This blog is part of a five-part series looking at interfaith and intercultural relationships and the factors behind their success and longevity (or lack of). The series is based on my personal experience as a Muslim woman in her 20s and 30s.
In part 1, I look at marriage and love across cultures and borders, examining the role of shared values and knowing oneself.
In this blog, I share my experience of faith and religious divides in an intercultural/interfaith relationship.
In part 3, I share the impact of trauma on stereotyping others in the context of mixed relationships.
In part 4, I look at emotional factors (in particular attachment styles) and their relation to culture, as opposed to cultural or religious difference as a standalone.
In part 5, I conclude by sharing insight into the factors and dynamics involved in mixed relationships in maintaining a healthy long-lasting interfaith/intercultural relationship.
Love should celebrate, not tolerate: managing cultural-religious diversity
“Real diversity and inclusion doesn’t mean that we will always agree. It means that even when we disagree, we can still respect each other.”
(Justin Jones-Fosu)
I met “Farhad” on my first in-person date following my divorce. Looking back, we were a bit like young love-stuck teenagers.
We fell in love quickly and intensely. We pretty much clicked on our first date and things sped along from there.
Farhad was significant at this stage of my life as he understood my background more than the average non-Muslim man living in Britain. Being an “outsider”, he also posed less “risk” (according to my trauma-based reality at the time).
How? Who was he? And what was his background?
Well, Farhad was Persian and Baháʼí (his family had converted previously from Shia Islam). He’d grown up in Iran and sought asylum in the UK in his early 20s.
Growing up in Iran (and a very conservative area of the country too), he was obviously familiar with Islam to a certain extent as a whole (my choice of wording will become clear later in terms of religious diversity within the Muslim world).
In Farhad’s case, he’d grown up in an Islamist theocracy (a particularly famously brutal one) as a persecuted religious minority.
There was clearly trauma and frustration there. He was happily Persian but didn’t associate much with other Persians. He did however attend services with other members of his community, who were a mix of Persians, English converts and other nationalities.
His faith was one I was slightly familiar with but more as a religion belonging to a minority group both in Iran and the UK.
Prior to meeting Farhad, I knew about his faith to some extent. But this was more based on Baháʼí as a community through my activism on human rights in Iran, rather than any great theological insight.
As a religion, the Baháʼí faith originated in Iran. The founder Baháʼu’lláh was born in Iran and exiled to Iraq.As a religious leader, he preached religious unity, with the faith today standing for unity of faith and amongst people worldwide.
I liked it – and still do! And the more I learnt, I personally came to see the Bahai faith as an historical extension of Islam, having been originally been forcibly separated as the Muslim world rejected and persecuted the now separate Baháʼí community .
Today, the Baháʼí are generally a religious community that is not well known. Exceptions include amongst religious/interfaith enthusiasts and practitioners alike and within the Jewish world – with the Baháʼí World Centre based in Haifa, Israel.
It was only my interfaith and Jewish friends that didn’t ask what Baháʼí was when enthusiastically asking for details of the new love in my life!
As a community, the majority of Bahai are Persians from Iran – but not all by any means.
There are communities all over the world with the faith now the second largest religion in Panama, Belize, Bolivia, Zambia, Papa New Guinea, Chad and Kenya. Most converts however reside in India and the Western world.
In Iran however, the community remain persecuted and severely restricted. I knew this quite well.
The Baháʼí community are banned from attending public university and pretty much have to rely on themselves to survive. The more I got to know Farhad, the more I learnt about this.
More broadly, add to this the wider ramifications of living in modern Iran – a country with such beautiful rich culture yet an oppressive regime – Farhad likely had a very difficult upbringing.
War, religious persecution, Islamism: they’re not easy at all to say the least (especially when I now see and understand the emotional impact of such trauma and how trauma-responses/lived experiences can develop into socio-cultural norms and/or practices).
On my side, I at the time of meeting, I was not in the place where I felt I could date a man who was Muslim, Arab or Amazigh.
