t.g.i.f.

FEELING UNDER THE WEATHER, Sana apologized for not being able to accompany me to the Friday prayers.  As we entered the mosque’s wide courtyard, Nadhim beckoned a woman walking in front of us.  He asked if she wouldn’t mind guiding me in, as this was new to me.  She agreed, and Nadhim made his way to the men’s entrance.  Shorter, older, and with a few gold teeth, the gentle woman led me to the women’s section.  She showed me where to place my shoes, on a shelf near a large pillar.  The prayer hall was full of women of all ages, and a few children.  Some wore dresses, some wore skirts, with every kind of hijab one could imagine:  black, black with rhinestones, busy patterns, subdued solids, striped, flowered, bright, paisley, some with silvery strands of thread, others modest and blending with the skin.

We found our places in the last row, near the open entryway to the courtyard.  As I faced forward for the first rounds of prayer, I was overtaken by this amazing, new experience.  I stood there.  I didn’t try to remember, nor did I forget, I just stood.  I was in the Great Mosque in Kairouan, Tunisia, and it was beautiful.  After a few moments, I focused and prayed.  We sat for several minutes, waiting for the Imam to speak.  I couldn’t grasp all that he was saying, but did understand the reference he made to Mother’s Day, noting that mothers must be celebrated each and every day.  Following his words, the worship began.  Shoulder to shoulder, we prayed in unity.  It was yet another great day to be alive, and a moment I’ll not soon forget. 

Following the prayer, I thanked the lady and made my way out to find Nadhim.  We walked around the corner and sat on a bench in front of the mosque.  Scores of tall, blonde, summery-dressed tourists flooded the plaza, taking photos of the holy site and its dispersing crowd of worshipers.  As the day-trippers hovered around the big, luxury buses, I was grateful to not be one of them.  For the rest of the afternoon, Nadhim & I walked around the city, ending the evening enjoying a sheesha smoke at a roadside café.  He and a friend walked me back to my hotel, and tomorrow we would be off to a Land of Olives… Khazazia. 

 

A holy city, a stranger, and a peculiar shower

THE SUN LOWERS, presenting a rainbow of hues from orange to blue along the horizon.  The cotton-ball clouds nestle themselves among snow-covered peaks.  By now, we’re probably flying over the south of France.  The fresh, cold appearance of those clouds below is such an extreme contrast to the days of dry, warm Tunisia. 

Without any contact, without using the Internet, having lived solely among Arabic-French speaking Tunisians for six days, it seems I’m reentering the modern world.  I don’t know if I want to, but that’s the way life goes. 

From the seat pocket in front of me, I remove the airline magazine and peruse the articles on the small gem of North Africa that is Tunisia.  I read about the fourth most holy city (behind Mecca, Medina, and Jerusalem), the new capitol of the world of Islam, Kairouan.  After having spent the last four nights under the great care of one of her families, it was so strange to read a formal article, from a tourist perspective.  I intended on wandering the streets of that old holy city, visiting her great mosque, and staying there for just one night.  It is easy to say that the meetings and events that took place there changed my life, but it’s important to remember that with each moment, we can be changing ourselves.  ... ... ...   

So there I was in Kairoaun, Tunisia.  After a divine season of learning as much as I could about Islam, here was the perfect opportunity for me to connect with others, to know Allah, through prayer in a mosque.  The ride in the shared taxi (louage) lasted just under an hour.  I arrived to the hotel, recommended by a fellow traveler, before ten in the morning.  Just as Eugene described, the rooms were set around a gorgeous courtyard.  The man at reception gave a warm welcome, offering the choice between two rooms.  After settling in, I headed back down to settle up.  I inquired about prayer time at the mosque, and we talked about Islam.  The man at the desk congratulated me for having accepted this religion of truth, this beautiful way of life, and advised me on the appropriate time to get to the mosque.  It was still mid-morning, and I felt like stepping out to see the city and grab a bite to eat. 

 

I passed by a few small restaurants, not having any idea of where I was going or what foods would be found.  Across the street, a young stranger greeted me in French.  I greeted him in Arabic and continued down the road.  Turning around a corner, we met again and he accompanied me as I glanced at a restaurant’s sidewalk counter.  He asked me what I wanted.  This food was unfamiliar, so I told him I’d eat anything without animals.  Seconds later, an egg and vegetable chapati sandwich was made for me, though I forgot to emphasize “no tuna”.  As Nadhim sat across the table from me, I happily ate.  I wanted so badly to share with him, but he refused.

After lunch Nadhim suggested we pass by the house, and then he’d show me around.   I met his cousin, Sana, a trained English teacher who is currently employed at a factory.  She and an aunt welcomed me to the kitchen where we chatted about Kairouaun and the Great Mosque.  As I was too full to eat it, Sana insisted I take a packet of yogurt with me as Nadhim and I were leaving to stroll around town.  We walked north to see the huge, round Aghlabid Pools and made our way through the narrow streets of the city.  

 

Among the many interesting sights of Kairouan, we stopped by to see a camel who walks a circle around a well to provide spring water for the drinking.  Rounding back to the hotel, Nadhim dropped me off and promised to return to take me to the Friday Prayer. 

I had thirty minutes to get ready, and the shower in my room was abnormal.  The water wouldn’t come out, so I tried the adjacent sink.  It took a minute, but water finally began to flow.   I rushed to turn on the shower and it worked… for mere seconds.  I left it on and further loosened the sink’s knob.  I went back and forth from the showerhead to the sink, trying to suds up, trying to rinse off, as the water dripped, stopped, and flowed alternately and simultaneously from the showerhead and the sink’s faucet.  Where was my camel to get the water flowing?  This was a most ridiculous bathing experience, and it was cracking me up. 

Finally, I was rinsed and ready to dress.  My clothes from the backpack weren’t exactly the finest, but they would do.  Pink pants, flowing floral purple long sleeves, and sandals.  Time to try the hijab.  It was my first time wearing one, and I wrapped it the best I could.  I dashed outside to find Nadhim waiting for me.  As we walked toward the house for Sana, I tried to explain the feeling of having happy butterflies in my stomach.  First day in hijab, first time to pray in the mosque.  Off we went… 

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.