Ramadan Begins

Ramadan began today (or yesterday, I get so confused!). Christmas lights, I mean Ramadan lights are up everywhere. I went to the grocery store just before the time of the sunset call to prayer. The local mosque (you know, the mobile home one with a ghetto fabulous speaker) was lying out kneeling mats outside and filling up extra buckets of water for washing. I guess the guy was expecting a larger crowd than normal.

At the mall (where the grocery store is), most of the shops were closed, which surprised me. I guess they don't open until after sunset (even though they don't serve food...I don't understand). The grocery store was empty except for Westerners and a few non-Muslim Asians. Eerie quiet. I sort of liked it.

And I was told it's illegal to eat during sunlight hours...even in my home! If I eat or drink (even water!), I'm not supposed to do it near the windows. How these people go all day long in the desert without water is beyond me.

More to come as events unfold... (P.S. It dropped under 100 this week for the first time since last spring! Yippee! Happy dance all around!)

The Party, Part 2

Well, everybody knows that Sparky and I are supermodels. So, we would have gained alot of male attention at this party even if we weren't the ONLY Americans there. But we were the only Americans, and so we did sort of, um, attract curiousity.

We went with my friend Samantha, her husband, Bobby, and her brother, Shawn. Shawn informed us that he would act as our brother at this party to protect us from all the, uh, "curiousity."

Sparky and I were sitting in a corner chatting away (over the ear-drum bursting music, of course), when I get pulled up to dance. As I was dancing, "The Tender" (see previous post) introduces me to a guy in a blue shirt, named Mohammed. Arg.

"Where are you from?" He asks me in English. Good time to practice language, right? Might as well get some work done while shaking a leg.

"I'm from America," I respond in his native tongue. He gets a little confused look on his face and then says, "Are you American or American/[half my ethnicity]?" He asked in his language.

I laughed. "Just American." I sort of danced my way back over to Sparky and then sat back down. He later came and sat down next to me and asked where in the states I was from. We started talking about California. ("Are the streets in San Francisco really that hilly?") Sparky later told me that Shawn immediately perked up, and starting sending panic looks back and forth between me and Mohammed. He leaned over to her and said, "Your friend is in dangerous." After about three minutes, Shawn came over and sat on the arm of my chair, between Mohammed and myself. Samantha came and sat on the other arm of the chair, so that I was completely surrounded. Sparky just laughed.

Later we were all dancing, and a guy dressed like LL Cool J (I'm not kidding--large gold $ sign chain necklace and all) worked his way over towards Sparky. I noticed he was trying to talk to her and I danced my way over and worked my way right in between them. Again, the holding in of laughter on both our parts. Throughout the night he'd try to sort of stand near Sparky, but we made sure she seemed pretty unapproachable.

Still later, Shawn informed us that Mohammed had come up to him and asked if he was "my relation." He said he was. (At first, I didn't know if that meant family or 'relationship'--ie, girlfriend). As he continued he explained how he lied to Mohammed about being half American and that he was therefore my half-brother (since he's obviously not fully American), I felt a bit relieved. I mean, who's going to be my brother and protect me from Shawn? But there was no worries. Especially since he's 17.

So Sparky and I were joking later, and I said, "So I think LL Cool J was eyeing you a bit." Her response, "Yeah, well Mohammed was definately eyeing you."

"Well," I told her, "in our world, a name like Mohammed gets the automatic shutdown, you know? Your name begins with M-O? Then my answer is N-O."

Breathing. Not drinking. Reading.

Several of you have commented about my "no coffee" count-up under my mood thing. (Why has no one commented on my quote from a local commercial? I find that much more interesting!) I guess I'll say a few things that I have been keeping a bit to myself.

First of all. There are some things happening in my world that are not blog-able. Far, far, from blog-able. (I'd like to insert and say that some of them are GOOD unblogable; not all are bad). Last month, I'd hit an extremely low point of despair from all of the bad and nearly packed up on the first plane back to the US. The ONLY thing sustaining me right now is my relationship with Jesus Christ. He sustains me so that I can breathe in this world that I feel is choking me. He sustains me so that I can go back out and face the world each day and even try to love it. It is so unbelievably true that the JOY He gives is my strength. Otherwise I am weak and fallible and wretched and, as I said--would be on the next plane home out of here. This week has been absolutely horrid as I received bad news on Sunday, more bad news from a different source on Monday, and then Tuesday--well...dwelling in the pit again. But with a smile on my face, no worries. Nobody's died, nobody's dying, and therefore it's nothing for anyone but me (and the parties involved) to be concerned about.

