Eman Hamed

The Muslim Mental Health Initiative

Sabahaath Latifi on Bringing Islamically Integrated Psychotherapy to Northwestern University

By Fardeem Munir

The Muslim Mental Health Initiative (MMHI) was founded in 2019 with the intention of providing an inclusive mental health resource to the Northwestern community and its Muslim students. Recently, MMHI has partnered with Khalil Center Chicago and CAPS to offer “Let’s Talk” hours with Sabahaath Latifi, a Muslim licensed therapist. Sabahaath completed her undergraduate studies in speech-language pathology and quickly discovered her love for working with people. Through a series of personal life events, she realized the importance of mental health and completed her graduate studies in Clinical Psychology. During her internship, she discovered the Khalil Center and has been working with them ever since. We sat down with Sabahaath to discuss Islamically integrated psychotherapy, specific mental health issues she observes in the Muslim community, and how to best break news of your escapades to your parents. TLDR: if you go skydiving without telling your parents, the best time to tell them is right before you jump out of the plane. “Hey mom, I’m skydiving right now. Okay bye!” As some people would say, “ask for forgiveness, not for permission. :)” This interview has been edited for length and clarity

A lot of people are fundamentally opposed to the idea of therapy. In their mind, they cannot piece together why talking to someone about a problem will solve that issue. Do you have any particular stories that push back against that narrative?

That is the common myth about therapy: that you just go talk and things change for you. That is never, ever true. Therapy is way more than that. Here’s something I see a lot: I get older clients and they’ve been living life for a very long time in a certain way that tends to follow the mantra, “Don’t deal with your problems.” “Anxiety? No, sometimes I get overwhelmed and I deal with it and I move on and I’m fine.” And yet, as they say, these things, they will also say “I feel my heart racing. I sweat, I get nervous” and still end with saying “but I’m fine.” And then we start talking. We’re not just talking for the sake of talking, but rather to explore where this person is coming from. What’s their background? What’s their experience? Who are they? They’re individuals with very rich histories and experiences that have shaped the way that they see the world and deal with problems. And I want to understand that. Of course, we also work on the skills and the techniques to deal with the [issue]. And while we’re doing this exploratory work, we’re also doing lifestyle building. So we talk about nutrition, physical activity, sleep hygiene and spiritual health. We talk about relationships and how they deal with conflict: communication, assertiveness, self-advocacy –- we do all that. Now, maybe something new happens in their life while they’re in therapy. I see the way that they handle that new conflict or that new situation – they’re very much within an awareness of self compassion, recognizing the way that they can communicate or the way that they can handle it. And it looks totally different. It’s healthy, it’s balanced. And they’re able to take on the conflict without it taking them over.

What are some of the issues you see come up with Muslim college students? You mentioned that a common issue you see is students having to study a subject for their parents sake and not because they’re interested in it.

So we do see that often and the feeling that generally comes up is, “I feel stuck.” First of all, there is no easy answer to that. Whenever somebody comes to me, I challenge that feeling a lot — obviously, after building a relationship and creating a safe space for them and doing everything we’re sup-

