SSU Travels the World

I almost forgot to take off my sandals before entering the outer premises of the Mosque. As my white feet touched the carefully swept cold. patterned pink tiles, we sit in a line as a buzz of activity rhythmically surrounds us. The rev of a scooter, a loud speaker reciting Hebrew. Joanna came to deliver long skirts and head scarves to us. I sit, with only bare hands, feet, and face, tight against laura as the number of men gathering in the inner Mosque grows, and I hear the sounds of hands, feet, and faces being cleansed at a water trough to the left of the tiled area. We look elegant in our head scarves. I sense only a slightly different atmosphere as I do in an immense cathedral. There is a fluorescent digital clock on the front wall. Its numbers contrast against the ancient Muslim devotion. Some enter wearing traditional Muslim garb, some wearing fashionable or athletic clothing. I can see the British influence in their choice of soccer garb. I feel protected covered by yards of cloth, comfortable even. I feel confident as I drink in my scarf-framed scene as deeply as I can. I wonder what the decorative circular caps the men wear are for; I wonder what the overhead speaker is saying.  I wonder who recorded it. I wonder if the activity gives a sense of peace, belonging, and meaning. I wonder if any of the men praying here have doubts. I wonder if it is okay I writing? A gecko scales the wall in front of the men in the room I can only see through a centered open door, next to the out-of-place clock. Is the path to the Mosque worn… does the wearing paint on the handrails comfort them? How do they feel about a line of white female faces looking at them in wonder? Later I would talk to Sofre, a Muslim man, about the tension between Islam and the West; we even talked together about Shane Claiborne and Jonathon Hartgrove’s healing experience in Rutba, near Baghdad. His hurt face pleaded with me to not believe the stories about Islam that we are told, instead to go back to my country and tell of my experiences in Keningau. When I come back, ask me about the kids, the musicians, the politician, and the school teachers I met there. “When you cut yourself, your blood is red, and so is mine… so what makes the difference?” What a healing adventure.