The Echoes of Islam

(dessert: the best for last in my religious buffet)

It’s a little after nine, and I’m sitting on a too-soft hotel bed in the coastal town of Sousse.  After a two-hour train ride, followed by long walks of continuously losing my bearings in the labyrinth of the medina, it’s good to be in this run-down hotel room.  The further the sun goes down in Tunisia, the more Tunisian males decide to walk beside me asking me the same scripted questions that lead me to lie and tell them, “Yes, I do have a boyfriend here in Tunisia”. 

Mishary Al-Afasy’s recitation of the Qur’an soothes my tired soul, and the nightfall call to prayer echoes powerfully through the opened, screen-less window.  I was gently awoken around 4:00 this morning by the call to prayer, and it was nice.  Though it proclaims, “prayer is better than sleep”, I chose to resume my slumber.  Despite this morning’s lack of prayer, for the past few months I have allowed Islam to enter my heart.  It began with a bizarre moment of realization.  It was something like a renewal of the wonder and awe that I’ve felt for the life force behind everything, that great energy that keeps the world spinning around.  Since that moment, some divinity has guided me to learn more about Islam, to further contemplate the concept of God, and to learn proper methods of ablution and prayer.  This hasn’t made me any weirder than I already am.  It’s made me more grateful for every moment and more acknowledging of the uncertainties of anything beyond the present. 

So I purchased a hijab and have no idea how to pin this thing.  The scarf wraps around the head, for the purpose of covering the neck and hair.  I’ve almost figured it out, needing only to perfect the strategic placement of a pin or two.  It’s not that I’ll wear it regularly, but I need to enter the holiest site in the country, the Great Mosque in Kairouan.  I need to pray there, and it’s open to Muslims only.  The city ranks among the holiest in the world, after Mecca, Medina, and Jerusalem. 

Besides the never-ending hunger for new experiences, I’ve had a thing for religion.  Growing up Catholic gave me the appreciation of rituals.  Perhaps more importantly came the appreciation of fantastically divine art and ornate stained glass windows.  Frankly, the religious aspect of Catholicism didn’t compel me to continue my practice beyond the age of about fourteen.  Since then, I’ve visited other churches, including Presbyterian, Lutheran, and Episcopalian.  I’ve participated in a Buddhist temple stay, which included the completion of 108 proper bows before most people wake up.  I’ve chanted in worship to the Hindu Lord Shiva while gazing at the flames of burning ghee and cow dung.  I have, on the inside, at times ridiculed others who seemed to take religion too seriously.  Now, here I am, the eve of a journey to a very holy city for my first experience of prayer in a mosque.  God willing. 

Out in the hallway, there are about six light switches.  Not one of them turns on the light in the shared, smelly toilet room.  Good thing the sun comes up so early these days.  Pardon me, but if I were a man, I might be tempted to piss out the window.  The adventures of solo travel end up being tests of the self.  Rather than allowing things to become bothersome, one ideally learns to be appreciative of the little things we mostly take for granted.