Next Time I'll Google It

El Hijo and I were recently invited to attend an Iftar by my Turkish friend Z. If you follow the Wiki link, you'll see that Iftar is the meal after sundown when Muslims have been fasting during Ramadan, which Z is right in the middle of right now. I knew that there would be food, and that it would be Turkish food, since Z and her friend did all the cooking. So, lured in with food and the promise of a cultural exchange, El Hijo and I picked up her husband M and drove to the mosque for our first Iftar.

I should mention that before we went, I quizzed Z up and down about whether I had to a) wear a dress or b) wear a headscarf. I was opposed to both, and her English isn't advanced enough yet for us to discuss the concept of Kentucky Derby dresses. As far as the headscarf thing goes, no. Just no. I personally consider forcing headscarves on visitors to be disrespectful to both parties--I'm not a believer, and me putting one on is just a pretense anyway, which I would assume Allah would also find offensive--but another time, another place for that discussion. After figuring out that I could go in pants, and I didn't have to hood up, we decided to go. Turns out I should've been asking different questions. Next time, I'll know to Google it.

We arrived amid blowing wind and stormy weather. El Hijo joked that Allah was expressing his displeasure at me for invading his space. Probably true. I always check the roofs of churches when I walk in them to make sure they're not going to come crashing down. I seem to remember El Hijo and I glancing at each other and one of us muttering, "Once more unto the breach, dear friends." We stepped into the first floor, which was a community room. We did attract a little attention, but mainly because we were a tad whiter than most of the people there, and I had no headscarf or matching outfit. Immediately, M shunts me toward this staircase, saying Z is upstairs. I start up the staircase, and he shut the door behind me. El Hijo and I were segregated the rest of the time.

I went upstairs after taking my shoes off, and there were less than a dozen women there, including me and Z, which I thought was unusual, given that there had to be at least 50 men or more downstairs. Most of the women were veiled, at least partially, and there was a lot of variation in the styles, which were quite beautiful. Most of the women were from Pakistan, with about three Turks and a couple of American women whose parents immigrated here from Afghanistan. The Afghanistan women were incredibly beautiful. The women were cordial with me, although a few warmed up to me later and were much more chatty. There were also three kids with us. The staircase led to a big balcony with a high ledge. We sat around. I assumed we would all end up eating together later. Not so. When the call for breaking the fast came, we had our own table with chairs and food. The men ate downstairs.

At some point, the imam (or whatever he is called--their preacher dude) began the call to prayer, the one that seems to start "Allaaaaaah-ooo-Ahhkbaaaar"--that beautiful, melodic, haunting Arabic song, which I find gorgeous even if it disturbs me how people respond to it. Z sat with me, because apparently if you're on your period, you can't pray--Allah doesn't like bloody prayers. It was the first of many fascinating things I noticed. The men at this point were in the chapel area while the man was calling the prayer. They cupped their hands around their ears like it helped them listen better, or something. El Hijo was under the balcony against the wall in a chair. I know, because I was leaning over the ledge to see what was going on. Probably a no-no. The women in the balcony had their hands folded over their chests. They could not see the man calling the prayer--they simply stared straight ahead. This was one of my first problems. Why don't the women get to look at the imam? Oh well, not my religion. There were supposed to be three specific prayers/worshipping/whatever during this prayer call. At each of the three prayers, the women hit the dirt and did the full prostrating, head to the floor thing. This included a woman who was extremely pregnant and was due to deliver in three days. Somehow she managed, while on her knees, to put her head all the way down to the floor. I was impressed. Z told me later that she didn't have to do that, because pregnant women were exempt from that because it could potentially be bad for the baby (they're also exempt from fasting during Ramadan). When she hit the floor like that, I visibly winced. It seemed like a really bad idea.

During the time the imam was calling prayer, one of the children was running around like a Viking beserker the whole time. She was two years old, and she seemed to have her own version of worshipping Allah, which I thought was fantastic. When the imam was calling the prayer, she twirled around in circles as fast as she could--spinning for Allah. She did this the whole time until he said whatever magic words he said to make people hit the dirt. When that happened, she took a backwards dive and laid completely flat on her back on the floor. Playing 'possum for Allah. After several rounds of that, she simply got so excited at the call of "Allahu-akbar" by the third time, that she planted her toddler feet on the ground, spread apart, and opened her arms as wide as they would go, threw her two year old head back, and squalled at the top of her lungs: "AAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!"

I'm sure the men's faces below reflected the expression the women had during that expression of excitement. I bit my lip as hard as I could to keep from laughing. It was one of the funniest things I've ever seen. After the prayer and the food, we left, taking Z and M back to their home. El Hijo and I then laughed our way home, comparing notes. Apparently he had screwed up some poor Uzbeki man's prayer by accidentally walking in front of him while he was kowtowing to Allah. Apparently the man has to have a direct line to Mecca, and El Hijo disrupted that line, sending the prayer ricocheting to only Allah knows where. In the line for the food, the Pakistani man in front of him passed a plate to M, who was behind him, but not to El Hijo. M at least had the good sense to give the plate to El Hijo and take another for himself. El Hijo thinks he is supposed to consider that a slight. The Muslims who were there more or less segregating themselves by country; El Hijo ate with the Turks. Apparently the men also got a couple of extra dishes that the women didn't get. That pissed me off, considering that two women did all the cooking. And speaking of cooking women, the imam didn't once come up to Z and thank her for all her hard work. Z and her friend had been cooking for two days. He didn't bother to thank her. Towards the end, there were a couple of leerers at me, which is really weird, considering they live in America, where most women are unveiled. But there was definitely some unabashed staring going on, which was uncomfortable. I can't help but think if they had more experience interacting with women on a regular basis, they wouldn't be so awestruck with one in person. But maybe I'm just awesome.

I should've figured we'd be separated. It's one of those cultural things you know, but you dont' really think about until you're piecing it together later. But it certainly solidified my choice not to become a Muslim. Why can't the women pray with the men? Why can't they even eat with their husband? Why doesn't Allah want prayers from women who menstruate (he created them that way, anyway). Why can't the fucker in the little white hat thank my friend for working for two days to feed his community?

Not really a place where I'd fit in. Obviously.

-- Virgil