I’d come out of a conservative marriage, had emotional trauma to deal with, and I hadn’t been on a date for many, many years (minus the recent post-divorce video call e-meet).
Prior to being married, I was a serial monogamist. Now I was a millennial in my 30s and the dating scene had changed – a lot!
In terms of intercultural dating, I loved Persian culture and knew a lot about Iran.
I loved the warmth, the family values, the food, the music, the language, the architecture and much more.
I’d engaged in a lot of human rights activism and had a deep respect and fondness for the people and their nation – but not the regime.
I understood Farhad’s struggles. I loved his culture. And I didn’t whitewash over anything – I knew and felt the pain of Iranians across the board and the Baháʼí community as an example.
So, in short, when Farhad and I met, we seemed to match. I think we both learnt at lot from each other on our first date. And, we also learnt that the spark was there.
We understood each other and this grew over time. Obviously, Farhad had to learn over time who I was (I’m a bit of a mixed bag to say the least!), but he approached me in a way that was sensitive to my faith.
He knew and appeared to respect the fact that I was a Muslim woman. And so, he pursued me accordingly, learning who I was as a British-Italian woman embracing progressivism in faith – and in the early stages of such journey.
At the start, this mutual understanding and shared trauma translated to providing a safe space for me. He understood me. He “got it”.
I wasn’t the average “British woman” (whatever that is!).
I had a more conservative approach to dating on the one hand and baggage from the past, but on the other hand, I was also an open-minded Muslim and a European (British-Italian) woman who’d grown up in the “West” (and had dated before converting to Islam).
It was timely. Farhad gave me that space to be me. He understood my struggles. And we were on the same team – or so I thought.
We fell in love. We committed to each other. We pushed through the Covid-19 pandemic together and the challenges involved. And we prayed together.
It was beautiful. We opened his prayer book. It looked rather like a Muslim prayer book – with Farsi and Arabic combined.
The letters, the words, the monotheism were familiar, warm and beautiful.
Together we prayed and we shared our mutual spirituality as two people of different faiths, one love and belief in One God. It was a moment I shall never ever forget.
That moment truly pictured who and where I was at the time – as a Muslim, a woman and a human. And Farhad seemingly understood that. He didn’t just “tolerate” my faith, he always encouraged me. At least outrightly at the start.
He never professed to love Islam, but he didn’t need to. And I didn’t want or need him to either.
I respected and loved his faith for his sake (even without considering how similar both our spiritualities were in outlook). And I simply needed the same.
As the months passed, we discussed how I’d approach Ramadan. We talked (quite easily and unitedly) about what raising children would look like – sharing and teaching a belief in a One God. Simple.
And we both talked about how we were less conservative than the conservative communities we knew and belonged to.
Yes, the Baháʼí faith is incredibly open and tolerant. But I also found it had its conservatisms too (this is only my singular experience however). It was so alike yet far from the “Islam” I’d met as taught in the conservative diaspora (UK) and wider Muslim world to some extend at least.
For one, there was no gender segregation in his faith. There were no dress codes. There was no hijab.
Post-hijab me loved it. I felt a commonality theologically, culturally, socially.
Next: Farhad grew up being taught that sex outside of marriage was a sin and that drinking alcohol was a no-no. Again: something I’d shared in the Muslim world.
We were both so similar. But in retrospect, similar in trauma, similar in pushing boundaries and similar in rejecting conservative norms.
The difference is that I didn’t hide who I was. I believe in something, or I don’t. I think, I rationalise, and I come to my own moral conclusions. And I have no pressure from my non-Muslim family.
Farhad on the other hand had a community to think about.
His parents had certain expectations. And whilst he was very open with my friends and family (even meeting mine after around a year), I wasn’t blessed with the same openness – or even frankness about this.
I cannot speak for him about the reasons why he made the choices he did, but I can share the impact it had on.