Sabahaath Latifi. Photo via Khalil Center posed to do. When that is taken care of, we build an alliance, we create an understanding of what therapy can be, and then we challenge the feeling of being stuck. Because whenever we feel stuck, it’s a feeling; it’s not a fact. Feelings are never fact. So you feel stuck because you feel like you don’t have choices. But, we always have choices. The choices can be difficult. They can be painful. In fact, they can cause other kinds of conflict — but they exist. And, so, some people, when you challenge them, they recognize that, “you know what, for me, my parents are a priority, nothing else surpasses that. It’s my job to fulfill this,” and they do it with that intention. Do I think that’s the healthiest way to go about it? No, but who am I? If that’s something that the person realizes is their priority, then that’s important. That’s the thing that we want to work with. Nobody gets to judge them for those choices. Now most of the time, what ends up happening is the person realizes they are really following this path out of fear that their parents won’t accept them, or concern over the fights that may happen at home if they say, “Hey, I don’t want to do this.” That’s the reason that they’re just pushing through. Then, they realize that they can actually advocate for their needs and be assertive. Yes, it’s gonna come with conflict, and yes, it’s going to come with a lot of “fun” emotional blackmail statements and things like that. There are extreme cases, but for the average [parents], if you tell them you don’t want to do it, what are they really going to do? Lots of emotional blackmail. Sure. Lots of yelling. And yes, it sucks to have to go through that. I’m not minimizing having to hear that. Trust me, it’s painful. But after that, what happens? Are they going to really put a gun to your head and force you to sit in on classes? No. The average parent won’t do that. They’re going to be like, “Oh man, okay, fine.” “Whatever, this kid, what a disappointment, time to move on.” And then you move on with your life and you build your career and they realize, “wait, he or she is doing perfectly fine.” Life moved on. So, when you can give the person the tools that they might need to feel secure enough, or as secure as you can possibly feel to face that, they do face it. And I’ve seen people come out on the other end, and I’ve seen them be happier – and because they’re happier, they’re able to deal with whatever things their parents might be throwing at them. Once again, I want to emphasize, I can never speak for every experience, but generally speaking, these parents really just want their kids to be happy. Unfortunately, they believe that happiness is only defined by what they think is happiness. And when they can see that their child is still happy after they choose a different path, they tend to come around and accept that. So it’s really important to recognize that your parents aren’t your enemies. They’re just trying to do what’s best for you. Unfortunately, the efforts are well intentioned, but harmful, and you push through all of that. There is the other end to it, and it’s really great. There’s a lot of happiness and contentment waiting for you there.

A lot of people are in situations where they are practically living a double life and then they realize that they want to stop, but that involves having a difficult conversation with either their parents or someone else. What would you advise to those in that situation?

This idea of having honest, assertive conversations with your parents is the most foreign idea in our community. I don’t think there’s any way to do it without damage or without things blowing up. I really do believe it’s about going through it. It’s like having a car stuck in the mud, right? You can’t sit inside the car, all clean and pretty and just rev your car out. No, you got to get in the mud, get dirty, get gross, put in a lot of effort to push that. That’s kinda what you gotta do here. You gotta go through it. You can’t just drive around it or figure it out. You’re going through it. You’re pulling your car out. You’re getting messy. So, I wish I had a pretty answer for you on that. I just don’t.

--Sabaahath Latifi is available for consultation hours for the academic year. You can drop in for sessions every Monday at the MCC. You can book a time with her at https://bit.ly/nu-teletalk.

A Night with Mohammed El-Kurd

In November 2021, Chicago’s chapter of Student for Justice in Palestine welcomed Mohammed El-Kurd, Palestinian poet and journalist from East Jerusalem, to speak at the University of Chicago. From reading from his debut poetry collection, Rifqa, to talking about activism, violence and the law, El-Kurd inspired many to fight against oppression and for liberation.

By Eman Hamed

He mounts at a podium on a small wooden stage, red drapes drawn behind him. With a single spotlight illuminating his face, Mohammed El-Kurd fills the room with his presence as he stands and reads poems from his collection, Rifqa.

I have never seen so many people captivated in my life. Everyone’s eyes, filled with admiration and hope, set attentively on El-Kurd as he speaks about the experiences of growing up in Occupied Palestine. His storytelling is inherently entrancing, with each word having enough emotion to move a mountain.

He brings to life the pictures and videos and stories we read in the media. We all know those stories: the posttraumatic stress disorder little Palestinian boys and girls suffer from seeing their homes get blown to bits and pieces, Palestinian activists’ faces getting pounded into concrete by an Israeli soldier’s foot while they’re being arrested, the sorrow of a Palestinian parent as they carry a two or three foot coffin holding their child.

He shares the stories of untapped potential, of ruin and destruction, but what makes him so memorable is his blatant honesty. “I hate my oppressors,” he said, taking a deep pause, “I hate them and it’s ridiculous that people tell me I should feel otherwise.”

This much-needed expression of how those oppressed should not have to “play nice” with their oppressors is not the only lovable attribute of this experience. What I value so much about this event is the remembrance of what was and what could be. El-Kurd reassembles a picture of an unoccupied Palestine, of a Palestinian society before colonization and ethnic cleansing. Beautiful architecture and pristine buildings, acres of olive trees and greenery, bustling street markets, mesmerizing beaches. A Palestine where the sun shined a little brighter.

The saying that “One day, it will be Palestine’s time to be free,” has always been my beacon of hope. In retrospect, after listening to Mohammed El-Kurd, I recognize that the time is now.

