I Loved You, But God Said No by Jada Polard
Amina, a Muslim woman, attends an interfaith group and finds the rules of her faith challenged in an unexpected way.
As a Muslim, it's not advised to be close with the opposite gender, especially the kind of closeness that edges into haram, that becomes zina, that ends in a reckless stumble into a hotel bed with white sheets that haven't been washed. I'm from Pakistan. We don't date there, at least not publicly. We date in ways our parents don't know, so they don't pry with questions about engagement or invite our partner's family over for chicken biryani or korma and all kinds of sweet mithai. I speak from secondhand experience with dating - I was never one of the rebellious ones. I was always wise enough to know how dangerous dating could be, especially when people talk about love like it's "self-consuming", "life-changing", "indescribable".
Another thing I'd add to the list: "inescapable."
We never touched, not in the way people describe love, like ripping each other's clothes off - the illusion of dressing innocently with sparkly, skimpy lingerie beneath a baggy duster coat with ten buttons to undo, or gluing your lips together as a sign to never part. Isaac touched me in a way that found my heart without ever laying a hand on my chest. He did nothing more than listen, try to understand and smile, yet that was enough to make my stomach warm and flutter, my skin tingle, and my heart feel like it was taking up so much space I didn't understand how every other part of me could work normally.
Even as I turned my attention back to the room, I looked around, only half-present, and began jotting down notes for the essay I was supposed to be working on. I noted down the Qur'ans, Bibles, Torahs, and other sacred texts tucked in the corner on a bookshelf that felt more like décor given how simple the room was. There were no crosses on the walls, no prayer rugs, just the shelf, the coffee stand in the corner, and hard chairs arranged in a circle where people would gather and talk about their religious experiences. I've made strong acquaintances my five weeks here: Sarah, Jewish, who always made tea with a kettle and wore a Star of David around her neck. Michael, Catholic, a returning student in his thirties, who spoke with long pauses and constantly marveled at how the Book of Psalms read like poetry. Priyah, Hindu, who wore bright scarves and spoke about karma like it was something she could hold in her hands. Mina, Buddhist, who studied psychology and often preached mindfulness. And Aaliyah, who couldn't study in France since they had outlawed the niqab.
Then there was Isaac. I could tell he was new to his Christian faith - he always asked questions but never seemed to have answers.
"Do you believe in the Trinity?"
"The what?"
"God, Jesus, The Holy Spirit?"
"Not sure."
"Are Christians supposed to fast?"
"Haven't gotten there yet."
After the interfaith session wrapped up, I grabbed my notes and headed for the door. Isaac stayed close, keeping a respectful distance so it'd take his arm extended horizontally for his fingers to brush my shoulders. But we walked the same way, at the same pace, even though he was taller than I was, and I knew he intended it to be this way, asking a question just to keep me talking, like he always did.
"Hey, Amina, can I ask something?" Isaac said, carrying his usual duffle bag as we walked out the door together. He always dressed like the nerdy English major he was: sweater vest, black square glasses. He kept a handkerchief in his pocket - gave it to me once when I was sick. His hair was always brushed and slicked back. Nice, groomed young man. No jewelry except a watch. No tattoos.
"You know I'll answer all your questions."
"You guys can't date, but like, how is that possible? How do you just marry someone?"
"It's not really a concept. Dating isn't really a thing in Christianity either. If anything, it's cultural," I explained.
"Oh, okay. I see."
I stopped in the middle of the mostly empty hallway, wanting to be still so I could ask him a question. Isaac mirrored me, and we faced each other.
"You're always asking me things. Can I ask you something?"
"Sure," he shrugged.
"Why are you in the sessions? You're not a religious studies major like me."
"Just found it interesting, is all," Isaac said. "I only planned to go to one, but I ended up finding a great friend along the way." He smiled at me, dimples popping out.
"Right," I said.
He intrigued me. He asked questions and handled the diversity between us with a gentle curiosity, even when he stumbled. Like the time he reached out to shake my hand after class, and I had to explain, politely and with a bit of awkwardness, why I couldn't shake hands with non-mahram men unless it was for something serious like a job interview or, if, say, someone held a gun to my mum's head and threatened to shoot unless I shook a stranger's hand.
