My first time in a mosque

I visited Singapore two years ago, and was impressed by the strong Muslim presence there. They are ethnic Malays, whose ancestors had been introduced to Islam by Sufis. A majority of them adhere to Imam Shafi’i’s School of Jurisprudence, but also follow a set of customs that is known as adat. While the Malays make up only 20% of the population, a mosque can be seen in every residential town. Indeed, on a 45-minute bus journey alone, I passed five.

Their mosques are interesting, because like most mosques across the Muslim world, they follow the basic Ottoman architecture. This, I feel, is the greatest testimony to the global impact that the last Islamic empire had left on the consciousness of Muslims, past, present and in all likelihood, future.

Through a Muslim friend, I was introduced to a hajji, or one who has performed the pilgrimage to Islam’s birtplace, Mecca. The yellowed skullcap on his head confirmed this. His name was Abdul Hamid bin Samad. We would never have met if not for the fact that he was the caretaker of Masjid al-Mutaqeen.

Abdul Hamid could not speak fluent English, so passed me on to one of his colleagues. This new fellow was young, barely in his twenties, had a trim beard, wore the traditional Malay headdress known as a songkok. His name was Rashid bin Isa, and he was honest enough to tell me that he found my visit rather extraordinary.

"Normally," he said. "Tourists visit the Sultan Mosque."

I had, of course, seen the Sultan Mosque, one of the oldest in Singapore, and considered to be a local heritage site. But I was curious about the mosques at the grassroots level too. Places that have become tourist areas often possess an artificial quality that does not appeal to me. The Sultan Mosque was a fine-looking building and I was certain that it means a lot to the Muslims, but I had seen its like in almost every Muslim country I visited. Al-Mutaqeen, on the other hand, had caught my eye for its bright, green dome. It resembled an incredibly-fresh bulb of onion. For the sake of politeness, however, I didn’t mention that. Nor did I mention that I was Jewish, for I wasn’t certain how Rashid would react.

But let me tell you about al-Mutaqeen. The mosque is simple, and certainly not unique amongst other mosques. But in appraising a place, I have often relied on an internal instinct. Call it karma, or vibe, but al-Mutaqeen filled me with warmth and a sensation of being home, even though I was thousands of miles from my native land, of course. Built along an octagonal plan, the geometry, which medieval Muslim mathematicians had considered a sacred discipline, was palpable. I stood below the arched entrance, savoring the faint tingle that was traveling up and down my spine.

"That," said Rashid, pointing toward a section closed off by a collapsible set of doors. "Is our tadikah. Children are taught basic doa (supplications), solat (prayer) and the mukaddam (a set of simple Koranic verses, meant for education)."

"Aren’t they taught Math, Science, English?" I asked.

"They are, but over here, we focus more on religion. Developing a child’s character, teaching him to live an honest life, respect their parents, recite zikir (remembrance of God through constant invocations). All these are important. Look at our youth now. Do you know that Malays have the highest abortion and divorce rates in Singapore?"

"I do."

Rashid seemed surprised, but shrugged resignedly. "See," he said. "Our immorality has reached even Israel."

Now, it was my turn to be surprised. I had underestimated his perceptiveness. I could have told him that I did not live in Israel, but chose to keep quiet instead.

The mosque was large, its floor and walls and pillars tiled lovingly with glazed ceramic. The five sides- each perhaps signifying one of the five prayers Muslims must offer every day- surrounded a large open courtyard that provided a snapshot of the sky. Orange clouds moved above. It was late afternoon, about an hour before maghrib, the evening prayer. The timing was deliberate because Muslims believe that in the hours leading up to sunset, creatures of flame called jinn perform their own prayers to God. Muslims therefore try to avoid delaying asar (late afternoon prayers) till this time.

Al-mutaqquin was an empty shell. I stepped forward. A breeze, melting against the tall minaret, swung down and entered the courtyard. I felt my headscarf- a courtesy Abdul Hamid had insisted on- lift from my hair. Patting it down, I glanced at Rashid apologetically. He returned a wry smile.

"You know a lot about Islam?" he asked.

"A little," I said, stock reply in hand . "I am a learner."

"I see." He withdrew into himself, eyes strangely disturbed.

Meanwhile, I carried on with my visual inspection. Tucked between two walls were about twenty bales of mats. These, I presumed, would be rolled out on Fridays for worshippers who would fill the halls close to bursting. Just as a Muslim has to be physically and ritually clean during prayer, the ground on which he worships has to be clean too. Persian rug-makers continue to make a fortune weaving beautiful prayer rugs for the Muslim market.

Lattice work on a wall guided my eyes to an indentation that was closed off by an eight-panel screen. One of the panels was ajar, and through it, I saw a small enclosure, carpeted and with no windows. In a small wooden cupboard, shimmering white cloth had been neatly folded and stacked on top of each other.

"Telekong," Rashid said. "Prayer shawls. The women pray in there."

Muslim women, of course, must pray behind a barrier, away from the eyes of their male counterparts. I nodded in understanding. Synagogues follow the same rules. We are very much alike.

Rashid ushered me into another enclosure. This was larger, its ceiling curved upward into a shallow, almost unpronounced dome. A battered chandelier, its glass pieces stained by age, hung from the apex by a thin chain. My bare toes curled pleasurably against the soft carpet. I closed my eyes and opened them again, trying to adjust quickly to the dimness. In the shadows of one wall, I saw the mihrab, the niche from which an Imam will deliver his sermons every Friday, when the Muslim congregational prayers is convened. I could not help but compare these ritual expressions with a Jewish Temple’s. Like the mosque, a Temple also has a wall facing Jerusalem. The wall is known as aron kodesh, and has traditionally been the place of the ‘holy cabinet’, bearing scrolls of Torah. The fact that the Muslim’s  kiblat (direction of prayer) had once been Jerusalem was not lost on me.

"Only worshippers who come here early on Fridays get to sit in this assembly area," Rashid chuckled. "It’s quite cool. The breeze always finds its way here."

Unconsciously, I touched my headscarf, just to make sure.

There was a low wooden bookshelf in the corner. Books, some thick, some thin, lined it. I was drawn to it, for I love books. Even if it is not in languages I understand, I love to hold it, smell it, flip through its pages just to hear its silent whisper. Books have remarkable personalities, regardless of the language they are written in. I ran my finger along the spines. Most of them had Arabic characters, some of them were in Romanized Malay, which is actually Malay spelled out in the English language.

"What’s this?" I asked, my finger tapping a black, tattered spine with peeling gold trim. Rashid gestured for me to pick it up.

The book was a Koran, its pages inundated with spidery Arabic script. There were no leafy borders, not even vowel marks to differentiate whether an aleph (the first letter of Arabic) was an ee, oo or aa. Bismillah (In the name of God), could just as well be read as Basmallah to the uninitiated. But the mispronunciation is unlikely, since Bismillah is the first phrase from the Koran that is taught to all Muslim children. They say it before embarking on anything, including eating. It’s like the Christian prayer of grace before their own meals, only shorter and more formulaic.

"The author is unknown. Someone just left it here with a note saying that it had once belonged to a miskin. A poor man."

I flipped through the pages and settled on one that had an odd feature. A line had been crookedly written, bowing as if it could no longer bear its own weight and needed the support of the second line. I raised the Koran and pointed the foible out to Rashid. "What does this say?" I asked.

He took a moment to study it, pronouncing the Arabic words under his breath. And then nodding, he translated it thus:

"Our Lord! Behold we have heard a voice calling us unto faith: ‘Believe in your Lord’ and we have believed."

I inhaled deeply. The words moved me. A voice. A voice. Have I heard it before?

I returned the Koran to its gap between the other books. There was nothing more to see, and men were already streaming into the mosque. Some stared  at me questioningly, but looked away when I smiled at them. Unconsciously, even without a physical wall, one had been built up in its stead. This was a Muslim place of worship, and there were rules I had to observe. I cast my eyes down, uncertain what to do next.

"Maghrib is coming," Rashid said in a low voice.

"I understand," I said, nodding in relief.

I left through the mosque’s back door. Rashid turned back into al-Mutaqeen and I was alone. Slowly, almost regretfully, I walked in the opposite direction. It wasn’t long before the voice of the muezzin rose in the thousand-year old call to prayer. As Bilal, the African companion of the Prophet Muhammad had once done, the man inside al-Mutaqeen issued the same invitation. God is the greatest! I bear witness that there is no god except God. I bear witness that Muhammad is the Messenger of God. Make haste towards prayer. Make haste towards welfare. God is the greatest! There is no god except God.

Only this time, the cry resounded in a land far, far away and very different from the steppes of Muhammad’s desert. This was neither Mecca nor Medina. This was Singapore; Singa-Pura, a Sanskrit word that means Lion City. Within it is a world, a community defined by the faith of a people who continuously hear the voice call out to them, "Believe in your Lord". Like Abraham, Isaac and Moses before them, they answer without hesitation, "We have believed!"

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