Somehow my A.J. Jacobs book “The Year of Living Biblically” has made it under a stack of Islamic prayer books on my mom’s reading corner. Poor, privacy-averse mother. I guess she thinks I’m reading something that closely resembles a Bible and wanted to save me from eternal damnation, which clearly outweighs the sin of going through my things. There is an actual Bible somewhere in this house, with my name clearly written on it, and as it was a birthday gift, it even had my birth date. No point denying ownership. I should be careful not to leave *that* lying around.
Ustad (Arabic for “Islam teacher”) came to the house yesterday. He’s been coming in every Saturday morning for 7 years. His job is to make sure we don’t forget how to read the Qur’an. Unlikely. All of us kids went to Islamic schools for at least nine years, and we read Arabic better than our parents. They’re learning, though. In the beginning, Mom and Dad would compare notes on their reading progress. You hear them say things like “Ustad said we have to read this part and eyeball the next part at the same time. How is that possible?” and “Why is this one read like a full consonant, and that one’s just a light noise?” It’s humbling to see your own parents learn something new, especially something you already knew. Every Saturday, us kids get about 90 minutes with Ustad, then my dad has his own session for about an hour. Mom has her session with the same Ustad, but at her office, every Tuesday.
When he first started, Ustad wanted to teach us Arabic comprehension. He would teach us grammar and vocabulary. As we go through week after week, though, some of us misses a session here and there, and it was impossible to keep everyone on the same learning curve. Especially the pesky middle child who keeps running away to mysterious missions in Korea, then back, then Korea, then Honolulu, then back, then Yangon. Ustad wants to know where I’m going next. Brunei Darussalam. I’ve never been, and it’s just interesting to be there. He nodded, the way he nodded when I tried explaining to him about a leadership development program in Hawaii.
As we finished our reading session, he asked what my research was about. Constructive Dialogue, Ustad. I figured before we talk about developing Leadership Skills, we should first talk about creating better dialogues. I want to see what techniques are considered effective here in Asia. He took a sip of water and excused himself, and just as I was about to close the door behind him, he turned and said, “Would you share your results when you are finished with it?”
“Of course,” I said, knowing the result’s value will probably be questionable. All these people, so well-meaning, and their trust in this “research” work is humbling, horribly misplaced as they are.
“Thank you. You know, the Qur’an stated dialogue as one of the ways of teaching Islam. So I’d like to see what kinds of dialogue I can use to teach.”
“It says that?”
“Yes. Grab me a Qur’an, please, and I’ll show you.” I invited him back in the house, but he refused. But he did show me. It was An-Nahl: 125. “Invite to the way of your God with wisdom and good instruction, and argue with them in a way that is best.”
And just like that, I might have found my way in starting this dialogue in Brunei, a country so conservative that it doesn’t allow Earth Hour celebration for fear of indecent behavior, a nation so Islamic that they are adopting a nationwide sharia law penal code, the only country in the entire East Asia to do so. When you come from such a strong religious state, where the opposite of right is clearly wrong, what does a “constructive” dialogue mean to you?
Tika Anindya 