Farooq Husayn sits up straight in his chair, one leg draped over the other, hands folded neatly in his lap. Behind him stretches a small, green-walled room, decorated sparingly with bookshelves and framed Arabic scripts on canvas. Voices shouting above loud music leak through the wall from the Mexican restaurant next door, and the building’s heater emits an occasional obnoxious creak from the vent in the ceiling.
This is Husayn’s masjid, his place of worship. Here, he leads a congregation of about 30 practicing Muslims, members of the Islamic Center of Lompoc.
“They have families, they have jobs, they’re looking for better opportunities,” Husayn says of his congregation, adding that non-Muslims who meet them often begin to realize Muslim people aren’t much different from most Americans.
The center’s door swings open. A middle-aged man and his son, dressed casually, step through and remove their shoes, ready for prayer. I stand and extend my palm to shake the man’s hand.
“I will abstain,” he says, drawing his hands into his chest and rushing to explain his refusal. “We’re not supposed to touch women, and that’s the only reason.”
He has just performed Wudu, a pre-prayer cleansing, and some schools of Islamic thought say touching a woman is one way to break the state of cleanliness.
“I touch hands, I do everything,” he says. “I just don’t want you to feel like, ‘Oh, what kind of people are they?’ We believe in the same God, the God of Abraham, Adam and Eve, and everybody.”
At that point, his son—a student at Miguelito Elementary School—jaunts up to me, pointing to my notepad.
“So you’re a reporter?” he asks. “I did the same thing. I do newspaper club.”
As I chat with the kid about his newspaper club, I recall the conversation Husayn and I just had: He said people tend to view Islam as a foreign, alien religion, even though its followers in the United States are pursuing the American dream, just like everyone else.
The term “Islam,” Husayn explained, is simply an Arabic expression for submission.
“We want to make the right decisions for us and our families. When you do that, you’re submitting to the right choices, and that submission is Islam,” he said. “If we explain that idiom, then certainly everybody becomes a Muslim.”
Our Muslim neighbors
Northern Santa Barbara County is home to Islamic centers in both Santa Maria and Lompoc, hosting small but sturdy Muslim communities.
Mohammad Mohabbat, imam at the Central Coast Islamic Center of Santa Maria, estimates hundreds of Muslims in the Santa Maria area, about 50 of whom gather regularly at the center. Husayn, who calls himself administrator of the Lompoc center, said 20 to 30 people consistently attend prayer there.
Though small, these congregations make an effort to contribute to their communities. Mohabbat said his center’s members volunteer to clean the highway, and Husayn said members of the Lompoc center volunteer at the homeless shelter and conduct outreach to help educate other locals about Islam.
“For us, our goal has always been to be a productive member of the community and to serve the community and reach out in compassion to everyone,” Husayn said.
That goal has only grown in importance since President Donald Trump took office, Husayn said, because the Trump administration has polarized much of the nation into the “extreme progressive left” and the “extreme conservative right.”
“We find that we are stereotyped often, as a foreign people with some strange religion,” Husayn said. “We are trying to overcome that stereotype. But I think our challenge becomes more exciting when the administration is trying to stereotype. What we would like to do is more outreach.”
As part of their outreach efforts, members of the Islamic Center of Lompoc have launched an Ask a Muslim program, which gathers community members in an open forum to ask their Muslim neighbors whatever they want.
The center has held two Ask a Muslim events so far, each of which drew a big crowd, Husayn said.
“A lot of people are interested because they hear the overseas news, or even events here, and they want to know why it happens,” he said. “Because we are here at the center, and available firsthand, people like to ask those questions.”
Tahirah Salaam, who’s been with the Lompoc Muslim community since 2008, said that from what she’s heard at Ask a Muslim events, locals don’t seem to have an accurate idea of what Islam is about.
She and Husayn both said the most common concerns expressed by community members at those events are about terrorism, Muslims usually use the term differently.
“Usually we’re able to explain to them about the misconception that they have,” Husayn said. “Terrorists are criminals. That is a criminal event. This is not what Islam is about.”
