Ruminations: Father-Son Conversations
The unseen inheritance we give our children: courage, honesty, and the strength to stay gentle.
“We should always allow some time to elapse; time discloses the truth.” –Seneca The Younger1
Over the past year, my son Noah began accompanying me more frequently to community events. Those trips—the commute and the time during the events—removed from the chaos of our own “Loud House,” a Nickelodeon cartoon about a boy with ten sisters that I jokingly say is Noah’s biography, give us an opportunity to have uninterrupted conversations. Just he and I, both seeking to understand and connect with each other a little bit better.
Noah is quickly approaching thirteen years old, MashaAllah. Previously, he feigned a shy, innocent naivete so well that we believed it as truth. But now, spending more time around his “uncles,” the act can no longer be sustained. We are watching him transform into a young man, MashaAllah. He has started sharing opinions that show he’s thinking deeply about things—e.g., children should not get allowance for completing chores because they should not get paid for doing their job—and he frequently interjects hilarious and witty commentary—e.g., after I resigned from ADAMS, someone referred to me as “Imam Merchant,” and he coughed and said, “EX-Imam.”
Parenting is gardening, not engineering. “Our children are not little projects of raw material to engineer into whatever we have always wished for them; rather, they are delicate flowers gifted to us by God to care for.”2 How we water them, and the earth in which they are planted, inevitably impacts the child in unimaginable ways. But what is often missed is how they also impact us.
According to my mother, when I was younger I was incredibly shy and introverted. She tells a story about pushing me to dance at a party—a moment that, in her telling, finally broke me out of my shell. I have no recollection of this, of course; I have always identified as an extrovert, fueled by good suhba (companionship). But the older I get, the more I feel that early shyness creeping back to the fore. Peace and quiet feel like a precious commodity these days, even if it is only achieved through noise-canceling headphones.
Juggling requires tremendous attention and focus. In the early stages, the hands feel jumbled and uncoordinated. The eyes dart from hand to hand to ensure every transition lands cleanly as the next motion begins. Over time, as skill develops, less and less focus is required. Experienced jugglers can raise the stakes, adding larger or more challenging objects while making the performance appear effortless to the untrained eye. That mastery is what makes the craft extraordinary.
I would argue that transitioning between roles and responsibilities—and carrying the emotional toll they demand—requires far more bandwidth than juggling physical objects. The stakes are higher, too, because figuratively dropping the ball can wound people. The greater the responsibility, the heavier the load and the higher the stakes.
During intermissions, performers retreat to a green room. Hidden from the audience’s gaze, shielded from the uninvited, the green room is a safe place to decompress before stepping into the next role. That is my commute.
For those fifteen to twenty minutes, I have the car to myself. If I want to sit in silence, listen to the radio, or simply crash, it becomes a controlled environment—alone, away from constituents and the familial gaze. More importantly, it is the place where I shed the weight of imamate before entering the responsibilities of patriarch.
Noah joining my commutes has completely changed that routine. It feels as though someone has tampered with the weight of my juggling pins, and now I am slightly off balance. What once felt effortless—even to me—has changed: minutes go by before I realize I have not said a word, so I stumble into awkward, belabored small talk, or he overhears me sending a voice note in a tone he is unaccustomed to hearing.
Tough Love
On our way to Sunday school, Noah and I stopped at a café near home—coffee for me, a chocolate milkshake for him. I know he probably should not be drinking a chocolate milkshake at 11:30 a.m., but it is my way of sweetening the pot, giving him something to look forward to on our trips. As we parked, I received a message from a young man and responded before we walked in.
The café was busier than usual. We placed our order and waited for his milkshake, my attention splitting between small talk with Noah and responding to the brother’s questions. I pointed out that they had added ice cream to his shake—hence the extra flavor—and told him he would need to stir it well, since the chocolate syrup had settled at the bottom. Almost simultaneously, as I buckled my seatbelt, I realized the brother was anxiously trying to get an answer from me that I was not going to give him. Noah joyfully started drinking his milkshake, and we headed to Tanwir Institute.
It was a beautiful day, MashaAllah. The windows were down, nashids were playing, and we were bantering away. My phone kept vibrating with messages from the brother. I did not fault him—he had no idea what was going on in my life, and I was under no obligation to reply immediately—but he also was not picking up on the subtle hints I was giving him. So I picked up my phone to send a voice note, and Noah, realizing I was speaking to someone else, rolled his window up. MashaAllah, Noah is a sweet boy and very socially aware. He also knows how to mind his business—it is a Black thing; we do not play that—but as soon as I finished the voice note he started chuckling. Surprised, I looked at him and asked, “What’s so funny, Baba?”
“How are you going to say, ‘Put your big-boy pants on’?!”
I try really hard to differentiate between being an Imam and being a father. It is not that I cannot separate the two, but my children are too young to appreciate the nuance of those roles. All Noah heard was his father speaking frankly and unfiltered to someone, without any of the surrounding context. So I had to explain:
Baba, I have been texting back and forth with this brother for about twenty minutes now, and he was not getting the picture. I said it many different ways and even tried ignoring the subject altogether. Eventually, I had to be honest and direct with him. My role is to serve people—I want them to improve and get better, even if that means I hurt their feelings a little. That is what true brothers are for. And because I love you, I would speak the same way to you if you were in his situation.
