On Religious Reflections
Please, know that I'm not trying to start any sort of conflict with this post, so if you feel the need to make any sort of heated reply, do it in a personal message to me.
*****
Last night will resonate in my mind for a long time to come.
I was working with the exposure on my camera while sitting on the porch with just the candlelight. I was able to get some decent shots of my landlord chilling on a prayer mat with one of his friends.
After a while a few more men came over, then a lot more, until there were about a dozen people sitting on the porch. One of the kids who is staying at my house to help with the farming came up and said, “My brother doesn’t want you to take any pictures because they’re going to pray.”
So, I wrapped my camera up, no problem, and headed into my room to upload the shots onto my computer. About twenty minutes later, there’s a knock at my door. It’s Alhassan, the little brother, and he said that his brother - Sadi, my landlord - wanted me to come outside. I think he thought he might’ve offended me by asking me to put up the camera, so even though I wasn’t offended, I decided that it was best to go out. If I’d stayed in, it might’ve looked like I was mad.
I went out to the porch, the men were still there, all praying their own prayers aloud, in Arabic. It was kind of soothing - there’s a monotone quality to it that’s not unlike listening to someone pray while speaking in Tongues. I remember hearing this same sort of prayer last year around this time and it was slightly bizarre. I wasn’t accustomed to the culture, or the religion, or the practices.
So as I swung in my hammock, drinking fresh cow milk with dried cassava (sort of like buttermilk and cornbread, but…as always, not quite), I listened to the prayers and watched the sky. It was a full moon and I could see everything in the courtyard. The women who’d come were silent, sitting on their stools around the fire, nursing their babies who weren’t dozing.
A few minutes later, Alhassan returned from his spot with the men in the corner. He said that Sadi had invited me to come pray with them.
I panicked for a moment. Everything I know about the Islamic culture and the protocols when going to prayers and gender separation was like “Uh…this is not appropriate. I am your cultural radar and I say, ‘stop!’” I was in a cut-off t-shirt and shorts, hadn’t taken a bath that day, I’m a woman…
But something inside me said, “Stop. Think about what he’s actually doing by asking you.”
So I did what I could. I brought some coins to give the imam (as is protocol when you have someone come and pray at the house), washed my hands and feet and came to squat at the corner of their mat. The men were still praying, each their own mumbled petition, but every now and then, one would speak louder with specific requests, while the rest confirmed their agreements - very much like prayer is conducted in the Christian churches.
The prayers were being said for Sadi and his family - for health for him and his wife, his children, his unborn child, the upcoming harvest. Safety. Prosperity. Strength.
A few minutes into the prayer, the man sitting next to me spoke up and I soon found out that he was speaking of me. I couldn’t get the specifics and some was in Arabic, but I could understand a little bit of what he was saying - a prayer for me and all of my work, that I would have health and strength, that my family would have health and prosperity and that, most of all, I could understand them and help my ‘people’ to understand them.
Everyone agreed heartily, even managed smiles at me during this normally solemn practice. Two minutes later, by some decree I hadn’t understood, it was over. Everyone was standing, greeting one another and bidding their farewells with prayers - “God give us tomorrow,” “God give your house health,” “God grant you prosperity.”
Each man shook my hand, told me goodnight, then disappeared into the moonlight.
It’s Ramadan right now - the month of fasting for Muslims. I’m asked, on average, of twenty times a day (often by the same people) if I’m fasting. Some days I do, most I don’t, so I say no. They ask why and I tell them “I’m a Christian - it’s not my holiday. My fasting will come later in the year.”
When I first got here, it was difficult. I had people trying to convert me to Islam every day and it was stressful. I didn’t want to offend anyone, yet I also didn’t want to betray my own beliefs. No one ever became forceful about it - it’s sort of an accepted thing that, if you’re from the West (or southern Ghana), you’re probably Christian and that’s okay…but we’d really like it if you became a Muslim. Thank you. :)
But after a while I started thinking of it in terms of what they believe and how that relates to my beliefs…or anyone else’s for that matter. A lot of people get really offended when someone witnesses to them, or tries to convert them, especially if they’re adamant about their beliefs. They don’t want to hear any of it, they get angry and have an immediate reaction of “who do they think they are?”
But really, I guess I’m kind of thankful. It shows how much I mean to that person that they’re trying to persuade me to accept their religion. Regardless of what someone’s specific personal beliefs are, if they believe them wholeheartedly, and someone else doesn’t believe that way, that someone else is most likely going to go to Hell, or the equivalent. That person is just showing compassion for me in wanting to give me a chance at knowing eternal peace, at making it to Heaven.
I don’t believe in Islam and I never will. But every person has the free will to choose the way that they believe and it’s between them and God. When we were praying last night, I was praying the same things for them - for prosperity, for health, for safety, and, most of all, for them to understand, for them to question why I am the way that I am. And I was praying to my God and I know He heard those prayers.
