I made irreverent art about Muslims. It took a while, but eventually Muslims came to love it

As a practicing Muslim, I was uncomfortable making fun of the prophets or the divine. But I did want to make fun of Muslims. Narrow-minded, patriarchal men (whose equivalents exist in all communities) were the bane of my existence; I wanted to poke fun at their trivial obsessions.

Unfortunately, some members of my Muslim community couldn’t tell the difference between making fun of Muslims and making fun of Islam. After the show aired, I was swiftly condemned at my mosque. Someone started a petition to have me removed as a member in good standing; at one Friday sermon the local imam talked about how Muslims were not allowed to shame Islam. Men yelled at my husband to divorce me.

For the first time in my life, I was afraid to be in a mosque.

It took me years to process what happened. Looking back, I realize I made some miscalculations. My show wasn’t offending people’s religious sensibility; I was poking at their conservative cultural sensitivities. But sometimes, it’s hard to separate the two.

In the first season, a husband and wife kissed in public, and menstrual blood was shown in a pair of pants. Though Islam as a faith is quite open about sexuality, in my community people acted as if I were broadcasting porn. My mother grew up in a culturally conservative Pakistani society where discussions about periods and sex were taboo. Even using a husband’s first name was frowned upon.

By the time the third season aired, the community had stopped being bothered by the show. Nothing catastrophic had happened to Islam’s reputation. In fact, the opposite was true. People felt they could relate to their Muslim neighbors. My life started returning to normal, and I became a minor celebrity. People stopped me on the streets to ask whether the imam would marry his sweetheart, Rayyan, or would J.J., his romantic rival, take his place?

Even now, two years after the show ended (we produced 91 episodes over six years), Muslims come up to me and ask when I’m going to create the next show. I have to stifle the urge to throttle them for making my life a misery. But I smile sweetly and say, “One day.”

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t frightened at times for my safety, wondering if I’d ever have the same relationship with my community again. The mosque had been such a vital and empowering part of my life growing up; I couldn’t imagine a life being ostracized from it. Occasionally, I wondered if it was all worth it. But deep down I know people saw “Little Mosque on the Prairie” for what it really was: a show that celebrated faith through comedy.