The World is My Masjid

"The whole earth has been made the place of worship for me and it has become the means of purification for me also. In other words, in my religion, offering of prayers is not confined to certain specified places of worship. Prayers can be offered at any place over the earth. And in case water is not available, it is lawful for my people to perform ablutions with earth (Tayammum) and to cleanse themselves with the soil, if water for bathing is scarce."

from Sahih Muslim, Hadith 1062, narrated by Abu Hurayrah


It was time for salat in Petra. If I had waited until I got back to the township, it would surely have been sunset. Samih waited patiently while I picked my way down to the amenities block to wash. There is always an individual or two in constant attendance at the amenities of a Jordanian tourist site. This seems to be in an effort to maintain cleanliness throughout the day.

At the Petra amenities there were two adult women, one outside the door and one inside. By the time I was beginning to make my ablutions, there was a young child in attendance, a bedouin girl named Aisha, who watched fascinated and passed me my rings and watch when I was finished. "You salih? You salih?" she enquired breathlessly. She had fair, tangled hair, a broad tan face and dark-rimmed hazel eyes that gazed directly into your soul.

Around my salat I had experienced treatment that ranged from accommodating to downright abysmal, but no salat for me was more special than the one I prayed in in the red dust, on a small green mat laid out for me by the bedouin women of Petra, surrounded by cavernous mountains and ancient ruins.

Afterwards I was effusive, "Beautiful masjid!" I exclaimed, indicating the small prayer mat and the surrounding majesty in a sweeping gesture. The women, who numbered four now, including young Aisha, looked at each other and then one of them picked up the rug, folded it, and placed it in my hands. And of course, you simply cannot refuse...

Deeply touched, I wondered madly what I could give in return. The watch I had bought in Malaysia was a dime a dozen where I came from, but something that little Aisha might treasure, so I took it off and the women helped her put it on her wrist. After everyone had oohed and ahhed over pictures of my children, which I showed to just about every breathing person within spitting distance on the trip, it was time to go back. While I had felt a little rejected in the city, I felt thoroughly embraced by the desert.

Petra Part II

"A rose-red city half as old as time"
John William Burgon, poet, on Petra

I had hoped to arrange a meeting with Sheikh Nuh Ha Mim Keller, whose tariqa was somewhere here in Jordan. An American convert and sufi, famed for his translations of important Islamic texts from the Arabic, I thought he might be of interest to all of us. Apart from leaving it until the last minute, to attempt contact, I found it very difficult to locate an email address for him or any of his institutions. I happened upon a Facebook page for his online academy and left a message on the wall. Several days later it remained unanswered…

As we continued along the way out to Petra, I spied various compounds and set-ups, any of which I suspected could be the Sheikh’s hideout. But in fact, spirituality was not to be found here in an esteemed sheikh of any description. The Jordanian hospitality that I had refused to stop believing in, was not to be found in the mosques or the holy men of Jordan. At least not in the abundance it was to be found in the bedouin people of Petra…

We descended down into the township that precedes the historical, archaeological city of Petra, a thriving tourist centre sporting shops, hotels, restaurants. As we closed in on the 800m walk down to the Siq, a slender gorge that represents the sole entrance into Petra in modern times, there was the inevitable ticket booth found at all Jordanian historical sites, surrounded by small souvenir stalls. We were shocked to find that the entry fee was fifty JD: one JD for locals.

Again it seemed that there was proliferation of men in the public space here. It was only on the way back that I noticed this sign on a, by that time closed, demountable stall:

As I was to discover increasingly over the time I was away, for me, it is always about people: psychology, society, culture. So before I even registered this:

I was already captivated by this:

As I never asked his name, I have called him Abdul, for ease of expression here. At first, Abdul the camel handler seemed to be just another impenetrable visage, one of many on this trip. But after my initial approach yielded little warmth and openness, I decided to persevere rather than retreat this time.

It turned out that Abdul was merely grumpy because business was bad. He had five children, and was a little tired of being photographed in his traditional dress alongside his camels, instead of people coughing up for a tour. He was unwilling to ask for money for posing for photographs, though Imad forced 1JD into the top pocket of Abdul’s thobe in return for our photo session. His English was excellent, better than most people I had met in Amman.

