Post +1

The great Ali Eteraz is launching what’ll hopefully become a new feature, one in which the fated weekly contributor details his harrowing experiences of worship in a place of God that isn’t “his”. I had a funny story of my own that I thought I’d eventually turn into a blog post, but hey, this could garner some nice traffic, which could be a good motivator for me to keep this little blogfire lit. Well, here goes.

During sprink break of 7th grade, (2002, if I remember correctly), my family and I planned a trip out to Niagara Falls. This was in the same school year in which the world was witness to the unspeakable events of September 11th. Looking back at that age, and then fast forwarding to today, makes the event of which I am about to describe all the more foreshadow-y.

We left on a Friday morning, with boxes of granola bars, water, and a full tank of gas. My mom thought it would be a grand idea that we make what was supposed to be a “quick” pitstop to a Detroit mosque for, what else, jummah. My dad didn’t like the idea, as he wanted to get to the hotel ASAP. We’d be driving from our very own Kenosha, so it was already going to be quite the drive out.

But, in the end, dad caved to mom, and we had embarked on our journey. After a couple hours of wining, rest stops, fast food, and more whining, we had finally stopped at the mosque I had googled the previous day. The Islamic Center of America? It sounded, to my 13 year-old self, quite the place. We jotted down the address, and after some wrong turns (“Khabeez sarak!”), we had finally arrived.

Upon entering the mosque, even I knew that something wasn’t right. I looked over at my dad, (mom had hurried up to the women’s section) his eyes wide. Umer (the younger sibling) noted that he had never seen an imam with such a funny black turban. Didn’t sikhs wear those? I turned to dad in time to see a word slowly beginning to form on his lips.

“Shi’a.”

We entered the mosque, my brother and I still not quite sure what was going on. As I walked in, I remembered seeing people grab stones in their hand. I would later learn that these stones are called turba stones, and the Shi’a, while in sajdah, rest their heads on these holy stones. But to my tweeny Sunni self, it was most peculiar. After we listened to the khutbah in English and in another language (I’m gonna assume Persian), the adhan was given (of course, it didn’t sound like my adhan).

We got up, raised our hands, and subsequently began the most awkward prayer imaginable. I did the only thing I knew how; thumbs to the ears, hands resting on the stomach. Much to my chagrin, the rest of the group wasn’t exactly feelin’ it. Where our hands faithfully stood folded over each other on our stomachs, their hands remained at their side. I just followed my dad, who, to the very last wa rahmatullah, stayed true. As soon as it was over, we made our hasty exit. We even missed the potluck brunch.

That was my first experience with Shi’ism. I think it stands as a testament that up until that pleasant day, I didn’t know very much at all about the “other” Islam. And even though my parents did, they didn’t make much out of it. I hadn’t known or sensed animosity, only the fact that we were different. Fast forward 5 years later, and the words Sunni and Shiite are plastered all over the media. Iraq is in the midst of a civil war due to a renewed bloodlust between the two forces. Not a day goes by that innocent people in Iraq are being murdered by their own countrymen because of these differences. It’s disheartening. That’s how the relationship used to be across the world for the while. There was a sort of mutual respect.  Because of Iraq, I feel as if tensions between Sunnis and Shi’a worldwide have been subtly stressed. Let it be known that I harbor no ill towards the Shi’a, and you shouldn’t either, because, as God says in the Qur’an, “to you your religion, and to me, mine.”