The Islamic Center stands on a corner about a block from the University
of Arizona. There didn't seem to be much foot traffic, other than men
arriving at the mosque to pray. They didn't seem to be afraid of us
as they walked boldly up the sidewalk in ones and twos, smiling and
returning our greetings, saying thank-you for being here tonight. I
wondered how successful the Director of the Center had been in notifying
their members that we would be there for the 6:45 PM "Prayer Hour."
There were about fifteen of us, holding candles around a sign that said
"Vigil of Protection for the Muslim Community." We didn't
want to be intrusive. We only wanted to show our love and solidarity
for them, and to try to give them a small sense of safety to come out
and pray.
I don't think they trusted us entirely. Omar, the Director, came out
and greeted us. He apologized for the absence of their women; they were
too afraid. He said some had come at the noon hour, but not one showed
up that night. It also seemed that the time he had told us to arrive
was the end of the prayer hour, rather than the beginning, but at least
six men had arrived while we were there.
Omar invited us to come in. The women, too, I asked, and he nodded.
A man behind him shook his head and I wondered if Omar were doing something
new, something daring. We followed Omar into the front room. I noticed
the racks for shoes. Omar hesitated for a split second, as if he weren't
sure what to ask of us, and I said "We need to take off our shoes,
right?" I bent to the task as he slipped off his and told everyone
else to do the same. Then he invited us into the prayer room, a large
room divided about two thirds of the way from the front, but with an
opening. Men were still seated on the blue carpet, hands held before
them in prayer. We waited a few minutes. Then Omar led us into the front
room. I wondered again if he was doing something daring, opening up
the mosque in an effort to educate us, perhaps breaking rules in the
effort. More than half of us were women and had not covered our heads.
We sat down and Omar asked if we would like to hear about their faith.
Of course. So he began: "They say we are terrorists. This is not
true." He told us of the five pillars of Islam and the five pillars
of faith. He spoke for quite a while and I realized that he needed to
say these things. He needed to tell us, the representatives of the "rest"
of their religious American sisters and brothers, who they really were.
"Everywhere they say we are terrorists," he repeated, several
times. In my heart, I protested, before remembering that he was speaking
of our society's continued portrayal of Muslims and Arabs as the bad
guys -- in just about every movie you see, especially those about terrorists.
Omar said, "They say we are womanizers. This is not true."
He explained their view of the role of women and the tradition of having
up to four wives. I guessed that he what he meant by the word "womanizer"
was really "misogynism," hatred of women. He said they respected
their women, that they could hold jobs, and that once married, the man
would not divorce the woman and leave her with her children and no income,
like we do here in the United States. He compared Muslim marriage to
Christian or secular commitments outside of marriage. American men have
far more girlfriends and unsupported children in their lives that Muslim
men have wives.
All this time, at least five other Muslim men sat nearby, one right
at the feet of Omar. They smiled at us and shook our hands as we took
our leave. We plan to have Omar come to speak at our congregation in
the next month or two. He is very glad to be asked. "I'm sorry
our women were not here," he apologized again, and we said, "Maybe
next week we can come at a different time." It was then that it
occurred to me how frightening our request might have been to them:
to have a group of strangers ask when their most popular prayer hour
was; to have a group of strangers want to gather in front of their sacred
space; to have a group of strangers say "don't be afraid."
How would they know that we meant well? How would they know that we
weren't planning an act of retaliation rather than an act of protection?
They were far more brave than we were last night, but our coming together,
our smiles, our candlelight of concern and support, our willingness
to listen to their protests against the labels of hate pinned upon them
by our society, our interest in hearing what they truly believe, all
this is the transformation an act of faith creates. We are mending the
world in this tiny way, the world of our own hearts and lives and those
of our brothers and sisters. Next week, we will do it again.