I am broken and I am humbled and I am on my knees and I am in the Word. And therefore breathing.

Secondly. Because of all of this, I have been chest-deep in the Word since about July. (Ryusoma, I'm still on my 10 pages a day or more). I recently began attending a study that has added to my daily reading. I really felt the desire to fast in some way during this study. (Also, Ramadan, the holy month of fasting for Muslims, begins on Sunday). I cannot fast food right now because of my meds. So--what's my biggest passion outside of the Word? Yep. Coffee. I DESPISE NOT DRINKING IT. So yes, Claire, it's some kind of Lent in September. Just like I am not Catholic, but like to practice Lent with them, I am not Muslim, but like to practice some form of Ramadan with them. I have also given up several other things as well.

Third of all--Reading is not one of the things I have given up! Hark, all fellow book lovers! I am inviting you to read The Lord of the Rings Triology with me! If you've read it before, then you'll be happy to enjoy it again! If you've never read it, come enjoy it with me! It'll be like the Eternal Nomad's Book Club. Forget Oprah. Read with me. A chapter a day. You can do it.

Breathing. Not drinking. Reading. That's my life in a nutshell right now. :)

Attacks

I went over to a friend's house so I could watch the news about the attacks in the London Underground. It's odd, you know? Reminences of 9/11 mixed in with places that are so familiar to me. My friend lived near that area of London for three years, and I walked those streets with her. I rode the Tube to those very stops.

As I walked home just now, a local mosque was speaking. The man over the loudspeaker was simply singing the word "No" once every thirty seconds or so, over and over. I wish I knew more Arabic to know what else he would say.

Arrows and the Buckler

There is an arrow on the floor of the hospital room where baby Blake was born.

In hotel drawers where Gideon Bibles would be if you were in America, are arrows.

On the side of the road today were five men, lined up shoulder to shoulder facing a corner wall, hands palms up, with one man in front of them leading them through prayers. Even they resembled an arrow.

All arrows pointing toward one city.

Lest anyone forget which way to turn. Lest I forget where I am.

I've read of arrows, flaming ones. I always perceived them in relation to me and those around me. Today, with those men on the side of the road, I am perceiving the arrows differently. All those in this place seem to be pointing in the same direction, drawn from the same quiver, and that, simultaneously, pierces my heart with the flaming arrow.

The Buckler is the only safe and comforting place I know in the midst of all these arrows. Oh, that all arrows would direct to Him!

"The LORD is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer; my God, my strength, in whom I will trust; my buckler, and the horn of my salvation, and my high tower."

Somebody needs a new watch

I was always taught that the morning call to prayer is at dawn, or just before dawn. I checked on the internet today, and that seems to be the concensus. Sunrise = Call to prayer.

Sunrise today was at 5:28.The call to prayer was at 3:40.

3:40 AM!!!

I want to love my neighbor (as I also always have been taught), and thus I will not say anything else about his waking me up at 3:40am.

And oh my goodness, he's singing again now! I need a vacation in a non-Muslim country.

Viewing in Community

Many of my friends recently have been discussing the idea of living in community. I think for several of us, it stemmed out of our experience of living in the dorms in grad school over the last four years. Share a small kitchen that has two stoves with 30 women, you grow a concept of living in community.

One of my favorite parts of living in community was watching television together. On a Tuesday night, we would sound like a hoard of elephants running down the hall to get a good seat on the couch for American Idol. We had unspoken rules about watching television in community: no discussion during the show! Wait for the commercial, when the tv would be muted and shouting would occur as so many of us began discussing what had just happened (whether it be ER, CSI, AI, or what-have-you). The only sounds allowed while a show was in progress were gasps of exclamation or laughter.

I enjoyed the experience so much I hardly watch anything anymore unless I am with not just someone, but a group of people. We were meant to live in community, and in today's society, I translate that as viewing in community. With this whole philosophy in mind, I had an interesting experience at the movies last night.

I went with three American friends to see the film Sahara. One of the three actually grew up in Mali, on the edges of the Sahara, and had been very excited to see the film (even though it wasn't filmed in Mali, and as she told us later, didn't even have Malian people in it). We laughed hysterically throughout the entire film.

...but oddly enough, we were the only ones laughing.

No one else in the theatre laughed at anything. Was it completely American humor that only we could appreciate? Was it humorous to us because we are foreigners living in a Muslim desert and could relate? Had we had too much caffeine and were simply just giddy? I don't know. But I do know it was an odd thing to be so amused amongst such a crowd who did not find the film as amusing.

