by Sophie Forbes
An earthy, high-pitched call to prayer rebounded off narrow clay walls of the mahallah; sounds of a young boy who sat high in the minaret that angled over my neighborhood. Although I didn’t understand its words, the song soothed me.
I wanted to see the inside of the mosque that evening, but my host-brother told me bluntly that I couldn’t enter.
“You are a woman and women pray at home or in women’s groups.”
He was frustrated, his hands circled in waves above his head out into the night sky as he tried to convince me to go back to the house.
I followed him to the mosque, the third week in a row. I wanted to see its inner workings, the mysterious ways that drew so many men at an appointed time to bend their backs in reverence to Allah. That night I stayed leaning on the wall of mud and straw and listened discretely to the humming voices of the neighborhood men.
“How many times must we have this conversation?” I thought Marifjon was going to fall off his chair from the force of his anger. It dwelled in his face, puffing out his cheeks and turning his nose red. His shaved head gleamed in the sunlight and pieces of rice blew from his teeth as his tongue made the words again, “Why must you keep asking these questions?”
“I want to know about Islam. I want to know what it means to be an Uzbek Muslim.”
“You’re a woman. Go ask the women.”
“I did. They don’t know why they do the activities. They told me that the last woman’s mosque had been closed 3 years ago. I went… it was empty. The rooms had broken desks and grass growing in the courtyard. No one could tell me why its doors had been shut. No one, not even the old caretaker.”
“Well I can’t take you into the mosque.”
“Just ask the Mullah. I’m a guest in this country. He may make an exception. Didn’t you tell me the Uzbeks are hospitable?”
But Marifjon wouldn’t ask. I saw him ride his bike to the madrassah and knew again that his lips would stay tight.
I went to a woman’s meeting. The women were large, dressed in fancy outfits that draped around their square bodies and their heads were topped with shiny scarves from India that glimmered in the sunlight.
The meeting started with greetings and food but conversations bowed quickly under the weight of neighborhood gossip. I disengaged myself from the strong fingers that held my arm, the woman to my left was pointing to all the food. “You are too skinny. Fat is good. Take food. Take, take, take.” I took and went to look for the old woman I had seen the month before, silent in a small, unlit room. She sat in the same place praying, oblivious to the loud voices, disruption, and celebration of the other women.
She reminded me of other older women who appeared at different events: weddings, funerals, circumcisions. Within both quiet and noise they carried on the tradition of Islam to pray to Mecca five times a day. They were alone in their beliefs: kneeling, bending, repeating words of solace to themselves.
“Will you tell me about your religion?”
The old woman looked up, her wrinkles bending off into her tanned face. She smiled, her two gold teeth reflected the dim light of the afternoon sun. Her hand grasped my own and she pulled me closer and began to recite words I couldn’t understand. I beckoned her to come with me to the other room so I could find a translator. She refused. I ran to the room. I found my neighbor, Dildora. “Come with me please. I can’t understand the old woman.”
“Do you mean Aunt?”
“I guess.”
“I don’t know.”
“Why?” Dildora shrugged and went back to the party. I remembered then that women hid their religion from the outside world, confident in the protection received from the young who guard it but do not partake in its glory.
“Why don’t the women wear veils?”
My host family looked at me astounded. “Where does she get all these questions?” Marifjon was agitated. “Stop asking so many questions.” His rudeness was no longer hidden from his family. No one said anything and the silence held.
The dust billowed up as I passed the Russian Orthodox Church that sat a block from my house. Its silver onion tops were dull, the gleam gone, its present state less than proud at being a converted shoe factory. A woman came around the corner, brisk in her walk against the wind, her long black cape hiding all but faint black eyes. One gloved hand went up to her covered forehead attempting to shield the sand particles from her sight.
I stopped and stared as did the two women in front of me.
I heard their chatter as she came parallel, the disbelief etched in their simple statement: “Wahhábi,” they said. She was of the Saudi sect that had a small, insignificant mosque on the west side of town. They were the only group that veiled their women. Their hold on Islam was strong, but weak on the Uzbek mind.
