Ramadan Musings

Here are some of my Ramadan musings:

  • When Deprivation is Part of the Journey 

“I became a Muslim two decades ago. Seven years later, I married the man who would become the father of my son; Ibrahim arrived a year later. By that point, a hijab sat on my head and I lived in Central Asia. I returned to the United States before moving to the Middle East, with back-and-forth trips to Pakistan throughout.  I experienced Islam and Ramadan in many places around the world.

I rarely experienced Ramadan internally.”

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  • Twenty Years of Stomach-Shrinking Ramadan 

“Your fast only counts if you are Muslim,” a man from Syria once said to me. I was eighteen-years–old, not quite Muslim but on the cusp, when he made this assertion.

“That was a horrible thing to say,” my Lebanese friend rebutted. “Shame on him,” she chastised with a shake of her head while she spooned iftari tabbouli on my plate.

It was too late, however. I had already internalized the message that only one legitimate story existed regarding Ramadan, and shame on you if your fasting experience presented a counter narrative. I was a year out of my bariatric surgery. I should not have tried fasting with such a diminutive stomach, but my heart desired to expand in the direction of Mecca. A year after my first fast, I would be a card carrying Muslim, and no thanks to Mr. Syria.

Some are unyielding when it comes to the Holy month. As one of the main tenants of Islam, it isn’t something to casually dismiss, but for me, Ramadan arrived each year as a personal dilemma. For two decades, I desired to feel the excitement other Muslims claimed to experience, but instead of anticipation, I felt dread at what Ramadan would do to me. I kept this anxiety to myself, having always felt too embarrassed to confide, what I considered my weakness, in anyone. “

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Ghost Frontier

DSC05401The last time I thought of ghosts and other spectral matters, the ground was frozen and the air frigid. Many things have thawed in the summer heat,  including my once-upon-a-time persona as a “paranormal investigator.” I’m putting on that hat again — at least, for a few minutes – or, more appropriately, I’m pulling on one of my black t-shirts to talk about ghost hunting.

To be honest, I’m not really talking about “ghost hunting” in the way one sees on TV.  On Friday, July 11th, I’m speaking at the Rhine Research Center about why ghost hunting/survival research/afterlife study is important for American society. My lecture, “The Ghost Frontier,” will be at the Stedman Auditorium at the Duke Center for Living Campus at 7:00-9:00 pm.

John Kruth, the Executive Director of the Rhine Research Center (former Duke Parapsychology Lab) emailed me about speaking in July during their month-long themed events on field investigation. I jumped at the opportunity. The RRC is a fascinating organization conducting unusual and compelling research that “explores the frontiers of consciousness and exceptional human experiences in the context of unusual and unexplained phenomena.” The Rhine hosts Friday night lectures and other gatherings that elevates the dialogue around subjects (like precognition, ESP) often clouded in cliched discussion.

I’m honored to speak at the Rhine because it allows me to really dig into my social and cultural theory academic background within the context of my experience as an investigator.  I’ll link today’s paranormal investigative culture to creativity (WB Yeats), the philosophy of science (William James), spirituality, the history of parapsychology and popular culture.

If you have any interest in these topics, or if you are a cultural studies enthusiast, I hope to see you there or hear that you are registered for the online simulcast. If you aren’t in the area, this provides a perfect excuse to visit NC — there are lots of touristy things to do in these parts.

If you do make the trip, Saturday, July 12th is a workshop with David Rountree followed by an investigation at an active (but undisclosed) location!






A Map of Home


My latest “Thoughts of a Wasat Girl” column.

Originally posted on Love, InshAllah:


Lately, I think in the shape of maps. Cartography is a relevant metaphor as my boundaries are bending yet again. My tongue wags in the direction of due East. I am revisiting old languages while my writing hand rests.


The immigrants gather together in my coffee shop, no matter the country of their origin. They call personal grammars from the air. The Persians gesture with palms towards the heavens; the Arabs stretch arms out wide as if to catch a word before it leaves the sentence; Indians write postcolonial diatribes with cigarette smoke. Some drink to lost memories hidden in their tea or coffee cups. A few read their stories from beer foam. They all remember somewhere else and some time from before.

He tells me that he would be disappointed if he returned home after thirty years of absence. Nothing will be as I remember, he says. He wasn’t…

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Joy(less) Motherhood


My latest “Thoughts of a Wasat Girl” column.

Originally posted on Love, InshAllah:

Pregnant Pakistani-style. Mujtaba, Jamal, and Hamid. (Ibrahim is in my belly.)

Pregnant Pakistani-style. Mujtaba, Jamal, and Hamid. (Ibrahim is in my belly.)

The text arrived while I sat at a coffee shop bent over a lazy notebook and a blank page. Happy Mother’s Day, the text read. Thank you for taking care of us. I can only imagine how stressful it was. I hope you’re doing well.

My head jerked back as I sucked in caffeinated air. I sat in my chair for approximately three seconds before I retreated to the bathroom to cry. I continued bawling on the way home. Later while in the shower, I moaned like an animal as the water attempted to wash away my grief and sadness.

