable. Mohammad, though, is an American, so I was not sure how those tendencies were going to translate.
As my mind was racing, trying to figure out how this dinner was going to play out, out of the blue, he asked, “So did you travel in May?”
“I didn’t, actually - I haven’t traveled since October when I went to South Sudan, India, and Lebanon.”
“Oh I remember seeing that on Facebook,” he said.
That was actually how we’ve remained connected over the years. We became friends on Facebook back in high school and never interacted until one day, when I had posted about facilitating a Bridges Workshop (designed to inform Christians about Islam) at Bay Area Community Church, he messaged me. His message was short: I hope your Bridges event went well.
At the time, I was not sure if that was sincere or accusatory. He didn’t respond to my explanation of the event at the time, so I was concerned he had been offended. So when he had accepted my invitation to meet for dinner, I was ecstatic.
“We had Ramadan in May,” he abruptly said with a smile, closing his menu.
He had quickly opened the door for us to talk about Islam. This jump started our conversation for the evening. He told me about the reasoning behind Ramadan and how it was for him this year. I found out that he is actually an immigrant, having moved here when he was four years old. His family is from Lahore, Pakistan. As he shared some about the food there, he told me about what they normally eat during Ramadan.
I knew about customary breaking of the daily fast with a date, but I did not know about the additional food traditions. He said they would typically first have vegetable pakora. As soon as the waiter came around I ordered some - I have had a lot of Pakistani-Indian food, but I had never tried pakora. I was extremely pleased when it arrived and was able to hear more about the different food traditions that Mohammad grew up with.
Then I reminded him of why I had reached out to him in the first place. I had told him via Facebook Messenger that I was doing research about what it was like growing up as a Muslim in America. As soon as I reminded him of this, he leaned back and began sharing far more than I could have imagined or asked for. Here is what he said:
I was in fifth grade when 9/11 happened. It was a shock for all of us. For good or for bad, though, the Muslim community drew closer into itself. This was not because of a specific choice on their part - this is because of the police-states where most of the Muslim community has come from. The majority of Muslims in the US are immigrants and the majority of those immigrants are from countries where the government heavily polices them.
When you grow up in a country like that, you grow accustomed to drawing close to your family and keeping your head down when turmoil or tragedy increase. My family is from Pakistan which is a moderately policed-state. A lot of my friends and other Muslims in our community are from Iran, Iraq, Egypt, and Saudi Arabia - all countries with a heavy hand. Our communal response to 9/11 in the US was one of learned self-preservation.
As a kid, though, I didn’t know all of this. In hindsight, I can remember some of the looks my family would get in the grocery store those first few years after 9/11. Based on the looks, I could usually tell what was being said in the news that day. Despite those looks, I was never bullied, made fun of, or discriminated against in middle or high school. I think some of that was due to the fairly diverse culture we grew up with in Howard County.
I think the Muslim community in America missed an opportunity to be a voice during a time when America needed it most. I am proud to be an American and have the ability to pursue the American dream. It is actually not that hard to be a Muslim here since we are given the freedoms to be in our community.
When Mohammad had paused after saying all of this, I was speechless. I did not expect him to say any of that. It gave me incredible insight into the life of Muslim immigrants in the US while giving me immense hope for greater relationships between Muslims and Christians in the future. Our conversation shifted towards some of the atrocities that are being done in Yemen, Syria, Somalia, and Pakistan. Understandably, we got fairly depressed. Not to necessarily change the subject, I asked a question I had been curious about: “So have you been to Mecca?”
Just as he was about to reply, the Tandoori Chicken and Channa Masala arrived at the table. We shuffled things around to fit all of the food, offering each other naan, sauce, and rice while the dishes moved around. As the plates settled, he started telling me about all of the times he almost went to Mecca. His father and brother had gone the year before. He and his mother were going to try to go next year.
As I was preparing for my next series of questions to ask him about what actually happens at Mecca, he asked me, “So are there, like, different sects of Christianity?”
For someone who grew up in the United States and went to the same high school and college as me, I was surprised he was asking this question. I figured the denominational lines were obvious for anyone. I briefly explained the different denominations, a little bit of the history behind the delineations, and where I stood as a nondenominational Evangelical. In the midst of my explanation, I realized just how hard it is to understand the differences if you have no base knowledge of Christianity.
Then he asked me something I, again, never expected: “Christians believe that Jesus died and then… he… rose? Went up? Which one came first?” At this question, my discernment was trying to determine the motivation for him asking it. We had had a wonderfully open discussion throughout the evening. Was this the point where he would try to point out things he disagreed with? Or was he just genuinely curious?
While my mind was analyzing the possibilities, I answered his question, explaining Jesus’ life, death, resurrection, and ascension, admittedly going into far more detail than he really asked for (but how can you not get excited about the gospel?!). He nodded at the answer and responded with, “Oh that’s right. I always get confused about resurrection and ascension.”
At this point, we had finished eating and he had ordered chai for us to settle our food. I ran to the restroom and remembered I wanted to ask him what he thought about the Channa Masala - the chickpeas. By the time I got back, I saw him signing the check. I protested and told him I wanted to pay for our dinner but he smiled and just said, “It’s already done.” I laughed, shrugged, and told him the next time he would pick the restaurant and I would pay.
I sat back down, finished my chai, and wrapped up the conversation. He talked about his mentor and how he wanted us to meet. I welcomed the idea and commented on how great it is that he has a mentor, to which Mohammad smiled at and then sat up. “Oh, I wanted to tell you, this is random I know- but I just wanted to let you know how great I think it is that you do all of that mission work. I know we don’t really talk much but I uh,” he readjusted in his seat and laughed, “uh...kind of stalk you on Facebook and just think its great how you serve people around the world.”
Another moment in our conversation that took me incredibly by surprise. I probably blushed and thanked him for the kind words, welcoming his Facebook stalking. In a stereotypical millennial moment of slight discomfort, we both looked at our phones and laughed at the time. We had just spent over four hours having dinner together. We wrapped things up and headed on our way, promising to do it again soon.
When I woke up the next morning, I realized I had still forgotten to ask him how the chickpeas were at the restaurant. I fired off a quick Facebook message and had a prompt response: “They were cooked to perfection.”
I smiled, thankful that my taste buds had also determined their perfection without much to compare them to, and then thanked the Lord for our conversation. God ordained that time for us, so it, too, was perfect.
I’m already looking forward to the next time I have chickpeas with Mohammad.