Masud

Becoming Muslim: C. Huda Dodge

By Editor

Categories : Conversion Stories

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• 06, January, 2015

In The Name of Allah Most Gracious, Most Merciful.

It’s interesting for me to look back on my life and see how it all fits together – how Allah planned this for me all along. When I think about it, I can’t help saying “Subhannallah”, and thank Allah for bringing me to where I am today. At other times, I feel sad that I was not born into Islam and been a Muslim all my life. While I admire those who were, I at times pity them because sometimes they don’t really appreciate this blessing.

Insha’Allah, reading this can help you understand how I, at least, came to be a Muslim. Whether it gives you ideas for da’wah, or just gives you some inspiration in your own faith, I hope it is worth your time to read, insha’Allah. It is my story, but I think a lot of others might see themselves in it.

I was born in San Francisco, California, and raised in a Bay Area suburb. My small own (San Anselmo, pop. about 14,000 when I last checked) was a mostly white, upper-middle-class, Christian community. It is a beautiful area – just north of San Francisco (across the Golden Gate Bridge), nestled in a valley near the hillsides (Mount Tamalpais) and the Pacific Ocean. I knew all of my neighbours, played baseball in the street, caught frogs in the creeks, rode horses in the hills, and climbed trees in my front yard.

My father is Presbyterian, and my mother is Catholic. My father was never active in any church, but my mother tried to raise us as Catholics. She took us to church sometimes, but we didn’t know what was going on. People stand up, sit down, kneel, sit again, stand up, and recite things after the priest. Each pew had a booklet – a kind of “direction book” -and we had to follow along in order to know what to do next (if we didn’t fall asleep first!). I was baptized in this church, and received my First Communion at about the age of 8 (I have pictures, but I don’t remember it much). After that, we only went about once a year.

I lived on a dead-end street of about 15 houses. My grammar school was at the end of the street (4 houses down), next to a small Presbyterian Church. When I was about 10, the people of this church invited me to participate in their children’s Christmas play. Every Sunday morning from then on, I walked down to church alone (no one else in my family was interested in coming). The whole congregation was only about 30 older people (past their 50’s), but they were nice and never made me feel out of place. There were about three younger couples with children younger than me.

I became a very active member of this church down the street. When I was in 6th grade, I started baby-sitting the younger kids during the service. By ninth grade, I was helping the minister’s wife teach Sunday school. In high school, I started a church youth group by recruiting 4 of my friends to join me. It was a small group:  my friends, myself, and a young couple with kids, but we liked it that way. The big Presbyterian Church in town had about 100 kids in their youth group and took trips to Mexico, etc. Nevertheless, our group was content to get together to study the bible, talk about God, and raise money for  charities.

These friends and I would sit together and talk about spiritual issues. We debated about questions in our minds: what happens to the people who lived before Jesus came (go to heaven or hell); why do some very righteous people automatically go to hell just because they don’t believe in Jesus (we thought about Gandhi); on the other hand, why do some pretty horrible people (like my friend’s abusive father) get rewarded with heaven just because they’re Christian; why does a loving and merciful God require a blood sacrifice (Jesus) to forgive people’s sins; why are we guilty of Adam’s original sin; why does the Word of God (Bible) disagree with scientific facts; how can Jesus be God; how can One God be 3 different things; etc. We debated about these things, but never came up with good answers. The church couldn’t give us good answers either; they only told us to “have faith”.

The people at church told me about a Presbyterian summer camp in Northern California. I went for the first time when I was 10. For the next 7 years, I went every summer. While I was happy with the little church I went to, this is where I really felt in touch with God, without confusion. It was here that I developed my very deep faith in God. We spent much of our time outdoors, playing games, doing crafts, swimming, etc. It was fun, but every day we would also take time out to pray, study the bible, sing spiritual songs, and have `quiet time.’ It is this quiet time that really meant a lot to me, and of which I have the best memories. The rule was that you had to sit alone – anywhere on the camp’s 200 beautiful acres. I would often go to a meadow, or sit on a bridge overlooking the creek, and just THINK. I looked around me, at the creek, the trees, the clouds, the bugs – listened to the water, the birds’ songs, the crickets’ chirps. This place really let me feel at peace, and I admired and thanked God for His beautiful creation. At the end of each summer, when I  returned home, this feeling stayed with me. I loved to spend time outdoors, alone, to just think about God, life, and my place in it. I developed my personal understanding of Jesus’ role as a teacher and example, and left all the confusing church teachings behind.

