Muslim Prayer

The right blinker furiously clicks as my moist hands grip the steering wheel while turning into the parking lot of Masjid Ibrahim, an Islamic center. Sweat drips from my freshly manicured face, but I am too focused to wipe it away.

I decide that this is the best time to challenge my religion and ponder into an unknown territory. Thus, the Islamic center became my target. I want to experience something new, exciting, and out of routine from my familiar christian ways.

To not accept this moment of unfamiliarity would limit my life experience as a journalist because I could be missing out on a fascinating, untold story.

“Am I really about to enter this sacred place for Muslims?”

Of course I am.

I park my car in front of the building and immediately began to examine myself to make sure my wardrobe is appropriate for this occasion. No kinky, coily hair exposed, covered by a cotton scarf, no glistening shoulders, my arms concealed by my long-sleeve sweater, no cleavage and absolutely no former track legs that are sealed away under a draping maxi skirt.

Upon my arrival, I researched what was acceptable to wear in the muslim culture. I called the center and spoke to someone about being a guest at a service, but most importantly, I asked what I should wear since I was unsure.

“You wear covering clothes. You’re a college student, right? Wear appropriate clothes please,” said the muslim receptionist, who spoke with a very heavy accent.

I rummaged through my closet to find anything that would be the least noticeable if it was inappropriate. I pieced together my outfit and even thought that the headwrap was the perfect head cover.

Looking at the building from the outside, there are several doors that all look accessible. I am seen from a distance and out walks a short, older Imam, a person who leads prayer during services.

“Ay-rey-el? Oh, it’s so nice to finally meet you,” said Imam Akram. “Please come, I show you around.”

I feel every bone and limb inside me trembling as my nerves start to get the best of me. I can’t even hold my purse without dropping it a thousand times because I am so nervous.

His heavy accent slurs all of his words together, making it very hard to understand him, but he greets me with a warm smile. In his culture, a man does not greet a woman with open arms and smiles. In fact, the Muslim tradition when greeting the opposite sex is to not hug each other or even shake hands. As a form of greeting, you place your hand over your heart and nod your head while making eye contact.

Well, at least he does this with me. Or maybe he does this with all the guest.

We begin our journey by walking up to double doors, Akram motions me to walk inside and he would be right behind me. I walk through looking back to see if he would file through the same door as I do. Nope. Akram walks in through the unused door and nods his head at me.

“Why did you walk through that door instead of the door with me?,” I asked.

“One, you are a woman. Women and men do not walk through the same doors. We have a set of double doors that only men can walk through and the same for women. I did not walk through at the same time because you are an unmarried woman and I am not your husband. That is a sign of disrespect to our god,” he said.

Tears quickly began to well my eyes. I’m not crying because I am sad, I am crying because of his explanation as to why they operate in such a respectable manner towards women. I can’t even get an American guy to open the door for me at restaurants, let alone my dad to pull the chair up for me to sit when I eat dinner.

We enter the main sanctuary and Akram removes his shoes. His socks are bleached white and fit the shape of his feet. I look down at my sandals and before I could bend down to unhook the latch, he hands me an old recycled Walmart bag.

“What’s this for?,” I ask feeling quite dumbfounded.

“You take your shoes off and place them into the bag until the end of service,” he said. “But do you have socks? You will need them to cover your feet in moderation and respect.”

Obediently, I remove my sandals, place my shoes into the old plastic bag and slip on the fresh pair of socks he fetched for me.

Men and women’s voices fill the air, but no one is in eyesight. I hear the crisp articulation of Arabic being spoken as conversations flow through the air like a swift river.

Akram motions me to stay put while he disappears behind a door. I assume he is going to retrieve the people I hear chatting away, so I occupy myself for the time being.

I look around the room and notice that this place is not a sanctuary that I am used to.

There are no pews to sit in, the bare white walls have small bookshelves that hold their version of the Holy Bible, the Quran, a couple doors lead to restrooms and offices and surprisingly, no monitors, televisions or instruments for music.

What kind of sanctuary is this?

I glance at the carpet, noticing something very unique.

The soft, fluffy carpet lay with red rectangles, with tan trimmings, in a consistent fashion. There are approximately 12 rectangles going horizontally and maybe 15 going vertically. This pattern continues throughout the floor as one rectangle lines up perfectly with the next.

It’s as if the rectangles replace the pews and instead of sitting, I assume that these rectangles are where we will pray.

I kneel down to try to practice my position. I step inside of a rectangle and angle myself accordingly. I saw on YouTube how muslims sit on their knees, tucking their feet underneath them, leaning forward as if preparing to do a push-up and allowing their forehead to touch the ground.

I’m trying to make sure I get this position right during prayer because I don’t want people to look and laugh at me or to think I am being disrespectful to their traditions.

I hear the sound of voices traveling quickly in my direction, so I scurry to my feet and run to the empty wall just in front of a bookshelf. I busy myself with the Quran and furiously flip through the pages.

Wait, I can’t read this damn book, it’s written in Arabic, so why am I acting like I can?

I toss the book back onto the shelf and look down at my toes, watching as I sink them deeply into the carpet again. With my back towards the door, I hear the clearing of someone’s throat and I spin around to see a group of men and women, led by Akram, staring intensely at me.

“Ay-rey-el, it is time to pray, but first, you can greet the people.”