See, Baba, this is one of the problems in the community today. We live so far apart, and everyone is performing friendship. We are not real anymore. Just like Uncle Fulan always tells you when you speak improperly or do something wrong—that is because he loves you, and that is good. We need more of that. We need more real community. It will not always be easy or feel good, but that is how we grow. InshaAllah the brother trusts me enough to know that is where I am coming from and what I want for him.
I finished my little diatribe as we parked at Tanwir. I asked if Noah understood, and he affirmed by nodding goofily and saying, “Mm-hm.” Then we got out of the car and headed to class.
Unfortunately, kids do not come with a manual. So much of parenting feels like making educated guesses and trying my best—especially with the eldest. It is not that the other children require less labor, but, for better or worse, with each additional child comes a bit more confidence in your parenting style.
One of the qualities I desperately want my children to learn is to be principled.
What frightens me most is that I do not think you can teach this in any way other than by embodying it. It is one thing to worry about the individual consequences of being unprincipled—Allah says in the Quran, “How despicable it is in the sight of Allah that you say what you do not do!”3—but to become the cause of that loss for future generations is terrifying.
So I have to start at home. I have to model it for them, especially for Noah, who in the near future will have to lead a family—ours, as the only boy, and eventually his own. At this pivotal age, when his mind is capable of grasping philosophical ideas without yet being burdened by their weight, I have to explain the reasoning behind what he sees me model.
I have no clue how to do both effectively. Children are bombarded with inputs every day; if I do not make the effort, they will undoubtedly learn their principles elsewhere, beyond my reach.
Loyalty + Honor
Egyptians have a saying: “الشيخ البعيد سره باتع – the distant scholar’s secrets are profound.” As a community, we tend to recognize the bashariya (humanness) of religious leaders only when something goes wrong—when it touches close to home. Otherwise, we marvel at our perception of them, whether or not that perception is accurate. The truth is, religious leaders are human too. They get sick, have feelings, and have families they must support (who in turn support them). The difference is that true leaders often try to mask their less-than-ideal human qualities, and only those closest to them ever get to see behind the veil.
As an Imam, I have a public profile. When my kids were in elementary school, they once came home asking, “Baba, are you famous?!” because they had googled my name. Even before that, they asked, “Do you know everyone?” because we ran into someone who recognized me at the grocery store. My responsibility is two-fold: ensuring that they remain humble and do not use their father or their surname for personal advantage, while also doing everything I can to protect them from the unavoidable hazards that come with my vocation.
My mother has always emphasized the boundaries of “grown-folk conversations”: adults must be mindful of what is inappropriate for children to hear; likewise, children must know that not everything said around them is for them—if you are not being addressed, stay quiet, and do not repeat what you heard. She did not limit this to adults either; older children should not speak “grown” around younger children. For her, it was a matter of adab (decorum), and it is something I have always tried to uphold, especially within my home. Still, no matter how much my wife and I try to shield our children—sometimes by shifting into Arabic or changing names—they can be very attentive. And what is most striking is when they let us know they have picked up on something. On more than one occasion, Noah did just that.
Standing next to me, quietly observing, Noah saw a brother—someone who had betrayed me—come and give salams. The wound was still fresh, but it was a public event and I am naturally non-confrontational, so we shook hands and moved on. I did not think much of it. Noah, however, waited until the brother walked out of earshot and asked, “Baba, are we cool with Uncle Joe?”
It caught me off guard. How did Noah even know to ask that in the first place? What should I tell him? In an instant, standing there as the Imam in front of everyone, my mind raced. “No,” I finally said, “but it’s okay. We can talk about it later.”
We did talk, but apparently my answer had not been sufficient. A month later, the same situation occurred. As we walked to the car, Noah did not ask a question this time. Instead, he said something that cut even deeper: “I don’t know how you even shake his hand.”
This time, it was just the two of us in the car, so I tried to explain:
Baba, I’m not going to lie—Uncle Joe did betray my friendship, and it hurt. I thought our relationship was different, but I was wrong. Not everyone values relationships the same way, and not everyone acts responsibly or ethically. That is life, and it is a learning opportunity for me, Al-Hamdu lillah.
But because he was dishonorable does not mean that I should be. I cannot and will not allow someone else to take me outside of my own character. Please do not misunderstand me—I would much prefer to live peacefully and avoid interacting with him or anyone else who has betrayed me. But I also have to be cognizant of context. We were standing in front of the community, and no one there knows what you and I know. How would it look if I responded aggressively? I would be the fool then.
I love you, Baba, and I truly appreciate your loyalty. Life is not about what happens to us—it is about the choices we make when it happens. We must always strive to please Allah in whatever we do, no matter what anyone else does.
I use my therapist as a sounding board to challenge and refine my thinking. Recently I asked him, “Is it wrong that I prefer for my kids to be exposed to betrayal, heartbreak, and disappointment now, as opposed to when they are older? I feel like if they experience those emotions while they still have the safety of their parents’ love and support, they will be better equipped to handle them later—especially when, God forbid, we may not be around.” He agreed.