I believed (and still do) in the teaching “Love your neighbour as yourself”, fully giving to  others without expecting anything in return, treating others as you would like to be treated.  I strived to help everyone I could. When I was fourteen, I got my first job, at an ice cream  store. When I got my paycheck each month (it wasn’t much), I sent the first $25 to a program  called “Foster Parents Plan” (they’ve changed the name now). This charity hooked up needy children overseas with American sponsors. During my 4 years of high school, I was a  sponsor for a young Egyptian boy named Sherif. I sent him part of my paycheck each month, and  we exchanged letters. (His letters were in Arabic, and looking at them now, it appears that he  believed he was writing to an adult man, not a girl 5 years older than him.) He was 9 years old,  his father was dead, and his mother was ill and couldn’t work. He had 2 younger brothers and a  sister my age. I remember getting a letter from him when I was 16 – he was excited because his  sister had got engaged. I thought, “She’s the same age as me, and she’s getting engaged!” It  seemed so foreign to me. These were the first Muslims I had contact with.

Aside from this, I was also involved with other activities in high school. I tutored Central  American students at my school in English. In a group called “Students for Social Responsibility,”  I helped charities for Nicaraguan school children and Kenyan villagers. We campaigned against  nuclear arms (the biggest fear we all had at that time was of a nuclear war).

I invited exchange students from France into my home, and I had penpals from all over the world  (France, Germany, Sweden, etc.). My junior year of high school, we hosted a group called  `Children of War’ – a group of young people from South Africa, Gaza Strip, Guatemala, and other  war-torn lands, who toured the country telling their stories and their wishes for peace. Two of  them stayed at my house – the group’s chaperone from Nicaragua, and a young black South African  man. The summer after my junior year of high school, I took a volunteer job in San Francisco  (the Tenderloin district), teaching English to refugee women. In my class were Fatimah and  Maysoon, 2 Chinese Muslim widows from Vietnam. These were the next Muslims I met, although  we couldn’t talk much (their English was too minimal). All they did was laugh.

All of these experiences put me in touch with the outside world, and led me to value people  of all kinds. Throughout my youth and high school, I had developed two very deep interests:  faith in God, and interacting with people from other countries. When I left home to attend  college in Portland, Oregon, I brought these interests with me.

At Lewis & Clark College, I started out as a Foreign Language (French & Spanish) major,  with a thought to one day work with refugee populations, or teach English as a Second  Language. When I arrived at school, I moved into a dorm room with two others – a girl  from California (who grew up only 10 minutes from where I did), and a 29-year-old  Japanese woman (exchange student). I was 17.

I didn’t know anyone else at school, so I tried to get involved in activities to meet people.  In line with my interests, I chose to get involved with 2 groups: Campus Crusade for Christ  (obviously, a Christian group), and Conversation Groups (where they match Americans up with  a group of international students to practice English).

I met with the Campus Crusade students during my first term of school. A few of the people  that I met were very nice, pure-hearted people, but the majority were very ostentatious.  We got together every week to listen to “personal testimonies”, sing songs, etc. Every week  we visited a different church in the Portland area. Most of the churches were unlike anything  I’d ever been exposed to before. One final visit to a church in the Southeast area freaked  me out so much that I quit going to the Crusade meetings. At this church, there was a rock band with electric guitars, and people were waving their hands in the air (above their heads,  with their eyes closed) and singing “hallelujah.” I had _never_ seen anything like it! I see  things like this now on TV, but coming from a very small Presbyterian Church, I was disturbed.  Others in Campus Crusade loved this church, and they continued to go. The atmosphere seemed so  far removed from the worship of God, and I didn’t feel comfortable returning.

I always felt closest to God when I was in a quiet setting and/or outdoors. I started taking  walks around campus (Lewis & Clark College has a beautiful campus!), sitting on benches,  looking at the view of Mount Hood, watching the trees change colors. One day I wandered  into the campus chapel – a small, round building nestled in the trees. It was beautifully  simple. The pews formed a circle around the center of the room, and a huge pipe organ hung  from the ceiling in the middle. No altar, no crosses, no statues – nothing. Just some  simple wood benches and a pipe organ. During the rest of the year, I spent a lot of  time in this building, listening to the organist practice, or just sitting alone in the  quiet to think. I felt more comfortable and closer to God there than at any church I had  ever been to.

