I THINK my first exposure to the word Wahhabi was in America—from a newspaper or television item about Muslims. And since this sort of anti-intellectual emotionalism designed to hold an audience is quite typical in the world of entertainment (for which TV “news” is quite well-known), I didn’t pay much attention to it. The word was pushed to the back of my mind with all the other anti-Islam rhetoric I’d heard over the years.

I can’t recall my first exposure to the word Salafi, but one of my earliest memories of hearing this term is when I began to study Islam for myself (My parents converted to Islam the year I was born).

Fortunately, I was raised to think critically, so labels and name-calling always held very little appeal to me—even if the label or name was praiseworthy.  So when I found myself in a lighthearted Internet exchange with a convert to Islam who believed that calling oneself Salafi was an absolute must, I was genuinely intrigued. I wanted to understand why he felt this way.

“Why not just call yourself Muslim?” I asked.

“That’s not enough,” he said.

“Why not? It was enough to Allah and the Prophet, sallallahu’alayhi wa sallam.”

“But the word Muslim only tells us that someone is not a disbeliever. There are many types of Muslims. The label Salafi distinguishes us from other Muslims.”

“I think following Islam properly distinguishes us from other Muslims. That’s what it means to follow the Sunnah,” I argued.

“But what does it mean to follow the Sunnah?” he asked. “So many Muslims claim to be Sunni, but they aren’t. Salafi tells people that the Islam you follow adheres to what the Prophet, sallallahu’alayhi wa sallam, originally taught.”

“And what if I call myself Salafi and I still don’t follow Islam as it was originally taught? It’s the same issue with the word Sunni,” I said.

“Today, Sunni just means you’re not Shiite, so we need a different label.”

I felt a bout of mental exhaustion come over me. “And when people who aren’t really Salafi start calling themselves Salafi, what do we do then?”

I shook my head at the computer screen, internally grateful for the wisdom of my parents.

“To me, it’s as simple as this,“ I said. “Call yourself Muslim, and let people know what that means. And if we still disagree, we do our best to find the truth according to how Islam was originally taught and understood, and we follow that.”

“But it’s obligatory to call yourself Salafi though.”

“No,” I disagreed. “It’s obligatory to be Salafi—if we’re going by its true definition and not by how people use or abuse it.”

I added, “Just like it’s obligatory to be Sunni—or any other word that means to follow the Sunnah. If I’m following Islam properly, not using the latest ‘correct’ label isn’t going to harm me in front of Allah. And if I’m not following Islam properly, using the latest ‘correct’ label isn’t going to save me in front of Allah.”

• • •

“She’s a Wahhabi,” a man said to my friend.

“But is being a Wahhabi wrong?” she asked in response.

The man grew silent. Perhaps this was the first time he was forced to think critically on this issue. In the world of insults and pejoratives, critical analysis was generally not allowed—or expected.

“But I really wanted to know,” my friend said to me later as she recounted the incident.

“Are you a Wahhabi?” she asked me finally, a bit hesitant in her inquiry. I could tell this question had been weighing on her for some time. I wished I could clarify everything for her. But I myself was confused by why a fellow Muslim would refer to me in terms typically used in anti-Islam propaganda.

“To be honest,” I said to her, “I don’t even know what that means.”

“Well,” she said with a sigh, “he says we should follow Tassawuf.”

I rolled my eyes. Here we go again, I thought. When would this ever end?

“And that means…?”

She laughed in response. “I honestly don’t know.”

“Well, you should find out,” I said. “As for me, I say we should follow the Sunnah of the Prophet, sallallahu’alayhi wa sallam—as he and his Companions understood it. People can call that whatever they want.” I shook my head. “But I call it what Allah calls it—Islam.”

• • •

“Wahhabis say you shouldn’t follow a madhhab,” a respected sheikh of Tassawuf told his students. “But you must follow a madhhab….”

