Inshallah

“Inshallah.” Muslims all over the world use the Arabic phrase, usually translated as “God willing,” referring to any future occurrence, recognizing that tomorrow isn’t promised and that most of the conditions in our lives are out of our hands. The phrase even found its way into the Spanish language in the form of “ojalá,” with a similar sense of hope for something coming to pass. In English, the Latin phrase “deo volente” expresses the same thought, although it has largely fallen out of usage since the early 20th century.

Colloquially, the phrase is closer to “don’t count on it.” Be wary of an “inshallah” in response to questions like “We still on for coffee tomorrow?” or “Can we go to Disney World for the holidays?” or “Are you going to get that column in before the deadline?” When it comes to dealing with uncertainty, there’s a thin line between hope and fatalism, between patience and resignation.

As I prepare to graduate (“inshallah”), I’ve given more thought to the role of God in my time as a Duke student. In 2007, I matriculated into the Pratt School of Engineering with ambitions of creating sustainable solutions for the developing world. I’ve since transferred to Trinity as a classical studies major. I’ve taken leaves of absence related to serious bouts of depression and debated whether I actually wanted to return to Duke much less continue with life. I’ve ventured from my adopted home in Durham to Mecca, Jerusalem, Istanbul, Asheville, Cairo and Freetown. Writing, once an occasional hobby, has become my greatest passion. I’ve lost count of the deadlines I’ve missed and the people I’ve slighted. I’ve fallen in and out of love.

Throughout this, however, God has been a constant. Whether I’ve felt ecstatic, curious, despondent, lonely or angry, my responses have found their root in my connection or lack thereof to the Divine, to purpose and meaning, mercy and justice.

As a Muslim in the United States, the role of religion and spirituality has often taken a front seat in my life, whether I wanted it to or not. Being Muslim is often more about identity than it is about devotion or spirituality. And the Muslim identity is a politicized, racialized and cultural identity as much as it is a religious one. By virtue of this identity, I worry about government surveillance, racial prejudice, exclusion from spaces and personal safety. My columns are often subject to Islamophobic commentary, even when Islam or religion aren’t even mentioned.

It’s curious how my Muslim identity intersects with other aspects of my life. Consider my beard. Depending on context, it can take on significances from Muslim Brother or bear cub, Rick Ross or Sam Beam, Fidel Castro or Aristotle. Am I performing my Muslim devotion or asserting my masculinity? Challenging Western standards of beauty or taking my study of Greek philosophers way too seriously? Am I lazy or do I just like toying with people’s expectations? Something as simple as some hair on my face produces so many existential questions. Sometimes making sense of the world and God’s will leads me toward follicle digressions on identity politics.

Often, my identity as a student takes on the greatest significance in my life. I’ve taken “Eruditio et Religio” to heart even if it’s a chapel and not a mosque that’s the centerpiece of our campus. Education isn’t just intellectual engagement inside and outside the classroom but also development of moral character. This University’s production of future investment bankers, rape apologists and defenders of inhumane foreign policy sometimes makes me doubt what kind of education we’re providing, but I’ve learned to trust less in the power of institutions—there’s no reason to expect any institution to be immune from patriarchy, heteronormativity, classism and racism just because it happens to be filled with students or worshippers.

Maybe my belief in God is a delusion I’ve created to comfort myself that whatever abuses of power I see in the world, there’s a greater, more benevolent arbiter of power that’s really in control. Maybe my belief in God is a recognition that whatever power relations do exist are based on commonly accepted, and therefore unavoidable, illusions of who or what is powerful in the first place.