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I have a confession to make.
But, sorry for the wait - I should explain myself first. Let’s start at the beginning: the first week at my site, about nine months ago.
Every Friday, the men of my family go to the mosque across the street at noon (the Muslim version of a Sunday mass). At the first call to prayer, sung through loudspeakers so that nobody in a two-kilometer radius can possibly miss it, they get ready to go to the mosque - rinse off the sweat that has accumulated since morning, change into traditional loose linen shirt and pants, put on the special round cap.
After I first arrived to site in September, I found myself quickly settling into a routine. Around noon, I retreat from the world and relax in my room (or rather, sprawl out under the fan in an effort to combat the oppressive mid-day heat). On that first Friday, I heard the commotion of the boys getting ready, so I peeked my head out the door out to see what the fuss was. My two younger brothers and my host dad were stepping out the door in their traditional clothing. I figured they were heading to the mosque so I rushed out, hanging off the front door.
“Are you guys going to the mosque? Can I come too? I want to learn more about Islam!”
My eyes must have still betrayed a glimmer of hope back then, so my pok chuckled, and politely told me that “only men can go”.
My mouth must have dropped wide open, because mai, who was sitting at the table outside, looked at me and laughed.
“Really?!?”, I replied in shock.
“Yes, really”, mai replied.
And with that, the boys left for the mid-day Friday prayer at the mosque, and I quickly retreated back into the dark haven of my room to marinate in my own anger. That was the first time anyone had outright, to my face, denied me anything because of my gender.
where the girls at tho
ah yes right here, standing outside the mosque looking in
Since then, with every major Muslim holiday or event, I have asked if and when women can enter the mosque. Without fail, my host family has told me a resounding ‘they cannot’. It’s probably growing old for them. However, for me, every no is only fuel for the fire. I wonder, in a place where the concept of feminism has yet to take hold, can they sense my deep-seated feminist rage?
Probably.
I really have tried to put in effort understand this in a cultural context, tried to respect their traditions, tried to mitigate my anger. Some days are more successful than others.
And so here, we finally arrive at my confession. Perhaps it's not so shocking. To sum it all up:
I have been harboring bitterness and resentment towards my family and my community for the better part of the year here for denying me the opportunity to participate in their religious traditions.
Until recently – the end of Ramadan; Eid al-Fitr.
For the month of Ramadan, it is traditional for everyone (barring young children and sick people) to fast from sunrise to sunset. I decided that since I could not enter the mosque to see how it was done, I could fast with my family in order to try to extract some sort of Muslim experience for myself. And, because I like a challenge.
One week it, it was going rather well, I think. I was waking up at 3:30 AM every morning to eat with my family and then going back to bed. I felt myself starting to lose energy by midmorning and by late afternoon, I was so exhausted I could barely get out of my hammock. With not much else to distract me, I would live for the 6:30 PM call to prayer that signaled it was time to break fast. As the days went on, it got a little easier. My body was getting used to eat. And then all of the sudden, my family decided to stop fasting all together.
Huh?
We still had three weeks left! But as the matriarch of the family, mai declared that she had too many things to do to be tired during the day. And thus, we stopped fasting, including me (I wasn’t going to wake up in the middle of the night to make food for myself, I wasn’t that dedicated). Even though she had a valid excuse, I still couldn’t help but feel robbed of the one religious experience I could share with my community thus far.
Soon enough, my resentment faded as my body rejoiced in the fact that it was being fed at regular intervals again (it turns out that matter over mind is rather strong).
As the end of Ramadan was approaching, I turned to various members of my family to try to figure out what we do to celebrate. From one person, I was told there is a party. From another person, that we don’t do anything. Someone else said that we visit the houses of the elders in the community. And others said women and men go to the mosque. Round and round I went, getting different answers from every person.
I was frustrated. I just wanted to know what I was in for, and if it was something I, as a woman, could even be ‘in for’.
On the night before Eid-al-Fitr, I tried to casually ask my host parents once more to see if I could solicit any final clear answers.
“Soooo…..what time are we going tomorrow?”
My host parents exchanged a look.
Pok was brave enough to speak up, confirming what I already suspected but was hoping wasn’t the case.
“You can’t go tomorrow, it’s for men only”.
What. I heard that women could go to the mosque on big holidays! I saw my younger cousins trying on beautiful dresses that they had made especially for Eid! I had my hopes up!
I again, like that first week, quickly retreated into my room to fume and angrily rant to my real parents.
