The Asatizah
Chapter 15 – The Asatizah
The first meeting wasn’t in a mosque.
That was what Isabelle expected–grand domes, carpets, the feeling of stepping into a place that would make her suddenly aware of her difference.
But Aleem didn’t bring her to a mosque.
He brought her to a small, quiet office above a row of shops.
The sign outside was simple.
No dramatic religious slogans.
Just a name.
A place where people came to learn.
Isabelle stood at the bottom of the staircase, fingers curled around the strap of her bag.
Her heart pounded.
Not with fear exactly.
With the weight of what this meant.
If she took one more step, she would be crossing into something her family might not understand.
If she took one more step, she would be admitting that Aleem wasn’t just a friend anymore.
He was a direction.
Aleem stood beside her.
He didn’t touch her.
He didn’t push.
He simply asked, softly,
“You okay?”
Isabelle swallowed.
She nodded. “Yeah.”
Then she admitted the truth, quieter.
“I’m nervous.”
Aleem nodded once.
“That’s normal,” he said.
He hesitated.
Then added,
“If you want to leave, we leave.”
Isabelle stared at him.
No pressure.
Always.
Isabelle exhaled.
“No,” she whispered. “I want to do this.”
Aleem’s shoulders eased slightly.
He nodded.
“Okay,” he said.
They climbed the stairs.
The office was warm.
A small waiting area.
A bookshelf filled with religious texts.
A faint smell of tea.
A woman in a modest outfit greeted them with a gentle smile.
“Assalamualaikum,” she said.
Aleem responded smoothly.
“Waalaikumsalam.”
Isabelle’s mouth went dry.
She offered a small nod, unsure what to say.
The woman’s eyes softened immediately.
“It’s okay,” she said kindly, switching to English. “Welcome.”
Isabelle’s chest loosened a fraction.
Welcome.
Not judged.
Not interrogated.
Welcome.
They were led into a small room.
A desk.
Two chairs.
A third chair slightly to the side.
The asatizah entered a minute later.
She was older–maybe in her late forties or early fifties–wearing a soft-colored hijab and a calm expression that made Isabelle think of someone’s auntie.
Not intimidating.
Not stern.
Just… grounded.
“Assalamualaikum,” the asatizah said.
Aleem responded.
Isabelle nodded politely.
The asatizah smiled at Isabelle.
“You must be Isabelle,” she said.
Isabelle blinked. “Yes.”
The asatizah turned to Aleem briefly.
“You’re Aleem,” she said, like she already knew.
Aleem nodded. “Yes, ustazah.”
The asatizah sat down.
Her hands folded neatly.
She looked between them.
Not suspicious.
Not teasing.
Just attentive.
“So,” she said gently, “tell me why you’re here.”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Aleem glanced at Isabelle.
A silent check.
Isabelle swallowed and forced herself to speak.
“I… want to learn,” she said. “About Islam.”
The asatizah nodded.
“Why?” she asked, calm.
Isabelle’s mouth went dry.
The truth was complicated.
Because of Aleem.
Because she was dating him.
Because she might marry him.
Because she was curious.
Because she felt calm when he prayed.
Because her heart had been shattered and she had witnessed a faith that didn’t crumble.
All of it.
Isabelle’s voice came out softer.
“I’ve been curious,” she said carefully. “For a while.”
The asatizah nodded.
“Curiosity is a good start,” she said.
Then she looked at Aleem.
“And you?” she asked.
Aleem’s jaw tightened slightly.
He spoke honestly.
“I care about her,” he said. “And… religion is important. I want her to learn properly. Without pressure.”
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Without pressure.
The asatizah’s eyes softened.
“Good,” she said. “Because this is not something we pressure people into.”
Isabelle’s breath eased.
The asatizah looked at Isabelle again.
“First,” she said gently, “I want to make something clear.”
Isabelle nodded.
The asatizah’s voice was calm but firm.
“Learning about Islam does not mean you are promising to convert,” she said. “And conversion is not a ‘requirement’ you do for a person. It is a decision you do because you believe.”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
The sentence landed like a relief and a warning at the same time.
The asatizah continued.
“So you can ask questions,” she said. “You can be unsure. You can disagree. You can take your time.”
Isabelle swallowed.
She nodded.
Aleem’s shoulders eased slightly.
Isabelle noticed.
He was relieved too.
The asatizah began with the basics.
Not rules.
Not punishment.
Basics.
“What do you already know?” she asked Isabelle.
Isabelle hesitated.
She decided to be honest.
“I know Muslims pray five times,” she said. “I know there’s fasting. And… the Quran.”
The asatizah smiled.
“That’s a start,” she said.