Salaam clarified that though “jihad” is often used by news media in association with acts of terrorism, Muslims usually use the term differently.
“The word ‘jihad’ just really scares them, and you can’t blame them, because what they think jihad is, is we’re going to build a bomb and kill you,” she said.
But in Islam, she explained, “jihad” usually refers to someone’s internal battle to do the right thing. It could mean the struggle to eat healthily, raise your kids right, or be a good listener, for example.
Salaam said that at the center’s last Ask a Muslim event, each participant was invited to write their personal jihad on a button and wear it on their chest. The idea was that by the end of the meeting, everyone there would walk out “proud to be a jihadist,” she said.
Husayn said exercises like this have helped community members strengthen their grasp on what Islam really means.
“Once we explain to them what the faith is, and what our teachings are, they begin to understand,” he said.
Common misconceptions
Salaam lounges on a couch in the library of her Lompoc apartment building, sipping tea and laughing with her friends, Uzma Gul and Saeedah Imaan. Late afternoon sunlight pours in through the wrap-around windows, illuminating the translucent fabric of each woman’s hijab.
Gul recalls a recent event hosted by the Islamic Center’s members, where she and some other women in the congregation made bath bombs to give away to people who attended. She’d gone to Albertsons to buy some citric acid for them, and she approached a woman in customer service for assistance.
“I almost went and told her, ‘I’m making bombs,’” Gul says, chuckling through her words. “In my hijab, can you imagine?”
I’m laughing along with the women, as Salaam explains that they decided to call the bath bombs bath “fizzes” instead—just in case.
“People think it’s funny, and it can be sometimes,” Salaam says, as the laughter in the room slows. “But it gets a little old after a while.”
She explains that the idea of Islam promoting terrorism might manifest in harmless jokes on a day-to-day basis. Still, it’s the same idea that’s behind widespread discrimination against Muslims in much of the Western world.
Take Trump’s immigration ban, for example: Mohabbat said some members of his congregation were directly affected by it. Husayn—who is originally from Pakistan and “proud to be an immigrant”—said most Muslims in Lompoc’s community were only indirectly affected by the ban, but still took the sentiment behind it to heart.
“We just feel sad,” Husayn said. “Not just because of immigrants from Muslim countries, but because some people—many people—look to the United States as a haven of peace and security. And sometimes when they’re persecuted, they are seeking that haven and that place of refuge.”
When Husayn moved to the United States in 1975 to work as a physician, he said Muslims weren’t generally stereotyped as terrorists. He had a positive experience building a life here, he said, and thinks other immigrants should have the same opportunity.
“To close the doors does seem to be a little bit sad,” he said.
Juan Campo, professor of Islamic studies at UC Santa Barbara, said people hold the misconception that Islam is inherently violent because that’s how the religion is represented in news media.
“It’s like an echo chamber, where the Western media emphasizes the violence,” Campo said. “And then you have violent people wanting to hype it even more by committing terrorist acts.”
Then, when people look back on the centuries of Islamic history, they nitpick evidence, using “gerrymandered data” to support the stereotype that Islam is particularly violent, Campo said. As a result, most Muslims find themselves responsible for repeatedly denouncing terrorist acts.
“That’s not their Islam,” he said. “Islam, from their understanding, is a religion of peace.”
Another major misconception about the Islamic religion is that it’s foreign, Campo said. Salaam and Imaan—both American-born women who converted to Islam later in life—agreed. Salaam said she often encounters people who don’t understand how a blue-eyed, white woman could also be a Muslim.
Imaan was born in Santa Barbara, grew up in the Santa Ynez Valley, and later lived in Hawaii for 11 years. She spent much of her adult life sampling religions—including various Christian denominations and Mormonism—before deciding in February that she wanted to become a Muslim.
Salaam, whose father was in the Army, was born in Germany into a Catholic, American family. She converted to Islam about a decade ago, after meeting and marrying a Muslim man who seemed to have answers to the spiritual questions that Christianity couldn’t satisfy for her.
