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My mom had a meeting in the masjid one day, and since I wanted to take my mind off of things, I tagged along.
Even if it meant having to face the wrath of aunties who eyed the pieces of hair flying out of my loosely wrapped hijab. And the daggered glares they sent to my jeans.
But the masjid was quiet that day, save for a (girl? woman?) holding her hands up in prayer. I scooted as far away from her as possible and simply sat down, staring at the musallah area.
It was beautiful, with embroidered carpeting and bookshelves full of pretty Qur'ans. But it had never felt comfortable, never felt like home.
Until that day.
I sat there, staring at my surroundings and lazily gazing up at the fan twirling around and around. . .
My eyelids drooped for a moment before I snapped back awake, looking around at the musallah area again.
I felt something then. It was a strange feeling, like something was cloaking my sensations. But it wasn't suffocating. It was like walking into a quiet fog, standing still in the pin drop silence, and not wanting to go anywhere for fear of losing what I had in that moment.
Peace.
As I stared at the ceiling and the twirling fans and the screen indicating prayer times and the shelves upon shelves of Qur'ans with the scent of rose water lingering in the air, the heavy weight that had been pressing down forcefully on my chest lightened a bit. As if someone had lifted it momentarily. What was plaguing me before that moment began to fly away in wisps as the ceiling fans twirled and twirled and twirled.
And then I was brought back to reality when I heard "Assalaamu 'Alaikum."
I turned to identify the speaker and it was the person who had been making duaa before. Up close, she looked much younger. My age, probably. Maybe a year or two older.
"Wa 'Alaikum Salaam."I replied warily, not wanting another bad encounter at the masjid with someone who wanted to prove they were a better Muslim than I was.
"I'm Mirna. How are you?" She held out her hand, and I shook it, taken aback by the warmth in her demeanor.
"Good, thank you. How are you? I'm Sarah, by the way."
"Good, Alhamdulillah. It's nice to meet you, Sarah!"
Then she began talking to me. She talked about college, about her homework and her classes, and at every point in the conversation she turned back around to me and asked questions about my life. I didn't talk much, just mumbled a few sentences here and there, but it didn't seem to bother her. She became delighted by any answer that I gave, as if it was the most exciting thing in the world. And I wasn't going to lie—the attention deeply flattered me.
When she finally stood up after about an hour—murmuring apologies that she had to go—I was surprised to realize I had enjoyed her company. She made me feel relaxed, with her easy, conversational tone and her gentle laugh.
We exchanged numbers and she got up, lifted a veil over her face, and exited the musallah with a "Take care! Salaam."
I was shocked, to be honest. I didn't expect her to be the kind of person who veiled her face. And then I asked myself—what did I expect a veiled person to be like? Reserved, withdrawn, grouchy, constantly preachy?
I became ashamed of my prejudice but also awed by her character. She had not let me feel uncomfortable for even a second despite my unresponsiveness yet I had been wary of her from the start for no reason at all.
She taught me something valuable that day. Something that sticks closely with me today as well.
People are never who you expect them to be.
~
translations:
masjid: mosque
hijab: broadly referred to as barrier or concealment in islam / also head covering for women
musallah: area to pray in
Qur'an: holy book of islam
assalaamu 'alaikum: muslim greeting meaning "peace be upon you"
wa alaikum salaam: response to "assalaamu 'alaikum" meaning "peace be upon you as well"
duaa: prayer
alhamdulillah: thank God, all praise and thanks to God