They were awake and paying attention, though. How do I know? There is a scene in the movie where the Malian Muslims bury their dead, and while doing so, say some sort of prayer for the dead. The entire audience (us excluded) responded IN UNISON to the prayer that was said! We four looked at each other wide-eyed. Did we really just hear that?

It was as if, a Christian preacher in a film at a memorial service said, "Can I get an Amen?" And the entire theatre audience responded, "AMEN!"

My language teacher explained that when certain things are said from the Quran, they have been taught since childhood how to respond, and it is automatic. The prayer for the dead in the scene from the movie must have been a prayer from the Quran, and they were honoring it by speaking back. It was one of the oddest moments I've ever experienced in a movie theatre.

A deadpan audience whose culture teaches more about living in community than I will ever learn would not enjoy the viewing in community, but responded to one line from the movie in complete unison.

I should add, they clapped and cheered at the end of the film. Does that mean they liked it? Or were they glad it was over? Maybe my friend Fatmah will shed some light on this for me...

Average Joes

One of the big wigs for my company was visiting this week. He wanted to see what some of our lives are like who live out here in the world. I don't know everywhere that he traveled, but I do know he hit Afghanistan, Iran, and Turkey. He was amazed at how easily we live in a town filled with Indians, Pakistanis, Afghans, and Iranians. Not just easily--but that we enjoy it and call these people friends.

I recounted a story of how I recently met a man visiting from a small town in Iran. When his daughter explained to him that I was American, he put his hand to his chest, and bowed his head completely, showing his honor to make such a friend. I asked his daughter to translate to him and his wife how much I would like to come visit while they are here and try some Iranian food. The daughter called today and told me how, already, her parents miss me so much.

The big wig was shocked. I guess he didn't realize how much the average Joe from Iran or Afghanistan or Pakistan is just that--an average Joe. They go about living their lives in just the same way we go about living ours. Just as you, in the states, would be surprised to meet a Hazara from Afghanistan in your small town, they are surprised to meet me, an Alabama girl, in theirs. Just as you (hopefully), would be polite and want to learn what their life is really like (instead of what the media tells you)...they are no different. They have their stereotypes of Americans (overweight, unintelligent, unable to cook, morally loose, and irreligious), just as we have our stereotypes of them (I'll let you fill in these parenthesis of what you assume about Central Asians).

So, yes, Central Asians are average Joes. And yes, they like us who choose to live among them. They are not all Taliban, weapon toting terrorists. They are women who own too many shoes and pay more money to have their hair done than I make in a week. They are men who work hard to feed their family. They are polite, quiet among strangers and loud among family. They love picnics, good food, and dancing. They are no more dangerous than you are from the ghetto (which is what they assume about you).

The big wig told me he was going to tell his good friend Jeb Bush about my blog, to open some politician's eyes to how amicable Central Asians are. I explained that I never really wrote specifically about the politics of befriending Central Asians. But, in case there is any doubt--all the friends mentioned on this blog are Central Asian or Middle Eastern or South Asian, for that is where I live. They are Iranian, Afghan, Pakistani, Arab, Indian. I love average Joes who happen to be Muslim and have brown skin.

My Momma taught me not to say 'shut up'...so I won't...but I want to!

My parents are from Alabama, and down there the phrase "a church on every corner" is about as common as "inshallah" is here. A friend from Afghanistan commented the other day that there is a "mosque on every corner" there. She obviously hasn't looked around here. From my apartment I can visibly see four from the living room, and uncountable from the kitchen. (Next time I'm bored, I'll count for you...)

It is the mosque I cannot see from my apartment that has been pushing my culture shock buttons to the level of insanity.

You know how in the states, some young man with great intentions and a gift for public speaking decides to open a new church (since the other 124 churches in his town aren't getting the job done)? He's the new ticket in town and everyone starts going there leaving Pastor Joe confused about why his numbers are down? I don't think a mosque is any different. You're rich? Go to the big rich people's mosque. You're hungry to learn from the Koran? Go to the new kid's mosque.

The new kid's mosque happens to be two buildings over. You know he's young because he doesn't have the money to build a big building with domes and minarets, and well, concrete. He bought a trailer mobile home, and spent the rest of his money on the loudest speakers known to man. How do I know he's gung ho on preaching? His call to prayer last night lasted 30 minutes.