Both women chose their own Arabic names, since the Arabic language is particularly precious to Islam. But the name-changing isn’t a requirement of the religion, Salaam said.
“There’s so many religions here,” she said. “Yes, the U.S. is primarily considered a Christian country, but there are people from every religion in this country. That’s what makes it so great.”
Gul, who was born in Pakistan but grew up in Saudi Arabia, said she finds one widespread misunderstanding about Islam particularly disturbing: that the faith inherently demeans women.
Women in Islam
At a meeting of Santa Maria’s Interfaith Community Outreach Network, Mohabbat—there to represent the Muslim faith—is explaining how he thinks religious leaders could better engage young members of their congregations.
As he speaks, my attention diverts to his wife, Sharifa. She sits still in the chair next to Mohabbat’s, dawning dark, muted colors from head to toe: a black hijab, sweater, and shoes; a dark purple blouse; cuffed jeans. Her mouth sets in a straight line beneath bold-framed glasses, and she folds her hands in her lap, her head angled slightly downward. A small section of brunette hair peaks out over her forehead from beneath the veil.
For the hours-long meeting’s duration, Sharifa sits silently, moving only to blink or re-cross her legs. As I watch her, assumptions about her reserved nature creep into my mind and onto my notepad—and then I catch myself. Would I take such notice of Sharifa’s quiet stillness if I didn’t know how women in Islam were stereotyped? Would I be so interested if she wasn’t wearing a hijab?
Given, Islamic cultures usually expect men and women to assume distinct and separate roles in society. But according to Ahmad Atif Ahmad, who teaches Islamic law at UC Santa Barbara, when people start holding Islamic societies to Western cultural standards, the resulting judgments can become dangerous.
“It comes from a desire to dominate or change other people,” Ahmad said. “It’s not productive.”
Gul used her experience living in Saudi Arabia, where Islam is the state religion, as an example of negative culture comparison. Americans tend to view Saudi Arabia’s women-specific restrictions, such as its law that prohibits women from driving, as oppressive, she said.
But when Gul lived there, she never saw the law in that light, because it’s so imperative to Saudi Arabian culture for men to take care of women.
Women there are free to pursue higher education and careers if they want to, but society doesn’t expect that of them, Gul said. They have their own banks, fitness centers, swimming pools, and even malls. And many women employ drivers, cooks, and maids to take care of daily responsibilities.
“When we moved here, I had to do all those things,” Gul said. “I used to wish that women weren’t allowed to drive here.”
She described her mother’s first visit to the United States: When she saw her daughter pumping her own gas, it shocked her.
“She got so angry with my husband,” Gul said. “She said, ‘You’re disrespectful toward my daughter. Why is she putting the gas in the car?’ She didn’t talk to him for two days.”
Gul said that while she doesn’t necessarily think Saudi Arabian women are oppressed, she does believe many of them “waste away” from lack of responsibility.
“Those women, they don’t have any responsibility except to take care of the house,” she said. “And they have maids and cooks. They’re really wasting a lot of time.”
Salaam added that Saudi Arabia’s driving law has nothing to do with Islam. But the religion does demand that people respect their mothers above their fathers, and that the man of each household shoulder the burden of supporting the family, whereas the woman is entitled to keep all her earnings for herself.
“He’s not even supposed to ask her how much she’s making,” Salaam said. “It’s none of his business. What’s his is yours, and what’s yours is yours.”
To that end, Gul said women living in Islamic societies often believe women in Western cultures are subject to more disrespect and mistreatment by men.
“I guess our idea of respect is different than the idea here,” Gul said. “You know that Carl’s Jr. commercial where she has to take her clothes off to sell a hamburger? I think that’s really disrespectful.”
Other Western nations are more directly discriminatory. For example, the EU’s top court ruled on March 14 that employers can ban workers from wearing visible religious symbols, including the hijab.
“The bottom line is, the Qur’an says that women should cover,” Salaam said. In public, Muslim women are permitted to show their faces, hands, and feet. But when they’re in the company of women only, at home with their immediate family, or if they reach a certain age and are no longer hoping to marry, they’re no longer obligated to veil.
