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.