Free The Butterfly Mosque by G. Willow Wilson

in his living room with his prayer beads in one hand and his electric guitar slung over the opposite shoulder, and think,
He proves the world isn’t so bad yet.
Yet there was still Afghanistan, and Iraq, and the net closing around Iran, and the encroaching disaster in Israel-Palestine. When such ugly conflicts were so close by, who in Egypt could feel entirely safe? Looking at Ibrahim, I thought, this Middle East is either being born or dying, and which it will be depends largely on people who will never see him play his guitar.
    â€œIt would make more sense if you saw it.” I said. “If you saw America itself.”
    â€œSomeday
in sha’Allah.
”
    â€œIn sha’Allah.
”
    In order to be understood, feelings that are universal—love, mourning, joy—must be expressed in a mutuallycomprehensible way. This should be easy. If the feelings are universal, their expression should be as well. In reality, they aren’t. In the beginning, Omar was more conscious of this than I was; he saw that the only customs we had in common were Islam and rock music, and that these intangibles had to be cobbled together into the foundation of a third culture. Religion and art aren’t terrible tools to start with, when it comes to creating a peace for two in the midst of a war. But even with them, the struggle for that peace would be painful and exhausting. Sometimes it felt like I was being asked to unstring my bones and pass through the eye of a needle. The image was constantly in my mind. Everything we thought, everything we did or said or wore or espoused unthinkingly, had to be brought forth and reconciled. In the process, old symbols were given a new vocabulary. That vocabulary would become the language we spoke in the culture we created for ourselves.
    It began with the symbols I had etched into my skin.
    â€œBen told me you have an interesting tattoo,” Omar said one night not long after we were engaged. “Is it true?”
    I knew which one he meant. “Yes. Does it bother you?”
    Omar was smiling. “No. But can I see it?”
    I turned away from him and lifted the hem of my shirt so that he could see the lower part of my back. I wondered if the tattoo would shock him, or whether he would be able to read my good intentions in the ink. He was silent for a moment.
    â€œIt’s beautiful,” he said finally. I let out a breath. “Did an American do this? No.”
    â€œYes, actually.”
    â€œBut the style is very good. You didn’t write it yourself?”
    â€œNo, no. I found it online.”
    â€œWhy
Al Haq?
” He touched the first line, the letter
alif,
where the skin was smooth but raised like a scar. I closed my eyes as he traced the word with his index finger.
    â€œI like
Al Haq,
” I murmured. “Truth without untruth, truth without opposite. The real that encompasses even the unreal, the most-real. And it comes next to
Ash-Shahid,
the Witness, which I also like.” I opened one eye. “But
Ash-Shahid
has more letters so it would’ve hurt more.”
    He smiled. “When you got this tattoo—were you a Muslim then?”
    â€œNo,” I answered. “This is over two years old. I got it when I knew I would convert someday. I wasn’t ready then, but I had the tattoo done to remind me.”
    â€œAmazing,” he said, shaking his head. “I had no idea such a story was possible in America.”
    â€œNeither does anyone else back home, I’m sure. You were the first person I told.”
    He looked surprised. “Really?”
    â€œYes. People at home think I have a cultural or academic interest in Islam. I have six Qurans, not one of which I bought for myself, and at least as many books of Sufi poetry, which were also all gifts, but if I told the people who gave them to me that I’ve converted, they would all be horrified.”
    Omar’s face darkened. “Is it so