He leaned forward. “What do you think about Shi’ias? I really don’t understand them.” His brow was furrowed and his face, surprisingly, bore no malice, despite his malicious question. I come from Pakistan, a country where Shi’as are persecuted, where too much blood is shed in the name of difference, where the notion of unity is a forgotten founding pillar of the nation. My views on Islam, on the other hand, are catholic and my practice idiosyncratic. I was flummoxed. How does one respond in a dignified, conciliatory manner to an egregiously prejudiced question, on the subway, no less? I found myself channeling my five-year-old son. “We’re all one, aren’t we!” I mused, stating the obvious. “Hindus, atheists, Buddhists, Shi’a, Sunni, you, me: We’re all made of the same stuff.” Who am I to talk religion? I’m no authority on the matter. The man remained silent, then shook his head, grinning. “That is truly a great answer!” he stated without irony, as the train pulled into Times Square. I offered a pinched smile in return as I stepped out onto the crowded platform, confused, still shaken. Here was a man who’d turned to Islam in New York City but had adopted and inherited in the conversion someone else’s regional history of sectarian prejudice and hate. Here was I, a secular Muslim, turned accidental ambassador of my faith on the R train.
— Humera Afridi writes some “Ramadan Meditations” in Open City magazine.



