Children of Dust_ A Memoir of Pakistan - Ali Eteraz [106]
The youth loved the annual ISNA event. We attended primarily to socialize with other Muslims of similar age and interests. Much of the hobnobbing took place late at night, in the various hotel lobbies. The best lobby was at the Hyatt. The youth ironically called it Club Hayat, which—translated loosely—means Club Modesty.
During the nighttime at Club Hayat youth broke up into a few identifiable groups. In each group boys and girls comingled and flirted, all under the guise of talking about medical school admissions, gender relations at their MSA, alternative (meaning lesser) career paths besides medicine, and the future of Islamic leadership.
Around eleven o’clock, Club Hayat emptied out a bit as the more adventurous youth snuck out to actual clubs in Chicago. Those not able to go—say, because they were dressed in full Islamic regalia, like yours truly—were filled with resentment and disparaged those “wack Muslims.”
Around three in the morning, there was another clearing out of the Club. This time those who’d had the good fortune of finding a hookup headed outside to a car or upstairs to find an empty room. These pairs could be identified by their watchful peers: all of a sudden a sister would break away from her friends and walk toward the elevators by herself, followed, at an appreciable distance, by a brother pretending he was sleepy. They would get into different elevators, of course, that would—due to Islamic magic—stop at the same floor. (The elevators at the Hyatt were glass, so observers could catch all this.) Sometimes these encounters didn’t work out so well, though, often because the girl and the guy had different expectations in mind. In that case, the guy would end up forcing himself on top of the girl, and she—feeling that she couldn’t cry out for help since she was doing something sinful at what was supposed to be a place for learning Islam and being pious—would end up taking it.
All the remaining youth at the Club stuck around until the morning prayer. Then they prayed and snuck into their rooms with their sleeping (or wakeful) parents. The adults, who normally would have imposed nine o’clock evening curfews on their children, didn’t interrogate or get angry if this late arrival was discovered, because this was an Islamic convention; everyone knew that at a large gathering of Muslims, all the participants were pious.
When I arrived at the ISNA convention decked out in my Islamic regalia I received a lot of attention from brothers and sisters. When I was riding with my fellow MSA-ers on the shuttle from the airport to the hotel, a group of youngish bushy-bearded brothers in long white thowbs, lecturing to one another about the benefits of living in a Muslim country and pledging to one another that they’d leave “this immoral America” as soon as they got their parents to pay off their student loans, glanced appreciatively in my direction.
My clothes had so much impact that a guy from another delegation—he’d introduced himself earlier as Razaq—saw me walking alone in the parking lot and came over to make a confession of his sins.
“I go to clubs,” he said. “I don’t drink, but I just can’t stop going.”
“Clubs are haram, of course,” I reminded him.
“I know,” he said. “I really try to do halal things, but it’s hard. My parents aren’t very religious. They’re opposed to my sister wearing hijab.”
“Well, you don’t wear a beard,” I noted. “You should grow one to support her.”
“She’s a better person than I am.”
I nodded. “But you have to want to be a better Muslim,” I told him.
“How?”
“Being a good Muslim is about representing Islam,” I said. “You must show Muslims and non-Muslims your love of the faith—usually with external symbols.