The Call to Prayer

I meet Karim at the cowboy shack and wait for him on a small, wooden bench while he washes his arms and legs in a basin outside and retreats quickly to change into his ikanzu (dress) for Mosque. I play with one of the dogs, whose name is Naga and talk to another of the cowboys, while I wait. He asks me what my religion is. Uri Catolica (are you Catholic)? No. I just live by the Church. Uri Musilim (are you Muslim)? No. I just want to know Islam. Karim is ready to go. He is wearing a white dress so clean and bright that I am amazed that he has managed to keep it that clean in the cowboy shack, a white hat, and a red and white scarf that he changes intermittently to cover his head or his shoulders. As we pass the school, a few of the students shout “Assalamu Aleikum” and I can't tell whether or not they are being serious. It dawns on me then that the reason the Muslim community here is so welcoming to me is might be because they, too, understand what it feels like to be treated differently. Past the school, the village is almost silent. I guess noon isn't a busy time of day because most people go home to eat lunch. But not if they need to pray, and that is exactly what we are headed to do. Karim asks me if there are Muslims in America and if I know any. There are and I do. I tell him that I used to live directly next door to the Mosque when I went to university and it strikes us both as odd that I never thought to venture inside. The Mosque is a small, but beautiful white building with green trim standing on the top of a hill behind the marketplace. By the time we get there, I am already sweating a bit from wearing a a long dark skirt, long-sleeved back shirt, and wrapping my hair up in a scarf. Karim introduces me to a few of the men out in the front. They don't seem to know what to do with me, but the man in charge figures Karim should take me around to the other side of the building. I don't think Karim has ever been back there, but he takes me around to a door in the back and hands me off to one of the women. I take off my shoes and enter to sit on a mat behind a large, gold curtain that divides the women from the men. There are only four of us in the room. I am happy to see Mama Fatuma, whose husband, Ruru, is one of my favorite vendors. I sit down and the woman next to me covers my feet and hers with an extra piece of igitenge cloth she is wearing. The prayer begins, although none of us can see the man singing it. We just sit quietly and my legs start to cramp. A few more women trickle in, along with their children. A girl around my own age sits down to my right, where there is a gap in the curtain and spends the rest of the service mischievously peeping into the other room. I find out later that her name is Haciza, which means tomorrow or future. With the children there, it feels more like an over-staffed day care than a place of worship. The women pass off their babies, silently break up a couple of minor scuffles, and crinkle their eyes when their children sit, handing each other pieces of bisqui (cookies) and giving each other baby kisses. At only one point do we need to get up and pray, transitioning between standing, bending halfway with our hands in our laps, kneeling, and placing our foreheads on the ground. I have to focus a bit on getting the routine down correctly. After the prayer has finished, they lift the curtain. They are having an election and everyone needs to participate, including me. I'm not sure what positions people are vying for, but I can understand some of what they are saying. Ruru stands up and explains that he is a hard-working shop-keeper and that he has a wife and a child, signs of prestige in Rwandan culture. Everyone raises his hand for him when he is finished. Several others speak, most with unanimous votes. I'm struck by the smallness of the Mosque compared to the humungous Mass on Sundays. This feels more like a family gathering. Everyone knows each other; everyone has a turn to speak; and everyone is supported in doing so. When the elections are over, their attention turns to me. They are asking about the visitor. Karim tells everyone what he knows about me. He says that I am not a Muslim, but that I know Muslims in America. He tells them that I am a volunteer and I will be here for two years. Only. He also makes a point of telling them that I have a boyfriend, a welcome part of any introduction. After Karim has finished introducing me, an umugabo munini (fat husband, which I've come to understand almost always means a man of power) approaches me and asks if I want to convert to Islam. Right this second. I politely tell him that I cannot be Catholic or Muslim because I believe that all religions are good. He seems to be appeased by this response, but still wants to bring me books on Islam in English, which I thank him for. It's not the first time I've been offered religious material in this country and I am interested in reading it. After our conversation, they put the curtain down again and end the service with another prayer. Haciza and I are the first of the women to stand so we can stretch our legs outside , but before long, Karim finds me and takes me by the arm to walk me home. He is somewhat protective of me and I wonder if he even thinks I could find my way back home on my own (which I could, no worries) or if he is simply fulfilling his role as a host.

Now, when I walk to the market, there are so many more people that are happy to see me. Granted, this has forced me to learn yet another set of new greetings, but the effort has been entirely worth it. I also realized that one of my students was attending the Mosque service, which made me realize that students aren't excluded from having a high quality (or Catholic) education just because of their faith, something I am happy to know.