Morning Star Encounter

I’d be lying if I said I could recall the conversation we had, as this meal took place about five years ago. What’s more striking to me now is reflecting on how this young gentleman’s path crossed and shaped mine. He was one of hundreds of university students I taught, and one of many I had befriended as I witnessed their university experience. He grew up in a predominantly Muslim autonomous region, so entering university meant being thrust into a space that more acutely highlighted his “differences” and minority status. This required him to frequently navigate cross-cultural interactions with, and stereotypes and assumptions held by, Han ethnic majority classmates. Although usually well-meaning, most of them had had limited exposure to cultural differences and had been fed a somewhat romanticised, essentialised view of China’s fifty-six recognised ethnic minorities. Perhaps that alone created common ground between us, as my existence in China was an ongoing cross-cultural dance and misidentification was common. (“No, not all foreigners are American. No, not all South Africans are black. Yes, my mother tongue is English – and yes – I come from Africa.”)

In addition, both of us were pursuing our respective faiths in a context where the predominant flavour of the day was – and is – atheism. Through his actions, not words, he began to open my eyes to what this meant for him. When extra-curricular activities were hosted at certain spaces by me or other foreign teachers, he was absent. This puzzled me – especially in an indirect, highly relational context. What did it mean? Eventually it dawned on me that we were choosing non-halaal spaces. No wonder he was absent. Enthused by my insight, I tried to be more sensitive. While other students took extra cookies we’d baked together back to their dormitories as snacks, he politely refused them; they were not halaal. This, despite my explanation that I had specifically purchased halaal butter, in the hope that they would pass as acceptable. I grew to know how food could exclude or include. That awareness emerged gradually, along with a clearer sense of what being a people “set apart” could look like. I watched the choices he made, including his annual devotion to partake in Ramadan, which he described as helping him to recentre towards creator God. I saw it too as a pursuit of holiness.

By the time his final undergraduate year came, I more readily recognised the 清真 (halaal) sign on restaurant windows that designated them as welcoming spaces for him. They’d become our meeting grounds. It was also in his final year of studies that the idea to join him in his fasting emerged, leading to this moment of slurping noodle broth together before sunrise. Soon enough, sunlight replaced streetlights and tree shadows. Full stomachs replaced full bowls. We parted ways, heading into the activities that lay before us that day. I was extra careful to not let food or water touch my lips as the day passed by.