My reasons for being here were purely academic. I was assigned to attend six weeks of interfaith dialogue sessions as part of a mandatory community-engaged learning project. Just one more week left, and I already had plenty to reflect on.
But whenever I tried to type the paper out, it would go something like this:
A guy named Isaac asked me why some girls of my faith choose to look like ninjas and added a "No offense" just in case.
Backspace... backspace... backspace...
There was a guy named Isaac who went to the interfaith sessions for fun.
Backspace... backspace... backspace.
One afternoon, I forgot to close my laptop. My mom happened to walk by, glanced at the starting lines I'd written for practice and raised an eyebrow. She didn't say anything, but I knew how nosy Desi moms could be. Honestly, before I knew it, my dad was intruding too, asking who this Isaac boy was.
I'd lived in America since I was fifteen, and the thing about immigrant parents is that they often live vicariously through their children's adolescence, when all the opportunities they never had are suddenly present. My dad was always breathing down my neck, making sure I wasn't heading down the same path as the kids who drank after school or hung around with the no-goods in the parking lot; he didn't work so hard to bring us here just for me to mess it all up. So, when he asked, I didn't tell him Isaac was a friend. I lied and said it was strictly professional, a requirement for my class.
It's week six, and Isaac is still here. Based on first impressions, I didn't think he'd make it this far. He always came across as a spontaneous nerd, someone without much real-world experience, and at first, I was almost annoyed by how unserious he seemed. Since the second day, he's sat across from me in the circle, staring at me the entire time. I pretend not to notice his beautiful brown eyes or the deep dimples that appear on his cheeks whenever I tell a comparative religion joke that no one else laughs at. Then, like always, after the session, just as I'm getting to the door, he rushes up to me, careful not to stand too close, and we walk out together.
"How do you go a whole month without eating, Amina? Don't you get tired? Is that why you're so skinny?"
Then a pause.
He blurted, "Not that I noticed you're skinny."
I bit back a smile, trying to stop the flush creeping into my cheeks. I pretended not to notice his awkward backtrack and answered like normal.
"Well, we eat before sunrise. Then there's nothing until sunset. No water either. I get up early during Ramadan to eat before dawn."
"What if someone's pregnant?"
"You can skip the fast if you're really sick or pregnant. Kids too. No one expects much from them anyway."
Most days, we'd go our separate ways. There were a few times we would hang out at the bench outside and talk - not just about religious stuff, but he'd ask me questions about myself, my life, my preferences, my family. Usually though, we'd just exchange a goodbye, and I'd go spend my breaks studying or catching up on work while Isaac wandered off wherever he had to go, usually to his class in Liberal Arts Building 4, Room 305... not that I keep tabs on him. I pushed the door open, heading toward my usual spot on upper campus, when suddenly Isaac jumped in front of me. I stopped short, wobbling on my tiptoes before I could regain my balance and figure out if he intended to scare the living crap out of me.
"Cool. So where are we going?" he asked, grinning.
"Uh," I blinked, confused. "We?"
"Yes. We should go to the garden."
He could see the hesitation on my face, the no that was about to slip out of my lips. It was different when we would sit on a bench and talk because it was right outside the building. We would just happen to need a break before walking to our respective places. For the garden, that meant a good 15-minute walk. I'd be intentionally going with him, spending more time sitting and talking. He was quick to encourage me.
"There will be people there. Tons. And you know I'm respectful."
Isaac took a small step back, clasped his hands behind him, and gave me the sweetest smile.
I don't even remember when I said yes, but we were walking together to the garden. He kept his hands stuffed in his front pockets; I let mine grip around my waist.
We sat in the garden, and he was right. There were plenty of students spread out on the open grass, under long trees, kneeling by the koi fish in the lake. But it wasn't the number of people I was worried about, it was what they'd be doing.
College couples can be overly horny and lovey-dovey.
I watched as a girl freely hopped on her boyfriend's back. I could hear them giggle from where we sat as they dropped food in the lake to feed the fish. Lovers sat close enough on the grass to touch knees and hands. Guys wrapped their arms around their girls and kissed them on the cheek. Hell, even some of the ducks kept bumping into each other, and it didn't look just friendly.
