Excerpted from my book of travel essays entitled Distant Islands and Sea Light.
As I approached the ancient mosque enclosure, I was greeted by a number of interested cats who stood and stretched at my arrival, fluffy and fat, whose comical faces stared at me boldly in various attitudes of inquiry, but I was in no mood for their questions. There is a beauty to mystery that needs no answers as I surrendered myself to the ambiance of the inner sanctuary.
Leaving the cats behind but making a mental note to engage with them upon my departure, I entered the mosque to make my salaams. There were a number of other people, seemingly tourists, gazing about the place looking a little bewildered as though not sure how to behave, taking no especial notice of me as I quietly and comfortably moved off to sit and take some rest by a pillar after the long walk from the city and around the lake. In coming home, one does not need to take notice of the surroundings as if for the first time. I soon realize I have the place to myself, well, almost to myself, considering the presence of the tomb of Umm Haram in an enclosure in the back of the mosque.
Who can account for the feeling of sacred presence that one experiences when visiting the tombs of such holy men and women, I thought to myself as I stepped into the old enclosure of the tomb of Umm Haram, the saintly recipient of countless prayers and aspira-tions of the faithful, at rest there for nearly 15 centuries. In the traditional style of Islamic tombs of renowned walis and saints, the wooden box serving as the resting place of the remains lies raised on a catafalque within a grilled enclosure, covered with a green cloth replete with the embroidered calligraphy of Quranic phrases and epithets. The body is placed with the head lying in the direction of Makkah. As I approached the viewing grill separating the living from the dead, feeling slightly in awe to be standing in front of the remains and in a place of such a personage who has remained in state during the inevitable progression of time over the centuries, I placed my forehead on the cool smoothness of the iron grill, recreat-ing for a moment in my mind the chill of death that was in the air and offered my humble prayers, called duaa in Arabic, for the salvation of her soul, although truth to tell, it is perhaps my own soul that will be needing prayers for salvation.
I noted a curious smell of perfume, strong and distinctive, that seemed to emanate from the cold shadows of the grave. Now that’s strange, I thought, even if a little thrilling. Without lingering, I moved to the right to circumambulate the four corners or meridians of the tomb, as is the custom, offering further prayers at each step of the way. At the fourth and final station, again, I felt assaulted with an increasing feeling of alarm, by a surging smell of otherworldly perfume floating up from the dark shadows. Who can say for sure the origin of such smells, although Islamic traditions refer to scent, particularly heavenly scents, being representative of human spirits, the Arabic word of smell having root connections linguistically with the word for both “breath” and “spirit”? None the wiser but dreamily at peace, I returned to the central nave of the mosque feeling curiously uplifted as the day began to melt away.
I decided to take advantage of the moment and spend more time in the mosque before returning to my hotel in the city, to complete full circle my day-long pilgrimage. Returning to the central enclosure, I settled down onto the oriental carpets strewn across the floor with a copy of the Quran in the original Arabic. By myself in the small mosque, the chill of winter blowing in through the front vestibule that fully justified the woolen coat and cap I was wearing, I was thoroughly lost in the intonation of the sacred verses in Arabic, a skill that I have learned over many years.
Suddenly, I heard the rustle of clothing and the mumbling of Quranic epithets in Arabic blow into the mosque with the winter wind. Ma’sha’-Llah (by Allah’s will), I heard someone exclaim, al-humdu-lil-Llah (all praise be to Allah) and various other phrases well known and used by all Muslims, even non-Arabic speakers. I looked around and saw a father with two young teenage sons entering the mosque and looking around with great interest. They were not your typical tourists and were certainly not from Cyprus; that much I could guess. They quickly grouped themselves together in front of the mihrab, or sacred niche, that indicates the direction of the Ka’aba in the Grand Mosque in Makkah, although the mosque itself is always situated in the direction of Makkah. I resumed my Quranic recitation, lost once again in the sublime river of revelatory words and soon realized that I was alone in the mosque.
The fluid rhythm to my intonations of the sacred verses was interrupted by a shadow that crossed the page of the holy book. When I finished reciting the verse and looked up, I saw the father of the boys looking down at me with folded hands across his chest and a benevolent smile, made slightly goofy looking because he was missing several front teeth. He had no doubt left the mosque and then had second thoughts about returning to greet the stranger. “Salam aleykum,” (peace be upon you) he said.
“Aleykum as-salam,” I replied in the traditional Islamic greeting conveyed by all Muslims among themselves. I stared up at this im-posing figure, dressed in black shirt and slacks and wrapped in a flaming red cashmere sweater. “Come and sit down with me for a few minutes,” I encouraged him with a gesture and a smile.