I walked by the new trailer mosque the other night during prayer time, and it was packed out. Men were doing their ritual washing out of buckets on the street. I wondered if it was wrong for me, a female, to be staring as blatantly as I was. What drew them to this humble mosque when there is such a bigger (and surely air conditioned) mosque just two blocks over? Must be the preaching.

It's so loud when you're right there next to it you might bust an ear drum. So loud that if I could see the mosque from my balcony I would've pitched something at it after 20 minutes of utter noise. So loud that you might read a headline about American girl going postal during call to prayer in a trailer mosque.

I love living in a Muslim country where modesty is appreciated. Where men leave me alone, and the women are so much fun to talk to. (I met two girls, both named Fatimah, at Starbucks the other day and they kept me entertained talking about their culture for hours). Where I get to have my job that wouldn't be half as interesting in the US. Where I get to be where God intended for me to be.

But this week, I don't love the super excited mullah preacher man at the trailer mosque two buildings over. I'm culture shocking, and I might just take it out on him...in my blog anyway.

The Sound of Silence

Keats said, "Thou still unravished bride of quietness, thou foster-child of silence and slow time..."
Coleridge said, "No voice; but oh! the silence sank like music on my heart..."

I noticed the silence sometime around 4 oclock. Normally our neighborhood is a cacophony of lifesounds: the chai man yelling that he has hot chai for sale, the gas man announcing that he is on our street with gas bottles, the drivers honking their horns at the guy going the wrong way down our one way street, the group of delinquint junior high boys beating a drum at the foot of the tower, the pack of stray dogs howling for howling's sake, the construction drilling on the street and in the apartment directly across from our door, and the many many many mosques singing that God is great and that we ought therefore to come to prayer.

But I noticed today, that is was strangely quiet. The chai man is not here today, and the gas man never came. There have been no cars, no drums, no dogs, no drilling. Silence. Beautiful, joyful, delightful, precious silence. Why? It is the eve of Kurban Bayram (or Eid, in the Arab world), the holiday of sacrifice.

We knew the holiday was coming. We heard the words in peoples' conversations. We saw rams marked with red paint for sale on the sides of the road. The sacrificed rams serve as a rememberance for when God provided a ram for Abraham to sacrifice in place of his son (the Bible says Isaac, the Koran says Ishmael). We read that the sacrifice would take place in public, in the streets even. Will we see anything? Only tomorrow will tell.

One thing is certain, we haven't heard anything today, all praise to God! With the cacophony silenced, I've been able to be still and know the friendship of the Lamb of God, who took away the sins of the world as the ultimate sacrifice.

Mother Theresa said, "God is the friend of silence."
God said, "Be still and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth."

Don't stand by the mosque at noon!

"It was like the last feeble echo of a sound made long and long ago. So entirely had it lost the life and resonance of the human voice, that it affected the senses like a once beautiful colour faded away into a pour weak stain. So sunken and suppressed it was, that it was like a voice underground. So expressive it was, of a hopeless and lost creature, that a famished traveller, wearied out by lonely wandering in a wilderness, would have remembered home and friends in such a tone before lying down to die." Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens

I read this yesterday right as the call to prayer was sounding out. I was told upon arrival that I would quickly grow accustomed to hearing it, and would not even notice it after a few days. It's been two weeks and I still notice it every time. A friend recently asked if it was unnerving, and I told her not so much. I thought about her today, and wanted to amend my response: it's only unnerving when you're standing directly in front of a mosque when the call rings, for it rings LOUD and boisterously.

I suppose parts of my Dickens quote does not fit the call to prayer. My imagination sees the little Muslim man climbing the spiral stairs of the minaret up to the top and singing into the microphone, and I find myself in days of old. The devout promise that it is a live man singing each time, and not a tape recording of someone's voice, so it actually has maintained the "life and resonance of a human voice." But the rest of what Dickens said...this is how the call to prayer makes me feel. Have no fear, though, I do not wish to lie down and die.

I just wish with each call to prayer that those who hear it would respond "in spirit and truth" that God truly is great, and that prayer is an incredible step towards finding him. Instead, the swarms of people on the street keep rolling with the tides and don't seem to pay attention to the call, as I was told would happen to me. I had imagined before arrival that the call would be like the lowering of the flag on military bases around the world...everyone stops what they are doing during that moment, and resumes when the trumpet is finished. Once again, my imagination is more creative than reality.

This famished traveller, wearied out by lonely wandering in a wilderness, longs for the hopeless and lost creatures to "taste and see that the Lord is good." The call to prayer has served me as a reminder to pray that this will be so.