Then there was Isaac and me. He sat beside me on the wooden bench, leaving enough space between us to be respectful, or maybe cautious. At some points, his hand would drop down, close to where I was sitting, then he'd quickly catch himself and pull it back, constantly clearing his throat or staring out at the lake in front of us.
Isaac stayed quiet. He was a writer, somewhat introspective, but I couldn't believe he went that long without a question slipping out. Ten full minutes passed before he finally spoke.
"Amina. Can I ask one more question?"
"Always," I said.
"Why did you choose religious studies?"
"Guess I wanted to challenge stereotypes," I shrugged, hugging my waist, kicking at the grass with my feet. There were couples everywhere. I was sure he had to notice. They were kissing while Isaac and I sat there like the two teenagers with cystic fibrosis in Five Feet Apart.
"Can I ask you just one more question, Amina?" Isaac asked. "This will be my last one."
His last? Considering how inquisitive he naturally was, I couldn't believe that. We still had two more dialogue sessions left before things officially wrapped, and he wasn't the kind of person to take me to a garden just to ask one or two questions. I looked at him this time, watching the way his eyebrows squished together, his mouth pressed into a fine line like he was struggling to get his words out.
"Do you love me?"
My head instantly snapped back. I couldn't believe he said it - that word. And not a hint of regret in his voice. He didn't blurt it out; he said it clear as day. Love. It was wrong to love him. It crossed so many religious boundaries I never thought I'd feel tempted by.
I don't know what made me do it, but I looked at him. Just briefly. I shouldn't have. I shouldn't have seen the way his gorgeous eyes shimmered, the way his eyebrows curved in that soft, pathetic way like he was afraid he'd ruined everything. The way he leaned in slightly while still remembering the boundaries I set on the very first day.
"I can't answer your question," I said.
I bowed my head and stared at my lap, at the way my hands were squeezed so tight they were turning red against my brown skin. Time passed. Enough for him to say something. But he didn't.
I didn't want to hurt him. Shit, I didn't. But I could feel it happening. The space between us had shifted. I couldn't see his hand near mine in my peripheral anymore. Everything felt colder. Guilt crept into my throat. I wanted to cry. And that was the worst part, because I'd never felt this around him before.
"Okay," he finally whispered. "I'll see you?"
I nodded. Barely.
I heard the wood creak as he got up and left the garden. I stayed.
It's strange how someone can never touch you, and yet all you feel is them. Their presence, still there, even after they're gone.
I pulled out the computer from my bag and opened the document with my one-liners.
There is a sorrow unique to loving someone your faith tells you not to.
That is the first line.
 |
| Image generated with OpenAI |
Another thing I'd add to the list: "inescapable."
We never touched, not in the way people describe love, like ripping each other's clothes off - the illusion of dressing innocently with sparkly, skimpy lingerie beneath a baggy duster coat with ten buttons to undo, or gluing your lips together as a sign to never part. Isaac touched me in a way that found my heart without ever laying a hand on my chest. He did nothing more than listen, try to understand and smile, yet that was enough to make my stomach warm and flutter, my skin tingle, and my heart feel like it was taking up so much space I didn't understand how every other part of me could work normally.
Even as I turned my attention back to the room, I looked around, only half-present, and began jotting down notes for the essay I was supposed to be working on. I noted down the Qur'ans, Bibles, Torahs, and other sacred texts tucked in the corner on a bookshelf that felt more like décor given how simple the room was. There were no crosses on the walls, no prayer rugs, just the shelf, the coffee stand in the corner, and hard chairs arranged in a circle where people would gather and talk about their religious experiences. I've made strong acquaintances my five weeks here: Sarah, Jewish, who always made tea with a kettle and wore a Star of David around her neck. Michael, Catholic, a returning student in his thirties, who spoke with long pauses and constantly marveled at how the Book of Psalms read like poetry. Priyah, Hindu, who wore bright scarves and spoke about karma like it was something she could hold in her hands. Mina, Buddhist, who studied psychology and often preached mindfulness. And Aaliyah, who couldn't study in France since they had outlawed the niqab.
Then there was Isaac. I could tell he was new to his Christian faith - he always asked questions but never seemed to have answers.
"Do you believe in the Trinity?"
"The what?"
"God, Jesus, The Holy Spirit?"
"Not sure."
"Are Christians supposed to fast?"
"Haven't gotten there yet."