My body begins to go through a shock. My feet shake as I approach the group to speak and introduce myself. I think everyone can tell that I am nervous because they all watch me with blazing eyes as if I were their prey.

“Hello, my name is Ariel. Um, I am a college student at FGCU and I’m so glad to be here. Thank you so much for allowing me to attend service.”

A few women smile, clapping their hands, while some men continue to stare at me. I watch one guy whisper to another guy and they begin to chuckle.

Oh my gosh, Ariel. They are talking about you right in your face. Okay, it’s going to be fine. This is something new. Just get it over with and enjoy your day.

Akram claps his hands while walking to stand next to me. He speaks to the group, in Arabic of course, and explains to them that I was there as a guest and wants to experience their culture with them. Once he finishes talking, the group breaks up into men on one side and women on the other.

Akram slowly turns to me and asks, “are you okay being alone for awhile?”

“Yes I’m fine with that, but um, where are you going, if I may ask?”

“I lead prayer and women do not pray with men. Women pray with women on the other side of the building.”

I glance over my shoulder to see the women setting up a divider for the room. Some women are already on the luxurious carpet in their own rectangle while others are still removing their shoes.

“I’ll pair you up with someone if that makes you comfortable,” Akram said.

“No, I’ll be fine. I would like to meet them on my own,” I said with pure confidence.

Little do I know that these women will want nothing with me because I am single, unmarried, and most importantly, an outsider.

I glide my feet across the carpet making eye contact with a few women as I approach the group. They ignore me and settle into their positions. They fluff out their long dark skirts, adjust their headwraps, known as hijabs, and get ready to worship.

I perfect my position that I practiced earlier and made sure the woman next to me saw exactly what I was doing.

“Good job,” she whispers, as service begins and the head woman speaks.

I can’t understand a single word this woman is saying and I can feel my anxiety intensifying. I feel left out, awkward, and unfit for their everyday norms.

This is what it must feel like to live their life in America.

We are instructed to lean forward and pray. I push my body forward, allowing the gentle carpet to kiss my forehead. I begin to pray as I do when I wake up in the morning, throughout the day and just before bed.

Dear Lord,

Thank you for everything you have given me.

Thank you for allowing me to see another day.

Thank you for keeping me here to fight all of these trying battles.

I come to you because I need guidance. I feel like I can’t succeed right now because their are so many things that worry my heart…I just want to be great and I just want to succeed.

I ask that you guide me and protect me from evil.

In Jesus name I pray, amen.

Concluding my with my prayer, I realize that I need to use the restroom. My bladder is surging with pain as I have ignored it because I did not want to ask where the restrooms are. From examining the room, I remember that the restroom is on the other side of the divider with the men.

Shit!

I calmly gather myself into a standing position, walk to the divider and behind the group of men and stop dead in my tracks. The restroom is dead ahead, but these guys are all over the floor. I don’t want to step on anyone.

I lift my skirt and criss cross my way through the maze of men. I walk in front of, behind, step over, and nearly crawl through just to reach the door.

I have this weird sense of awareness that someone is watching me, but my bladder can’t work through this pain any longer.

I exit the restroom, bringing paper towels with me in my left hand, when I notice them.

All of them.

Every male in the room glaze at me as if I am a ghost. As if I am the walking dead. As if I am Alluah itself.

What did you do, Ariel?

Akram comes rushing to my side to explains the level of disrespect he just witnessed.

“Ay-rey-el, a woman does not enter a male’s service, under no circumstances. Also, it is highly disrespectful for someone to walk in front of another person while they pray. Do you realize your mistake?”

Panicking, I immediately apologize for my wrongdoing.

“I’m sorry. Please, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. Oh my gosh, now I know ya’ll hate me!”

“No, no, no,” said Akram. “We don’t hate here. We just find it very disrespectful. Please, continue to fellowship with us.”

He gently motions me back over to the women’s side.

At this point, I am ready to leave. I messed up and I am sure nobody in here will talk to me now knowing that I am disrespectful to their culture.

I cut the corner of the divider with my head hanging low and when I enter the other side of hell all the women stare. Their hijabs neatly tucked and positioned only revealing their seductive eyes made me realize how much I messed up.

I know it’s the end of my adventure.

Service ends and the congregation collides back together with men and women chattering away about the recent events in the room. Of course, I am the talk of the room so all eyes are still on me.

I can’t deal with this anymore. I need to leave. NOW!

I catch Akram just before he engages in another conversation about the awful guest who disrespected every person in the room. Or at least that’s what I assume the conversations are about.

“Thank you so much for having me here. I really appreciated my time and I hope your people can forgive me,” I said with so much fear in my voice.

“Please, come back anytime you like. I’m glad you came.”

And just like that, it was over.

Akram turns his back to speak to the next person waiting.

From the conversation it was as if he was apologizing for my mistakes. Were people making it his fault that I messed up? Did I ruin his leadership roles?

As I walk to my car, tears begin to fill my eyes. I get it now.

The mistake I made was an honest mistake from an outsider in a known population. However, someone uninvolved took the blame for something I did wrong and had to correct it. But it seems like people weren’t willing to accept and forgive that apology.

That’s a muslim’s life.

They are all categorized as terrorist after someone else does wrong, but when they try to apologize no one hears them and accepts it.

This is a muslim’s prayer. A prayer for fairness and peace.