During this time, I was also meeting with a group of international students as part of the  Conversation Group program. We had five people in our group: me, a Japanese man and woman, an  Italian man and a Palestinian man. We met twice a week over lunch, to practice English  conversation skills. We talked about our families, our studies, our childhood, cultural  differences, etc. As I listened to the Palestinian man (Faris) talk about his life, his  family, his faith, etc., it struck a nerve in me. I remembered Sherif, Fatima and Maysoon,  the only other Muslims I had ever known. Previously, I had seen their beliefs and way of  life as foreign, something that was alien to my culture. I never bothered to learn about their faith because of this cultural barrier. But the more I learned about Islam, the more  I became interested in it as a possibility for my own life.

During my second term of school, the conversation group disbanded and the international  students transferred to other schools. The discussions we had had, however, stayed at the  front of my thoughts. The following term, I registered for a class in the religious studies  department: Introduction to Islam. This class brought back all of the concerns that I had  about Christianity. As I learned about Islam, all of my questions were answered. None of us are punished for Adam’s original sin. Adam asked God for forgiveness and our  Merciful and Loving God forgave him. God doesn’t require a blood sacrifice in payment  for sin. We must sincerely ask for forgiveness and amend our ways. Jesus wasn’t God,  he was a prophet, like all of the other prophets, who all taught the same message:  Believe in the One true God; worship and submit to Him alone; and live a righteous  life according to the guidance He has sent. This answered all of my questions about  the trinity and the nature of Jesus (all God, all human, or a combination). God is  a Perfect and Fair Judge, who will reward or punish us based on our faith and  righteousness. I found a teaching that put everything in its proper perspective,  and appealed to my heart and my intellect. It seemed natural. It wasn’t confusing.  I had been searching, and I had found a place to rest my faith.

That summer, I returned home to the Bay Area and continued my studies of Islam.  I checked books out of the library and talked with my friends. They were as deeply  spiritual as I was, and had been searching (most of them were looking into eastern  religions, Buddhism in particular). They understood my search, and were happy I could find  something to believe in. They raised questions, though, about how Islam would affect my  life: as a woman, as a liberal Californian, with my family, etc. I continued to study,  pray and soul-search to see how comfortable I really was with it. I sought out Islamic  centers in my area, but the closest one was in San Francisco, and I never got to  visit (no car, and bus schedules didn’t fit with my work schedule). So I continued to  search on my own. When it came up in conversation, I talked to my family about it. I  remember one time in particular, when we were all watching a public television program  about the Eskimos. They said that the Eskimos have over 200 words for “snow”, because  snow is such a big part of their life. Later that night, we were talking about how  different languages have many words for things that are important to them. My father  commented about all the different words Americans use for “money” (money, dough, bread,  etc.). I commented, “You know, the Muslims have 99 names for God – I guess that’s what  is important to them.”

At the end of the summer, I returned to Lewis & Clark. The first thing I did was contact  the mosque in south-west Portland. I asked for the name of a woman I could talk to, and  they gave me the number of a Muslim American sister. That week, I visited her at home.  After talking for a while, she realized that I was already a believer. I told her I was  just looking for some women who could help guide me in the practicalities of what it  meant to be a Muslim. For example, how to pray. I had read it in books, but I couldn’t  figure out how to do it just from books. I made attempts, and prayed in English, but  I knew I wasn’t doing it right. The sister invited me that night to an aqiqa (dinner  after the birth of a new baby). She picked me up that night and we went. I felt so  comfortable with the Muslim sisters there, and they were very friendly to me that night.  I said my shahaada, witnessed by a few sisters. They taught me how to pray. They talked  to me about their own faith (many of them were also American). I left that night feeling  like I had just started a new life.

I was still living in a campus dorm, and was pretty isolated from the Muslim community. I  had to take two buses to get to the area where the mosque was (and where most of the women  lived). I quickly lost touch with the women I met, and was left to pursue my faith on my  own at school. I made a few attempts to go to the mosque, but was confused by the meeting  times. Sometimes I’d show up to borrow some books from the library, and the whole building  would be full of men. Another time I decided to go to my first Jumah (Friday) prayer, and I  couldn’t go in for the same reason. Later, I was told that women only meet at a certain time  (Saturday afternoon), and that I couldn’t go at other times. I was discouraged and confused, but I continued to have faith and learn on my own.