Local discrimination
Campo said that since he moved to the Santa Barbara area in 1983, he’s seen the number of women who wear hijab in public increase. He credits this to the area’s general acceptance of its Muslim residents, even if most people here don’t know much about Islam.
Instances of discrimination against Muslims here are few and far between. Mohabbat said he and some members of the Santa Maria congregation have received threatening messages online, though he declined to share specifics. Husayn said his community members only receive negative comments every now and then, usually around the times of terrorist events.
Salaam agreed, saying that though she encounters the occasional rude stranger, it’s “very, very seldom.”
“In this community, most people are really nice,” Salaam said. “They actually go out of their way to compliment scarves and whatnot.”
Offensive exchanges happen more frequently out of town. Gul recalled an experience her daughter Maha, an 18-year-old high school senior, had on a field trip to Los Angeles, where a small group of students accused her of being a terrorist. Usually, that kind of rhetoric is used in a joking manner, Gul said—but it still takes its toll.
“I know that she handles them at school, but then she comes home, and I have to handle her,” Gul said.
She said Maha becomes embarrassed by those comments, and as a result tries to blend in with the other kids—she refuses to wear a hijab and insists on dressing like the other kids at school.
“It’s a struggle at home, because I don’t let her wear anything revealing,” Gul said. “Especially during the summer, she has a hard time. She says almost everybody, who she doesn’t even know, comes and tells her, ‘You’re crazy, why are you wearing so much clothing?’”
Campo said one of the best ways to smooth over those kinds of intercultural misunderstandings is to create a space where people from different faith backgrounds can come together and learn to understand each other.
An interfaith community
A group of about 15 people sit in a circle on the second floor of the United Methodist Church in Santa Maria, waiting to begin their meeting. It’s a ragtag collection of men and women, each representing a different faith or walk of life. As I scan the room, my eyes catch on a yamika, a hijab, a set of shoulder pads, a couple of hearing aids, and glasses with the thickest lenses I’ve ever seen.
These are most of the members of Santa Maria’s Interfaith Community Outreach Network, which gathers monthly to collaborate and “deepen mutual interfaith understanding through thoughtful dialogue,” according to its mission statement.
Attendees follow various Christian denominations, as well Judaism, Islam, and one type of Buddhism. Tonight, they’re here to talk about why young people tend to leave their faith communities, and how to draw them back in.
Rabbi Dov Gottesfeld kicks off the discussion, explaining through a series of metaphors how the younger generation needs concrete evidence to show religion is worth the effort it requires.
“You need something tangible in order to create spirituality, much like you need the piano in order to create the note that you cannot see, but you can interpret and react to,” Gottesfeld says. “The idea is not to believe, but to do.”
When it comes time for Mohabbat to speak, he offers a more political theory. He says that as religion and politics become more intertwined, the idea of faith loses appeal.
“It’s tragic, but it’s true, that there’s infighting within each religion,” he says. “People see that, especially the younger people, and they turn away.”
Pastor Bob Isop is the third speaker to offer his perspective, completing the triangle of Abrahamic faiths: Judaism, Islam, and Christianity. Though much of the outside world sees Islam as separate and strange, this dialogue seems to prove otherwise. Mohabbat and his fellow faith leaders share similar concerns for young members of their congregations—and they hold the same hopes for those members, as well.
In my conversation with Campo, he claimed these types of interfaith discussions have become a cornerstone of understanding and acceptance for Muslim communities on the Central Coast. As for non-Muslims, Campo suggested they engage with Islam’s followers on a personal level before forming any assumptive opinions of the religion. Simply, they should get to know some Muslims face-to-face, and ask them directly about their lifestyles and beliefs.
“Islam is a religion of human beings with a variety of backgrounds and a variety of opinions about what their religion is,” Campo said. “Encounter them as human beings first—not as people with ‘Islam’ labeled on their foreheads.”
Contact Staff Writer Brenna Swanston at bswanston@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Mar 30 – Apr 6, 2017.