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I’ve always had a challenging relationship with faith. I explain to people that I am “culturally Muslim”.
I do not fast, but I celebrate Eid. I do not eat pork, but I sometimes enjoy prosciutto pizza. I go to mosques, but don’t know how to pray. I think religion is important, but I don’t believe in it.
This is an incredibly difficult truth for my parents, who migrated from Afghanistan to Australia.
Despite their reassurance, as a kid, I grew up in a world where religion – especially Islam – was extremely politicised. I was four years old when 9/11 happened, so I grew up witnessing the constant condemnation of Islam through the media.
Not only did that impact my own sense of religion, but it also impacted how the world saw Islam.
The chadar (headscarf) was taken to be an oppressive cape for women.
Observing Ramadan was misunderstood as having no agency over your body and pushing it to the limit of extreme starvation (actually, it emphasises how much agency we do have over our mind, body and soul).
The deeply signifcant concept of ‘jihad’ was solely associated with terrorism and violence.
Now though, things are changing, and I can’t tell if Islam is being embraced or fetishised.
I saw Dune 2 recently. Yes, I enjoyed it; yes, I liked Timothee Chalamet as Paul Atreides; but what intrigued me the most was his role as the jihad.
In Frank Herbert’s novel on which the movie is based, Paul Atreides’ rebellion is referred to as a “jihad”. This draws parallels with the concept of jihad in Islam, which can mean struggling or striving for various purposes, including spiritual growth, social justice or defence of the community.
In 2001, George Bush used the word ‘jihad’ to frame the fight against terrorism, portraying it as a clash of civilisations between the West and Islam. The concept was politicised, vilified and misrepresented.
Now, one of Hollywood’s biggest names is playing a jihad.
Herbert’s book was heavily inspired by layers of Islam. The author saw it as a “very strong element” of his world-building, and spoke of society’s negative predisposition towards Islam and our failure to “recognise how much it has contributed to our culture”.
In Dune, the Indigenous Fremen people are covered in chadars, holding prayer beads in moments of invocation while a symphony of prayer is being recited. Both the Bene Gesserit’s use of almost Arabic Quranic proverbs and Chalamet’s jihadism are all inexplicably linked to the Islamic etymology of devotion.
But rather than building on these layers of spirituality, the latest orientalist adaptation of the books undid these experiences once again. Chalamet’s title of jihad is reworded as “holy hero”. Further, there is an abject lack of Middle Eastern and North African (MENA) talent in the film.
“…Dune takes a heavy amount of inspiration from Islam, Middle Eastern and North African cultures yet simultaneously erase us from the screen,” wrote Muslim journalist Furvah Shah in a piece for Cosmopolitan UK.
This concept of erasure has also become very apparent to me in recent fashion trends.
At the Dune 2 premier in February this year, actress Anya Taylor Joy wore a white floor-length gown with a hooded veil. Her hair was entirely covered – just like a hijab; her long dress went to her feet – just like an abaya.
“A white girl wearing it is fashion, a brown or Muslim girl wearing it is oppressed,” one twitter user pointed out.
This reveals another aspect of orientalism: where westerners fetishise Eastern communities as ‘exotic’ and ‘mysterious’.
This ‘look’ has also permeated fast fashion, and has even seen local designers in Australia add veiled elements to floor-length gowns not modelled by MENA-identifying people.
However, as well as whole lot of appropriation, there has also been increased awareness of Islam that has led to a more nuanced understanding of ritual spiritual dimension and beauty – which is exactly how religion should be understood.
Non-Muslims have been fasting this Ramadan, documenting their experiences on #ramadantok. Rather than being viewed as oppressive, the practice is being increasingly understood as a guided meditation of discipline, spirituality and the embodied experience of resilience.
A lot of this has arisen in connection to the genocide in Gaza. As people the world over seek to learn more about the history and culture of the occupied region as part of the #freepalestine movements, they are also learning about the meditative aspect of Islam and, in particular, the resilience of Muslim people.
Gen Z and the TikTok generation’s refusal to be silent, and their commitment to educating themselves on the ongoing violence happening in Muslim countries, has highlighted how faith can be so linked to grief, yet also be such a strong mechanism for hope.
To be perfectly honest, I initially had mixed feelings towards this new wave of Islam – but I now understand that people are embracing it.
People in the most horrendous circumstances put so much trust and faith in a God, and this resilience is now being adopted by non-Muslims to get through their daily struggles and challenges. They see the other side of Islam – the side of peace and patience that my family taught me rather than vestiges of the propaganda machine that spewed forth post-9/11. They see the beauty in it.
I see myself in these people. Despite not being religious myself, I too adopt elements of religion. My parents taught me to be resilient, patient and thankful, and it has been so refreshing to no longer be afraid to tell people that they are Muslim – to no longer not be afraid that it will elicit prejudice.
In the midst of these horrifying times – against the cacophony of political discord and whispers of despair – hope endures in paths of introspection as we navigate the realms of faith.
Cover and inset 1 via @middleeastarchive: cover by Tina Manley; inset 1 by Houssem