After a very few moments of chat, Abdul warmed up considerably and was still offering commentary as I was backing away, needing to make the most of my very few hours left in Petra, a place where you really need a three or four day pass to experience it thoroughly.

I had looked at many pictures of the wonders of Petra prior to coming on the trip but had never really thought about it as being a place that is actually, thoroughly, inhabited. I was told that Petra would be touristy and expensive, so had not brought a great deal of dinar. What I hadn’t realized was that all of the stores down in the ancient site were run by local Bedouin eking out a living. Had I realized that I would have brought more dinar to spend in Petra.

Abdul was bedouin, a genetic group of Arabs that were usually nomadic desert-dwellers. Specifically, Abdul was Bedul bedouin, indigenous to Petra. According to brother Abdul, the King of Jordan is very good to the Bedouins. “Because it is our place,” Abdul asserted. I realized then that not only is ancient Petra populated with bedouin Arabs, it also belongs to them. It is their home, or one of their homes, as the vast majority of bedouin are no longer nomadic and have settled in various locations. And apparently without complaint and indeed with welcome, the Bedouin have allowed their ancient homeland to be opened up to tourists.

Abdul indicated his camels and told me that they were worth what sounded like sixty thousand dinar each. Later, on reflection, I realized that it could not have been that much, but that he must have said sixteen or six thousand. Still, the point was that the government gifts the camels to the Bedouin people, to trade with, to offer tours or to work in whatever way they wish.

I demurred at the fifteen dinar for the camel tour. By the time I had trudged a little further into Petra my dickey knee was playing up and I parted with 10 dinar (to be paid after, Samih, the mule handler, insisted) and accepted a mule ride into my next Bedouin encounter.

At no stage was Samih not smiling. But then Samih was a twenty-four year old single man who, although he would have had extended family responsibilities according to bedouin culture, would very probably have had less to worry about than Abdul. I wished briefly that I had given Abdul, with his large brood, my money, but rationalized later that I would have been too high up to have any more meaningful conversation. Down at mule level, however, I learned a lot.

Samih was known widely as “Rasta”, and greeted as such by all passing bedouin, due to his mass of dreadlocks, which, he told me, used to be all the way down his back. He had a very tan, weathered face for a young man, dark-rimmed eyes, almost feminine as if “made-up”, and a mouthful of white teeth. He was very calm and personable. Passing bedouin went out of their way to proclaim to me “Samih good man! Very good man!”

The bedouin honour system values generosity. The more generous a man is able to be, the more respected he is. Bedouin also have a very high regard for authority, although the patriarchy among them is relatively moderate. There will often be, on the wall of a tent or cave, a picture of an esteemed uncle or sheikh whom everyone respects (Chatelard 2008). I wondered whether the ever-present pictures of the king in homes, shops, offices and on cars tapped into this mindset.

Samih’s English was even better than Abdul’s.

“Did you learn English at school?” I asked naively.

“No school,” replied Samih, grinning. “Life is cool without school,” he added, grinning wider. “Read books: lose your time,” he expanded. “If you need to learn something, it will come.”

“Then from where did you learn such good English, Samih?” I pressed, missing the obvious.

“From the tourists,” he said.

(When comparing notes later with others in our group, I discovered that many of the bedouin tourist workers also know French, German, Spanish, Dutch, sometimes three or four European languages, learned from tourists.)

At first glance it might seem that bedouin children are simply allowed to run amok, especially the boys. The first Bedouin boy I glimpsed in Petra was hanging from a rock in the Siq, singing. But as Dr Geraldine Chatelard, Research Fellow at the French Institute for the Near East, asserts “…they are living an education in which they learn limits for themselves and make the direct experience of pain and danger- though within a framework: if the parents are absent, another member of the community is almost certainly nearby and can exercise authority” (2008). It makes me wonder whether boys like the ones we were later to encounter in the Whidat refugee settlement, who seemed to be running wild in the streets instead of being in school like the girls, perhaps craved that more hands-on, outdoor style of learning.

Although many young bedouin people are attaining university level education, they will still often have illiterate parents living in a tent. Chatelard expresses concern for the disconnection from traditional knowledge that she believes schooling creates, and the loss of “entire swathes” of Bedouin culture. She also observes that sites such as Petra and Wadi Rum merely offer a “staged” version of Bedouin encounter and are a “pale reflection” of bedouin culture (2008).

However Chatelard also acknowledges that the bedouin have not been averse to moving with progress (all bedouin tourist workers I encountered sported mobile phones!), whilst also attempting holding on to their traditions. For example, even bedouins who do own a house, will often still keep a nearby family cave, or have a tent set up next to the house, which is inextricably tied to rituals of coffee and hospitality (Chatelard 2008).

Abdul had mentioned that the Jordanian government helped the bedouin with housing as well as employment, and that he and his family had a house in the small community just outside the ancient ruins.

Samih, however, chose to dwell in one of the caves of Petra, as apparently many still did. Currently, he happened to have an Australian man staying with him: Andrew, who was writing a book on bedouin life, and who had been there for twelve months. (I and my family were also earnestly entreated to come back and stay in the cave and “eat bedouin food!”) Samih told me that in the small housing community of about two thousand bedouin, there were at least twenty European women living. I was amazed. Some were learning Arabic, bedouin dialect, others had chosen to “stay with bedouin man”. And here was where vague bells began to ring for me.

I remembered coming across a book on the internet called “Married to a Bedouin” which had caught my interest, however I was not sure I had wanted to part with the Kindle price at the time. It was by a New Zealand woman named Marguerite Geldermalsen, who, twenty-five years ago, came to Petra and promptly fell in love with a bedouin man named Mohammad. I was under the impression that she had gone back to New Zealand after her husband had passed away, but when I mentioned her to Samih, he said “Margaret? Oh yes, we just passed her shop. Do you want to go back and meet her?” I declined as I felt we ought to press on with the limited time frame we were working with. I figured that we would catch up with “Margaret” on the way back.

I was curious to know how the bedouin felt about the area having been opened up for tourists: whether they felt in any sense invaded or occupied.

“How did the bedouin feel when the tourists came?” I asked.

“Good!” said Samih, “They bring work for us!”

Everything was fine with Samih. From living in a cave, to the lack of formal education, to village life, to the tourist trade, to bedouin food (which he enthused about). When I asked him what his dreams were, what he wanted to do with his life he said “Just to keep doing this nice job and meeting people”. And to eventually get married, insha Allah. It could have been the tourist spiel, but I felt that Samih’s happiness and peace of mind was genuine and, in fact, that I, with my “Western” dilemmas and stresses, may have been missing something.

Before the hour-and-a-half's ride back I finally had the ultimate salat experience. Click here to read all about it. Regrettably I never did meet "Margaret", she had shut up shop by the time we got back. I think I might be more inclined to shell out for that book now though...

Dr Geraldine Chatelard's insights apper in an edited version of "Bedouins Aujourd'hui en Jourdanie" by Nabil Boutros, translated by Isabelle Rubin and published by Amman French Cultural Centre:

http://www.lecertre.jo.org

Navigate to Appendix I of this blog to learn more about the realities of Bedouin life at Petra.

Unlike the bedouin of Petra, the bedouin of the Sinai, Egypt, are not only “excluded from the tourism industry” but are also routinely harassed and threatened by Egyptian authorities:

http://www.aljazeera.com/indepth/opinion/2012/02/201221413149992744.html

“Unrecognised” bedouin tribes in Israel are denied basic services, even access to fresh water:

http://www.aljazeera.com/indepth/opinion/2011/06/20116238174269364.html

Petra Part I

Our planned trip to Petra was our first taste of Jordanian corruption. The wheeling and dealing and sleight of hand that goes on here pushed our trip back from a fresh 6:30 am to a disgruntled 9:30/9:45.

The first of several stops along what was for us close to a four hour journey, was a bedraggled petrol station just out of town. The driver jumped out, immediately lit a cigarette and stood chatting casually with the attendant who was filling our tank. As we on the bus choked on a collective, eye-popping intake of breath, laced with petrol fumes and tobacco smoke, our driver flicked ash around smiling, both he and the attendant frighteningly unperturbed.

As we continued to emerge from the metropolis, the land flattened out, leaving behind its burrows of huddled buildings. Constructions became increasingly sparse. There was the odd, very humble, roadside farm, consisting of a clutch of chickens, some goats and a few camels. The goats grazed enthusiastically on hillsides of questionable fertility, to which discarded plastic bags clung, more ubiquitous than the billboards of the smiling king that flashed by.

As we continued, what could be termed “desert” became apparent, then relentless, and I returned to my novel, resting my head against the window. Occasionally I creaked open a weary eye, finding the outlook no more uplifting than before, and in fact now punctuated by the bodies of dead goats by the road.

The way I ended up coping in this dead emptiness, among mostly sleeping bus-mates, was to launch into a burst of creativity. I am later to discover that it is with similar spirit that the locals cope- they simply make stuff grow in this place.
A three hour drive sounded not too bad, but there was nothing to see, nothing to see, nothing to see…not even dead things...

I finally closed the curtain and decided to pretend to be elsewhere. The indecipherable Arabic radio chatter was peppered with pop culture familiarities like “Samsung” and “Lady Gaga”. Where was God? I thought, fairly depressed by now, even though I knew I was on my way to fabulous Petra. There was no rich spirituality here as in Istanbul, I mourned. I needed a reminder in this bleak land, but was not really expecting one. I turned to my headphones in a bid to escape the sights, sounds and their associated ruminations.

My music happened to be set to random, inexplicably still playing from last time I had it on, an hour or so before, when I had been listening to a specific album. Amy Winehouse finished her song and I was surprised to hear Stevie Wonder begin. I had forgotten that I downloaded some of his songs before the trip. This is the song that broke me out of my somber desert reverie:

They say that heaven is 10 zillion light years away
And just the pure at heart will walk her righteous streets someday
They say that heaven is 10 zillion light years away
But if there is a God, we need Him now
"Where is your God?"
That's what my friends ask me
And I say it's taken Him so long
'Cause we've got so far to come…

Suddenly , civilization: a town. A cement factory in the distance. An unkempt, and graffitied, mosque. Children rummaging in the inevitable concrete rubble and refuse. It was a weak heartbeat, then more desert flatlining.

I struggled, as did some others of us, with the personality of the place. Perhaps it was my rejection from the mosque that had put me on the defensive. Maybe it was my high expectations of Jordanian hospitality. We tend to expect so much from people who often have so little to give…

There was a proliferation of men in the roadside falafel bar on the way to Petra. Eyes were not welcoming as I stood waiting to order. They seemed about as happy to see me as if this was their mosque, and I was a Labrador Retriever. My salaams seemed to be met with suspicion rather than welcome, or amusement, as I had noted in the case of the women at times. My hijab and my salaams did not always convince of my Muslim status, especially out here: I could just as easily have been a tourist, trying too hard. Maybe that is just what I am…

My Rough Guide to Jordan was particularly effusive regarding Jordanian hospitality and I wondered when I was going to see more than a promise. But why should these people have been pleased to see me? It was quite possible that I represented something resented, even hated…

Or was it, that in spite of the highlights, there was an “underlying negativity” in the place, due to a level of social control which was greater in Jordan than in Turkey, or even Malaysia? Obviously there was the fact that there was a lot of hardship, with a growing gap between rich and poor, and many earning only something in the region of 150-200 dinar a month. Or perhaps, as was my feeling, the bleakness here, of spirit as well as landscape, was due to the tension of surrounding boiling points, particularly Syria at this time? We were used to such security and freedom. Maybe that is why some of us felt uncomfortable. And of course there were those of us who had experienced outright abuses and rebuffs in the mosques of Jordan.

No Water for Ladies

Perhaps, due to my overall positive experiences in the mosques of Turkey and Malaysia (though there is still a way to go), I approached the mosques of Amman, Jordan far too confidently. It was Dhuhr time as Imad, Karen, Tiffany and I made our way down from the delights of the ancient Roman ampitheatre, and the humble but charming
Museum of Personal History.

As we approached the small, relatively new-looking mosque, my practiced eye noted warning signs: men pouring into the main entrance and the complete absence of women. My jaundiced Muslimah gaze immediately deferred to the bowels of the building where, sure enough, I could see what looked like an alternative entrance: namely, the women’s entrance.

After confirming with a local brother, down I went. An extremely personable Muslim man sat at the open door of the women’s area, who, when I enquired clumsily “Muslimah salat?”, indicated a small square of dusty carpet. I stood in disbelief for some moments. “Muslimah salat?” I repeated inanely. He registered my disbelief and gestured to the space just to the right: a large area completely covered in concrete rubble, plaster and other construction refuse. Muslimah salat.

I was completely forgiving. I understood. It was a new mosque, and jamat being obligatory on the men, it was a priority to have the men’s area finished first. I said to the man “I will pray at home”, because, had I made salat on the small square of carpet, my rear end would have been visible not only to the man, but to anyone passing the back door of the mosque, and a busy street.

By this time, some other sisters had arrived for prayer, seemingly unperturbed. The man said “Malesh”, ‘ok whatever’, and offered me a seat. We had a short, but pleasant, conversation. It is the same here as in Turkey. At first they think I am Arab, then I explain and they are pleased. I have had to learn to say “Ana Muslimah jadeedah” or “I am a new Muslim” so that they understand. And they are always very happy. I bade the man “masalaama” and said, insha Allah, the women’s room will be finished next time I come. “Insha Allah” he said, without much conviction.

Praying in the mosque is not obligatory on women in Islam. In fact, due to our often having many responsibilities in the home, and young children, we are rewarded double for our prayers in the home, according to hadith. But the Prophet Mohammed told the men never to forbid the women from coming to the mosque, also in hadith. So why, if not outright forbidden, is access for women made so darn hard?

We had an amazing walk up to the old citadel and enjoyed panoramic views. By asr time we were near the al-Husseini mosque and it never crossed my mind that we would have a problem. I was definitely naïve because we had several. By this time there were seven of us, having lost and gained a few throughout the day. We were three men and three women, two of us genuinely needing to make salat.

As we approached the front entrance I became nervous as I saw men in salat and no women. We were chased away roundly from the front entrance and skulked all the way around the block to the back entrance. But this was no women’s entrance: considered tourists, we had been shown around to the back entrance to observe, no photos. Fair enough, I thought, I’ve to be clearer with these men.

There seemed to be a lot of chaos and confusion. We approached the front of the prayer area. Several old men gesticulated and spoke loudly in Arabic to a younger man. The younger man stood in front of myself and the other two women accompanying me. “You, you and you” he said, jabbing his finger at each of us in turn. “Not right clothes”. I was dumbfounded. Both Julia and Tiffany were in headscarves. Granted they were also in jeans, but normally they would be offered a robe. This did not happen. But I was in full hijab and abaya! I communicated the obvious to the young man. “Yes”, he conceded, “Masha Allah”.

“Muslimah salat.” I insisted. The young man stood flanked by two more of the ubiquitous old men. “No Muslimah salat” he said finally “Men only”. It was just the easiest option I suppose. It might get rid of us. I met his eye. “No salat for ladies?” I said, challenging him silently as I stood confidently on the Sunnah. His eyes, and his smirk, told me he knew. He knew. But he was to controlled by the old men, generations of tradition and lack of facilities and organization.

At last, after arguing a bit more with some more of the endless old men, the youth pointed to the women’s area. There it was. It was a tiny box of frosted glass at the back of the mosque. It had been completely unnoticable from the front. A partially open door revealed colourful headscarves inside. OK, well at least salat was imminent, I thought.

But I needed to perform ablutions before prayer, a ritual that is considered half the prayer in our religion. I turned again to the young man. “Muslimah wudhu?” I enquired. A nearby old man answered “No wudhu for ladies. Men only”. I was not only dumbfounded, but this time, I was not amused.
“No wudhu for ladies? No water?”
“No water for ladies. Men only” he confirmed. At this I turned on my heel and made a beeline for the back door.

The young man was not giving up so easily however. As I approached my waiting shoes at the back door, fighting tears, I caught him in the corner of my eye. He had crossed to the other side of the mosque and was gesticulating with more old men, pointing to me and then beckoning. But I was gone.

By the time we got back to our hotel I had missed my salat, in a city of mosques. As the athan rang out for maghrib, I quickly made up my missed prayers in my room, and let the tears come.