For example, I felt shut out. And given my past, I didn’t want to feel shut out by any community, people or practice. I always aimed to be true to myself and respectful to others as a person – including friends, families and communities.
It suddenly unfolded quite immensely during one argument.
Farhad explained how the relationship was a private affair regarding his religious community (not just personal safety in terms of political asylum).
It turned out that he’d expected me to “trust the process”. Well, no.
I expected to be part of an open communicative process about said “process” from the start and to decide if that was something I wanted to engage with (I did later meet and spend quite a bit of time with his mother who was visiting from overseas and became rather fond of her – sharing food and gifts).
This became a critical point of contention. I didn’t hide. He did. And he wasn’t open about it to me either. That was the real issue.
I understood community and family dynamics – but I expected to be in on the process from the start and to decide what role I wanted to play (if any) in that.
What’s more, other things also began to increasingly unravel – and felt quite bitter on the receiving end.
Farhad’s softness towards me in my spiritual journey came to a halt. A massive halt.
It started with the blanket statement: “Dogs are haram in Islam”.
Farhad declared this openly and firmly when discussing how the Iranian government let dogs in for rescue efforts (eventually) because the faith declared that owning dogs was forbidden (a common belief).
Of course, in my mind, dogs were and have never been “haram” (forbidden). They’re a beautiful creature, and a blessing from God that offer companionship, love and care.
Any hadith (apparent saying of the Prophet Muhammed – recorded 500 years after his death and with varying stated degrees of “authenticity”) that referred to this was clearly either: contextual (dogs at the time had rabies) or unreliable (possibly both).
None the less, as a Muslim woman, I shared my stance.
There are varying beliefs amongst Muslims and an increasing number of Muslims are keeping dogs are pets (rather than outside guard dogs). Dogs are not inherently unclean, and dogs can and do live in Muslim homes.
But, he insisted no. Islam is X. Islam says this. And he’d lived in a Muslim country.
He spoke and acted as thought he knew Islam better than me.
I stood my ground – of course. I’m not naïve. I knew what Islamism is.
I know the traditional belief he’d have lived. I knew what “Islam” in Iran looked like.
And I knew my faith – the good, the bad and the ugly (I’d literally experienced it!).
The Islam he knew was likely often seemingly one of a brutal intolerant theocracy or at least a very, very conservative faith (I can’t speak for him outrightly).
Either way, that wasn’t my faith. And no, I wasn’t making my faith up. I’d learnt, I’d rationalised, and I’d lived. No one owned God.
It had been a darn hard but important struggle. No one was taking that away from me. I was a Muslim. He wasn’t.
Of course, as a non-Muslim was free to discuss, to criticise and to share his views and lived experience whatever his background (and this is important) – as was I.
This was the safe space I found at the start – a space where I could be honest about my religious trauma, where I could be a free-thinking progressive, where I could be spiritual and not have to listen to the conservative dogma where there was “one Islam” and I was apparently going against it and was therefore a “murtad” (apostate), “munafiqa” (hypocrite) or “kafirah” (non-believer/concealer of the truth) as the trolling antisemitic, misogynistic, homophobic Islamists would declare, spitting out from their hate-fuelled mouths.
Yet my pain, my trauma and my faith were not up for debate. Intentional or not, it felt patronising, dismissive and frustrating.
He didn’t have the right to dictate my faith to me, declaring what it is or isn’t.
Farhad wasn’t a scholar of religion, he wasn’t an interfaith practitioner, and he wasn’t Muslim. He didn’t appear to know about the diversity of Islam. But that wasn’t the point.
More than that: he wasn’t appearing to listen, share and fully care for his partner.
He didn’t need to be Muslim to share in the discussion by any means, but he needed to be open-minded. His lived experience of Islam was not the faith I had chosen.
I’d never believed in the Islam of Khomeini. Ever. And was never going to.
