On the 18th night of Ramadan, I gathered a group of New Yorkers to break fast together in a Chinatown loft. They were Muslim (some practicing, some not), Jewish, Hindu, Christian, converts; Black, white, brown;
immigrant, queer. Most had never attended an Iftar. All of the guests were
Friends or colleagues—journalists and storytellers, artists and makers. We started the meal with the call to prayer, played on Spotify, because none of us knew how to perform the . The sound of recitation still puts me at ease. Only a handful of us were fasting, but we passed out dates to each guest anyway, juicy mejdools from in Bay Ridge. I clinked my glass and said The smell of freshly chopped cilantro wafted through the room, and the sound of sizzling
Oil reminded us that hot food was on its way. Our chefs introduced themselves and explained the meaning of iftar, relaying the extraordinary tales of the Prophet Muhammed (peace be upon him) and his love of dates. This iftar felt different from those in my past. My old life—as part of a tight-knit, culturally conservative community in
Washington, D.C.—felt like a monolith, one in which I was surrounded by Muslims who looked and practiced the same. I was unknowingly uncomfortable, coming of age with my then-husband, conforming to a type of Islam I didn’t believe in. At least, not in the same way that the people around me did. The word ‘Muslim’ translates directly to submission. A Muslim is someone who submits to Islam. But what if I only submit ? Aren’t we still Muslims, even if we’re considered Muslims? We started with lighter bites; and , mocktails made up of and Ghia. No one was drinking alcohol, at least for tonight. Chefs and Noreen Wasti explained the entrees, typical of their individual upbringings. Kamal, a Palestinian art director and chef, cooked with tahini, vermicelli rice, and potato. , a chef and creative of Pakistani descent, created a recipe that reflected her life here in Brooklyn after a decade in Dubai—a dish somewhere between and . Her paid homage to her background too—the full, overloaded plate resembled the way her had prepared it. The smell of Noreen and Kamal’s food felt comforting. I hadn’t traveled home to
Maryland for Ramadan this year and I’d missed my mom’s and . I imagined having chai with the friends’ faces that filled my family home for three decades. After dinner, I read excerpts from Kaveh Akbar’s “On Fasting,” . It’s a beautiful ode to his relationship with Ramadan, a profound meditation on being lucky to break fast in the first place. , an Egyptian
Singer, performed two songs with her partner—her “Revolution Song” on her hopes for a free Palestine and another love letter to her hometown of Cairo. Noreen and Kamal came back with desserts. Noreen explained her take on , a traditional South Asian rice pudding—like many of the centuries-old recipes that Noreen has learned to make, this one reflected her own modern tweaks, a reminder that traditions can live on in new ways. The dish was fragrant and warm, topped with pistachio brittle and rhubarb, and of course, her trademark: flowers. Kamal made , a syrupy semolina cake, the Palestinian dessert that reminds him of the sweetness of home. That night, as I took in the ease of the room, I was struck by a hopeful feeling: I feel closest to myself when I’m surrounded by Muslims. The misfits of the , the Muslims of the masses. It is far too easy to feel ashamed of being a Muslim in America and to assimilate to Western customs. It's equally easy to feel shameful about claiming Islam without adhering to the “rules.” But as I’ve redesigned my life to reflect my values, I realize that the truest Islamic traditions I’ve inherited through my parents’ guidance aren’t those focused on fearing God, or living in constant anticipation of the afterlife. What feels most salient to me is the clear focus on intention and goodness. Whether I’m talking with the team behind , a new literary magazine of the Muslim left, or with friends gathered around a dinner table, I’m proud that my generation is paving the way for secular Muslims on our own terms: free of judgment and rooted in acceptance, in a legacy that began way before us. Through iftar dinners, donations, fundraising, community, and gathering, I’ve seen the generosity and love of Muslims have no limit. The iftar last week wasn’t just about the food on our plates or the warmth shared between those of us in the room. We’d gathered for another reason, too: Together, we raised money for a . A Gazan woman recently arrived, eight months pregnant, after relentless bombing by the
Israeli MILITARY. , a leading nonprofit that amplifies the narratives, talents, and leadership of Muslims, co-hosted this iftar. Kashif Shaikh, the cofounder and president, shared a few words about why hosting iftars with Muslims and non-Muslims has been “an important organizing endeavor in helping build solidarity and community—particularly during a difficult time for our Muslim siblings in Palestine and Sudan.” Now, with just days before Ramadan ends with Eid-al-Fitr, that’s the idea I want us all—Muslim and non-Muslim alike—to hold onto. In the face of brutal Islamophobia climate, and the constant specter of death in the places we hold dear, Muslims have always found meaning—and life-affirming support—among community.