you weren't there and I didn't invite you along, ma
But will you understand that I am an atheist now?
Yes, I don't believe in God, ma.
But it's not so simple, ma
A jambalaya of what you taught me,
what I read in religious school,
what I saw in Karachi,
and what I learned in this new land, ma
I still aspire for spirituality but I don't believe in God's omnipresent powers
I still find solace in the community at jamatkhanna but I don't believe in the blessings
I still cling to the calmness in meditation but I don't repeat "ya Ali, ya Maula, ya Ali, ya Maula"
Can you understand that, ma?
But how do I tell you this
without attacking your motherhood, my childhood, your believes, ma
without questioning the faith built through those 5am mornings, in those daily visits to jamatkhannas that shaped our lives, for sixty-two years for you or almost twenty-two thousand and seven hundred days
without dismissing the holy embrace that kept you going through the difficult years of your marriage, all twenty-seven of them
without dismissing the holy embrace that gave you the strength to walk out
But I don't mean to attack you, ma
Now we feel like strangers
And I'm scared to show you myself, ma
I robbed you off of my morphism
I'm no longer that boy you remember at 18, ma
I went on a journey of my own
You weren't there, ma
And I didn't invite you along, ma
Now I stand here,
Wanting you to understand me, ma
12yrs old, I came home from school to your warm embrace
"How was your day, son?", "good", I smiled
But I didn't tell you that my friend, Murtaza, made fun of me today for walking like a girl
Why were my friends making fun of me, ma?
You didn't ask. And I didn't share, ma
14yrs old, I came home from school to your warm embrace
"How was your day, son?", "good", I smiled
But I didn't tell you that my friend of eight years, Bilal, mocked my religious beliefs and it felt like an attack on me, a safe space no longer safe
Why did my friends violate my trust, ma?
You didn't ask. And I didn't share, ma
16yrs old, I came home from school to your warm embrace
"How was your day, son?", "good", I smiled
But I didn't tell you that Taimur exclaimed "we don't even like you, why do you hang out with us" and yet I continued to sit there, with a straight face. I’d much rather be there, with less dignity, than eat lunch alone again
Why don't they like me, ma?
You didn't ask. And I didn't share, ma
18yrs old, you called "How's Houston? How are classes, son?", "good", I said
But I didn't tell you that the guys on my floor make fun of my accent, ma
Why have they reduced my worth to what I can say, ma?
You didn't ask. And I didn't share, ma
20yrs old, you called "How's Houston? How are classes, son?", "good", I said
But I didn't tell you that I've been swimming in the words of the American Declaration of Independence and wondering now why our imam deserved more devotion than me if "all men are created equal"
My faith is shaking, I'm scared, ma
You didn't ask. And I didn't share, ma
22yrs old, you called "How's Houston? How are classes, son?", "good", I said
But I didn't tell you that I'm learning about Bacon, Newton, and Kant and how these pious men's quest for truth resonates stronger within me than the words of the Quran now
My faith has cracked and I don't sleep well at night, ma
You didn't ask. And I didn't share, ma
Yesterday, when you called, in the silence between your "how are you doing, son?" And my "good", I wanted to scream, spill out all my feelings, all my confusions, all my worries, and all my truths
But where should I even begin, ma?
I was bruised and I cried
I was confused and I panicked
I was happy and I celebrated
I was growing and I changed
You weren't there
And I didn't invite you along, ma
I walked eight thousand miles barefoot
traversed mountains and swamps, without you
And, now, I expect you to be here, ma
"How are you doing, son?"
"I am an atheist. Do you still love me, ma?"