He immediately knelt on the carpet next to me and warmly shook my hand with his two hands. This was not an unusual expe-rience for me. As an American Muslim, I am often approached by the Muslims when they see me praying or sitting in a mosque, par-ticularly in the more crowded cities such as Tunis or Cairo. In Istanbul, Turkey, I remember being approached in the famed Blue Mosque by three brothers who struck up a delightful conversation with me in various languages such as Arabic and German, including hand signs. Before I knew what was happening, they had brought their sister out from behind the shadows of a pillar to introduce me. Not long thereafter, I politely but firmly declined a proposal of marriage.
In this instance, I immediately noticed, as my new friend continued to cling to my hand in a kind of everlasting handshake, that there was a piece of paper now resting bizarrely in the palm of my hand. Whatever might that be, I thought quickly to myself as we exchanged pleasantries, a piece of paper, a secret message, a lottery ticket. I was tempted to pull my hand away, but reluctant to do so. The Muslims often like to extend the embrace of a handshake as a form of endearment and I did not want to be the first to break the feelings of good will that were being conveyed.
“Where do you come from,” he finally asked, a burning question no doubt that he was curious to have answered.
“I come from the US,” I replied, “from Boston. Where are you from?” I asked, although I thought I knew already the answer. Clearly, he was not an Arab, but with his dark swarthy hair and sculptured beard, he wasn’t far from coming from the region of the Middle East. There was intensity to his gaze that was slightly disarming.
“I come from Pakistan,” he told me. I soon found out that he came from a small town outside of Lahore in the Punjab. He was living now with his family in Vienna, Austria.
“And what do you do,” I asked.
“I have various interests,” he replied evasively, as though reluctant to say more fully what those interests were. “I travel a lot all across the world.”
“You are a rich businessman,” I joked and he smiled knowingly.
I finally withdraw my hand to see what lay burning a hole inside my palm. To my surprise, I saw a 50 Euro note, feeling suddenly like a beggar that he suspected me to be.
He smiled sheepishly. “You can buy yourself a couple of nice dinners.” Indeed, I thought, but said in a whisper and a shake of the head, “No, no, I can’t take this.” I looked down again at the money in disbelief. “Please, I mean this sincerely; this is from the heart,” he added to encourage me to accept.
“I am sorry,” I said shaking my head again. “I will put it in the donation box of the mosque in the memory of your name.”
“Yes,” I replied. “That’s an excellent idea.”
He made motions to rise and take his leave. “I will not forget you. I will remember this moment for my entire life.” He added dreamy-eyed, “Imagine I met you like this in this mosque.”
I looked at him feeling equally amazed, though perhaps for different reasons.
“I will also remember you,” I said with deep sincerity, putting my hand on my heart in the traditional salutation of farewell. When I looked up, he was gone and so was the moment, dropped back into the well of time.
Another wonderfully written story of your travels. Only the cats didn't stretch, they stretched… ;-)
It was delightful how you were perceived as a potential husband for an Islamic woman, perhaps wishing entry into the United States, or merely finding a husband of worth, like you. Hopefully, she wasn't ugly. ;-)
And, being mistaken for a beggar, leads me to believe that your dress for the day to keep off the chill that made man from Pakistan believe that you are not able to buy better clothes when visiting the mosque.
In all my travels, I don't recall visiting a mosque. I did visit churches in Cologne, the Cathedral, and a bomb damaged church in Frankfurt on Christmas Eve with all of the wealthy Germans wearing furs because the place was unheated. And, I did have the pleasure of attending a service in high school at the Frank Lloyd Wright Chapel on an island in the Chain of Lakes in Wisconsin.
I did visit many temples in Thailand. I don't recall seeing anyone in any of the temples that I climbed several hilltops to enter. They were all empty of people. But, coming back from having a picnic lunch on a beautiful remote lake in Pakistan, we stopped to buy fish and a man selling fish there with a broad smile and missing teeth, declared to me, translated by my host, that he would like to, "Visit America sometime." My perception was that over half the country wanted to do that, and most of those would also want to stay.
Personal journals are full of potential, waiting for you to add the color! Pages for you to fill in the blanks with tidbits and trivia about New Hampshire
When people think of Madagascar, what may come to mind is a Pixar film, a lemur paradise, or the source of 80% of the world’s vanilla beans. In A Taste of Madagascar: Culinary Riches of the Red Island, Emmanuel Laroche—a Flavor Explorer and Culinary
As I approached the ancient mosque enclosure, I was greeted by a number of interested cats who stood and stretched at my arrival, fluffy and fat, whose comical faces stared at me boldly in various attitudes of inquiry, but I was in no mood for their questions. There is a beauty to mystery that needs no answers as I surrendered myself to the ambiance of the inner sanctuary.
