Three weeks ago I flew into Diego Suarez, the fourth largest city in the fourth poorest country in the world. My mission? To learn about Islam. We had one month to complete our independent study projects - mine was spent interviewing the primarily Muslim-dominated community, taking photos for the photo essay portion of it, reading the Qur’an, and becoming fast friends with a Muslim girl named Laho that I had met on the second day. Why Islam? Because I knew hardly anything about it, probably much like you right now.
It turns out that a sixth of the world’s population is Muslim - and a lot of that percentage seems to be occupying our media’s headlines. People matter. Peace matters. We’re not going to get anywhere fast without knowing anything about each other. There had to be something beyond the veiled women and the pilgrimage to a black rock in Mecca. I wanted to know about it.
It turns out that the word Islam has two meanings. Complete surrender to God, and peace. Giving my all to God, trusting him completely - and peace. I dig that! The study went so smoothly. Within a few days I had a frightful amount of information - by the end of the two and a half weeks I actually felt like I was running out of questions to ask the Muslim preachers with whom I had scheduled appointments.
I attended several Friday services with my friend Laho, who cautiously dressed me in the Hijab - making sure my hair wouldn’t fall out and safety-pinning my front skirts in case a stir of wind would reveal my legs. There are two things about my first experience in the mosque that touched me more than any of the other things I had experienced during this project.
The first was color. After a flight of steps to enter the women’s section, a floor above the white-clad men, a corner is turned, opening into an open-air room. Though bland with white walls and no decoration, the room, brimming full with veiled women, was a haven of color. It was unlike anything I had ever seen - there were more patterns, hues, and shades of colors present during this service than any other religious activity in my life. It made me want to rush back and preach color to America’s religious institutions.
The second was the humbling experience of lying prostrate on the carpeted ground with a hundred other women, my forehead touching the floor. Though I wasn’t silently repeating the same Arabic passages from the Qur’an’s first chapter, I was silently declaring my own prayer. Standing up at the end of my first Islamic service, I felt like I understood why prayer in that form was appealing.
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Right on, again.
Julie,
Beautiful images. They reveal such emotion. I love the light, too.
Espec the b&w of the man standing solo.
cool! “People matter. Peace matters. We’re not going to get anywhere fast without knowing anything about each other.”
inspiring words and obviously fantastic photos. thanks!
I suggest u might come and visit a town called Mukah in Sarawak, Malaysia. Unique Melanau community where either Christians or Muslims helping each other even in the erecting of A CHURCH OR MOSQUE!A Muslim with a Christian name or a Christian with a Muslim names!
I found this article very moving, having been brought up in Muslim countries. Thank you, Julie, keep up the good work!