After the interfaith session wrapped up, I grabbed my notes and headed for the door. Isaac stayed close, keeping a respectful distance so it'd take his arm extended horizontally for his fingers to brush my shoulders. But we walked the same way, at the same pace, even though he was taller than I was, and I knew he intended it to be this way, asking a question just to keep me talking, like he always did.
"Hey, Amina, can I ask something?" Isaac said, carrying his usual duffle bag as we walked out the door together. He always dressed like the nerdy English major he was: sweater vest, black square glasses. He kept a handkerchief in his pocket - gave it to me once when I was sick. His hair was always brushed and slicked back. Nice, groomed young man. No jewelry except a watch. No tattoos.
"You know I'll answer all your questions."
"You guys can't date, but like, how is that possible? How do you just marry someone?"
"It's not really a concept. Dating isn't really a thing in Christianity either. If anything, it's cultural," I explained.
"Oh, okay. I see."
I stopped in the middle of the mostly empty hallway, wanting to be still so I could ask him a question. Isaac mirrored me, and we faced each other.
"You're always asking me things. Can I ask you something?"
"Sure," he shrugged.
"Why are you in the sessions? You're not a religious studies major like me."
"Just found it interesting, is all," Isaac said. "I only planned to go to one, but I ended up finding a great friend along the way." He smiled at me, dimples popping out.
"Right," I said.
He intrigued me. He asked questions and handled the diversity between us with a gentle curiosity, even when he stumbled. Like the time he reached out to shake my hand after class, and I had to explain, politely and with a bit of awkwardness, why I couldn't shake hands with non-mahram men unless it was for something serious like a job interview or, if, say, someone held a gun to my mum's head and threatened to shoot unless I shook a stranger's hand.
My reasons for being here were purely academic. I was assigned to attend six weeks of interfaith dialogue sessions as part of a mandatory community-engaged learning project. Just one more week left, and I already had plenty to reflect on.
But whenever I tried to type the paper out, it would go something like this:
A guy named Isaac asked me why some girls of my faith choose to look like ninjas and added a "No offense" just in case.
Backspace... backspace... backspace...
There was a guy named Isaac who went to the interfaith sessions for fun.
Backspace... backspace... backspace.
One afternoon, I forgot to close my laptop. My mom happened to walk by, glanced at the starting lines I'd written for practice and raised an eyebrow. She didn't say anything, but I knew how nosy Desi moms could be. Honestly, before I knew it, my dad was intruding too, asking who this Isaac boy was.
I'd lived in America since I was fifteen, and the thing about immigrant parents is that they often live vicariously through their children's adolescence, when all the opportunities they never had are suddenly present. My dad was always breathing down my neck, making sure I wasn't heading down the same path as the kids who drank after school or hung around with the no-goods in the parking lot; he didn't work so hard to bring us here just for me to mess it all up. So, when he asked, I didn't tell him Isaac was a friend. I lied and said it was strictly professional, a requirement for my class.
It's week six, and Isaac is still here. Based on first impressions, I didn't think he'd make it this far. He always came across as a spontaneous nerd, someone without much real-world experience, and at first, I was almost annoyed by how unserious he seemed. Since the second day, he's sat across from me in the circle, staring at me the entire time. I pretend not to notice his beautiful brown eyes or the deep dimples that appear on his cheeks whenever I tell a comparative religion joke that no one else laughs at. Then, like always, after the session, just as I'm getting to the door, he rushes up to me, careful not to stand too close, and we walk out together.
"How do you go a whole month without eating, Amina? Don't you get tired? Is that why you're so skinny?"
Then a pause.
He blurted, "Not that I noticed you're skinny."
I bit back a smile, trying to stop the flush creeping into my cheeks. I pretended not to notice his awkward backtrack and answered like normal.
"Well, we eat before sunrise. Then there's nothing until sunset. No water either. I get up early during Ramadan to eat before dawn."
"What if someone's pregnant?"
"You can skip the fast if you're really sick or pregnant. Kids too. No one expects much from them anyway."
