Helpful Interruptions: Seeing Others
It was the opening night of our first photovoice project in Grand Rapids, Michigan. A group of twenty-five or so Muslims and Christians gathered in the multipurpose room at the At-Tawheed Mosque. Our agenda included eating dinner in small groups so we could begin building relationships, followed by an interactive presentation to introduce everyone to photovoice and our project.
Photo 1. Small group conversation during our first photovoice project in Grand Rapids.
When I arrived at the mosque, I was informed that the mosque’s main prayer room was under renovation. This meant that evening prayers would be held partway through our gathering in the same room. We were planning to take a break in the middle of the meeting, so I moved the break so it would coincide with prayer time.
A digital clock hanging in the multipurpose room was a constant reminder of the upcoming call to prayer. It displayed the date and prayer times throughout the day. The clock also pointed to something many of the non-Muslims in the gathering may have never considered: the ways daily life is structured for Muslims. Perhaps they knew Muslims prayed five times a day. But that was of little consequence to non-Muslims in their daily lives. Tonight they would be on Muslim time.
Photo 2. Participants organizing and reflecting on final photos for the exhibition in Grand Rapids.
Just before the appointed time, Muslim men began to arrive. Whether or not they were surprised or bothered by the presence of our group, there were no obvious indications. Perhaps Fayyad alerted them to the space being double-booked. Their first step was to perform ablution (wudu), a ceremonial washing of the feet, hands, and face before prayer. Wudu took place in the bathrooms, which are equipped for this purpose. Next, the call to prayer came over the intercom and we paused our meeting. As we settled into our break, more than a dozen men and a young boy assembled on carpet remnants from the main prayer hall which were arranged along the eastern side of our meeting room. They lined up, shoulder-to-shoulder and stood quietly, preparing themselves for prayer. A leader took his place in the front. And they began to pray.
As the men prayed, I wrestled internally. I didn’t mind taking a break from our meeting for evening prayer. It is after all their multipurpose room in their mosque where they meet to practice their religion. What bothered me was the discomfort I felt as I sat there watching them pray. Shouldn’t we leave the room? Fayyad assured me it was perfectly fine to stay put and observe. Still, it felt uncomfortable. It felt like an intrusion. If it didn’t seem to bother the men who were praying, why did it bother me?
Maybe it does not bother the men gathered to pray because they were used to it. Perhaps they are used to being observed. Used to the gaze of others. Used to knowing people are looking on with suspicion, disapproval, concern, curiosity, or even admiration. Maybe they are used to tuning out the world around them and turning their attention to prayer. Perhaps the answer is in the choreography of prayer: standing, kneeling, bowing, repeating. Maybe all of this—or none of it.
In the midst of introducing people to a project that would help them to see one another in new ways, I was wrestling with how I see others. I might have known in my head that people view Muslims in certain ways. Earlier experiences familiarized me with stories of Muslims who helped me learn about how they are treated because of how they are seen. Most frequently, the people praying or wearing hijab in these narratives were not treated with the respect our group was trying to show that night in the mosque.
Intellectually, I understood these narratives. Years of graduate school taught me about Islam, about religion and culture, about lived experiences of spirituality. But I needed to move beyond knowledge. My experience at the At-Tawheed Mosque on the opening night of our project, was an important milestone in my journey toward understanding and empathy.