When all the boys were seated, I walked around the room, shook every boy’s hand, looked him in the eye, said as-salamu ‘alaykum, waited for the proper response, and then released. At least, I did that for the first thirteen boys. At the fourteenth and last, though, I paused, refused to extend my hand, and instead walked to my seat, deliberately snubbing him. As I began the class, an awkward silence had descended.
Why’d I ignored him? Dismissed him? And were they supposed to say something about it, or just pretend it didn’t happen, or what?
Within a minute though, I smiled broadly, admitted that was deliberate, apologized to this young man—he’s one of the more outgoing ones, so I knew he could handle it, and made that the lesson. “How did it feel to be ignored?” Not so great, he answered, in so many words. “How did it seem when I ignored him?” I asked the other boys. They all piped in, noting how uncomfortable it was. How mean.
We’ve spent most of the first two months of our middle school halaqa, aimed at fourteen boys aged eleven and twelve (with one student a year older and another younger), on the deceptively simple obligation of saying salam. Why would I spend so much time on something so simple? Well, because it isn’t simple. Because so much is contained in those words. Because it’s a marker of Muslim identity.
Because embracing your identity is a mark of confidence in the world, not to put down others, but to believe we are equally deserving of the right to our faith.
Because salam builds community and brotherhood, and at a time of escalating loneliness, a handshake and a hug is even more meaningful.
Because it’s the greeting of paradise, a reminder of what we stand for—more than a causal “hey,” we wish for and reciprocate peace.
Because salam teaches us to be mindful of each and everyone; they’ve learned who gives salam first (the younger) and why it’s important to.
Because it pushes them, even compels them, to get beyond shyness and timidity, to make eye contact, to firmly greet, and to take their place in the room—and the world.
Because it’s what Muslim men do, understanding what they owe others and understanding that others owe them.
That there is a crisis of masculinity should go without saying—there’s a new think tank, the American Institute for Boys and Men, devoted to this challenge. Over at Wisdom of Crowds, the latest podcast episode goes there. And so much more. But what is the Muslim contribution to this conversation? Whenever our halaqas include prayer times, I make sure one boy gives iqamah, another volunteers to lead, and that they all do du’a together aloud; our religion has no formal clergy, and demands of each and every man certain responsibilities, in family, among friends, and in community.
When we look at our boys, in other words, do we see them as Imams in their households? As khateebs when the need arises? As dads who can teach the same? And what does it take to get them there? My parents stepped up and made sure I knew these things, but only now do I begin to see both why—and the energy and commitment and deep conviction teaching all that requires. One day, God willing, I hope they will each feel up to giving a sermon, not because they have to become Imams, but because they should be able to step up if there’s a need. To volunteering to lead prayer. To teaching the faith. And to see these things as connected.
When we resume halaqa tomorrow, we will talk about the adab of greeting Someone Else. Just as there’s an etiquette to walking into a room, just as their brothers (and sisters) in faith have responsibilities to them, and rights over them, they are going to learn that greeting God also has particular adab, from how we dress, to how we arrive, to how we comport ourselves. That begins with taqwa and will contain a very big lesson; in Islam, you see, how we are outside reflects how we become inside, and what we are inside inevitably manifests on the outside.