On Love

This post was supposed to be a happy one, full of intellectual waxing on travel philosophies or experiences. But when I returned to cell service from a two-night stay in the jungle, I learned that the world has, yet again, been filled with hate and violence. My first thoughts were for my college friends living there, who, to my deep gratitude, are all safe. While the attacks in Paris make my heart ache, what I am most ashamed of is the reactions of my own countrymen. I am ashamed of their fear and ignorance, and of the proposals that are eerily similar to the rejection of German refugees in 1939.  

In a small attempt to push back against the hate filling the world, I want to share with you the love I have tasted, heard, and felt from Muslims around the world. I take this as proof that humanity can be kind and good, and that goodness goes beyond our arbitrary divisions.  

I have tasted love...

…while hiking along the Lycine way in Turkey, along a particularly hot and steep road, after no breakfast and very little sleep. About halfway up the hill, a car stopped and gave each of us hiking a piece of bread. The driver continued on his way with a smile and a wave. 

…during Ramadan in Morocco, when I was always invited to i'ftar (the meal that breaks the sunup to sundown fast), even if I wasn't fasting. When the sundown call to prayer sounded, the every citizen of the country shared food with each other, expressing love and gratitude for their ability to eat. 

I have heard love... 

…on an 8-hour train ride from Marrakech to Fez, when a five year old kid helped me practice my Arabic vocabulary cards, and giggled at my accent. 

...in the friendship extended to me from an Iranian living in Turkey, who has been exiled from his homeland for speaking out against human rights violations in his country. After surviving nearly six months in prison, he received political asylum. If he returns to Iran, he faces prison or worse.

…on another long train ride, in India, from a 14-year-old girl who asked me about my family, and told me she wants to grow up to be an activist for the poor in her hometown of Kolkata. 

I have felt love... 

…when I got off on the wrong bus stop during a rainstorm in Bangalore, I stopped to ask for directions from a shop owner, who used his phone to call my hostel and gave me a hot cup of tea while I waited. 

…during my last three days in Morocco, I had less than $5 left to my name, and my roommate from Casablanca let me stay with her family. She made sure I had food and shelter when I had none. 

One of the sweetest people I know

…in a village in the high atlas of Morocco, where I befriended the young daughter of our hosts, exchanging languages and stories and games. 

Friends in the High Atlas of Morocco

And I shouldn't have to say this but... 

Every single person in those stories is Muslim, by choice or tradition. It shouldn't matter, and I find it worth mentioning only to point out that those hate-filled posts on Facebook, those protests at mosques, and that causal racism that, intended or not, is a slur against every person in this story. For every member of an extremist group, there are millions of people wanting to help. There are people losing their lives in the hands of extremists, a fact we choose to ignore in the west.

While I don't think any of these stories will change the hate and fear in human hearts, but I choose to share these and choose to contribute stories of love, not hate.