I have found myself trying to avoid this aspect of my past during the two-and-a-half years since I left my marriage. There are many things that I freely share about my decision to leave Zalmay, my ex-husband. I have never discussed how…

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Ghosts and Other Matters


Artwork by Terri Garofalo, the creator of

Artwork by Terri Garofalo, the creator of

My first book, Paranormal Obsession: America’s Fascination with Ghosts & Hauntings, Spooks & Spirits, is a cultural studies discussion regarding America’s fascination with the paranormal. For those who have read the book, I credit my cousin, Diana Logan, for being the one who introduced me to the concept of “ghost hunting.”  A haircut one summer when I returned stateside from the Kingdom of Bahrain launched me on a remarkable journey of self-discovery.

In some ways, ghosts turned me into a writer.

Paranormal investigation is a seemingly bizarre avocation, indeed, but one that speaks to a great deal about who we are as a society.

Diana is something of an anomaly,  if I may say so. She is this vibrant personality with remarkable stories of survival and strength. She seems to always have a little magic floating around her. (Watch her talk about one magical incident in her life here.)

Take a view moments to view a short video where we discuss our spirited journey,  how it changed our lives, and ways that the metaphor of ghosts & hauntings hints to a great deal more than things that go bump in the night.


Twelve Thoughts on a Tuesday

Chechnya Girl


That night when you leaned in to hug me good-bye and you offered me the thermal imaging camera, I knew then that you loved me, too. I did not take your thermal imaging camera because I loved you quite a lot and I sensed that you probably tended to give away too much of yourself to women who were probably too happy to take it all. I didn’t want to be like that. Besides, I assumed you loved that camera quite a lot, as well.


I remember what it felt to be in the room with you just talking, talking, talking, spilling beer on the floor, hearing you pee in the bathroom. I remember how nervous I felt because you were right there. Had you come sat next to me on the bed; had you moved in even closer, the evening would not have tasted as sweet.


I regret that I had once offered the opportunity for you to move in very close to me on the bed. To think that I felt I had no more value than that.


What I was not brave enough to say that night is how beautiful I found you, even in the space that hung between the two beds. I had wanted you to stay that evening, even if you had remained suspended in the distance. Your presence was enough. Just being in the room with you was enough.


After you left that night, I wrote this down: We are not yet at the point in our lives where we can fully honor this. I promised myself that I would try to remember what the moment felt like; there was something powerful and wonderful in the molecules around me; how I needed to grow up before I could swallow the wonder of it all. You must remember that you are in the presence of someone who loves you. As you know, I do not remember things well.


I forgive you. Please forgive me, too. I am trying to grow up.


When I see you again, I will smile. The only thing that will fall from my teeth will be joy. Loving you, even if you stand at a distance, brings me joy.


You are stubborn in your solitude. Fortunately, I am equally stubborn in my capacity to love. We have stubbornness in common.


Sometimes, I can feel you thinking about me. I know that you think about me. You know that I know that you think about me.


There is a saying from Prophet Muhammad that souls recognize one another from the time before when they were “gathered together.” Souls extend throughout time in multiple directions. The first time I saw you, I understood that my soul knew your soul from before.


You know, like I do, that there is a part two to this story.


There are other lovers, other wonders. And then, there is you.

Crying and Reclamation


My latest column at, “Thoughts of a Wasat Girl.”

Originally posted on Love, InshAllah:


“Love Wins”

I am not always strong.

There are times that I experience steep slopes of sadness. This doesn’t happen very often, but when it does, the sorrow arrives as crude, impolite explosions.

I don’t have everything together, no matter what type of confidence seeps out of my writing. I spend most of my time struggling from paycheck-to-paycheck, too poor to actually date should anyone ever ask me out.  I’m always in a suspended state of fear that this is all my life is going to be: a lonely existence with a salary that is barely livable. I feel like I’m stuck, and inertia is a type of sin in my world.

Sometimes, I feel like I should just give up and claim my rural White heritage. I will move to some small Southern town and live in a trailer park. Forget my complicated identity. Screw my vast life experience…

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The Ides of March


My latest “Wasat Girl” column at

Originally posted on Love, InshAllah:


The Ides of March

--(or how girl can write her way to a new life)

Last week, snow and ice kept me housebound for the third, and hopefully final time, this winter. This snowfall felt different than the previous ones. It arrived glutinous and sticky and carried a surreal sheen of pristine clean. It seemed that nature had saved the most beautiful display for the last seasonal flurry. I felt that it was sent just for me.

The ice weighed down trees until many limbs plummeted to the earth, as if set free from unspecified burdens. As temperatures rose throughout the day, a glorious soundscape ensued. Imagine a cacophony of dripping and flowing water, the hum of melting snow and cracking limbs, and birds already praising the spring weather that would arrive the next day. It was like a grand tick-tock of a celestial clock, all gears grinding in…

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