thepotatoparables

I am uncertain whether it is ultimately a privilege or a curse in disguise – to have been raised by Muslim parents in a society where the teachings of Islam are observed by the masses. It seemed like the only obvious way of life, of course. When your mother labored to bring you into this world, the first words your delicate, red little ears heard were those of the Aa’zaan – the call to prayer. When you were prepped up in your high chair at age 1, proudly exposing the first of your milk teeth, the sweet scent of mashed bananas on your bib, you heard your father adoringly say Bismillah before every spoonful he fed you. When you began to stand despite your unsteady knees and fragile toes, grabbing on to the closest piece of furniture for support, with each wobbly step your mother sighed MashaAllah . When you mumbled a prayer seconds before you were handed your Math exam, the tension in your shoulders eased, knowing that God had heard you, the way He heard you all those ti