Then she asked,
“What do you think Islam is about?”
Isabelle froze.
What did she think?
She thought of stereotypes.
She thought of headlines.
She thought of things people said without understanding.
But then she thought of Aleem.
The way he asked permission.
The way he didn’t drink.
The way he didn’t cross lines.
The way he was steady.
Isabelle swallowed.
“I… think it’s about discipline,” she said slowly.
The asatizah nodded.
“Yes,” she said. “Discipline is one part. But discipline for what purpose?”
Isabelle blinked.
She didn’t know.
The asatizah’s voice softened.
“To remember God,” she said. “To live with intention. To protect the heart.”
Protect the heart.
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
The words felt strangely relevant.
Because her heart had needed protection.
Because her life had been chaotic.
Because she had built her future around a person and lost herself.
Isabelle swallowed.
The asatizah continued, explaining the concept of tawhid–oneness of God.
She explained what it meant to submit–not in a humiliating way, but in the way you submit to truth.
She explained that prayer wasn’t just ritual.
It was return.
Isabelle listened.
Her mind didn’t accept everything instantly.
But her body recognized something.
A quiet.
A steadiness.
Like a rhythm she had been hearing from afar and was finally being taught the melody.
Isabelle asked her first question without meaning to.
“What if… someone is Christian?” she blurted. “Can they still… be with a Muslim?”
The question made Aleem’s spine stiffen.
He didn’t interrupt.
But Isabelle felt his attention sharpen.
The asatizah didn’t look shocked.
She nodded like she had been expecting it.
“That is a common question,” she said.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
The asatizah looked at Isabelle, calm.
“In Islam, marriage is not just romance,” she said. “It is a partnership in faith and life.”
Isabelle swallowed.
The asatizah continued.
“You may hear people say many things,” she said. “But the point is this: if two people want to build a life together, they need alignment. Not just attraction.”
Isabelle’s fingers tightened around her bag strap.
The asatizah’s voice softened.
“If you are here to learn, that is good,” she said. “But don’t rush to conclusions. Don’t rush to convert. Learn first. Ask. Reflect.”
Isabelle nodded.
Aleem’s gaze stayed on the table.
Isabelle could feel his restraint.
His patience.
The asatizah looked at Isabelle gently.
“And I want to ask you something,” she said.
Isabelle blinked. “Okay.”
The asatizah’s voice was calm.
“Are you afraid you will lose yourself?” she asked.
Isabelle froze.
The question pierced cleanly.
Because yes.
Because she had just lost herself in her last relationship.
Because she didn’t want to disappear again.
Isabelle’s eyes stung.
She nodded slowly.
“Yes,” she whispered.
The asatizah nodded.
“That is a good fear,” she said. “It means you are awake.”
Isabelle’s breath shook.
The asatizah continued.
“Islam is not about erasing yourself,” she said. “It is about knowing who you are in relation to God. That usually makes people more themselves, not less.”
Isabelle stared.
More herself.
The phrase landed in her chest like warmth.
More herself.
Not smaller.
Not swallowed.
More.
Isabelle swallowed hard.
She didn’t know if she believed yet.
But she wanted to.
After the session, the asatizah gave Isabelle a small booklet.
“A gentle introduction,” she said.
Isabelle accepted it with both hands.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
The asatizah smiled.
“You’re welcome,” she said. “And Isabelle?”
Isabelle looked up.
The asatizah’s gaze was kind.
“Take your time,” she said. “God is not in a rush.”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
God is not in a rush.
The sentence felt like a blanket.
Aleem thanked the asatizah.
They left.
Walking back down the staircase, Isabelle held the booklet close to her chest.
Her mind felt full.
Not overwhelmed.
Full.
Aleem walked beside her.
Quiet.
Isabelle glanced at him.
His face was calm.
But his eyes looked relieved.
Not because she was converting.
Because she had been treated gently.
Because the process was being respected.
Isabelle swallowed.
“Aleem,” she said softly.
He looked at her.
Isabelle’s voice was small.
“I didn’t feel pressured,” she said.
Aleem nodded.
“Good,” he said.
Isabelle hesitated.
Then she added, honest,
“I felt… calm.”
Aleem’s gaze softened.
He didn’t smile widely.
But something in his expression warmed.
“I’m glad,” he said.
They reached the bottom of the stairs.
Outside, Singapore traffic roared.
People hurried.
Life moved.
But inside Isabelle’s chest, something had slowed.
Not love.
Not faith.
Not certainty.
Just a quiet possibility.
And for the first time since her breakup, Isabelle felt like she was learning how to protect her heart.
Not by closing it.
But by building it on something steadier than a person.