brenton
Esteemed Member
- Messages
- 143
- Reaction score
- 16
Every tourist city has trinket shops—places that gather together souvenirs from local woodcarvings to those ugly memorial t-shirts. Hidden beneath one of these souvenir shops in my hometown is a mosque. Obscure and unobtrusive, a computer printout is the only indication that beneath the city floor the nations gather to worship Allah and read the Qur’an.
I was invited by one of my customers, a scientist from Nigeria. He picked me up in his aged Toyota, along with another Nigerian and a Pakistani. We descended into the little mosque, removed our shoes, hung up our coats, and entered a large basement room with a close ceiling and industrial carpet. A floral curtain hung in the middle of the room, but there was no one behind it. Besides some bookshelves and large clock on the East wall, the only decorations were three plaques: one a golden depiction of the Mosque at Mecca, one the stone indicating the direction for prayer, and one I didn’t know.
We arrived at precisely 1:00, but there was nothing precise about the arrival of most of the worshippers. Some were there already, praying, reading the Qur’an in Arabic, or chatting quietly. Most of the early crowd was younger—some as young as high school and university age—and all were male. There was only one visibly “white-Canadian,” the first Muslim to evangelize me and a convert himself; most of them were made up of various Middle Eastern, African and Southeast Asian colours and accents. It was the first time since moving from Vancouver that I as a white-Canadian was in the minority.
While I sat barefoot and silent along the North wall, the most impressively bearded man began to sing. Soon after, the Imam, a volunteer, began to read a sermon in Arabic and heavily-accented English. It took me a minute to catch the rhythm of his voice, but soon I understood what was going on. He was talking about Hijrah. He spoke of the historical context of Hijrah, going into details about the Prophet’s experiences and the verses about jihad in Qur’an that occurred after Hijrah.
Then, without warning, he set his written script down, kneeled, and spoke in Arabic. Everyone said “Amen,” and then he stood again. He continued to speak of Hijrah, but this time it was more personal.
“Hijrah was a physical journey between two cities about 300 miles apart long before any of us was born,” he said. “But all of us can make Hijrah in our hearts.” He spoke of spiritual pilgrimage by moving from “sense to submission” and from “obedience to obedience to Allah.” He spoke quickly, but clearly, instructing his brothers on how to live as true Muslims today in their context.
The sermon was followed by liturgical prayer. With an innate sense of personal space, the men gathered in symmetrical lines, shoulder to shoulder. The prayer was sometimes call and response, with Arabic phrases leading toward intent “Amens.” Some closed their eyes, others whispered prayers throughout the liturgy, lifting their hands to the sky or to their ears. Silent prayer was accented by prostration and kneeling, a dance of posture that has echoed through generations of Muslims.
After the group prayer, the men scattered for a moment private prayer. Some grabbed their briefcases and shoes and quickly returned to work. Others lingered, shaking hands and giving a peace greeting. Because my friends were on their lunch, we moved out quickly, the Nigerians commenting on the snow and inviting me to return the next night for a discussion.
I was invited by one of my customers, a scientist from Nigeria. He picked me up in his aged Toyota, along with another Nigerian and a Pakistani. We descended into the little mosque, removed our shoes, hung up our coats, and entered a large basement room with a close ceiling and industrial carpet. A floral curtain hung in the middle of the room, but there was no one behind it. Besides some bookshelves and large clock on the East wall, the only decorations were three plaques: one a golden depiction of the Mosque at Mecca, one the stone indicating the direction for prayer, and one I didn’t know.
We arrived at precisely 1:00, but there was nothing precise about the arrival of most of the worshippers. Some were there already, praying, reading the Qur’an in Arabic, or chatting quietly. Most of the early crowd was younger—some as young as high school and university age—and all were male. There was only one visibly “white-Canadian,” the first Muslim to evangelize me and a convert himself; most of them were made up of various Middle Eastern, African and Southeast Asian colours and accents. It was the first time since moving from Vancouver that I as a white-Canadian was in the minority.
While I sat barefoot and silent along the North wall, the most impressively bearded man began to sing. Soon after, the Imam, a volunteer, began to read a sermon in Arabic and heavily-accented English. It took me a minute to catch the rhythm of his voice, but soon I understood what was going on. He was talking about Hijrah. He spoke of the historical context of Hijrah, going into details about the Prophet’s experiences and the verses about jihad in Qur’an that occurred after Hijrah.
Then, without warning, he set his written script down, kneeled, and spoke in Arabic. Everyone said “Amen,” and then he stood again. He continued to speak of Hijrah, but this time it was more personal.
“Hijrah was a physical journey between two cities about 300 miles apart long before any of us was born,” he said. “But all of us can make Hijrah in our hearts.” He spoke of spiritual pilgrimage by moving from “sense to submission” and from “obedience to obedience to Allah.” He spoke quickly, but clearly, instructing his brothers on how to live as true Muslims today in their context.
The sermon was followed by liturgical prayer. With an innate sense of personal space, the men gathered in symmetrical lines, shoulder to shoulder. The prayer was sometimes call and response, with Arabic phrases leading toward intent “Amens.” Some closed their eyes, others whispered prayers throughout the liturgy, lifting their hands to the sky or to their ears. Silent prayer was accented by prostration and kneeling, a dance of posture that has echoed through generations of Muslims.
After the group prayer, the men scattered for a moment private prayer. Some grabbed their briefcases and shoes and quickly returned to work. Others lingered, shaking hands and giving a peace greeting. Because my friends were on their lunch, we moved out quickly, the Nigerians commenting on the snow and inviting me to return the next night for a discussion.
kay: