My husband and I had gone to the masjid for a speaker’s program.

It was the first time that he had invited me to the masjid since our marriage a year or so earlier.

We had met and married while we were both working as substance abuser counselors in a rehabilitation center.

We couldn’t have been more different in the beginning, as we are from entirely different backgrounds — he is black and I am white, he was Muslim and I was Jewish. Although he hadn’t asked me to become a Muslim prior to our marriage, he did give me silent da`wah by his excellent example. 

He had an extensive Islamic library, and because I was an avid reader, I naturally read a lot of his books. I also observed his modest behavior, watched as he made salah five times a day, went to Jumu`ah Prayer on Fridays, and fasted during the month of Ramadan. So it was natural that I would develop an interest in his religion.

“No.” I replied, “I don’t have any children.”

When the program began, the women gathered in the prayer room and everyone sat down on the plush carpeted floor. But after about five minutes, the women started chatting to one another, all but drowning out the sound of the program that was being delivered over a stereo speaker from upstairs.

After the program was over, the women went into the kitchen to prepare food. Sister Basimah came over and told me to sit and make myself comfortable until it was time to eat. “But let me help you,” I offered. “No! You are our guest. Some American sisters have arrived. I’ll introduce you,” she replied.

Sister Basimah motioned to one of the women on the other side of the room. She came over and the two women kissed each other on the cheeks and greeted each other with a cheerful Arabic expression. Then they both turned to look at me. “This is Sharon. She’s Jewish. Will you keep her company until we eat?” Sister Basimah said to the other woman.   

Before I left to meet my husband, Sister Basimah gave me her telephone number and encouraged me to call and arrange a time to visit her. I did call her, and we developed a beautiful relationship. She told me all about Islam and Allah. 

She knew I was interested in Islam and could sense that my heart was searching and yearning for spiritual peace. One evening while my husband and I were visiting her home, she came right out and invited me to Islam. The turning point occurred when she explained that all my sins would be forgiven when I came to Islam.

She said that I would be reborn, like a newborn baby, with no sins, with another chance. I broke down and cried. I wanted another chance to get right with Allah. You see, I had a very checkered past. I always loved God, but I got lost in life. We asked her husband to help me say the Shahadah.

When I told my husband what I was about to do, he was shocked and happy at the same time. He asked me if I was really sure about my decision, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. I responded that I was never surer about anything in my entire life.

There was no internal battle, no fears or doubts. After I said the Shahadah, Sister Basimah’s husband said, “Mabrook (congratulations)! You’re now a Muslim!” When we returned home, my husband gave me a gift of my very own Quran and a summarized Sahih Al-Bukhari.

Before I left Sister Basimah’s home that special evening, she gave me a gift of a booklet about modesty for Muslim women. She also gave me a prayer rug, a prayer dress, and a hijab. I have worn hijab since that day, al-hamdu lillah. I have never taken it off, even after the dreadful days following September 11, 2001.

When I became a Muslim, my father denounced me once and for all. He had been very upset with me anyhow for marrying a Muslim, and refused to recognize my husband as his son-in-law.

“But, Sharon, those people hate us!” He cried.

All efforts I made to explain the difference between Islam and the political struggle between the Palestinians and Israelis fell on deaf ears.

Never mind that my father was the first one in his family to marry outside of Judaism. My mother had been a practicing Catholic when they married. To add insult to injury in my father’s eyes, my husband was also African-American.

Prior to September 11, 2001, most Americans thought of Malcolm X whenever Islam was mentioned. Many other family members also made it known how disappointed and frustrated they were with my decision to marry a “Black Muslim.”  

My father died in August of 2001, one month before the events of September 11. At the request of my father’s wife, my family did not tell me that he had died until after his funeral was over. Did they fear that I would show up in the synagogue dressed in garb accompanied by my black husband? We are taught that the religion of Islam is for all people and for all time.

It shouldn’t matter whether a Muslim is Egyptian, Pakistani, American, Saudi, Indonesian, or Palestinian. It shouldn’t matter whether he or she is black, white, red, or yellow. It shouldn’t matter whether he or she speaks Arabic, English, Spanish, or Urdu. Our cultural diversity should not divide our Ummah.

Allah tells us in the Quran that: { We created you in nations and tribes so that you may know one another.} (49:13)