How did I get here?

At which point did my journey to Islam begin? This is a question that I've often asked myself. I was seemingly the most unlikely of candidates, but then there is no real prototype of a likely convert, everything is in the hands of Allah swt. He needs only to say 'Be' and the most unlikely becomes the most likely, even myself.

Ever since my transition from one without faith to one blessed with the recognition of the existence of our Creator, I have tried to put my finger on what it means to believe. I cannot, for belief is too powerful to be restrained by language. I know that I always had a sense of something Great, an elusive feeling that Meaning sat just outside of my grasp. A feeling of holyness and longing. I was a vessel that needed to be filled! Now that I am Muslim, these feelings have a structure and I have a focus and a goal, most importantly, I have a method. Islam has given me the means to decipher my spirituality, to understand my human-ness and my life, once ambiguous and lurking, has clarity and perspective. Alhamdulillah! But once more, how did I get here?

Ever suspicious of organised religion but filled with an emptiness and a desire to 'know', at the age of twenty I set out to explore the world. At some point towards the end of my journey, I found myself in a North African village. Here, for the first time, I felt a balance...things were..in place somehow. What was it? I couldn't tell. It was subtle but pervasive. I was too immature for it to occur to me that it had something to do with Islam. I left with a feeling of jealousy, they had something that I didn't. I crossed the border and pulled of my disguise (jilbab and hijab) in full view of the guards, back to being free, so why did I sense that I was leaving behind something precious?

Back in Australia, my friends laughed at my newfound obsession with all things Arabic. I laughed with them. Never content with staying in the tent of my own culture, I had been playing the ethnophile for years. First China, then India, my cupboards full of exotic fabrics, my nights spent reading subtitles. So there was nothing strange about my buying Arabic newspapers that I couldn't read or sitting at home repeating alif, be..the, jeem, my throat getting stuck at 'ain 'ghain. At least to those around me there was nothing strange, but I sensed there was something enduring about my attraction. It didn't feel like a superficial fad. I had always been the first to laugh at my forays into other worlds, this time it was different.

It didn't pass, time passed but the attraction remained. What was it about the Arabic language that I found so captivating? I listened and felt a stirring deep in my being. I sat for hours gazing at Arabic Calligraphy, feeling it penetrate my heart. What gave it such power? How could something so beautiful come from such a backward and repressive religion?

My friends still chuckled to themselves.... until I found my husband. This was taking things too far. I couldn't be serious. Maybe I really was going crazy. Was I really thinking about converting? They discussed me anxiously, what should they do?

How could I explain how the Qu'ran had opened itself to me, offering me its' beauty and vastness? How could I describe how it felt to attend the fajr prayer and secretly watch the men as they prayed? To watch them and not feel like a detached observer, but to understand their love. I didn't have the words to convey my feelings. All I could do was retreat, into myself, my books and turn towards Allah swt and beg that He not leave me alone.

And here I am five years later, knowing that everything that happened could never have occurred any other way. Subhan Allah, please always let me keep this awareness of the immensity of this gift of Islam and please let me convey it to my children as they grow.