There is so much in life we take for granted, so much ease and privilege we as Northwestern students have in our day to day lives. I encourage everyone to educate themselves, to enlighten themselves the same way Mohammed El-Kurd enlightens me and an audience of hundreds, and fight for the Palestine that once was, because there is still time where it could be.

To find ways to be on the right side of history and support Palestinian liberation, join Northwestern’s chapter of Students for Justice in Palestine (SJP) and, by extension, Students for Justice in Palestine Chicago, where you can learn about events, protests, and more.

The Festival of Sacrifice

By Asiyah Arastu

We live in a world of growing vegetarianism. As the cruelty in the meat industry is exposed, people recoil in pity and horror. Many vow to never eat meat again. Some swear to convince the rest of the world to follow suit.

For some reason, many tend to overlook the simplest solution: moderation. It’s true—the treatment of animals in the meat industry is inexcusable. But this happens partly because of the demand for meat: the need for meat at every meal, quick and convenient, processed and packaged to please the masses. To sustain this lifestyle, the frenzied butchering must continue, far from the public eye. The connection that once existed between man and animal is gone.

In Islam, the profession of a butcher is highly discouraged for this very reason: killing as a profession hardens one’s heart and severs the connection between the one who is fed and the one who feeds. We consumers become indifferent to the meat we consume, neither knowing nor caring where it came from. We are unable to appreciate the blessing because of how removed we are from the source and provider.

This apathy is the antithesis of the spirit of Eid al-Adha, the Festival of Sacrifice, during which we remember Abraham, Ishmael, and their sacrifice. For many, this story is shocking, but there is indescribable beauty at its heart. Abraham dreamt of God’s order to sacrifice his son—his firstborn, a gift in his old age, whom he loved more than his own self. It was not an easy choice to make, but he did not make it alone. He asked Ishmael what he thought. There was no struggle, no coercion. The two had firm faith in their Lord: utter trust, selflessness, and devotion. Ishmael calmly urged his father to fulfill his Lord’s command, and his father mirrored that resolve, despite his heavy heart. In the end, of course, God did not want his prophet to shed the blood of his son. Both father and son were overjoyed when their trust in their Lord in the face of such a trial was rewarded by his infinite mercy. In his son’s stead, Abraham sacrificed the ram God sent down with Gabriel—an act of obedience and sincere gratitude.

We Muslims aspire to that level of submission to the will of one who is infinitely wiser than ourselves. On this Eid, we, too, strive to sacrifice—not because God is capricious and bloodthirsty, or because he needs another creature’s blood to sustain himself. The purpose of this act is to give thanks, to earn God’s pleasure, and, as an added benefit, to connect with those in our community: it is highly recommended to offer a third of the meat to those less fortunate than us, distribute one third to friends and relatives, and keep one third to feed our own families. There is a certain bond that arises from partaking of food from the same source, and that bond is strengthened through this act.

Of course, sacrificing an animal is not meant to be easy. Just as it was for Abraham, it is a test, especially for those who carry it out far from home during Hajj. There is the price of the animal—a small sacrifice on our part. Then there is the sheer physical exertion such a task requires. And, for all who have compassion, there is the emotional tug felt when taking the life of a fellow creature.

A few years ago, my brother and I had the opportunity to sacrifice a lamb together. After the experience, people peppered us with questions. What was it like? Was it hard? Did you feel bad? To tell the truth, I felt a whirl of complex emotions. Most confidently, I can say I did not “feel bad.” Islam places great emphasis on treating the animals with as much dignity and kindness as possible until the end. We led each lamb away from the rest before sacrificing it, and to each one we offered water in its final moments. I felt the weight and solemnity of the occasion, but I did not feel bad. Even if others were coarse and unfeeling in the background, even if the surroundings were not as clean and pristine as they should’ve been, I did it for the right reasons and in the best manner possible. I try to think of it as a sacrifice on the animal’s part as well as on our own. I remind myself that God knows what is best both for the animal and for us.

On Eid al-Adha, we renew our appreciation for the blessings God bestowed on us in the form of cows, goats, and sheep. However, we shouldn’t limit this appreciation to a yearly basis. The key is to maintain this connection throughout the year whenever we choose to consume meat so that it does not devolve into something that we take for granted. We don’t need to completely forgo meat if we remain mindful of where our food comes from. When a sacred relationship is drowned in thoughtlessness and mass production—that is where the trouble starts.