Six months after my shahaada, I observed my first Ramadan. I had been contemplating the  issue of hijab, but was too scared to take that step. I had already begun to dress  more modestly, and usually wore a scarf over my shoulders (when I visited the sister, she  told me “all you have to do is move that scarf from your shoulders to your head, and you’ll be  Islamically dressed.”). At first, I didn’t feel ready to wear hijab, because I didn’t feel strong  enough in my faith. I understood the reason for it, agreed with it, and admired the women who  did wear it, they looked so pious and noble. But I knew that if I wore it, people would ask me  many questions, and I didn’t feel ready or strong enough to deal with that.

This changed as Ramadan approached, and on the first day of Ramadan, I woke up and went to class  in hijab. Alhamdillah, I haven’t taken it off since. Something about Ramadan helped me to feel  strong, and proud to be a Muslim. I felt ready to answer anybody’s questions.

However, I also felt isolated and lonely during that first Ramadan. No one from the Muslim  community even called me. I was on a meal plan at school, so I had to arrange to get special  meals (the dining hall wasn’t open during the hours I could eat). The school agreed to give  me my meals in bag lunches. So every night as sundown approached, I’d walk across the street  to the kitchen, go in the back to the huge refrigerators, and take my 2 bag lunches (one for  fitoor (sunset breakfast meal), one for suhoor (pre-dawn meal)). I’d bring the bags back to my  dorm room and eat alone. They always had the same thing: yoghurt, a piece of fruit, cookies,  and either a tuna or egg salad sandwich. The same thing, for both meals, for the whole month.  I was lonely, but at the same time I had never felt more at peace with myself.

When I embraced Islam, I told my family. They were not surprised. They kind of saw it coming,  from my actions and what I said when I was home that summer. They accepted my decision, and  knew that I was sincere. Even before, my family always accepted my activities and my deep  faith, even if they didn’t share it. They were not as open-minded, however, when I started  to wear hijab. They worried that I was cutting myself off from society, that I would be  discriminated against, that it would discourage me from reaching my goals, and they were  embarrassed to be seen with me. They thought it was too radical. They didn’t mind if I had  a different faith, but they didn’t like it to affect my life in an outward way.

They were more upset when I decided to get married. During this time, I had been back  in touch with Faris, the Muslim Palestinian brother of my conversation group, the one who  first prompted my interest in Islam. He was still in the Portland area, attending the  community college. We started meeting again, over lunch, in the library, at his brother’s  house, etc. We were married the following summer (after my sophomore year, a year after my  shahaada). My family freaked out. They weren’t quite yet over my hijab, and they felt like  I had thrown something else at them. They argued that I was too young, and worried that I  would abandon my goals, drop out of school, become a young mother, and destroy my life.  They liked my husband, but didn’t trust him at first (they were thinking “green card scam”).  My family and I fought over this for several months, and I feared that our relationship  would never be repaired.

That was 3 years ago, and a lot has changed. Faris and I moved to Corvallis, Oregon, home  of Oregon State University. We live in a very strong and close-knit Muslim community. I  graduated magna cum laude, with a degree in child development. I have had several  jobs, from secretary to pre-school teacher, with no problems about my hijab. I’m active in  the community, and still do volunteer work. My husband, insha’Allah, also finished his Electrical  Engineering degree. We visit my family a couple of times a year. I met Faris’  parents for the first time this summer, and we get along great. I’m slowly but surely adding Arabic to the list of languages I speak.

My family has seen all of this, and has recognized that I didn’t destroy my life. They see that  Islam has brought me happiness, not pain and sorrow. They are proud of my accomplishments, and  can see that I am truly happy and at peace. Our relationship is back to Alhamdulillah.

Looking back on all of this, I feel truly grateful that Allah has guided me to where I am  today. I truly feel blessed. It seems that all of the pieces of my life fit together in a  pattern – a path to Islam.

Alhamdillillahi rabi al’amin.

Your sister in faith, C. Huda Dodge “Say: Allah’s guidance is the only guidance, and  we have been directed to submit ourselves to the Lord of the Worlds…”