Lipstick Jihad by Azadeh Moaveni Read Free Book Online

But Maman was one day struck by worry that I’d grow up ignorant of Islam, and decided some formal religious training was in order. Every four years she seemed to choose a new religious avenue to explore, convinced our lives were lacking in spirituality, and since we had already done Buddhism and Hinduism, and briefly toyed with Mormonism, it was Islam’s turn.
    That was the summer she enrolled us in a Sunni mosque. It was called the San Jose Islamic Association, but it was really an enclave of super-pious, Sunni Pakistanis who had dedicated their experience in America to avoiding their experience in America. A shabby pink Victorian housed both the mosque and the Islamic Association; bearded men led the sermon, and the women in the back, dressed in salwar kameez, dashed off at the final “allah akbar” to heat up the naan. The sermons were boring, and the Pakistanis were cliquey, but the afternoon morality class was the worst.
    Brother Rajabali (or somesuch pious name), a dark, spindly man whose unenviable job it was to make the harsh Sunni morality applicable to our lives in California, had dedicated the afternoon’s lesson to sex, and how its only purpose was procreation. Maman nodded gravely, the Bosnian girls scribbled notes to one another, and I sat wondering whether all Sunnis were so narrow-minded. Eventually, I convinced a coalition of relatives the mosque was run by fundamentalist, radical Sunnis who were trying to brainwash me. My grandmother interceded, afraid I would be turned away from Islam forever, and we never set foot again into the sad old Victorian with its angry believers. They still send us their monthly newsletter, full of ads for halal meat grocers we never frequent.
    The civil war in our house—heralded by the Madonna fight and the
weekly doses of Brother Rajabali—erupted unexpectedly on a fall afternoon, during a placid walk around the neighborhood. By that time I was well into high school, and envious of friends who had co-conspirator mothers, always ready to help them primp for first dates, delighted to follow the twists and turns of their teenage romances. I deeply hoped that Maman and I were ready to transcend the don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy we had been driven to by the ceaseless arguments of my early teenage years. As we walked, she turned and with the kindest smile said to me, “Azadeh jan, I want you to know that if you ever decide to become, ahem, close with your boyfriend, I’m here for you, and want to know about it. Not to lecture you, but because I want to be your friend and advise you. There are so many important things you might not be thinking about, and I’m in a position to help.” Maman was devoutly into meditation, yoga, and all the other spiritual hobbies in California that teach a person, even a displaced Iranian, how to sound far more open-minded, sensitive, and tolerant than they actually are.
    A wise voice inside my head told me to be skeptical, but I was so enchanted at the prospect of having a modern mother—already envisioning us stopping at Planned Parenthood together on the way to the mall—that with breathtaking stupidity I told her the truth. Immediately red splotches appeared all over her face, and she began crying, in huge, gulping sobs, emitting a string of incoherent denials and interrogations: “Khak bar saram [may dirt fall on my head!]. . . . Vay, vay . . . You’re too young, why did we ever come to this mamlekat-e-kharabshodeh [ruined country]. . . . When?? ... For how long?” I had been duped, and would pay for it dearly. “What is wrong with you?” I yelled. “You tricked me! How can you do this, after asking yourself? You promised to help .” The sun sank, and we were still walking. The tears came fast and furious as we did lap after lap around streets that looked the same. That week, Maman re-enrolled in therapy, banned my boyfriend from the house, and vilified him with