The next morning - 5:30 AM, Eid-al-Fitr. The commotion outside my room woke me up. I emerged, rubbing my eyes, trying to clear away the residual anger from the night before.
I peered out the front door to see my sister, cousin, and aunt dressed up and walking off to the mosque. I must have looked really disappointed or displeased, because mai came up to me to tell me, in an exasperated voice, that yes, I can go too, but just to look around and maybe take some photos.
With permission finally granted, I let out one big 'YES' (in English) and ran to go put on my custom-made dress and mustora (head covering like a hijab). I grabbed my camera and headed out the door.
As I approached the mosque, I couldn't see my family but I thankfully ran into my counterpart Mayam. From our many previous conversations, she understood that I really wanted to go and see the service. She grabbed my arm, led me to one of the male elders, and asked for his permission so I could go in.
He eyed me for a long minute, but ultimately nodded his head and waved us through the entrance for females. I breathed a sigh of relief.
Mayam, still gripping my arm, led me into the mosque. We filed into a small sectioned-off area and joined the last line of women. They were crammed into small rows, each woman sitting on her own colorful woven prayer rug depicting religious imagery. They all were wearing special loose dresses for prayer.
a row of women set up with their prayer rugs
Mayam set hers up, put on her set of prayer clothes, then performed a quick, silent prayer as I awkwardly squatted behind her and tried to give her some space. She sat up and turned back to face me.
“Repeat after me”, she commanded, our faces close together in the small space.
I nodded, sweat pooling above my upper lip and forehead. She looked into my eyes, and I found myself uncomfortable under the intensity of her gaze and the heat of the room.
Following her words, I said a short prayer in Arabic (of which I wish I could remember or know the meaning of!). She smiled, satisfied and repeated it for me again.
Mayam and I a few months earlier at a wedding. Thankful for our friendship.
More women were trying to enter the already-crowded space, so I left her to find my way into a back corner to try to take up as little room as possible. Soon after all of the women unfurled their prayer rugs, put on their special clothes, and did an individual silent prayer, the unseen Imam (similar to a priest or a rabbi) standing on the men’s side began the prayer for the whole mosque to join in.
If you’ve ever seen Muslims pray, you would know that it is far different than how Jews or Christians pray. You pray with your whole body – standing, kneeling, bowing, and sitting up again in a practiced, well-worn sequence. For women, it is silent. According to Muslim belief, the person praying has a direct line to Allah. When each person in the room preforms this sequence, they are creating their own individual, internal prayer space.
To see the nearly one hundred women in the room - ranging from young girls to wrinkled grandmothers - sitting, standing, and bowing in synchrony, as if controlled by the hair-raising melody of the Imam's singular voice, was a powerful moment to behold. And yet, it felt too intimate for me, an observer, to be sharing the same space as them.
during prayer all together
I realized, then – as I was curled in the corner, witnessing this sacred ritual take place for these women that only join together in prayer a select few times a year – that I was being a total brat.
Let me explain. Contrary to what I thought before, I suddenly realized it is not my right to be in that mosque and attend a service. Rather, it is a privilege and an honor to share space with these women in their very personal and divine act – a privilege I feel lucky to have earned. Many of the women in the room who saw me (in the corner, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible) recognized me - as a teacher, or friend, or health worker, or community member - and grinned, probably rather amused to see me there. They didn't look offended or confused. Rather, after the prayers were over, many people came up to me to clasp my hand and kiss it and happily exclaim "to loving each other!" as is tradition.
my third-grade student standing out with her bold print in a sea of white
post-prayer, waiting to go home
I think I expected Islam to be similar to the main religion here, Buddhism. When I first arrived in Cambodia to my training site, I was quickly exposed to Buddhism (the first time I've immersively experienced a religion outside of Judaism). Buddhism is not so much classified as a religion but as a lifestyle, which means it is, by nature, utterly inclusive of everybody and welcomes all that are curious with open arms to the pagoda and to religious events and holidays. When I got to my permanent site after training, I had continuing expectations that I would be able to learn more about Islam and participate in the traditions and cultural events like I was able to do with Buddhism with my training host family. But, Islam is not like Buddhism. It runs deep through families and close-knit communities, through strict traditions and practices. Like my own Judaism, it is not freely open to everyone and is rather closely guarded.
With that in mind, I sort of feel like a jerk for demanding space in a place where I am definitively not entitled to it. But, I think I get it now. I’m grateful to be at a point in my service where my community will allow me that space to facilitate deeper connections in sacred places.
Cheers to growth, and cheers to life. L'chaim!