I sighed. It was difficult to be patient through this argument, especially as it was being repeated by a dear friend. I was so exhausted from this back-and-forth that I wondered if I had any energy left to discuss it.

Here we go…

I decided to let the “Wahhabi” label pass this time. Years ago, I’d come to accept that some people simply could not think outside of “labels” and focus on actual beliefs, so I left well enough alone.

“Well, I don’t know what Wahhabis say,” I said. “But I don’t see any problem with following a madhhab. In fact,” I added, “I don’t recall meeting anyone who says you shouldn’t.”

My friend was stumped. “But…”

“Look,” I said, deciding that for this case, the use of labels might do the conversation some good, “the difference between Salafis and Sufis has nothing to do with whether or not you must follow a specific school of thought. It has to do with ‘aqeedah.”

There was a brief pause. “What’s ‘aqeedah?” she asked hesitantly.

“Our creed or foundational belief. This is what creates different sects in Islam—differences in belief. Fiqh is a different matter altogether.”

“What’s the difference?” The question was asked sarcastically, but I sensed she really wanted to hear the answer.

“Well, let’s look at the issue of worship in Islam,” I said. “That we must pray the five prayers is an issue of ‘aqeedah. But where you place your hands after bowing, for example, is an issue of fiqh.” I added, “’Aqeedah involves the foundational beliefs about the prayer. And fiqh involves our understanding of certain details like where we place our hands or what breaks wudhoo’ and so on. 

“The different madhhabs are concerned with only fiqh issues,” I told her. “None of the famous four schools differed on ‘aqeedah. Actually,” I added for emphasis, “by definition, they were all Salafi.”

I sensed that my friend was doubtful. But I went on.

“This issue of following madhhabs is a distraction,” I said. “It has nothing to do with being Sufi or Salafi. There are Sufis who follow Hanafi fiqh, and there are Salafis who follow Hanafi fiqh—”

“But the Salafis won’t blindly follow,” she interjected.

“Even if that’s true,” I said, “the difference between these two groups—or between any groups—has nothing to do with whether or not I blindly follow a certain scholar. It concerns only one question, Must we follow Islam as it was originally taught and understood, or is Islam open to new understandings?

“If your answer is yes to the first question,” I said, “you are following the Sunnah. If your answer is yes to the second question, you’re not following the Sunnah—by your own admission.”

• • •

“What’s a Wahhabi?” someone asked as I entered the teacher’s staff room. I suppose it’s just the irony of life that I happened to hear this question at the international school where I worked in Saudi Arabia.

And I thought I’d left these discussions in America.

“Well,” one of my colleagues replied, “the Wahhabis believe that you’re allowed to pray to only Allah. But we believe you can pray through saints and sheikhs.”

I stiffened.

I hated to interject—after all, this was not my conversation—but I had to speak up.

“No,” I said, prompting the women to turn and acknowledge my presence for the first time. “That’s the difference between Muslims and pagans.”

My colleague creased her forehead in disapproval and voiced protest. “No,” she insisted, “it’s the Wahhabis who believe in worshipping only Allah. And they’re extreme: No calling on intermediaries. No religious rites at graves. No asking the dead for assistance…”

I shook my head emphatically. “No, that’s called Islam.”

• • •

So what is a Wahhabi?

I really can’t say. Because I don’t know.

And I imagine the term “Wahhabi” is like all labels, tags, and simplifications: The meaning depends on who’s using the word and why.

But I can tell you what a Muslim is.

Because Islam is all I know and believe in.

My prayer is that my brothers and sisters—who have been taught something different—will one day join me and millions of other Muslims…

In following Islam.

Umm Zakiyyah is the internationally acclaimed author of the If I Should Speak trilogy and the novels Realities of Submission and Hearts We Lost. To learn more about the author, visit themuslimauthor.com or join her Facebook page.

Copyright © 2011 by Al-Walaa Publications. All Rights Reserved.