“We don’t want our women in veils,” claimed Dildora when I told her about the woman I had seen in the street. “Well I don’t want to be in a veil.”
“What would your husband say?”
“Nothing. He can’t tell me how to dress.” She grinned softly, looking down at her short skirt and knit top. “See. He can’t stop me from dressing in what I like. All these girls going around in long skirts and headscarves, who knows why. When I was at the institute we all wore short dresses. I even got married in a wedding dress that was up to my knee. Now everything has to be at your ankle. You wear longer skirts than anyone else.”
She clapped her hand to her ruby red mouth, laughing at the thought that I, the American, was so dowdy. What Dildora said was true. Uzbek and Russian cultures blended skin-revealing clothes and Muslim scarves; vodka drinking and Friday prayers; Schwarzneger movies and Ramadan fasting.
Marifjon came rashly into the kitchen. His fists were bunched in tight knots, “They closed the mosque! They told us we couldn’t come back,” he almost shouted at us.
“Who? What are you saying?”
“The police, the KGB, all of those …” He stopped before he said the word. Bastards. “Its starting. Its like the old times, no more praying in the open.”
“Why?”
“They claim the mullah was building bombs in the basement of the mosque. The doors have been shut. We can’t go in to get our Korans. Their guns pushed us out and those that didn’t move because they were praying were hit over the head. Bastards. Now you really won’t be able to see the mosque. I was going to ask the mullah tonight. I felt ready to do so, just to hear an end to your questions. No more now… now I really don’t know.” His hand held fast in the stiff air between us, he shook his head, bending down slightly to hide his tears.
I was asked a week later by a visiting capital-city ex-pat about the fundamentalists in the Ferghana Valley. “It’s brewing. I heard about the religious men who want to make all Uzbeks like their brothers in the Middle East.” The Valley has a taboo to its name, Islam being the five-letter word.
“Aren’t you original. Which stick are you using? Religion or Politics?” He tilted his head, his blond hair filling the left edge of his face. He tried to decipher me, but couldn’t. He commented instead on the logman dish. “I’ve never had such great soup.”
My mahallah was silent. There was no more call to prayer. There was no more humming of men sending out prayers.
Boys kicking plastic coca-cola bottles up and down replaced the quiet in the streets. Screaming to the sky their defeats, they charged ahead to find glory, not in their god, but in themselves.
Marifjon came rashly into the kitchen. His fists were bunched in tight knots, “They closed the mosque! They told us we couldn’t come back,” he almost shouted at us.
“Who? What are you saying?”
“The police, the KGB, all of those …” He stopped before he said the word. Bastards. “Its starting. Its like the old times, no more praying in the open.”
“Why?”
“They claim the mullah was building bombs in the basement of the mosque. The doors have been shut. We can’t go in to get our Korans. Their guns pushed us out and those that didn’t move because they were praying were hit over the head. Bastards. Now you really won’t be able to see the mosque. I was going to ask the mullah tonight. I felt ready to do so, just to hear an end to your questions. No more now… now I really don’t know.” His hand held fast in the stiff air between us, he shook his head, bending down slightly to hide his tears.
I was asked a week later by a visiting capital-city ex-pat about the fundamentalists in the Ferghana Valley. “It’s brewing. I heard about the religious men who want to make all Uzbeks like their brothers in the Middle East.” The Valley has a taboo to its name, Islam being the five-letter word.
“Aren’t you original. Which stick are you using? Religion or Politics?” He tilted his head, his blond hair filling the left edge of his face. He tried to decipher me, but couldn’t. He commented instead on the logman dish. “I’ve never had such great soup.”
My mahallah was silent. There was no more call to prayer. There was no more humming of men sending out prayers.
Boys kicking plastic coca-cola bottles up and down replaced the quiet in the streets. Screaming to the sky their defeats, they charged ahead to find glory, not in their god, but in themselves.
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