*****
Last night will resonate in my mind for a long time to come.
I was working with the exposure on my camera while sitting on the porch with just the candlelight. I was able to get some decent shots of my landlord chilling on a prayer mat with one of his friends.
After a while a few more men came over, then a lot more, until there were about a dozen people sitting on the porch. One of the kids who is staying at my house to help with the farming came up and said, “My brother doesn’t want you to take any pictures because they’re going to pray.”
So, I wrapped my camera up, no problem, and headed into my room to upload the shots onto my computer. About twenty minutes later, there’s a knock at my door. It’s Alhassan, the little brother, and he said that his brother - Sadi, my landlord - wanted me to come outside. I think he thought he might’ve offended me by asking me to put up the camera, so even though I wasn’t offended, I decided that it was best to go out. If I’d stayed in, it might’ve looked like I was mad.
I went out to the porch, the men were still there, all praying their own prayers aloud, in Arabic. It was kind of soothing - there’s a monotone quality to it that’s not unlike listening to someone pray while speaking in Tongues. I remember hearing this same sort of prayer last year around this time and it was slightly bizarre. I wasn’t accustomed to the culture, or the religion, or the practices.
So as I swung in my hammock, drinking fresh cow milk with dried cassava (sort of like buttermilk and cornbread, but…as always, not quite), I listened to the prayers and watched the sky. It was a full moon and I could see everything in the courtyard. The women who’d come were silent, sitting on their stools around the fire, nursing their babies who weren’t dozing.
A few minutes later, Alhassan returned from his spot with the men in the corner. He said that Sadi had invited me to come pray with them.
I panicked for a moment. Everything I know about the Islamic culture and the protocols when going to prayers and gender separation was like “Uh…this is not appropriate. I am your cultural radar and I say, ‘stop!’” I was in a cut-off t-shirt and shorts, hadn’t taken a bath that day, I’m a woman…
But something inside me said, “Stop. Think about what he’s actually doing by asking you.”
So I did what I could. I brought some coins to give the imam (as is protocol when you have someone come and pray at the house), washed my hands and feet and came to squat at the corner of their mat. The men were still praying, each their own mumbled petition, but every now and then, one would speak louder with specific requests, while the rest confirmed their agreements - very much like prayer is conducted in the Christian churches.
The prayers were being said for Sadi and his family - for health for him and his wife, his children, his unborn child, the upcoming harvest. Safety. Prosperity. Strength.
A few minutes into the prayer, the man sitting next to me spoke up and I soon found out that he was speaking of me. I couldn’t get the specifics and some was in Arabic, but I could understand a little bit of what he was saying - a prayer for me and all of my work, that I would have health and strength, that my family would have health and prosperity and that, most of all, I could understand them and help my ‘people’ to understand them.
Everyone agreed heartily, even managed smiles at me during this normally solemn practice. Two minutes later, by some decree I hadn’t understood, it was over. Everyone was standing, greeting one another and bidding their farewells with prayers - “God give us tomorrow,” “God give your house health,” “God grant you prosperity.”
Each man shook my hand, told me goodnight, then disappeared into the moonlight.
It’s Ramadan right now - the month of fasting for Muslims. I’m asked, on average, of twenty times a day (often by the same people) if I’m fasting. Some days I do, most I don’t, so I say no. They ask why and I tell them “I’m a Christian - it’s not my holiday. My fasting will come later in the year.”
When I first got here, it was difficult. I had people trying to convert me to Islam every day and it was stressful. I didn’t want to offend anyone, yet I also didn’t want to betray my own beliefs. No one ever became forceful about it - it’s sort of an accepted thing that, if you’re from the West (or southern Ghana), you’re probably Christian and that’s okay…but we’d really like it if you became a Muslim. Thank you. :)
But after a while I started thinking of it in terms of what they believe and how that relates to my beliefs…or anyone else’s for that matter. A lot of people get really offended when someone witnesses to them, or tries to convert them, especially if they’re adamant about their beliefs. They don’t want to hear any of it, they get angry and have an immediate reaction of “who do they think they are?”
But really, I guess I’m kind of thankful. It shows how much I mean to that person that they’re trying to persuade me to accept their religion. Regardless of what someone’s specific personal beliefs are, if they believe them wholeheartedly, and someone else doesn’t believe that way, that someone else is most likely going to go to Hell, or the equivalent. That person is just showing compassion for me in wanting to give me a chance at knowing eternal peace, at making it to Heaven.
I don’t believe in Islam and I never will. But every person has the free will to choose the way that they believe and it’s between them and God. When we were praying last night, I was praying the same things for them - for prosperity, for health, for safety, and, most of all, for them to understand, for them to question why I am the way that I am. And I was praying to my God and I know He heard those prayers.