Internal War on Love

On college love, temptation, and heartbreak from a Muslim-American perspective.  

By Sara Omer

Illustration by Kathleen Halley-Segal

I exist in a rift between two vastly different worlds, straining to hold them together.

The first world was introduced to me by my parents. I can only reach this one through focus and expert dissociation. I awake from my slumber in the middle of a silent night while everyone around me is snoring and dreaming. I splash unnervingly cool water on my body—first my hands, mouth, nose, and lastly my face, hair, and feet. I trudge my way over to my gold and black prayer mat that lies limp, droopy just like my eyelids. The mat glitters in the darkness of my small apartment as I prostrate on it and begin an otherworldly conversation with God. I must be perfect in front of Him. 

The other world is one that I did not get the chance to delve into until I moved into my first-year dorm at Columbia. Living alone in the city away from family meant figuring myself out in my own space. Making my own money and spending it on whatever food I liked—creamy butter chicken with garlic naan from Karahi, or fufu with okra stew from Accra—was only the beginning. The cool evening runs, late-night 1 train rides with newfound friends, and sporadic theological conversations at Nan Xiang Express about whether God exists—these now seemingly normal aspects of my life were unthinkable in my African Muslim household. As my mother would testimonially ask: What, you think you’re all grown now?

What my family had strictly rejected growing up–dating, hanging out with guys, even as friends–was now something that was naturally prevalent in this new setting. My personal boundaries surrounding dating persisted. I became convinced of the beauty of these restrictions, which stem from Islam and are in place to protect me. So, no touching guys, no hanging out with them, and certainly no dating. Most of the things which are sought after in relationships–trust, loyalty, love–have sprouted into the beautiful friendships that I have had over the years. So what was the point of a relationship?  

But as people began finding their romantic partners around me, I began to question what college love entailed. Some had serious labels, others fuzzy situationships; I did not understand why people entered relationships without the intention of something long-term. On the flip side, I could see the logic: How else would you know what exactly makes you compatible with someone without dating them? 

I began to reflect on these thoughts even more when my roommate began dating her boyfriend four months ago. I had not only witnessed every stage of the process, but became an integral part of her budding romance. One night, splayed on our beds ready to sleep, we faced one another in the darkness of our room. It's remarkable how open and bold we can get when only the moon silently bears witness to our buried emotions. This darkness had proven once again to be a safe haven for my dear friend, as she spiraled into a rollercoaster of palpable emotions and transparency over her first step into romantic love. Despite my inexperience with love, I could not help but share her excitement. 

Evidence of her new relationship was everywhere; the dried up petals she kept in a jar on her shelf; the balloons; the stuffed animals; the giddiness and peace she brought with her as she sauntered into our room despite a long and grueling day. While I had watched the fresh wound caused by her initial anxiety heal itself into a deep source of love, trust, and tranquility, I was still no closer to understanding. The more I seemed to ponder what exactly was so special about young love, the more isolated I felt from this world of love. There was a piece of the puzzle which I filled in with indifference, choosing to remain single despite having the freedom and ability to do as I pleased. So why did there still exist a void in my heart?

As a Muslim woman who is steadfast with her boundaries—especially regarding romantic and platonic relationships with men–I didn’t know how tempting the realm of love could be until a shy, Christian boy unexpectedly confessed their love for me. A flush of feelings came gushing out of my void; maybe that was the reason I had felt, and still feel, the effects so profoundly. I was melting under the words that any woman would die to hear, especially coming from a dysfunctional family in which such sweet nothings were just that—nothing. Despite my undying dedication to my boundaries, I found myself shoved into this world I had tried so hard to separate myself from. This was finally the beginning of a love I hadn’t realized I wanted. 

My fierce emotions emerged sporadically over the course of three days, a week before Valentine’s. Yearning, uncertainty, and regret; my heart violently switched between these three fervent states by merely talking, texting, and calling with this boy. I knew it couldn’t go anywhere for a multitude of reasons, and yet I embarked on the ephemeral journey anyway. I didn’t do it out of spite for the boundaries that I place on myself due to my love and respect for my religion. I couldn’t quite formulate why I responded so affirmatively to his sudden interest in me. But everything, despite being thrilling for a romantically aloof girl like me, also felt so wrong. Although all we had done was sip coffee and converse about theology, Columbia, and our frustration with the injustice that plagues the world around us (disappointingly innocent, you might think), his carefully curated poetry, his heart-melting compliments, and his direct declaration of wanting to make something of whatever this was left me frazzled and disheveled. 

Our final phone call was bittersweet; we mutually agreed that because of our different faiths, my refusal to break my boundaries, as well as other, more troubling reasons, we were better off as distant friends.

That was it. In three days, I had torn out the pages of what could have been the first chapter of my first romantic relationship. Despite immense relief from this anxiety-inducing mirage of a fantasy, my feelings of deep sorrow and anger had filled the void in my heart that I had tried all my life to keep empty. This whole ordeal—unsolicited love-bombing, the questioning of my boundaries, and persistent requests to break them—left me feeling violated. My first experience in this scary world of love—or what I thought was love—did not bring me any closer to finding the answer to my question. Rather, another question had emerged from Pandora's box: Why do people seek this love knowing that it may end in heartbreak, for better or for worse?

I still do not have the answer to this question. But if there is one thing I understood from my internal war on love, it is to be unapologetically proud of the restrictions I place on myself out of sheer faith, love, and devotion to my religion. These tests of patience that will be inherent to my college life and beyond are meant to make my future love story all the more sweet. 

Growing up in a family where boy-talk was too taboo a topic for my immigrant parents to entertain makes it all the more difficult to navigate the real world that exists beyond the bounds of my childhood home. Many Muslim women like me often feel torn between these two opposite yet intertwined worlds. This year, February, in which my collegiate world is inundated with odes to romantic love, overlaps with the Holy month of Ramadan, a month of spiritual love; this dichotomy alone is a testament to this rift.

And yet, there is still so much to be taken from both these worlds; from the first, the world grounded in chocolate, serenades, and roses, it is that you live, you learn, and you make mistakes. From the other, spiritual world—a world I assumed I knew how to navigate inside and out—I learned to seek refuge and comfort in when things don’t always go so smoothly here on earth. 

Maybe these two worlds were never meant to be so separate. Now, when I return to my golden prayer mat in the middle of the tranquil night, I don’t feel so bad about entering my special, secret world with baggage, regret, and a wide range of emotions. I know that once the first wink of dawn teases my dorm window, I will be newer, stronger, and a more resilient Muslim woman. I am meant to be imperfect.