Most days, we'd go our separate ways. There were a few times we would hang out at the bench outside and talk - not just about religious stuff, but he'd ask me questions about myself, my life, my preferences, my family. Usually though, we'd just exchange a goodbye, and I'd go spend my breaks studying or catching up on work while Isaac wandered off wherever he had to go, usually to his class in Liberal Arts Building 4, Room 305... not that I keep tabs on him. I pushed the door open, heading toward my usual spot on upper campus, when suddenly Isaac jumped in front of me. I stopped short, wobbling on my tiptoes before I could regain my balance and figure out if he intended to scare the living crap out of me.
"Cool. So where are we going?" he asked, grinning.
"Uh," I blinked, confused. "We?"
"Yes. We should go to the garden."
He could see the hesitation on my face, the no that was about to slip out of my lips. It was different when we would sit on a bench and talk because it was right outside the building. We would just happen to need a break before walking to our respective places. For the garden, that meant a good 15-minute walk. I'd be intentionally going with him, spending more time sitting and talking. He was quick to encourage me.
"There will be people there. Tons. And you know I'm respectful."
Isaac took a small step back, clasped his hands behind him, and gave me the sweetest smile.
I don't even remember when I said yes, but we were walking together to the garden. He kept his hands stuffed in his front pockets; I let mine grip around my waist.
We sat in the garden, and he was right. There were plenty of students spread out on the open grass, under long trees, kneeling by the koi fish in the lake. But it wasn't the number of people I was worried about, it was what they'd be doing.
College couples can be overly horny and lovey-dovey.
I watched as a girl freely hopped on her boyfriend's back. I could hear them giggle from where we sat as they dropped food in the lake to feed the fish. Lovers sat close enough on the grass to touch knees and hands. Guys wrapped their arms around their girls and kissed them on the cheek. Hell, even some of the ducks kept bumping into each other, and it didn't look just friendly.
Then there was Isaac and me. He sat beside me on the wooden bench, leaving enough space between us to be respectful, or maybe cautious. At some points, his hand would drop down, close to where I was sitting, then he'd quickly catch himself and pull it back, constantly clearing his throat or staring out at the lake in front of us.
Isaac stayed quiet. He was a writer, somewhat introspective, but I couldn't believe he went that long without a question slipping out. Ten full minutes passed before he finally spoke.
"Amina. Can I ask one more question?"
"Always," I said.
"Why did you choose religious studies?"
"Guess I wanted to challenge stereotypes," I shrugged, hugging my waist, kicking at the grass with my feet. There were couples everywhere. I was sure he had to notice. They were kissing while Isaac and I sat there like the two teenagers with cystic fibrosis in Five Feet Apart.
"Can I ask you just one more question, Amina?" Isaac asked. "This will be my last one."
His last? Considering how inquisitive he naturally was, I couldn't believe that. We still had two more dialogue sessions left before things officially wrapped, and he wasn't the kind of person to take me to a garden just to ask one or two questions. I looked at him this time, watching the way his eyebrows squished together, his mouth pressed into a fine line like he was struggling to get his words out.
"Do you love me?"
My head instantly snapped back. I couldn't believe he said it - that word. And not a hint of regret in his voice. He didn't blurt it out; he said it clear as day. Love. It was wrong to love him. It crossed so many religious boundaries I never thought I'd feel tempted by.
I don't know what made me do it, but I looked at him. Just briefly. I shouldn't have. I shouldn't have seen the way his gorgeous eyes shimmered, the way his eyebrows curved in that soft, pathetic way like he was afraid he'd ruined everything. The way he leaned in slightly while still remembering the boundaries I set on the very first day.
"I can't answer your question," I said.
I bowed my head and stared at my lap, at the way my hands were squeezed so tight they were turning red against my brown skin. Time passed. Enough for him to say something. But he didn't.
I didn't want to hurt him. Shit, I didn't. But I could feel it happening. The space between us had shifted. I couldn't see his hand near mine in my peripheral anymore. Everything felt colder. Guilt crept into my throat. I wanted to cry. And that was the worst part, because I'd never felt this around him before.
"Okay," he finally whispered. "I'll see you?"
I nodded. Barely.
I heard the wood creak as he got up and left the garden. I stayed.
It's strange how someone can never touch you, and yet all you feel is them. Their presence, still there, even after they're gone.
I pulled out the computer from my bag and opened the document with my one-liners.
There is a sorrow unique to loving someone your faith tells you not to.
That is the first line.
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