I may have the best intentions in a friendship, but others might not. My understanding of friendship—and the qualities it requires—may differ from theirs, or perhaps the relationship simply changes. Regardless, humans will be humans. I cannot control someone else’s actions, but I can control my own.
Imams are held to a higher standard, and rightfully so. We are entrusted with shepherding the community, and leadership comes with responsibility. If we do not like that, perhaps we are in the wrong vocation.
Because of this amanah (trust), some Imams attempt to embody a saintly disposition—overlooking aggressions and wrongdoings, withholding from taking positions for fear of choosing incorrectly. I acknowledge their sincerity, but it is not an ethic I can embrace. I do not only worry about what God or the community will think; I worry about what my children will think of their father’s decisions. What am I teaching them? I fear that inaction or indifference can, at times, become the sacrifice of integrity for popularity.
Dr. Cornel West said about this ,
“Something profoundly spiritual …is an acknowledgement of having a hermeneutical humility and an intellectual humility—acknowledging that you could be wrong, and there’s a good chance that you are at times wrong—but you’re still willing to stand in your truth and try to speak your truth and opt for a deep integrity rather than a cheap popularity. Because so often times in America to be popular is to be well adjusted to injustice … [and] well adapted to indifference. … Justice is what love looks like in public, just like tenderness is what love feels like in private.”4
Small Gestures
Ta-Nehisi Coates’s Between the World and Me was first released while I was still living in Makkah. It is an autobiographical reflection on the author’s inner-city upbringing, juxtaposed with his son’s suburban world. Reading it felt eerily familiar—not déjà vu from the author’s perspective, but from the vantage point of his son.
Unlike Coates, my parents divorced when I was eight years old. My mother moved us to Virginia to live in a densely populated Muslim community, while my father remained in Maryland, less than five miles from where he grew up. I was not just experiencing a world physically different from his; it was fundamentally different in every way. I was raised Muslim and attended a private Islamic school in the suburbs, whereas he was raised Christian and went to inner-city public schools.
Even so, we remained in contact. During family gatherings, I would usually find a way to sit next to him. Whether on the couch or standing in the stairwell, just the two of us, the chaos around us would quiet. For those brief moments, we connected. I always knew I was the younger, shorter, less handsome version of my father. I have always been fine with that—after all, it is not something I can change. But without fail, every conversation confirmed how similar our personalities truly are.
Recently, we were locked in the same way again—sitting on the couch with a cacophony of laughter and conversation ringing around us. I was excited, updating him on my new job, explaining the kind of work I was doing, when suddenly—
“Hold on one sec, Mike. I’m sorry.”
He paused me mid-sentence. He half-stood, reached down, and extended his hand to Noah, who was sitting on the floor. “I know we do not speak often, but I want you to know I am proud of you and I love you,” he said, before sitting back down next to me. “Sorry about that, Mike. I just wanted him to know. Please continue.”
Earlier that day, we had attended a janazah (funeral) prayer for the mother of Noah’s Sunday school teacher—may Allah have mercy on her. My wife spoke with him, I spoke with him, but he was downcast in a way we could not reach. So we gave him space. He drifted from one corner of the room to another like a leaf caught in the wind of his own melancholy, until Dad’s subtle gesture. Almost instantly, Noah was replanted on firm emotional ground, and he bloomed once again.
Time did what it promised at the start—it disclosed the truth. In a few quiet seconds beside my father, I learned that love is mostly timing: turning toward a child when his face is heavy, giving a clear word of love, offering a touch that steadies. No speech. No ceremony. Presence, arriving when it is needed.
Noah is my only son. That means I must give him time that is clearly his. Not grand moments, but ordinary ones—showing up, putting the phone down, asking real questions, listening until he is finished. He needs to be loved in ways he can feel, and he needs to feel loyalty. That looks like telling the truth with rahma (mercy), guarding his dignity in public, correcting him gently in private, and keeping my word when no one is watching. My father reminded me that these are not extras; they are the work.
Our Prophet Muhammad ﷺ showed his love openly to his grandchildren, and taught us that mercy to children is part of faith. Fatherhood is an amanah. The path is sabr (patience) and tawakkul (reliance on Allah). So I will borrow from my father’s example and give Noah what I saw him give—clear words, a loving hand, and time. May Allah guide my family to what is pleasing to Him, protect us from ourselves, make me faithful to this amanah, and Noah among the righteous. Ameen!
Ultimately, with Allah is all success!
Seneca, Lucius Annaeus. Moral Essays: De Ira, De Consolatione ad Marciam, De Vita Beata. Translated by John W. Basore. Vol. 1. Loeb Classical Library 214. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1928, p. 217.
Merchant, Abdul-Malik. “Parenting: Gardening, not Engineering.” Khawatir.blog. June 3, 2023. https://www.khawatir.blog/p/parenting-gardening-not-engineering
Quran 61:3.
West, Cornel. Love Is a Form of Death. YouTube video. Posted April 18, 2024.