Whether it was “Islam” de facto, “Islamism” or just another form of a diverse faith (and potentially more diverse religious/cultural community than as currently socially, culturally and theologically lived/expressed) – is besides the point.
It’s about the conversation – how it started and how it was navigated.
Without a doubt, there was overlapping trauma between Farhad’s country of origin and himself, and likewise my faith and my religious trauma. But the conservatism I’d left behind was not the faith I still clung onto. And this clinging on to was empowering but also very difficult.
I needed support, compassion and kindness, not what appeared to be in time criticism, unkindness and self-blame. For sadly, it got worse from there.
I was processing my trauma – only just beginning to become aware of the full pernicious extend it had on myself as a woman. And he appeared to want to shut it down.
It all came to a crux: he pointed out the harm. I knew a lot of it.
But I was – slowly but increasingly – becoming more aware of it. I was starting to become more self-aware, and I needed to process it all.
Of course, I wanted to leave the trauma behind and remain Muslim. But that was a process.
As a young woman, I was walking on a journey of emancipation, self-realisation and healing – whatever the end result. This journey couldn’t happen in a day.
I was Muslim and was going to remain one I told myself.
Yet Farhad’s response appeared more-or-less to be: it caused you so much harm. Why are you holding on to it?
Only he knows what lies in Farhad’s heart, mind and soul.
Perhaps all of this triggered him. Perhaps it was frustrating for himself, and that he felt angry on my behalf.
Or perhaps it a deep dislike, disdain or rejection of my faith as a whole?
Who knows. Farhad is the only person featured in this blog to not have been consulted on this blog. So, I can’t answer that.
But what I will say is that unlike at the start of the relationship, things had changed.
He may have been well intentioned (or stemming from frustration). But, nonetheless, it came across as cold, angry unempathetic and blaming.
Whether he thought Islam was the problem – one that I was hanging on to – or whether he was merely pointing out the harm I’d been taught, lived and was processing as a Muslim (which with care and trust is open, honest and beautiful), only he knows.
When reflecting on this more recently, it appeared to me as a hatred/intolerance for my faith/spiritual experience.
And so, it seemed that my progressive criticism were at odds with each other.
At the end of the day, Muslims are a group of people who interpret and live a faith known as Islam.
Without a direct line to God, Muslims are free to interpret and (with free will) to life their faith as they like (of course there are fundamentals to the Islamic faith/Muslim community as it stands that unite Muslims as a group of people).
As his partner, I had all the time and love in the world for his emotional needs, but not for my needs to be either (intentionally) used or unintentionally pushed against me.
I didn’t need my partner, the man who supposedly loved me to appear to blame me for me pain.
Love is about patience, kindness compassion, empathy and understanding.
And reflecting back, what I’d say to Farhad now is this: we know that no one owns God and so as a Muslim woman, yes; there was much pain and trauma (both cultural and religious) in my past. But, there was also still so much beauty.
And that beauty was part and will always be a part of me. Without regret.
Almost a year into our relationship, I felt he used my own religious trauma against me.
I felt that he vented his frustrations at me when I needed care. And I felt that he blamed me when a partner should instead love, listen and care – with honesty of course, yet also compassion and empathy.
I don’t believe it was simply about him wanting me to move on from trauma. He met me as a Muslim and shared 11 months with me as a Muslim.
My faith was non-negotiable. I think he couldn’t see any beauty in the faith I held. He didn’t and couldn’t respect it. And through his behaviour, he didn’t respect me.
I was in a tricky stage of my life, but I was open about this (as much as I was learning at the time).
He wasn’t as open about his emotions and his trauma – whatever and wherever the source (including family dynamics).
I needed to process and claim my own identity for myself – whatever that looked like. It wasn’t his to pick apart.
He may well have been frustrated. To me, he just came across as not a very nice person (to put it mildly!).
And that theme continued up to meeting my family and afterwards his increasing coldness, accusations, unwillingness to communication and lack of empathy.
