“I’ll go to HELL if you don’t!” She said.

First and foremost, I’m retelling this story as part of my own healing process and knowing others would benefit from learning from it. I do not, under any circumstances, want anyone to “pray for me to find my way back” or to “pray for me to find Jesus.” You will find this BLOCK BUTTON. 😊 I find it passive-aggressive and undermining my respect for spiritual beliefs that have been nothing but safe, loving, and adoring to me since I found them. To “pray me away” from something like that is “evil and demonic,” and you should be ashamed of yourself for “trying.”

Now, let’s get started. 💫

I was 15 at the time, attending a private Mennonite Christian school in Philly. My family is predominantly Muslim, and I attended Arabic school on the weekends. It wasn’t until I came to live with my mother at 12 that I was expected to practice full Islam. Around this time, I was starting to struggle with my religious beliefs. Having learned from both sides of the Abrahamic religions, having friends who were Christian, and dating a pastor's kid at the time, I felt pressured to pick a side.

Though neither side truly felt like me, anytime I truly considered taking the plunge into one religion, I immediately felt the sinking feeling of being a hypocrite. I felt I did not belong, especially given the people I had witnessed who were so “holy” yet so wicked at the same time. I had begun to rebel against going to chapel at school and going to Arabic school. Funny enough, I got great grades in both religion classes. I loved learning about theology genuinely.

My mother noticed. One day, I had a doctor's appointment, and she was taking me back to school. While we waited for the trolley, she brought up Ramadan, which was fast approaching (or already started; I can’t remember that part too well), and she asked me if I was going to fast. Without hesitation, I said no, just like I hadn’t fasted the last time.

She frowned and said that I was born Muslim and should fast. I thought this would be a good time to be honest with her about how I really felt. So, I told her how I didn’t feel a connection. It felt very wrong for me to be at the mosque; I felt like a hypocritical outsider. Essentially, when I prayed, Allah never answered me. I didn’t feel him, just like with the Christian God. I never felt either of them.

My mom was quiet for a second, blinking at me like I had two heads. I could see that she was trying to comprehend what I had said, but instead, she went with a typical West African mother’s response: guilt. “Well, I am the one responsible to make all of you (referring to my siblings and I) good Muslims. If you don’t become Muslim, you’ll be sending me to hell. You don’t want your own mother to go to hell?” she said. Yep, in public and all, fully disappointed but also annoyed that I even tried to have a heart-to-heart with her because I know how my mother is now. She cared more about appearances than my genuine belief. Because of her popularity, If I wasn’t at the mosque and Eid celebrations, people would ask and then talk.

So, I responded with a question. “Mommy, if you knew there was a possibility you were going to hell, why would you have children?” I asked. She couldn’t answer me. Shoot, I was shocked by my own reply. Thankfully for the both of us, the trolley came, and she changed the subject. The short ride back to school was quick, and that was the first and last time she ever mentioned going to hell again. However, it wasn’t the last time we argued about my beliefs.

💫

That was one of the core memories that led me down my agnostic spiritual path. I couldn’t believe that a supposedly loving God would damn its followers for their children’s beliefs. It didn’t make sense logically (shoutout to the air signs lol) So, I opened my mind and heart elsewhere. Being Fulani, my family also believes in traditional medicine and seers within our Islamic culture, so that led me to more research about my ancestors and where I am today. My belief in wellness, holistic health, astrology and agnosticism is where my spirit is at peace.

As sad as it was to experience that, I am grateful for it. I know my mother is only who she is because of her upbringing, and she did not have the same courage or privileges as I do at my age to explore. Something she sacrificed for me to achieve. I am well aware of honor 🔪 in certain Islamic cultures, and I am grateful that in this particular family, we are not as orthodox.

I am considered the black sheep, and that comes with a lot of spiritual growth. I am grateful that at a young age, I knew to trust myself and block out the noise, to survive and study until I could practice my own beliefs safely.

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