Zahra Muhammed describes her childhood experience of hearing she was not recognised as Jewish and her journey to Faith.

One of my favourite childhood memories was dressing up for Purim. Purim is a Jewish festival where we wore costumes, went to the synagogue and ate triangular poppyseed biscuits. I would be lying if I said I knew what we were celebrating, but I loved it. I remember one year I didn’t dress up; probably Dad decided we were going only at the last minute. When passing adults asked what I was, as I stood wearing what any normal 10-year-old would wear, I responded: “A communist”. I didn’t know what that meant at the time, but the response I got was encouraging. Adults laughed, I felt clever and I repeated it all evening and went home with a belly full of biscuits, feeling quite pleased with myself.

My dad parented me and my younger sister solo from about my ninth birthday onwards. Even before then, most of my memories revolved around my father’s Jewish family. My mother’s family, who had migrated to Canada from Scotland, were Catholic. I have a handful of memories of a crucifix above my Nanny’s bed and my mother’s oldest sister bringing me to church. She felt very compelled to save me.

My parents weren’t religious people, and most of the religious holidays we celebrated growing up had more to do with family coming together than religion. But there were gifts, so I never questioned it.

A Double Loss

A few years after my “communist costume” Purim, my beloved Zaide (grandfather), passed away with Parkinson’s. Snippets of that day are etched in my memory. I remember watching my dad take the call. He looked at me and without skipping a beat told me he did not believe in God. From that day onward he referred to himself as a Jewish Atheist and we never celebrated another Purim.

Zaide’s funeral is also in my memory but not just for the obvious reasons. I remember being so deeply sad, but at one point during the service I broke out into a fit of giggles with my cousins. The whole situation was overwhelming and the fact the Rabbi kept pronouncing my grandfather’s name strangely set us all off.

Earlier in the day we went to pay our final respects to Zaide who was in an open casket. I couldn’t bring myself to follow my family into the room. As I sat on the ground waiting for the others to say their farewells, my great uncle came out with his condolences. In the past he’d have asked me to sing a song in Yiddish and I would oblige as I had on many previous occasions. I generally received a five dollar note for my efforts. We were making polite small talk when I mentioned wanting to have a bat mitzvah, the coming of age ceremony for girls when they turn 12. I expected an enthusiastic response but was met with the words: “You’re not Jewish.”

My great uncle readily explained that only children born to Jewish mothers were chosen by God, and that even if I went through the process of converting, I wouldn’t technically be Jewish. I will never forget the way it made me feel, that sudden feeling of disconnection. I don’t think he meant any harm, nor did he realise how life changing that two-minute conversation would be.

If I wasn’t Jewish, who was I? What was I? I knew one thing for certain. Even if my father did not believe in God, I did.

The Search

For the following few years, I really struggled to find my place in the world, my sense of belonging.

When I was about 15, I had the option of taking a world religions class in school. For our end of year assignment we had to present an essay on a religion we knew little or nothing about. I chose Islam. A week later I found myself at the back of the school library finishing off an English version of the Qur’an. I had so many questions, and yet felt I was given so many answers.

Halfway through the project the month of Ramadan began: a month of fasting from sunrise to sunset for Muslims. I woke up before the sun every day, walked down the road to a friend’s house and joined the family for breakfast and prayers. After school each day I returned to help make the meal for breaking the fast. I don’t remember what grade I got on my assignment, but I gained so much in the process of researching and writing it.

I felt I had found a religion that valued me as a person. A religion that valued me as a young woman and that accepted me as I was, regardless of my parents’ faith or lack thereof.

Becoming Muslim changed the way I viewed the world. I realised I wanted to marry someone with similar beliefs and values, so I could pass on those values to my children. At 21, visiting New Zealand for the first time, I met and married my husband — a Muslim originally from Fiji. We eventually settled in Dunedin and have three beautiful children.

I always thought of myself as open-minded, but in reality when faced with something that felt foreign to me, I often dismissed it as untrue or assumed it lacked substance. It took me years of internal struggle to know that different didn’t mean wrong, it just meant different. In my marriage, our faith made for a good common ground when juggling our differing cultures. And it has allowed us to build from that point.

Even as a Muslim, I still have a deep love for the Jewish community. Over time I have come to realise it’s more than just a faith. Judaism is a culture, a way of life, the food we grew up eating and the Holocaust our ancestors survived. Even if I’m not “chosen” it’s a part of me. It’s in my blood.

Journeying in Faith

In my journey to Islam I learned a lot. I learned about different faiths and the beauty each of them holds. I learned that most of us want to live happily and peacefully and please God. I’ve also learned that truly knowing and understanding what others believe is spiritually liberating. I learned to understand and value others, but also to see yourself in them. Our similarities far outweigh our differences.

If someone had told 12-year-old me that I would find Islam; that it would open my heart and my mind; that through it I would confront my own privilege and underlying bias — I would have thought they were downright mad. However, 18 years later my faith is still growing and evolving and I no longer feel disconnected.

Tui Motu Magazine. Issue 253 October 2020: 10-11