Towards the end, I told him he was a narcissist as he lacked much needed empathy (I believe my trauma has made me a more empathetic person – for others, I have since learnt trauma can manifest in narcissism, but that’s a much bigger topic).
Farhad’s response? He agreed he might be.
His tolerance mask (inner patience) had seemingly slipped – for my faith, for my emotional needs and for my friendship with my ex-husband.
Things were getting tiring, painful and emotional. I’d had enough. And he shut down.
Farhad didn’t share his feelings for discussion, dialogue and growth.
He grew angry. He grew cold and he grew increasingly accusative.
He questioned my own very real truths and in the end he outrightly twisted them against me, including towards my mental health and my reactions regarding his behaviour towards me.
Was this out of ignorance or very real intentional gaslighting? It felt at the time like the latter.
Looking back, who knows. Either way, it was out of order, incredibly hurtful and toxic.
Farhad had become a different person. I wanted the old Farhad back – the loving, patient, understanding one – or to move on.
In the end, I ended it calmly and peacefully. I felt free. Then, I went back. It was painful. Very, very lonely and painful.
My emotions ran deep. He ran cold. He then declared he wanted to “go on a break”. I didn’t believe in breaks – you work it out or you end it.
We went on said break and before it ended, we met and he ended our relationship.
He told me that he “couldn’t meet both mine and his emotional needs” and that he’d apparently been told by his therapist back in Iran on day one (and later his mother) that we weren’t compatible.
He broke my heart into a million tiny pieces. No Farhad, we weren’t compatible. I deserved better.
I returned home crushed. I wanted answers – to at least have a discussion to see if anything we’d shared has been real. And later, we did. I cried and he cried.
Farhad shared that he wanted to remain friends – to travel, to spend time together (to essentially act like but not be a couple). I refused. I had to cut him off.
And so, our story closed. And once again the healing had to continue – this time with an extra added load.
Looking back: what I learnt
You cannot live in peace without respect for one another
Respect should be about love and freedom – but not censorship. The criticism or critique of one’s own belief system or culture by a partner, most not be used, exploited or manipulated by the other.
Intolerance is not the same as critical thinking or examining lived experience.
Intolerance (as opposed to sympathy to difficult lived experiences) should not be used to blame the individual, feed disrespect regarding disagreement and/or dislike of practices, values and beliefs.
Tolerance isn’t enough to sustain a healthy relationship: if you love another person, you should love their being for their sake – not as a form of religious conversion, proselytising or blasphemy-esque censorship, but in recognition, appreciation, respect and care for their feelings, the things they cherish (their value system) and their lived experience.
You can of course agree to disagree. This is in fact very important, and each person should feel and must be free to express themselves. But respect, care and inclusivity are non-negotiable.
There are also many different ways to live a faith
There is no one way of being any adherent to a faith or expressing one’s spirituality. We really need to respect that choice, regardless of whether we share that faith or not.
It is not acceptable for one person (or both) to gatekeep the other – whether they share that faith, have lived experience (of course real) in one or more contexts or are an external observer (with no real insight, experience or knowledge).
Stereotyping and judging – as an internal gatekeeper (e.g. co religionist), stereotyping “outsider” or by any other way this may present, are not healthy, open, caring and do not nurture a loving safe space for a relationship
Spiritual compatibility can occur across faith traditions
Spiritual sharing is real and beautiful. This is a very real reality and can include rituals such as praying together or in non-ritual terms based on value-based practices (e.g. charity and social action) through shared values and beliefs.
By understanding and embracing the varied nature of faith traditions and additionally recognising the varied personal practice and interpretation of each person (rather than stereotypes), couples can develop their own shared beliefs, practices and experiences.
This is a powerful bonding experience – but should be mutually desired and by no means derive from any form of criticism, coercion, disrespect or force (it goes without saying).
Coming up:
Keep an eye out for part 3 of this series, where I share the impact of trauma on stereotyping others in the context of mixed relationships.
This post was originally published on Voice of Salam.
