Celebrating Interfaith Spiritual Heritage
by Deshi Ramadhani, SJ
“I am Father Ramadhan.” For the first time in my life, I learned to introduce myself like that when I was working in Malindi, a cute “Italian town” on the Eastern coast of Kenya. To my delight, it was easier for the local people to understand and to remember that particular part of my name. I have also learned that most Kenyans tend not to mention the final “i” in a name. Hence, here, they call me either as “Father Desh,” or, as you may guess, “Father Ramadhan.”
People, however, would ask, “How did you get that name?”, “Are you a convert?”, “Were you a Muslim?”, “When did you become a Christian?” To which, my standard answer is, “My father was a Muslim.”
An Italian friend told me that she can still remember the day when she met for the first time someone who was not a Catholic. That story is unthinkable in my life. My late father came from a very devout Muslim family, and my mother is from a very devout Catholic family. From my father side, I can still trace the lineage back to some generations, and find a Muslim freedom fighter who due to his fierce bravery, was nicknamed by the Dutch colonialists as “The Soul-Snatching Prince.” Meanwhile, my maternal grandfather, whom I never knew, was a catechist who used to work with the Dutch Jesuit missionaries, and during the Japanese occupation was accused of espionage, arrested, tortured, and released from the prison only to die some days later.
So, yes, flowing in my veins is a mix of strong blood of both Catholicism and Islam. To my dear Italian friend, I would say, “Even before I became aware, I already met a Muslim.” My father was the first Muslim I met when I began to gain knowledge of people around me. Yet, I believe, the very first Muslim I met was the midwife who helped my mother give birth to me.
It was the day before the first day of Ramadhan in 1966. To my Catholic friends, I always say, “I was born on the Ramadhan Vigil in 1966.” Wanting to make it memorable, my father gave me the name “Ramadhani.”
My father was determined to marry my mother in the Catholic Church. Not only that, he was very committed to make sure that all his three children (my older brother, my younger sister, and me) be brought up as good Catholics. Together with my brother who had been born sixteen months before me, I was baptized in 1967, just one day after my father’s thirsty-first birthday. I like to think that my father, who was a Muslim, chose for his birthday present the baptism of his two sons in the Catholic Church.
I have many stories to tell about this “interfaith spiritual heritage” that has been shaping me from the day one of my appearance on this planet. Here, I want to share two of them.
Having a Muslim father and a Catholic mother means that we always celebrate the festivities of both. The month of Ramadhan was always special. All the three children had to get up in the wee hour of the day to eat with our father who was preparing himself for fasting. Then, we would go back to sleep, get up again later, and, of course, have our breakfast. At lunch time, my father would sit with us around the table. We enjoyed our meal, while my father did not take anything. The picture of my father sitting right there, smiling at us, without being offended by the fact that we did not fast, is always fresh in my memory. In fact, he was always furious when during Ramadhan, there was this constant reminder, “Respect those who are fasting.” For my father, it should be the other way around, namely, “Those who are fasting must respect those who are not.” If one day I will publish a book about my father, the title would be, “Lunch on a Fasting Day.”
Fast forward many years later, my younger sister married in 1994, my older brother married in 1995, and I was ordained a priest in 1996. We were all surprised when in 1997, my father told us, “I have fulfilled my responsibility to raise up three Catholic children. Now, it is my turn to go for the Hajj in Mecca.” Following his request, on the evening before he left, we had a Mass at our home, and at the end, the priest gave him a special blessing. It was as if the priest were saying, “The Mass is over, go now, you are being sent by God to Mecca!”
It was only later that I learned another beautiful ingredient in all that Hajj story. My aunt, the older sister of my father, also came to my ordination. It was the first time for her to attend a Catholic Mass. Being a devout Muslim, during the liturgy, she kept praying to God, “God, if it is your will, I want to go for a Hajj.” A year later, she went with my father to Mecca. Until her death, she always told me, “My prayer to go to Mecca was answered in a Catholic Mass!”
Being an Indonesian, like all Indonesians, I constantly swim in this beautiful ocean of different religious beliefs and practices. It is only here in Kenya that I have been assigned to work in various interfaith initiatives. Something that I have always taken for granted now suddenly appears as a wonderful interfaith spiritual heritage. I realize again how blessed I have been to have a Muslim father and a Catholic mother.
I am Father Ramadhan. My life is a living story of interfaith. Thank you, Dad!