Editor’s Note: This interview is especially close to my heart. It’s between two people who were among my dearest friends in college — friends I had the joy of introducing to each other. They fell in love, embodying what we can now easily call Muslim Couple Goals. Watching them grow not only in their love, but also in building a beautiful family and raising the next generation of American Muslims, has been a privilege. Both Aymann and Mira are remarkable in their own right, and here they invite us into an intimate conversation as they navigate the early years of parenthood together and Aymann’s first book, Becoming Baba. I couldn’t be prouder of them. —Amani
It was late — around 11 pm. We had just put our two kids to bed after a long day of keeping them entertained. Mira had mostly packed her luggage for a trip she was taking the next morning, though the bags were still unzipped. She was sure she’d forgotten something. This would be her first time traveling to Egypt alone with both kids. We’d visited it a few times together since becoming parents, but this was different. I would’ve gone with them if I weren’t in the middle of promoting my newly-released book, Becoming Baba. Writing and editing it took three years — and, now that it was finally published, I had one last stretch of post-launch plans ahead of me to get it into readers’ hands.
Exhausted, we climbed into bed and lay in the dim orange glow of our bedside lamp — Mira, on her back, staring at the ceiling; me, curled up beside her. The book about our lives and my path into fatherhood was finally on the shelves and, suddenly, our lives were on display, too.
What follows is the conversation we had that night, whispered in the dark. Mira turned the questions on me, asking me about what it means to write publicly about our family: how we’re raising our children with faith and conscience in a brutal world, and what it feels like to be seen by the person who knows you best.
Mira Abou Elezz: Something I think about a lot is how what’s happening in Gaza has affected me as a mother. How has it affected you as a father?
Aymann Ismail: It’s awful. I wake up each morning and immediately grasp for my phone so I can see the latest news. I spent forever scrolling through the horror. Then I have to put it away, put on a smile, and act like everything’s fine so the kids don’t feel it. But it stays with me. Our kids have full bellies. Others are starving. And that gap. I hate that gap. It just wrecks me. I catch myself getting so mad when they spill water or waste food, even though I know they’re just being kids. It’s like, this unbearable grief that we have no choice but to carry. I say Alhamdulilah more now. That’s something you taught me. But gratitude doesn’t fix anything. I guess it anchors me. And it reminds me that I have my responsibility as a Baba that’s bigger than my feelings. I tell myself giving my kids joy is resistance sometimes. Especially now. But, you know. It just hurts a lot all the time.
Yeah. Me too. I feel that. I cry and I feel so out of place. I have everything I need, but I’m still cracked open. I wonder how the kids will remember this time. I’m proud they know “Free free…” and can finish it with “Palestine.” It’s small, but it means a lot to me. At least those words are alive in their world. What about faith? In the book, you wrote about wanting to pass Islam down. How do you feel you’ve done?
I’ve tried different things. But honestly, I still feel like I have so much work to do on myself. My mom used to say, “You can’t teach your kids to be Muslim unless you practice it yourself.” I used to roll my eyes. But now I get it. So I’m leaning into just giving them the tools. So when that moment comes, when they need Islam, it’ll be there, within them. Each night, I recite Al-Fatiha to both of them and Moazitein. I’m hoping it lives in their bodies.
I think you’ve done more than I have. You’re the reason Musa knows we don’t eat pork. I think we’re doing it differently from our parents, but that’s okay. I want them to have the spiritual values even if the practice looks different. But I love when we talk about how to explain Allah to them. Like today, in the car, when Musa asked who made the world?
Yeah. I just said, “Allah did.” Everyone laughed, but I was serious. I’m trying to plant that muscle memory.
Becoming Baba ends at the beginning of your experience as a father. How do you feel things will change for you now?
I’m still figuring it out. I’m a young dad. It’s been fun watching myself become a different kind of Baba in each stage of their childhoods. I have no idea what the future holds, but I do know I’ve already changed a lot, so I’m expecting more change. The book ends when they’re toddlers, but they’re not toddlers anymore. They’re like, actual kids now. I wish I had more time to write about what came next, how much I’ve learned since then, but the main wrestling with the unknown stuff is still there. And that part of being a Baba feels universal.
Have you noticed a difference in how you parent our son versus our daughter?
Yeah, in a big way. Nature versus nurture is real. Musa’s obsessed with cars and trains and anything that moves. Noon loves teddy bears and cuddly things. We didn’t teach them that. They just came into the world with these preferences. But I also notice I’m more conscious of how I treat her. Like, I know the way I treat her will shape what she expects from men, and maybe even her future partner. So I try to be kind, even when I’m disciplining. It’s hard to be both. But I’m glad to know they get different things from both of us. That makes me feel okay about it.
So… what did you think of the book?
You first.
I liked it. I don’t think I’ve read a book I related to more. You wrote about different ways of being Muslim in America. About immigrant families like ours. The contrast between your parents’ Islam and my parents’ really stood out to me. There’s overlap, but also real differences. It made me reflect on both.
Aw! That means a lot. I wanted to leave readers with more questions than answers. Life’s too messy for neat conclusions.
Yeah, and I think you did that. You didn’t oversimplify. You made space for people still figuring things out. I felt seen. You wrote about me with love and honesty.
Is there anything you wish I hadn’t included?
It’s too late for that! But no. I’m happy with what’s in there.
Anything you wish I had?
I mean, I remember the 700-page version. I printed it at work. I read it all. What was it like to cut it down? What was that process like for you?
Honestly? Painful. It felt like erasing parts of my life. I went line by line and asked, “Do I need this?” It felt like reverse-journaling. I had to let go of a lot. But also, it made the book better. It flows now. Every chapter drives toward the thesis. But yeah, it was hard. What about for you? It’s your life too. What was it like to watch me write it?
I felt lucky. You wrote your truth, and I got to witness it. It deepened my understanding of how you saw us. Not in a bad way. Just more layers. I felt proud.
What do you hope people take away from it?
That their journey is valid. That being unsure is part of the process. This book is about parenthood. It’s also about the people who raised us, and the people we’re raising now. It’s about seeking. More than anything, I hope it makes seekers feel seen.
I love that.
I do too. I’m glad we talked about this. Sweet dreams.
Goodnight. Love you.
Love you too.
